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Prince Adeyemi · (12-31-2022)

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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.

23rd December 2022, The King’s Court

“You’re full of shit.”

Isaiah’s head rocks back as knuckle meets cheekbone. A sharp pain shoots up his thigh as he feels shin meet his quadriceps. Tensing his calves, he shifts his body back two steps and readjusts his vision – eyes tracking the two opponents in front of him.

“You’re full of shit.”

A fist comes flying back towards his face, he gives it a nudge with his left fist, just shifting it’s course to graze his cheek. Swerving to the side, he raises his right shin to block a leg kick before throwing a hard cross at Chaeryeong’s helmeted head.

“You’re full of sh-”

Isaiah switches stances in a split second, leaning his weight back before swinging his left leg out in a roundhouse. A grin breaks out onto his face as he feels his foot slam into the side of Ezekiel, finally shutting him up. His opponents clutch at their respective injuries, both sharing a wry smile of their own.

“Still full of shit, but at least it smells like old shit.”

23 December 2012, The King’s Court

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There are four kids in the ring, each swerving their bodies and feinting motions. They quickly scan their left and right, keeping an eye on the other three. They each have their leading foot in trapped in a tire – only freeing up their back feet.

Young Isaiah’s eyes burn with focus, as he dodges a punch before throwing one of his own that connects. Blood splatters out of the mouth of a younger Ezekiel, the mist spraying across his face. Isaiah grins into the blood, throwing two more punches in rapid succession and dropping the bigger boy to the mat.

“Worthless pieces of shit.”

An older rotund Caucasian man, with a tuft of white hair on his head and under his chin, steps off the ring apron onto the floor. He shakes his head and flings an arm dismissively into the air.

“Yer’ never gonna get better with these worthless pieces of shit around ya’.”

Isaiah’s hands drop as he catches the look on his friends’ faces. Friends he’d grown up with. Friends he’d call family. Jeremiah, one of the other kids, throws a punch just then catching Isaiah right on the chin and dropping him to a kneel. The young Chaeryeong pulls her leg out of the tire and checks on Isaiah, throwing a glare at Jeremiah.

“You heard coach, we gotta be better.”

“Better boxers Jer, not assholes.”

Isaiah brings an arm up to stop them bickering, using his other to rub his sore chin.

“Gotta be an asshole to be better sometimes, it’s fine Chaer.”

23rd December 2008, Harlem, New York City.

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Turning a corner, the sounds of grunts and laughter fills the air. Not joyous laughter though… Malicious, evil, sadistic. Three older boys, somewhere in their teens stand menacingly over a much smaller and much younger Isaiah. One of the teenagers has a baseball bat in his hand, another has a flip phone in his hand. The boy in the center has his fists up and is throwing wild punches at the small pre-teen.

“You useless piece of shit.”

Isaiah tries and succeeds in dodging some of the punches, but takes more to the head than he avoids. He drops onto his ass, snarling at the bigger boys as the one with the phone takes pictures of him.

”Had one job and you couldn’t even do that, huh?”

The central boy sends a boot into Isaiah’s chest, sending him sprawling backwards onto the piss-ridden back alley. Isaiah coughs up some blood, glaring up at the boy.

”F-fuck you.”

The venomous response incites aggression in the form of a boot to the face, sending Isaiah onto his back. The boy stares into the night sky, starless from the light pollution bar the trauma-induced flashes in his vision. His hands are sprawled up next to him, and he feels something cold in his palm.

“You useless piece of shit, can’t even move some product.”

27 December 2022, The King's Court

“Full of shit.”

Your screen flickers to life, and you come up close and personal with Isaiah. He’s back in his gym, face covered in bruises and cuts but eyes ablaze with determination. You hear the squeaking of shoes against the mat in the background and see the blurry figures of two fighters in the ring, trading blows behind him.

“I’ve heard that plenty – of that you can be sure.”

Isaiah walks around the room, the camera tracking him.

“I’m full of shit. My people are full of shit. This city is full of shit.

I’ve heard it all Ned, we’ve heard it all.

And you know what – you’re right. It is the truth.

New York reeks of bodily fluids everywhere you turn.

The Kings Court is full of shameless, single-minded, vicious animals.

I am full of shit.

We are full of shit.”

He stops before a janitor’s cart, a wet mop leaning against it and a plunger attached to its side.

“But let’s cut your shitty good-guy Peter Vaughn spiel short. Because you’re not going to be the one to clean up this particular shit-filled situation.

