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Ambivalence III
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coreyblack
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#1
02-20-2022, 06:54 PM

[Image: amblivalence-3-movie-poster.png]

“I would rather die a meaningful death than to live a meaningless life.”


A small town rests among a vast countryside. The sun has just gone down, its orange ember colored glow dissipates to darkness. Crops and pastures provide the landscape surrounding the quaint town, it's so quiet. A gentle breeze sends tree branches swaying a bit, tall grass moves with the rhythm. But alas, there is a bit of a commotion. In the heart of the town, small enough to have no traffic lights, just a few blocks of houses to the East and West of Main Street. Post office, bank, bar... and at the end of Main, a church. The street leads right into the parking lot, into the front door.

A long line of people leads from the door, through the parking lot and beyond. Dozens upon dozens of people are entering and sitting in the pews. There's got to be over one hundred bodies sitting, waiting. Most of them are archetype professionals, big muscles, bad spray tans, bright colored hair and exotic cuts. On the church stage sits a black coffin. No religious signage surrounds it, no flowers, no candles - just a coffin sitting on a raised platform. The convoy files through the door, everyone settles in, the doors are closed and locked by masked people. Full black masks, black outfit to conceal any identifiers. Inside the church itself is decrepit, it's falling apart. Broken stained glass litters the floor, walls are literally crumbling down and hardly standing. A concealed doorway on the stage opens, two more masked figures emerge with a man clad in a black robe and purple accents. His hair is cut short, clean shaven except a long braided beard and sinister looking. He walks up to the podium, placing both hands on it and leaning forward while the masked figures flank him.


"This evening, we're gathered here to celebrate the life of one of the best to ever ply his craft," the man says, almost slithering as he stands. "He touched you all, so much that you've come from across the world. I see faces from Japan, from Mexico, from Scandinavia and beyond. Long shall his name echo through the ages, long shall his reign be thought back upon with reverence and glory. But... this funeral isn't for him."

The man reaches both hands into the sky and holds them there as he is escorted away from the podium. The coffin behind him opens, a dark figure swings their legs over the edge. They hop down, both feet hitting the stage with a thud. The long hair and beard of Corey Black is unmistakable, he adjusts the tie of his all black suit and saunters forward, looking out upon the congregation - whom are all now decaying. Flesh falls from bone, blood spills from their husks. The ground is soaked, puddling, flooding even with the life-giving liquid. Corey Black smiles.

"This funeral is for you. The wrestlers I have put to rest for the last twenty years. The metaphorical corpses I have left in my wake. Every single one said I wouldn't amount to anything. I was too small, too reckless, not half as good as I thought I was. Look at me now. I have more gold in my tomb than a pharaoh. More prestige to my name than a Nobel Prize winner and I started from the absolute bottom. Two years ago I was nothing more than a boogeyman, a name people uttered under their breath knowing I'd never come out of my space to hunt them.

Well - the smallest dog in the fight got too big for his space. The World came knocking.

I went from a kid bathed in barbed wire and glass to the most IN-DEMAND professional wrestler on the planet. My body is scarred and each one has a story of pain, suffering and triumph. Here.." Corey pauses, steps back and points to the right side of his ribcage, "my heart was broken for the first time. She was a vindictive bitch, she brought a ghost I had laid to rest back from the depths and she cut me deep with a weedwhacker. I'll never forget it - my body won't allow me to."


Corey takes a deep breath, looking out into the pews that are just covered in human muck.

"You've all been a part of this. Most of you have put a scar on me, whether it be physical or mental. But I won't forget where I came from nor what it took to get to where I am. The legacy I have now, the mark I have left on this business.. I'm not afraid to die. I could leave this plane tomorrow and I'd be satisfied with my life.

So here, I ask.. Brandon Moore.. are you satisfied?

You're one of those 'outlaws' - a finger in the air to anything resembling conformity. Nobody controls you, nobody can tame you, nobody can cage the beast known as The Despised Icon. This match was put together and you, in your infinite wisdom, asked for a deathmatch. With one of the most prolific to ever lace the boots. Three hundred and forty four days as Action Wrestling Hardcore Champion. Challenger after challenger thrown to the ground with little pittance. You now stand atop your respective crop, gold held high. A proud achievement, King of Ultra Violence. People throw that royalty shit around a lot, don't they? You're probably sitting there in your darkened den asking yourself 'why.. why the hell does this guy claim to be royalty over every single professional wrestler on this planet?'

I don't claim to be anything.

I simply am.

