Who we are (oncam)

We open up to a view of an old, grainy home video of a young, handsome man with raven black hair and a smile that would make a movie star jealous. The man is shown training in the gym, showing off his physique, entertaining pretty ladies with jokes and stories, followed by him standing in a wrestling ring. Then, a voice speaks out. A harsh voice without a shred of human emotion in it. The voice of Supreme Machine.

“Once. Long ago. There was a man just like you all. A young man with young man’s hopes and dreams. He grew up watching these larger than life men test their mettle in the squared circle. From an early age he knew that was what he wanted to become. A star, basking in the limelight. It didn’t matter to him whether he’d be a hero, loved and adored for everything we’d done… or a villain, his very image causing the people to jeer and boo. He just wanted to be a wrestler.”

We are shown a montage of matches from various small promotions with the young man aweing the crowd with smoothness and solid technical ability. We are shown him holding the crowd in the palm of his hand while talking. All the while SuMa continues his eerie monolog in the background.

“Had he known the world he was stepping into… he would’ve gone a different way. His dreams were shattered little by little as men of lesser talent but superior political ability and money kept pushing us down, relegating him to curtain jerking or at the most, midcard attractions. He was never able to crack the glass ceiling. But he persevered. The young man was ready to do everything he needed to do. Yet even that wasn’t enough… yet even that was soured for him.”

Slowly the montage shows the man changing. The smile had vanished. The adulation of the crowd changed into looks of horror and pity as we are shown the man getting thrown through tables, getting hit with chairs and kendo sticks, getting tangled on barb wires, smashed with and onto light tubes and thumbtacks. The speech of the man unseen remains unnervingly unchanged.

“His willingness to do anything was turned on him. Used to break his spirit and his body, to make sure he could never be a true star. For years he toiled in the bingo halls and school gyms, putting his body through hell night in night out because that was what he wanted to do, to be a wrestler. And he kept telling himself that if that was the price… he’d be willing to pay it.”

The matches grow brutal by the minute, the venues grow smaller and more rundown. And the man begins to show physical changes. Image after image after image of the man being bloodied, his flesh getting torn apart by objects not meant for a wrestling ring. And second by second you can see a new scar in his body. You suddenly hear an almost sad tinge to the voice droning on in the background. Almost.

“Little by little he changed. As the scars mounted, as his physique developed… as he became more and more broken both physically and mentally… He watched as those who kept him down patted themselves in the back on a job well done… And then on one fateful night his face was permanently marked as a shard of glass tore his cheeks open. And that night… he heard a voice speak to him. Tell him that he could be more. Tell him that he could become something feared. All he needed was to become something more than he was. Something more than a mere man.”

We are treated to a gruesome sight of a man lying in the pool of his own blood with two huge gashes on his face, only for it to rapidly change into an image we are familiar with. The masked, menacing figure of the Supreme Machine. The beast continues to talk, now with cruel enjoyment tainting his deep voice.

“That man was us. We became this because of the people in this business. That night we swore that we’d never let ourselves be taken for fools ever again. We swore to destroy everyone who stepped in our path. We swore that our name would NEVER again be spoken in laughter or pity… and we realized that the greatest weapon we had… was the one used to destroy us. Hardcore matches. Deathmatches. Brutality and Bloodthirst.”

We hear a chilling laughter as the view cuts to a live view of SuMa, standing in the neon lit Strip in Vegas, shrouded in darkness with only his dark eyes reflecting the light. He stares right at the camera and continues.

“And that is what we are bringing to the Denzel Porter Invitational. Bloodthirst and Brutality. When we started to prepare for our match we realized we knew very little of our opponent, Michael Graves… and we assume he knows very little of us. So we decided to do him a favor and give him a sneak peek of who and what is Supreme Machine…”

We fade to black after SuMa says this and the view goes static, with SuMa’s theme song playing in the background, until it flickers to black and reopens up to a view of a city at night. People both in high drunken spirits as well as tired, weary steps of a worker traverse the streets amongst the subdued traffic. Poorly maintained street lights illuminate the streets, but barely a twinkle is cast upon the alleyways and backstreets between the tall concrete buildings. The camera catches a view of a young woman suddenly being jumped by three men from one such alleyway and with nothing but a scream, dragged back into it. Some muffled sounds of a struggle are heard and a jumpcut follows, the position of the moon on the starry sky suggesting that some time has passed, and we see the three men emerging from the alleyway laughing, followed shortly by a crying woman with her clothes torn and her face bruised. Suddenly a voice speaks up from behind the camera.