Because when I look at you, deep into your eyes and far into your fighting career – I know you’re just as full of shit as any of us are.

You grew up in these streets.

You’ve smelt, felt and dealt with the corruption, pain and injustice New York screams.

You could even be its poster boy, but maybe share the limelight with a marginalized black guy like me. We’d make good champions.

You’ve smelt, felt and dealt with the corruption, pain and injustice this industry screams.

You could even be its villain, you’ve definitely earned yourself the notoriety. You’ve definitely benefited from it.

This is professional wrestling, and shit comes with the territory. That’s why people like you and I flourish in the ring. That’s why you and I are the current state and future hope for this business.

I am full of shit Ned Kaye – but so are you.”

Isaiah slams a foot into the side of the janitorial cart, sending it sprawling on the floor and momentarily stopping the sound of sparring in the background. It soon continues, and so does our Television Champion.

“What makes you think a little redemption arc has earned you acquittal?

What makes you think a few tears, some sessions of therapy and a little lovebug has washed you clean of your sins?

I’m sure they still keep you up at night.

I’m sure your moniker makes your skin crawl.

I’m sure you want nothing more than to not be Notorious.

But don’t project that shit on me.

I am Isaiah King.

I am the Heir Apparent.

I know who I am, even if it might take a beating or two from my friends to remind me.

But you.

Your self-righteousness is repugnant.

Let me expose it Ned.

Let me truly vindicate you.”

The stream cuts to black before coming back to life with a replay of the final Savage ever. It cuts to the ring, where Isaiah, Geri Vayden and Mastermind are squaring off. It zooms in on Mastermind’s lapdogs guiding him towards victory by cheating. It zooms in as something is slipped into Mastermind’s hand. Isaiah’s voice rings over the replay.

“This is corruption, this is pain, this is injustice. That a lowlife like Mastermind would seek to take this prestigious title from a glorious new champion like me through cheap tricks.

What Chaer did. What my queen did… As distasteful and as unapproved as it was – was merely a cleansing of that shit. A rectifying of injustice. I deserved to win that fight – I deserve to hold this title. Hell, Savage would’ve been without hope without me as it’s Champion.

What would your newfound morality have done? Laid down beside a downed opponent, with your title on the line and let some undeserving piece of shit win?

Is that what a born champion would do? Is that what an heir to glory would do?

That’s what you might do – but that’s why you don’t deserve to lead shit. You don’t deserve to represent shit.

You represent weakness. You represent transition – a learning process.

I represent domination. I represent victory. I represent glory.

I don’t plan on lying down for anyone. Not Mastermind, not Geri Vayden, not you. Regardless of how spotless anyone tries to seem, regardless of how full of potential anyone is.

I want the top. I will be the top. And I won’t let any of you underserving pricks get in my way.

That’s why I represent the cesspool that is this city, the cesspool that is wrestling. Because from dirt comes the brightest gems. From the rough comes diamonds.

What has your past taught you Ned? What has it shown you? You were weak when you were drowning in a bottle of Notoriety and you’re weak now, expounding ignorant righteousness.

You are no diamond in the rough. You’re just shit.”

The stream cuts back to The King’s Court and our protagonist. He has in his hand his belt, held high above his head.

“And in your shit you talk about respect. Respect for Savage’s history, respect for warfare. Respect for the greats you admired as a child, respect for the legends that have walked through these halls.

And I applaud your concern for this business’ reputation.

A concern I too share.

An admiration for the prestige of the XWF name.

An admiration I too share.

A fan like you should know – this is what the fans pay for.

They pay for steel on skull.

They pay for violence and Savagery.

They pay for mindless Warfare.

I just want to give it to them. In the ring, all is laid bare. In the ring – all’s fair.

I’ve had to grow to realise that, I’ll admit. I’ve had to have it beaten into me by my court. By Chaer and Ezekiel.

We are fighters, warriors, wrestlers.

I shouldn’t have needed my queen to raise the steel, I should’ve done it myself. I should’ve broken Mastermind’s hands and massacred Geri’s pretty little face. That is what warfare is. That is what savagery is.

You’ve seen our greats – Luca, The Kings, Graves, Caedus, Bourbon… Are they what you’d call… Righteous?

I am respecting this belt. I am respecting the final night of Warfare and Savage.”

Isaiah lowers his belt and stares straight into the camera. He tilts his head menacingly and flashes you, the fans and Ned Kaye a deep grin.