You, Brandon.. are not. Your dripping crimson ledger, allegedly, stains your whole being. I'm not like you other outlaws, I come into every single fight I have knowing exactly who I am about to put down. Makes it more special, you know? Faceless people in the crowd are just that. Bodies you - certainly didn't until proven guilty - left laying across the world, you probably didn't even know their name. Hell, you likely don't even know your name most of the day with whatever poison you're sending through your bloodstream.

I can't be fooled. Not because I'm the type that refuses to be anything but bulletproof - no, because I was haunted too. I had a demon I couldn't kick. Something attached to me that I couldn't get away from.. until I did. There's hope for you yet, but I'm not the savior type. I'm the 'beat the shit out of you until you can't continue and if that does the trick, cool' kind of person. 'Put my elbow through that fucking mask you use to hide from yourself' type of person. When you can't walk by a mirror without seeing the crowd of faceless bodies you've stacked up. Put that mask on and hide away, become The Faded Star and revel in the success you built off the backs of countless tragedies."


The church spire begins leaning ever so slowly.. brick by brick it breaks free, sending it toppling and crashing through the roof! It turns to rubble as it hits the floor, splashing the remains onto the walls and onto the broken pieces of what once stood. Corey Black isn't phased, dust cascades from the roof and douses him in a layer of thick gray, the heavens now can be viewed even easier from the crumbling house of worship. The stars are bright, the moon is glowing - the destruction's echo fades into the town.

"As your world dissolves around you and you're taken back to that little box Uncle Vlad had you in. It'll be paradise compared to the nightmares you're about to face against me, Brandon. The utensils at my disposal to cut, carve and mangle you - by the time I'm done people will be wondering if they could by the NFT of your grotesque image. And while you're there prone..

On hands
And knees
SCREAMING
OH MY GOD!!!
DON'T HURT ME!!!
Please?

I will show you no mercy. Not because this is personal, Brandon. This is a statement. I went into the Tara Fenix Charity Cruise not with butterfly eyes for my opponents like everyone else did, just as it is now - I went in looking to end them. For my own personal gain. Something you're quite familiar with. I've been at the top of the game for two decades and there's still people out there that think they're better. They aren't. You aren't. Bring me the Brandon Moore that leaves blood trails like a fucking slug wherever he roams. Bring me the man that the promoters of this show thought could stand toe to toe with the King of All Wrestlers.

I'll bring you just that. A force like you've never seen before. A man that has wiped clean the top talent from across the world. As they continue to line up, I continue to plow through them like a runaway freight train. You're a special case though. A true needle in a haystack. While the top of the card from various promotions descended upon the ring to stand across from the King, you were hand picked.

Nobody asked for this. Before announcement, we were foreign to one another. We'd never crossed paths, no post had ever wondered what would happen if Corey Black and Brandon Moore tangled in the wired web of a deathmatch. And yet - the synchronicity of our lives weave together like finely stitched artwork. Across the world from one another, two young boys were oppressed by authority figures in their lives. They broke free of those chains bur hold those moments close as a reminder of the horrors this world can bring forth. From there, a journey across the globe causing destruction and mayhem. One continued on for nefarious reasons, the other moved to learn as much as he can and try to blot out the images he remembers. This is where our lives diverge, Brandon. Where you become the Lord King of the Felony and I become the most revered competitor in the history of the sport.

That said, I do see a lot of myself in you. And a lot of you all over myself as I split your skin and bathe in the gore that falls out. Surely an anticlimactic ending to some, as they'd love to see the underdog walk away with his head held high instead of his head rolling across the floor. I don't doubt you, Brandon. I'm fully prepared for the contest ahead - I just know you aren't. You're erratic, spaztic, you have your fingers in so many dirty pies you'd make Johnny Depp jealous and yet your injectable, your inhalable.. your consumable confidence shines through.

Basically what this boils down to is this; you eat beef jerky on the floor of a van and I eat lobster from a throne.

We both bleed, we both have upbringings that would break mortal men and yet I took the golden path while you slogged through the mud. And you don't want anyone to feel sorry for you - who the fuck could? You chose the path yourself. You could have done more with your life and yet that box broke you. You're a walking short circuit just a ticking timebomb waiting to self destruct.

You fucking LOVE IT.

You truly embody that outlaw mentality, Brandon. Your legacy of misery will live on beyond you to those you've hurt and pulled down with you. Misery does love company. And then you're long gone, when the body you inhibit finally breaks down and gives up the ghost, unless you pull yourself from the bottom, your memory will only be pain.

If you could concentrate that essence and shove it up your nose you'd do it in an instant. That's what gives you the best high. Being a downtrodden dog that gets kicked out of the way as more successful, more put together people climb the ladder of society. You're right at home among the disheveled peasants, the dirt farmers and the shit scoopers. Being a fucking victim.

