Torak
poster
Imagination and fantasy are two components of delusion
Posts: 713
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Post by Torak on Sept 6, 2009 11:52:31 GMT -5
Meltdown, 13th April 2006 The short straw (TUC004) Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control; these three alone lead one to sovereign power. – Alfred Lord Tennyson
By constant self-discipline and self-control you can develop greatness of character. – Grenville Kleiser
Those who can first control themselves can then command others - TorakA function engineered into us at conception yet a function rarely used. Most bypass their option of self-control and instead opt to lash out, react in a brash manner or generally “Leap before they look”. Some may call it spontaneity. I call it lack of self-control. It is a common occurrence in everday existence. For example, one may learn only half the facts. These are enough to boil the blood of wrath and prompt you to act impestuously with seriously contemplating the consequences. Mark arrived home, earlier than usual. He’s glad Robert informed him of that shortcut through the backstreets, allowing him to avoid all that traffic that usually draws his rage to the surface. Sometimes he just feels like…wait…what’s this? There is a pair of shoes lying guiltily inside the front door. Now, this isn’t extremely unusual. They always remove their shoes at the door to avoid carrying all sorts of dirt and soil through the house. But, who is visiting at this time? Especially when Mark isn’t usually home from work yet. His wife isn’t, or shouldn’t be home yet either. She starts work later than Mark and subsequently arrives home an hour later than he does. But then again, what self-respecting burgular would remove his shoes before entering the house? He takes no chances. Paranoia clings unshakably to his thoughts. He considers that whoever is in the house must have had reasons for removing his shoes. He stealthily opens the draw of the sideboard just in the hallway and reaches in slowly, stretching to the back of the draw and underneath some sheets of paper and a book, carefully trying not to make any noise. He pulls out a gun. He’d never used it before but always wanted to keep one, just in case. He shifts silently through the house until he hears voices in the bedroom. He edges toward the door, fear biting at his throat but he swallows hard, the saliva seemingly containing courage that washes the fear away. He barges in and sees his wife, sitting on the bed…with her dressing gown on. Standing a few inches away there is a tall dark haired man. Involuntarily, Mark’s arm raises and aims at the man. A loud bang precedes the quiet, lifeless thump on the floor. A scream follows as the gun is aimed at his wife. Another shot and she falls backwards on the bed. Blood splatters on Mark’s face and seems to arouse his senses once more. He realizes what he has done. Out of the corner of his eye he notices the bedroom window, smashed open with the shards of glass littered on the floor surrounding a rather hefty look brick. He returns his glance to the man he slayed and instantly notices his clothing. It’s not ordinary clothing, but a uniform. A familiar uniform. It is the uniform of a police officer. His mind drowns in his mistake. He rushes over to his wife and frantically tries to revive her but his efforts are prove to be futile. He cradles his wife as tears of regret stream of his face. Needless to say, for him: it hasn’t been a great day. One day. Just one day away. We are just one day from falling on Friday the 13th, the superstitious among us pleased that it is a Thursday instead. Though, Steve isn’t particularly pleased. He’s having the most rotten luck. The clipboard in his hand he shuffles tentatively down the corridor with his mind racing. He mutters to himself: ”Why did I pick that straw? What an idiot, I should’ve picked the one next to it!”Talking to yourself is considered a sign of madness, though, you may be able to forgive Steve for his lapse of sanity once you discover his predicament. You see, prior to the show it was decided that all participants should sign a confirmation form, to not only confirm their involvement in the Fallen Heroes Battle Royale but to agree that should they suffer any injury due to being eliminated and thrown outside to the floor then ACW cannot be found liable. A sneaky clause, but some might find worthy given the possible consequence of winning the match. Usually, this sort of thing is academic, not considered worthy of valuable ACW air-time. However, the blood-thirsty producers of ACW decided that this particular signature may be worth filming. Whilst who was going to obtain the other star’s signatures was resolved simply, there was one signature that everyone was reluctant to attain. That’s where Steve was heading now. And him of all people. He has a history with Torak; A shot of the backstage area is transmitted. A quiet whir echoes throughout that part of the building. 