“The dark is full of danger. That is why men shy away from it. Good men that is. Men of honor, men of valor, men of courage and men of pride, men of decency. The dark is where the scum of mankind reside. The ones that society shuns. The ones that are not welcome to walk amongst other men. Criminals. Thieves and murderers, robbers and rapers. Yet, even amongst the underbelly of this world, there is a being that rules supreme. The hunters of the night. The beasts. Even the criminals fear those. Those who used to be men. Those who have become less than men… yet at the same time so much more. Those who have, either by choice or by force, given up their claim in the world of light… The deformed, the insane… the brutal and the cunning… Those like us.”

We are treated to another jumpcut, this time we see the backs of those three men as they sit on the sidewalk, clearly talking about their exploits, judging by their gestures. This is interrupted when the massive figure of Supreme Machine comes to view, his upper body hidden in a large hooded shirt that covers his entire head and face. The three guys react with bravado at the freak that stares them down, and one of them lunges at SuMa. The view cuts again and when we return we see the three men laid against a wall, bloodied and unconscious. SuMa stares at the camera and laughs as he slips into the shadows again. Then, his voice is heard again.

“Yes. There are more like us in this world. Men who have been broken by the society that was supposed to nurture them. Yet, we differ from those dark dwellers in one important aspect… When we were stripped of our humanity… we kept our intellect… and in a twisted way we kept our sanity. The man who ate that glass and broke… kept his mind intact as the blow was absorbed by the one that manifested itself… And so the man and the beast cohabit a body that over the years has been honed into a perfect, well oiled machine of pain and destruction.”

We cut to a view of SuMa, seated on the ground with his torso bare, sweat reflecting the pale light off his scarred skin.

“We held a grudge against the poor soul who took that glass to our face and destroyed it for a long time… yet as time went by we realized that his actions were a blessing in disguise. Had he not torn the last remnant of our humanity to bloody shreds… we would’ve never have been able to realize our true potential. And for that… we plan on finding him and thanking him in person. Soon..”

He turns to face the camera and shrugs, chuckling as the view cuts to static once more, and after a few passing moments we open up again to a view of a sleepy neighborhood, a stereotypical suburbia. Street Lamps illuminate the houses that look nigh identical to each other. The camera pans in a shaky manner to the left and reveals that it is being held in hand by Supreme Machine. SuMa is dressed quite unlike his usual garb. Instead of the jumpsuit he is wearing a ragged denim jacket with a black hoodie below it, the hood pulled so deep that only shadows can be seen from his face. The garb is finalized by a pair of dirty jeans and combat boots giving him the appearance of a hobo. SuMa speaks in a surprisingly soft voice as he keeps panning his surroundings.

“Past. When looking into who and what someone is, that is where you want to go. Because, the past is what moulds us. What makes us what we are, you and us. You cannot look forward without looking backwards.”

SuMa is wandering in a slow pace along the street, occasionally focusing the camera on house numbers, nameplates and whatnot. And all the while, he’s holding a steady monolog.

“You can take solace in something Graves. We are stepping into an unknown just as equal as you are. Your name is foreign to us. Your exploits are unknown to us. Even your home, XWF is unfamiliar territory to us. Yet, we appreciate the challenge. We want you to come into the Invitational knowing exactly who you are facing. What kind of a man is going to be standing across the ring from you. We want you to be mentally and physically prepared by letting you know exactly what makes us tick… and what we are capable of. You get asked to join the Invitational and when you accept…”

He turns the camera towards himself, the shadow of his hood hiding everything but a malicious smile.

“You then you end up against us. Against a man who has decimated everyone who has stepped in their way. You have nothing to lose Graves, and everything to gain. Exactly the kind of a man we want to face. You look to the future and know that defeating us will give you bragging rights that only 3 men have. Defeating us will give you something to rest your legacy on. We are a force that is seldom seen in this business. Keeping your eyes fixated in the future where you defeat us is something you undoubtedly look forward to. Yet you forget that there are lessons to be learned from the past. We know it better than anyone.”

A moment of silence followed as SuMa turned the camera to focus on a particular house, letting out a small chuckle. He moves towards the house, careful to remain out of the light. When he turns the camera back to his face, he speaks in almost a whisper.

“Our past is written in our skin. Every scar is associated with a painful memory. Every memory is associated with a face who caused it. And every face is etched to our mind as people who made us. We began as a young kid with bright eyes and big dre… Actually, we’ve told that story before, we wouldn’t want to bore you Graves, we’d hate for you to go and turn this recording off out of sheer boredom. Anyway… Of all the wounds… of all the trauma… of all the scars… there is one that stands above the rest. One scar. One memory… One face that had most to do with what we are and what you see.”

SuMa lifts the hood by barely an inch, bringing the ugly scarring on both of his cheeks to view. The “Glasgow Grin” as it’s called. He quickly lowers the hood again and continues.

“Yes… it is impossible to forget that moment when a large shard of glass is shoved into your mouth… it is impossible to forget the pain when you get kicked in the head with that shard in your mouth… and it is impossible to forget the face that stood laughing above your squirming body, basking in the adulation of bloodthirsty fans as you writhe in shock… But now we think it is time we faced our past. It’s time to learn from the past.”