I was a victim. WAS. I'm stronger than that. I'm better than that. I rose up and I spat in the face of victimization and I fucking made something out of myself. I learned and learned and then I learned some more. I've forgot more about deathmatch wrestling than you could ever learn, Moore, and that's just the tip of the proverbial iceberg that's heading right into your hull.

You know what the worst part is? You know all this. I'm not giving you some life-affirming sermon, some lecture that's going to open your eyes to all the doorways you've purposely closed. That's what makes you the Despised Icon, the Fading Star - you wear it all like a badge of honor. Because it's your defining trait. It's the descriptor people use when they are asked about Brandon Moore. 'Who, Brandon? The fucking dirt bag?'

I don't say these things to make myself feel better, in fact it kind of sucks to be honest. I could be having a match against someone who is my equal and instead I have to euthanize a sick animal. All I have ever wanted in my life is to fight. To compete. I almost hung it all up once, you know? A couple of years ago, I decided I shouldn't go on. I had done everything I could, it was time for the next generation of wrestler to step up and lead the charge. A year went by and the day before I was to have my last match, I took a good long look at the state or pro wrestling. Before I opened my doors, before it was feasible to battle me outside the walls of my home company - I looked out and what I saw was a sea of fucking Brandon Moores. Nobody to take this crown from my head and be the man needed to bear the weight."

Across from Corey, the rafters of the church crack and break away, sending the rest of the roof caving in. The front wall with the door had had enough and it too topples, falling out and flat into the now empty parking lot. Side walls follow suit, slowly toppling over like a tree. And finally the wall directly behind Corey, the rest of the roof that was left going backward with it, leaving him standing alone in what is now just wood and concrete slabs where a church once stood.

"I don't hate you, Brandon. I don't despise you, either. I feel nothing toward you. You're just another number, a notch on my belt, a memory after I use you for my pleasure. I'm going to take what I need and leave you broken. Not as some kind of backward vigilante justice bullshit.

Because right now, you don't deserve anything more.

I'm coming to your House of M show to wreck shop and carve my name into the bodies of whomever is placed in front of me. I haven't been in a good old fashioned deathmatch tournament in years - last one I had six of them in five days and wasn't beat once. And this is after I dig my machete deep into your forehead and sign it 'KING.' That way you have even more to mask, hide behind your little comfort. But when it comes off you can see what you could have worked toward instead of tossing your life away. A constant reminder that Brandon Moore isn't fit for competing with the likes of me, Brandon Moore let Uncle Vlad and the ten by ten break him and I am going to send you back to where you call home in the one thing you know best."


Corey turns and walks toward the coffin, running his fingers along the edge. It's grainy, rough wood with a black sealer brushed on.

"I am everything you hate in this world. Establishment, dominance, power. Yet I don't wield that shit as a weapon, the only artillery I need is my fists, feet, knees and elbows. I live in a top floor penthouse apartment, I own a castle in Norway, I am dating the most well-known pop star on the planet and I'm not going to rub any of that in your face, Brandon. I say it to say this..

I'm not satisfied.

I'm not. All the money, fame, fortune and good I could ever hope for, but I still come back to the ring. I still demand the best from the best. And I wouldn't have it any different. I could have ended up like you, Brandon. I could have let that bastard win and ruin me for my whole life. I'd probably be dead by now, one way or another.

Are you satisfied, Brandon? Or are you complacent? Are you a passenger in your own life, a bit player in the grander narrative and a background character in whatever meaningless altered reality you lead outside the ropes?

I'm not going to send you to Valhalla. When you leave Earth it won't be in this glorious battle. It'll be in a gutter. Face down with nobody you care for around you. No axe in your hand, just broken promises and anguish. That faceless crowd, they'll walk over you as you gasp your final breath. A hero in your own mind. A waste in the hearts of others. However..

Thank you.

Thank you for showing me that I am the fucking King and I can overcome anything. Thank you for making every wrong decision, for being the Faded Star because without you, people like me would be a dime a dozen. Instead, there's only one. I showed the Charity Cruise, I showed the Roth Tournament, I'm going to show everyone here in the Denzel Invitational, I'll do it in the Cannabis Cup and every single show I am asked to be a part of because I am the top of the goddamn mountain and everyone thinks they can knock me down - but there ain't a fuckin' soul wandering this existence that can.