18 Wheelers with their trailers opened revealing spare ring posts, ropes and other equipment belonging to ACW. A handful of staff members who are busily shirking from their duty, are gathered together engaged in a highly sophisticated conversation. Guy #1 : I heard a rumour that one diva here just needs to have it like...ALL the time! Guy #2 : Really? Who? Tell me... Guy #1 : You didn't hear it from me but...He halts mid sentence and the words are almost stuck in his mouth. The second staff member has also lost interest in what he had to say. They both appear to be transfixed by something out of shot. The other staff members around them are also hypnotized by this mysterious body. The entire backstage staff have been converted into wax dummies as if by magic. After a few seconds of silence one of them snaps out of his trance... Guy : I think I've died and gone to heaven...The mystery is soon lifted as from around the corner walks an astonishingly resplendent figure. Her long dark hair flowed all the way down her neck and stroked the back of her dark but translucent body attire. Her high heel boots made a satisfying clomp on the hard floor as she strolled past the indolent employees without even glimpsing at them. She makes only five more steps before she halts on the spot as one of the workers sends a wolf whistle in her direction. She sighs and grimaces before turning around to face the men. She applies a fake smile and adopts a suggestive look in her eyes as she tilts her head menacingly. Guy : Hey lads, I'm in here, learn from the pro.The man clasps his hands together and rubs them cockily. He is a burly fellow and he flaunts the fact by wearing a very tight t-shirt. Just as he starts to make his way over to the woman he stops dead in his tracks and once again reverts to his wax dummy state. This time a look of shock and despair is on his face as if Satan himself has materialized before his very eyes. It is not Satan, however at first glance the image is almost as alarming. A figure that is only described as human as it is the most logical assumption. His face is hidden behind a frightening green and black mask that may have made a few cameo appearances in nightmares around the globe. His choice of attire, a tight black vest shows off his enormous arms which bear tattoos of various images such as a sun with an evil face, a crescent moon with a personal symbol next to it and other various scary images. His midsection is embraced with a thick black belt which is wrapped around expensive looking leather pants. The staff member, who suddenly has the stature of a baby can only glare at the man in awe, trying arduously to hide his fear. The man approaches him and looks down at him, breathing heavily through his nose. The woman rushes over and steps between the two. She smiles up at the masked stranger before turning to the petrified worker. She has a evil smirk on her face before beginning... Woman : So you think you're a real man? You reckon you could handle a woman like me? Or handle a man like Torak?She points at the masked brute, leading the employee’s eyes to the gaze of Torak. He starts sweating profusely but doesn't pluck the courage to raise his hands to wipe the sweat from dripping into his eyes. He tries to speak but nothing feasible or in fact, English. The woman turns her head back to face the worker and Privately commands his attention. He strictly retains his focus on her eyes only in fear that if his eyes drift to any other part of her body he'd have to face the consequence. She lubricates her soft pink lips with her tongue before continuing... Woman : Now, if you want to continue working here, or anywhere else, or even be consciously aware of what goes on around you for the rest of your life I suggest you go back to what you were doing and we can forget this confrontation ever happened.The worker's lip quivers as he stutters a few audible blurts before finally managing to construct a feasible response. Guy : Yes ma'amShe smiles and lightens the tone of her voice. Woman : Please, my name is LaBlanc...Cordelia LaBlanc. You can refer to me as Ms. LaBlanc. I'm not French but I satisfy the fantasies of many. Torak here is my fiancé.She lifts her hand to show off an impressive diamond ring that glistens as the light reflects from it. There is a moment of awkward silence before Cordelia raises her eyebrows and enquires... Cordelia : Do you have a name by any chance?He pauses for a second and frantically searches his