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X-treme Wrestling Federation » Warfare Boards » Warfare RP Board
KnightMask vs. the White Lion
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KnightMask Offline
One half of Crimson Knights



XWF FanBase:
Some of everyone

(cheered; very rarely plays dirty; many likable qualities)


#1
05-14-2013, 08:11 PM

KnightMask vs. White Lion
30-minutes, 1-fall
XWF house show, Richmond Coliseum, Virginia


Not so long ago, I would've felt differently. Before the dragon woke up, before it had caught the scent of gold, I would've been excited to face a wrestler like the White Lion at a house show. I would have thrilled at the chance to take on a challenge.

Now, I simply seethed in silent anger. The silence wasn't owing to any sort of classy self-control; if I hadn't lost my capacity to speak all those weeks back...I would have had plenty to say about the booking.

I didn't want a challenge...I wanted gold. I wanted the US title...and anything that came between me and that goal...was something that needed to be destroyed...by any means necessary.

It seemed as if I stared at White Lion's offered hand for an eternity. I didn't want to shake it. Desperately, urgently, overpoweringly, I wanted to grab his wrist, to use the arm he'd offered up to me to my advantage...to arm-bar him, to wrist-lock him, to strike him as he stood before me with his guard down... And yet, somehow, I managed to extend my hand out to his, to clasp it and shake it.

The crowd's cheers at the show of sportsmanship made me sick to the pit of my stomach. White Lion, not content with the handshake, patted my shoulder before backing off to his corner. I winced at his touch, and beneath my mask, my features contorted with rage.

The single-leg that initiated my delivered with the intent of hyper-extending and breaking White Lion's leg, my hand pulling in his heel while my shoulder drove into his knee. As it was, it merely toppled him over. Sensing an early kill, I desperately sought to bind his legs in the Gordian Leg-Knot, but the White Lion kicked me away and flipped up to his feet. I ricocheted off the ropes, careening towards his waiting clutches.

Using my momentum to take to the air, I leaped into a wheelbarrow body-scissors and rolled him over into a knee-bar. Again, he kicked free. This time, we both scrambled to our feet at the same moment. I pulled him towards me with an arm-drag, and as he yanked his arm free, I dropped and spun into a leg-lock. He hurdled clear over me, but not sooner had he landed and wheeled to face me than I was coming at him with a flying scissors take-down. I managed to ensnare his leg with the move, but only briefly. Spinning around, he flung me off of him and sent me sailing across the ring.

White Lion nodded his head at me and pointed at me as if in praise of the exchange we'd just had. The crowd, apparently thinking something similar to him, also applauded.

I remembered conversations I'd had throughout my time as a submission-grappler, people asking me why I devoted such time to high-risk, acrobatic submission attacks...why I was always going for rolling and flying submissions. I always told them, if I just wanted to win...I would simply take the guy down and crank his neck until he had to quit.

But I was after more than just winning or losing...I was trying to push myself, I was trying to, as much as possible, recreate the dynamic, fast-paced, aggressive style of the Japanese shoot-wrestlers that had inspired me. I was trying to do what they did; have the most dynamic, exciting, beautiful matches I could.

If I just wanted to win, I had said...I'd just take the guy down...and crank on his neck until he tapped...or it snapped.

If I just wanted to win.

As the White Lion beat his chest and played to the crowd, I thought of the first leg-lock I'd been taught...by MSU coach Dave Dean...I recalled watching in wonder the likes of Bret Hart and Dean Malenko...of watching Oleg Taktarov hit one of the first victory roll knee-bars I'd ever seen...of all the lonely hours...in front of a computer screen, poring over books, sketching out moves step by step to burn them into my memory...drilling techniques with a friend or more frequently, on a dummy...over...and over...and over again...

I remembered thrilling to the exploits of Volk Han and Masakatsu Funaki as they engaged in heart-pounding submission battles, full of beautiful counters and re-counters. I heard again all those conversations where I struggled to explain the style I'd pursued to so many other grapplers, who were mystified by the notion of attempting to master difficult and high-risk techniques rather than just trying to win as efficiently and easily as possible.