Chuckling to himself, SuMa walks right up to the front door of the house he had been standing in front of, setting the camera on the porch so that it films him from the back, showing the door. He knocks loudly and pulls the hood deeper. After a few moments the door opens and you can see a man in the doorway. The safety-chain is in place, and you can’t blame the man. It’s late at night and there is a huge, unfamiliar man at his door. To the mans’ credit, he manages to keep his voice civil as he looks SuMa up and down and speaks.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

SuMa remains silent, but you can see his hand’s fidgeting as he gazes at the man from under his brows. About mid 40’s, built like a brick house, with the face of a man who lived a life of physical pain. Broken nose, cauliflowered ears and below the receding hairline, his forehead is full of deep wedges telling a tale of many a gash. The Man is nervous at SuMa’s silence and is about to close the door when SuMa finally speaks up.

“Are you Joel Osmond? Joel “The Dreadnaught” Osmond? Who used to wrestle around these parts, most notably at Pro Wrestling No-Limits?”

This causes the man to stop and look slightly bewildered. It’s clear that it’s been awhile since he last heard that name. He finally nods. SuMa lets out a small sigh of relief and speaks up.

“Awesome. You have no idea how hard it was to track you down. Now, don’t be nervous, there is no ulterior motive behind this. You probably don’t remember u… me but w… I used to wrestle with you at PWNL. And w...I just wanted to come personally to thank you. You truly taught u… me a lot and helped u… me to further my career to a point where w… I can finally call ourse….myself a champion. Please, let u...me shake your hand.”

SuMa extends his hand, probably in an attempt to mask the fact that he had constantly been tripping over the pronouns. Osmond looks wary, but eventually extends his hand through the door crack, speaking in a puzzled tone.

“Well, if you insist. I’m terribly sorry, I wrestled many men during my career, and I cannot for the life of me remember you. Could you pull down your hood so I can see who I helped?”

SuMa grabs his hand and gives it a firm shake.

“Naturally”

He proceeds to pull down his hood, the camera showing his manelike black hair aswell as the look of realization, followed quickly by a look of absolute terror as Osmond realizes who’s standing infront of him. He tries to pull his hand out, but SuMa has him in a vice grip. SuMa leans right in at the door crack and whispers to Osmond with malice dripping in his voice.

“This is what you did to us Joel. See these scars? Your handiwork. You thought we forgot? We never forgot. But we were honest. We truly want to thank you. What you did to us that night… changed our life. Your actions set us on a path that has led us to this point. Now we are a force of nature. Our name sends shivers of fear down the spines of those who find themselves opposite of us. For that we thank you…”

SuMa gives a forceful yank at Osmonds hand, slamming him against the door. The door groans but the chain holds. SuMa extends his free hand and almost effortlessly pulls the door out of its hinges, leaving him face to face with Osmond with nothing between them. He pulls Osmond right up to his face and leans to whisper in his ear.

“But you also robbed us from any hope of having a normal life… And for that.. we have a gift for you… Turnabout’s fair play after all…”

SuMa produces a piece of broken glass from his pocket, grabbing a hold of Osmonds head as he does so. He forcefully pulls Osmonds mouth open and places the glass in there.

“Revenge… is a dish best served cold…”

SuMa turns to block the view from the camera, we hear a bloodcurdling scream and the view cuts to static, which lasts for a few seconds. But instead of ending, the recording flickers back alive and we see SuMa standing in a dark room, with a single pale spotlight shining down on him.

“There you go Graves. This is what we are. Who we are. What we are capable of and how far we are willing to go. The Denzel Porter Invitational will serve as a watershed moment in your career. It will mark a date where you either vanquish a beast that has stomped all over the world of wrestling at will… Or you will become just another name added to the list of victims. We are nothing like you have ever faced Graves. And nothing you will ever face will measure up to us.”

SuMa glances over his shoulder and there, on the ground, rests a collection of titlebelts. A dozen or so, each of them from a different promotion. Some older, some newer and some current.

“Do not doubt our pedigree. We have been a champion everywhere we have gone. Poke your head into social media and mention our name and you will see dozens and dozens of men and women who know our name, who have a memory of being trampled by us. And even if we have never been in XWF, our gracious host… even they know our name. Theo Pryce knows it. Thaddeus Duke knows it. They know the bitter taste of defeat in our hands.”

The masked monster begins chuckling.

“So come Graves, give us all you got. Come to Night 2 of the Denzel Porter Invitational and hope… that you can walk out on your own two feet. We are Supreme Machine…”

The camera zooms right into his face as he whispers the last few words before the view fades to black.

“The reaper calls your name Graves… and we are his herald.”