brain trying to recollect the required information. It suddenly blurts it out. Guy : My name's Steve, Steve Osbourne.Cordelia : Okay then Steve, as you may know we are new here so would you care to direct us to the locker room area? Steve : Sure, I'll show you.Torak immediately steps forward causing Steve to stumble backwards and almost lose his balance. Steve : Oh you know what, I forgot I've got something really important to do. All you need to do is go through that door there and turn left. Turn right and you'll see it. Steve uses his hands nervously to assist his directions. He backs away from Cordelia and she glances at him before thanking him. Cordelia turns her back to Steve and follows the directions given to her by Steve. Torak lingers on the spot for a few seconds with his eyes fixed on Steve. Steve looks at him anxiously. Torak approaches him and goes mask to nose with Steve. He lingers there for a few seconds before walking away. Once Torak has gone Steve lets out a huge sigh of relief. A sigh wasn’t the only thing he let out either. He ended up wetting himself from the whole ordeal. An incident that no-one backstage will allow him to forget. He reaches the door of destiny and aptly enough the number on the door is 13. As if Steve wasn’t paranoid enough. He cautiously edges toward the door and lifts his hand up. He doesn’t knock. His hand just drifts in the air, inches from the door. He can feel the revulsion emanating from inside, warm against his hand as if there were a fire inside. He plucks up the courage and knocks the door twice. He stumbles backwards in braces himself. The door swings open so fast the Steve almost gets sucked into the room. The force of the door opening causes the paper on Steve’s clipboard to curl upwards and over the top of the clipboard. Steve gazes, almost in a trance, at the figure that lingers in the doorway. Steve corrects the paper, not once taking his eyes off Torak. He extends the clipboard toward him and nervously proposes: ”S-s-s-sign here, p-p-p-please?”Torak glares into his eyes, his intimidation pounds away at Steve’s confidence. Torak’s arm reaches up…and it all goes black for Steve. Moment’s pass and finally Steve regains self-control. ”Is---it it over?”He loses his self control for a brief second as he opens his eyes and realizes he’s in the same place and in-tact. He even feels himself to confirm. ”Hot diggidy! I’m still alive!”Though, not for much longer if he carries on. Torak stares at him like a dinosaur would a lamb. Steve feels a bit sheepish but he notices Torak extend his arm, attempting to hand back the clipboard. A battle takes place. The battleground being Torak’s mind. Fury, the greatest knight of malevolence marches onwards until it stumbles upon it’s greatest adversary: Self-Control. A fierce battle rages as pride, passion, self-esteem, desire, self-loathing and pure hatred watch on. Self-esteem claims Self-control is overrated while pride claims fury is being over-pushed. Cordelia!Memory charges in with the distraction. Bait which Fury takes a bite of and is subsequently slayed by Self-control. Pride and passion are overjoyed by the victory, but it’s evident that this is the first of many, greater battles. Torak continues to glare at Steve who is still frozen there, returning the gaze as if looking at the face of Medusa. He slowly and timidly reaches up and takes a hold of the clipboard. He tries to pull it away but Torak’s grip is strong. Fury makes one desperate assault…but Self-control is on hand to drive the sword of suppression through the heart of it’s enemy. Fury slumps to the pits from whence it came. Torak releases his grip on the clipboard. Steve backs away and a smile spreads on his face. ”Thank You! Thank you sir. Thank you”Torak raises an eyebrow as Steve comically bows and even curtsys as he continues to stumble backwards, eventually meeting the wall. Steve jumps in fear and turns to face the wall, initially believing that Torak somehow managed to get behind him. Realizing it’s merely a wall he turns back to the doorway. However, the door is now closed. Steve begins to let out a sigh of relief…but he stops half-way through exhalation and freezes again. Eventually, he looks down at his pants. ”Aw…damn it”In his room, away from the distraction, Torak is able to think. The memory of her keeps flooding back. He remembers the moment that he lost her, probably forever. Cordelia is brimming with emotion. Her eyes welled up with tears and a tone of sadness clings unshakably to her every word.
“So what’s it to be Jack? Do we give up everything we’ve worked at, everything we shared together to form our love…because you can’t grasp the fact that you couldn’t defeat Latino! Or is it more than that?”