At some point, the moves that I practiced because I thought they were cool...became the deadliest in my arsenal. The high-risk moves became, in my hands, practically guaranteed paths to victory.

But of course, there was an easier route. To maim an opponent with a simple neck-crank...no matter how good your technique was...that route, was still the easiest, the simplest...the safest. All you had to do...was cast morality out the window. All you needed...was the willingness...to take your opponent down...and pull his chin into his chest until something gave.

I could hear the dragon's wings beating now. Feel his hissing breath on the back of my neck. A sheet of flame shot out from his mouth, scorching away all the memories that had just flashed before me.

The gold! The gold! The precious treasure...! Let nothing stand in your path...!

He commanded me...he spoke to me...even as my urges echoed his dark sentiments. As if to give me a final incentive, I saw before my eyes, clear as day...Sebastian Duke lying beaten at my feet...while I held the United States title up to the Heavens...while Natalia clung to my body adoringly.

I posted my hand on the White Lion's forehead to find range...and then shot in with sweep single-leg takedown. Assuming top position...I grabbed his head and wrenched it forward in a violent, convulsive motion. I pulled on it until my biceps began to burn with the effort...seconds stretched on...I don't know how long I held the neck-crank...but eventually...a roar welled up inside the man...bursting through his mouth, seemingly with enough force to blow right through his mask.

I found myself hurled off of him. When I came up to a crouch, he was beating his chest in the middle of the ring...apparently full of his vaunted jungle fury. Apparently, he had no notion of my brutal intentions, as he roared something about how the "clash of the masked titans" was "bringing out the best in the Lion hero."

And that was when the power in the building shorted out.

Ever since the bite--the same one that left me mute--I've been able to see in the dark about as well as other guys can see ahead of them on a rainy day. Good enough to slip out of the ring...find a weapon...and brain that blasted White Lion...and move a little closer to that...that blasted gold...that US title...that's been haunting me like the faces of past victims haunts a killer...

And so yes. I did it. I went under the apron. I searched and found a crowbar...and I did my best to beat the brains out of the White Lion with it. The crowd...and the XWF officials...all my freaking fans...no one was the wiser.

Nobody...except...I guess White Lion. Because he dodged all my attacks and eventually...he took the weapon away from me...as if...well, as if he could see in the dark. The worst part...the most shameful part...was that when the power returned...he acted like nothing had happened.

The man I had attempted to destroy...saved face for me. Time dwindled down to nothing...and eventually our match became a time limit draw. I didn't wait around for the decision...I just stalked off...

Back to the solitude of my dressing room. Ripping the mask off, I stared at the face in the mirror. The face that had, from time to time, manifested itself ever since that bite...the flared, almost lupine nostrils...the red eyes...and most of all...the fangs. At first I just thought of the face like a scar...a remnant of something bad that had happened to me...something that I'd walked away from, but that had left a mark.

Now....for the first time...I realized...although the fangs would recede...and the red that dominated my eyes would ebb away...that the face in the mirror...it was me.

It was who I was. Natalia had been write, all those months ago. I was...a monster. Consumed like some demon from Hell with a lust for the United States title...I was in the grip of dark desires I never knew I had...I buried my head into my hands for a moment. When I looked up again, I was no longer alone in my dressing room.

White Lion, for a big man...is definitely quiet on his feet. I didn't hear him approach...didn't hear him open up the door.

I was sorry, at least a part of me was, for what I tried to do to him. But I still...I didn't need to hear some naive spiel from him...he had no idea what I was going through...when did he ever have to look into the abyss...and then realize that it was actually his own soul? A goody-goody like him didn't know anything about the urges that--

Wordlessly, White Lion lifted a hand to his face...and removed his mask. Rows of ivory fangs lined his mouth. A muscular, almost simian brow roofed over yellow, bestial eyes that stared at me with sympathy and...

...and yeah, understanding. Most of all, understanding.

And then I was embracing the man that I'd just tried to beat the brains out of. Over the radio, I could hear Ronnie James Dio wailing out the chorus to Man on the Silver Mountain...

"Come down with fire...and lift my spirit higher...someone's calling my name...come and make me Holy again..."

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