This funeral is for everyone that doubted me. For everyone that bemoaned home field advantage and for everyone that thinks just because they call me royalty that it must mean there's nothing of substance. This funeral is for all of you - and me. Letting go of what once was and embracing what is. Continuing to look beyond my walls to satiate my hunger. Conquer other kingdoms. Be.. the King of All Wrestlers. It continues with you, Brandon Moore. You and I may steal the show, but I am going to take EVERYTHING from you and send your broken body, mind and spirit back to St. Louis in a fucking BOX."


Corey picks up the podium and turns, slamming it down onto the coffin behind him, sending splinters into the already rubble encased stage. A rumble in the distance, a flash of light. Corey looks to the heavens as one drop, two, six, the heavens open and rain begins plummeting toward the ground in sheets. Lightning strikes, thunder rolls, the view is of the sky and the sky slowly changes.

We look down now and it's the skyline of Minneapolis. Between the mile or so stretch between US Bank Stadium and the Target Center are many skyscrapers but one stands taller than all. At the top, a purple glow from all sides. Rain still falls and pitters against the floor to ceiling windows of Corey's apartment. Inside, he sits on his couch, alone. Just looking out at the storm that rages on just a few feet from him. His doorbell buzzes, making him turn to his right. Elevator doors open and a tall, thin, blonde figure stands there holding a black box with a bow. She steps forward, Corey grins.


"What's this?" he asks, as she hands him the present. She doesn't respond. The purple lights are just not strong enough to show her features, but Corey himself is smiling. "Alright, I'll open it," he says. He grasps a ribbon with his index finger and thumb, gently pulling back and unraveling the bow. With the lid free, he uses his finger to slowly slide it off. His eyes grow wide.

She turns ever so slightly toward the light, faceless. He drops the box, spilling from inside is a still beating black heart with a note pinned to it. 'Ambivalence' it reads.. Lightning crashes again and the purple lights are off, now a soft white glow. There's no woman. There's no heart, no box, but Corey remains wide eyed. Moments pass, he breaks free and shakes his head. He goes to stand up but his doorbell buzzes once again.

Corey stops, eyes dart to the elevator door. Rain picks up, thunder growls deep in the distance and the doors open. She's not faceless, but she's holding a black box with a black bow.


"Sorry I'm late but Happy Valentine's Day!" she says cheerfully, as she almost skips over and sits next to Corey, putting the box in his lap and giving him a big hug. He hesitates, looks around but reciprocates.

"I wasn't expecting you or else I would have picked up something else.." Corey says, trailing off.

"It's fine, I'm half your present anyway! The flowers, chocolates and card you sent was good enough!" she exclaims, tapping the box. "Open it up!"

Corey half smiles, grasping both sides of the box with his hands. Lightning strikes close, flickering the lights and visibly startling the blonde. She recovers with a deep breath, but Corey hasn't flinched. Instead, his eyes blink to the beat of his heart. It rings in his ears, louder and louder. The need to spread his wings, but the anxiety that comes with it. All the shows he has signed on for. All the men and women he heard nothing but negativity from, the doubt they have - it carries a toll.

Corey shakes it off, again - but for the first time - grabbing the ribbon with his fingers and pulling back, popping the bow and allowing it to fall to the sides. He uses his thumb to push up on the lid, heart beating faster and faster until the lid calls off.

He breathes in deep.


"Do you like it?!" she asks cheerfully.

For a moment the world stops. The rain doesn't make noise. The thunder isn't rumbling. It's just her and Corey.

"I love it," he says, pulling a jagged black crown with red jewels from the box.

"I hope it fits on your gear!" she says, literally as happy as a person can be. Corey nods, inspecting the present. The heartbeat in his ears has waned, replaced by a less intense one. A beat of happiness. Of content.

"You know, my life hasn't been the same since you came along," Corey says, grabbing her by the hand. "Comparatively, I had it pretty good compared to some of the people I'm about to fight but you never let me lose track of what's important. What I needed to do to become better."

She brushes hair from her face and hooks it behind her ear, "I just did what I could."

"There's people out there that need someone like you. Wanderers that need someone looking out for them, having their best interest in mind instead of just being enablers. Guys and girls with demons they lean on, like mine - but you knew I didn't need it and you demanded I did something about it. And you were furious with me when I went back to it. It's been about six years now, maybe seven?" he laughs, she does too. "I can't imagine where I'd be if our paths never crossed."


"Well don't fuckin' forget it, tiger," she growls. She places her head on his shoulder, he leans his onto hers. The rain continues to pound on his windows but that's just background noise. All he hears now is their heartbeats in sync. His life made better. His career far from done.
[-] The following 4 users Like coreyblack's post:
Jay Omega (02-20-2022), Lissie Hope (02-20-2022), Theo Pryce (02-20-2022), Thunder Knuckles™ (02-20-2022)




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