Torak seethes, he knows it is more, but not much more than that. Not only has he been left humiliated by his loss, he now has to answer to the woman he calls his fiancé, his lover…the only person who has ever loved him.
“It’s bad enough that you just flat out walked out on ACW…but now you’re walking away from me too? You have to snap out of this! You have to see sense!”
He sees no sense. All he sees is the red mist descend upon him and prompts him to act without much though. His arm raises so quickly that Cordelia has no chance to react before it strikes her hard and cleanly across her face, knocking her flat on the floor. She clutches her face and tears stream from her eyes. She sobs as she looks down at the floor, almost ashamed of herself.Where was self-control then? Why didn’t it show up to rescue Cordelia from Fury then? Self-control, it seems, is not always available. He wonders, will he have self-control in his match with Jack of Heartz later tonight? He hopes not. A smirk draws on his face. His fury is not dead yet. It was merely playing possum.
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Torak
poster
Imagination and fantasy are two components of delusion
Posts: 713
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Post by Torak on Sept 6, 2009 11:55:52 GMT -5
Meltdown, 20th April 2006 Grinding out results (TUC005) Evil is done without effort, naturally, it is the working of fate – Charles Baudelaire
Effort and Determination require not only the strength of body, but the strength of mind. -TorakAny activity that does not require effort does not deserve praise. One who exhibits effort, whether the outcome is remarkable or not, should be commended for using sheer will-power to attempt to achieve their desire. Only a lazy mind shuns effort and is dismissive to determination. To try and fail is far more honorable than to surrender. Torak has been determined this past month, not to let his wrath get the better of him; not allowing it to manipulate him. A mental battle has been raging between two sides: Torak’s Malevolence and self-control. Malice and rage have unfortunately collaborated to dominate the conflict; pride, self-esteem, desire, passion and love have all but fallen. However the re-enforcements of Effort and Determination are on their way. Torak sits in the usual location of a dark, dank and creepily bare room. It’s some wonder how he manages to discover one in the Dominican Republic that so closely resembles his usual haunt. It doesn’t escape your assumption that it’s possible he might not even be present in the Dominican Republic with the rest of the ACW roster, but this could be transmitting from the regular ACW building. It seems Torak has made it his residency since his return. Maybe because he prefers to be so close to the pain and chaos that he plays a hand in now and again. This month, however, he hasn’t caused much pain or suffering at all. He’s cutting down. But alas, much like anybody cutting down on any particular addictions or past-times there is side effects. For one, Torak has suffered a distinct lack of sleep as of late, finding it hard to drift off and when he does it’s not long before he’s awoken by the urge to destroy something. In the rare sessions of sleep he has been getting he has experienced extremely odd dreams. When he is awake not everything is logging in to his recall. For instance, he can’t even remember what he did Monday. For some reason he can’t remember if there was a Warfare broadcast on Monday and further more, if he was involved. How can an entire day slip past un-noticed? Even now at this moment he’s not exactly sentient to all going around him. He seems to be a hypnotic daze; his eyes glazed over like someone who has abused copious amounts of drugs and a drool of saliva hanging from his bottom lip. He is almost motionless; the only movement visible appears to be his right arm as the skin shakes and the muscles twitch constantly. At the end of the appendage, in his right hand he holds two large silver balls: Chinese Worry Balls…or Baoding balls. These balls are commonly used as a workout for the forearm but can also be used to relieve stress. He rotates the chrome balls, circling them around each other on his palm, moving his fingers like a spider’s legs. His arm is tense and the veins are thick and protruding, indicating his lack of sleep. The balls grind against each other as Torak rolls them determined to halt the anger from building up. It’s rising fast, however, and causes great strain on the beast’s face; cringing and grimacing with every effort, every bombardment of wrathful shell launched by his seemingly undefeatable malevolence. His eyes clamp shut and the balls make a horrible, blood curdling screech as they grind against each other. The sound seems to affect Torak too as his eyes close, attempting to shut it out somehow. The screeching increases in volume to an unbearable point. The shrill sound jerks him discourteously from reality…again. This time though, it’s for real. He opens his eyes and he is no longer in the room. He is somewhere else, somewhere unfamiliar and a place that does not feel at all like reality.