“But shit.

Even shit can be dressed up, sprayed and made to smell better.

Even shit has it’s uses.

As fertilizer, for its nutrition.

Shit makes things grow.

So whether you are diamond sharpening me.

Or shit making me grow.

I will use you.

I will become greater through you.

I will take you and mould you, pack you real tight and glorify you just by proximity.

You, Ned, will be known as the man who helped me unify these two belts.

You, Ned, will be known as the toughest son of a bitch to face Isaiah King thus far.

You, Ned, will be what makes me go from a lucky rookie to an established, unified, champion.

You’ll go down in the record books for sure. At least for Wednesday night.

And you if you have any sense in you – you’ll go down in the record books for much, much more by taking my olive branch and growing with me.

Join my court and fight alongside me. Not as my bitch, as you might deserve, but as my rival as you could be. Fight me on Wednesday. Fight me next year. Fight me again and again until the standard of warfare in this drowning company is taken to new heights.

Fight me until you become better.

Fight me until you feel vindicated.

Fight me until you feel like a champion.

Fight me and grow.

That is the kind of ruler I am.

A leader. The arrowhead that carries the attack, the point that all else follows.

I don’t plan on leaving shit to rot in the Sun. I plan on repurposing you for greatness, whether you like it or not.

You can join my court, you can rebel against the flow. You can stick with your therapy or you can drink the cup of glory. Whether you stand by me or against me… You know being my foil or friend will only make you greater.

It’ll take you out of this friendless, hopeless pit you’re in and catapult you into stardom like you’ve never experienced.

That’s just what Champions do.”

Isaiah points to the blurry figures punching it out behind him.

“That’s what I do. I make people better, and I need better people to make people even better. You’re one of those people, that much is clear.

The gold around your waist you definitely earned. I have no doubt about that. But is it gold you can be proud of? When the competition is so abysmal?

Most these guys you have faced and will face are part-time trash. Being sharpened here as they give their all in lower-tier businesses.

That’s not respecting this business, that’s not championing the XWF.

It’s time for the XWF to be birthed anew. New blood, new ambitions, new talent. With me, you can be its catalyst.

If you have any sense in you that is.”

Isaiah walks towards the ringside, and straps his boxing gloves on. You see the warmed up and swearing frames of Ezekiel and Chaeryeoung, his childhood friends, grinning at each other with an animalistic hunger. He signals them that he’s coming in.

As he steps into the ring, he smacks his gloves together just as the two turn away from each other to face him. They circle him like prey, light on their feet, muscles tensed and ready to strike.

Isaiah is quicker on his feet though, lighter than them both. He dances from side to side, eyes switching between each of his opponents. He throws a left toward’s Chaer that’s quickly dodged, just as he spits in the eyes of Ezekiel. Leaping into the air, he sends a vicious backheel into the larger man’s face.

Without skipping a beat, he dips low for a takedown on Chaer, and rolling into a fullmount and slamming a fist right beside her head, onto the mat. Without facing the camera, Isaiah’s voice rings out.

“I may be full of shit Ned, but that’s what you need to survive here.

That’s what you need to come out on top.

That’s what you need to be a Champion.

That's what you're going to need to climb all the way up the wrestling universe.

That's what you're going to need to overcome the shit and come out on top.

That's what you're going to need to climb up that ladder and become our unified champion.

That's what you're going to need to be better than me.

And I'm sorry Ned, but you don't have it.

If you can’t see that, you’re not just full of it… You’ll always just be shit.”

23rd December 2008, Harlem, New York City.

The assailant brings another kick towards the downed younger Isaiah, only to feel something cold and long slide into his leg. Isaiah’s sat up and has a needle in his hand. Well… Most of it is in the boy’s shin. Isaiah yanks the needle out and drives it back into the boy’s leg before scurrying away on his hands. The teen is screaming now, in shock, but screaming. Lord knows what was in that needle. Isaiah stumbles back and pushes a trash can behind him before making a run for it. The other two boys consider chasing after him, before attending to the screaming teen.

23 December 2012, The King’s Court

The teenage Isaiah unstraps one of his gloves, throwing it into Ezekiel’s face from the ground. Pushing himself onto his feet, with one leg back in the tire, he slams a tight right fist into the bigger boy’s chin.

Chaer squeals at the sudden movement.

Ezekiel drops onto the mat limp.

Isaiah glares down at the boy.

“Is that dirty enough for you?”

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Your screen cuts to black.

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