Torak : What’s this? Another Bizarro…
Barely with the words out of his mouth he stops, shocked at the sound of his own voice. While it is a logical assumption, it is not completely certain that the words escaped from his mouth. He has no face. No facial features. No mask to hide his identity. There is a void where his face should be. It’s all getting a little weird for his liking. He tries to turn around, but the certain lack of surroundings makes it impossible to actually change direction. There is nothing. No color. Not even black.
Suddenly a figure appears. It is not human, nor is it animal. It is non-descript. It can’t be described at all…Torak just knows it simply is there.
Torak : Wha…? Who…? Wher…?
”Welcome Jack. I have been expecting you.”
Torak tries to issue a response, but IT already seems to know what he is going to say.
”I am your sanity. I am very weak. The war has been long and arduous and I had almost given up hope of surviving. That was until, of course, the epiphany you experienced recently. My last call for help. I am to blame and/or thank for your recent ordeals and this may be the last time we will ever be in the same company I am afraid. That is unless you can help.”
Torak thinks: What? What can I do?
”We need you to regain focus. Retain your vision and logic so that I may become stronger.”
His self-esteem appears…but not visually. Torak merely knows it is there.
Self-Esteem: You can do it Jack!
More voices…that aren’t actually voices pipe up:
Pride: You are better than this! Passion: You can become greatness.
The motivation is interrupted by the sinister aspects of himself.
Hatred: Don’t listen to them. Let us become you, it’s what you enjoy! Self Loathing: You don’t deserve sanity anyway. Let us become you so that you can harm yourself! Fury: JACK! Let us become you so that you can harm others!
Mental bickering erupts in his presences. It’s hard to endure and certainly does no favours for his dying sanity.
As his emotions, feelings and inner-thoughts all join the cluster of debate Torak decides enough is enough. A harsh and thunderous roar brings an abrupt end to it all.The piercing sound jerks him discourteously back to reality. The hallucination cut short by Torak’s sanity making one last gasp attempt at survival. No-one apart from Torak would have witnessed any of this, however, but it’s more interesting to describe than Torak merely sitting there, convulsing and twitching as if on a drug trip. Sweat literally pours from his face, which is now there to see and feel, and a white foam drips from underneath his mask, presumably emitting from his mouth during the episode. More alarmingly though, is the sight in his right hand. The once large chrome balls he was grinding are now at most half the size they were! Torak, stunned, releases the grip on the balls and wipes the white substance from his chin. Clearly not grasping any concept of sexual innuendo or double entendre. A sanity does seem to be present in his eyes and the tenseness visible in his body seems to have disappeared. The veins in his arms no longer protrude and he seems so much calmer than he was at the beginning of the segment. He looks around to room, perplexity displayed by his eyes, as if he is in an unfamiliar location before turning to the door and gripping the handle, gently turning it and exiting the room. For once though, you have no worries of him making his presence felt somehow. You feel that there is a new side to Torak. His rage finally subdued by his determination.
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Torak
poster
Imagination and fantasy are two components of delusion
Posts: 713
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Post by Torak on Sept 6, 2009 11:57:40 GMT -5
Meltdown 4th May 2006 Recap of a Rivalry (TUC006) The disappointment of losing is huge – Jack Youngblood
The disappointment of losing when you know you’ve done better is even worse - TorakThere are very few, if any, feelings worse than defeat. The indignity of the realization that one is not the best can scar a person’s pride. It can shatter a persons dreams. It can ruin their life by sending it spiraling downwards with no “safety net” or “parachute” to protect them from landing face first on the reality that is: You are nothing. Someone is better than you. You are a failure. It is brutally more difficult to accept, however, when you feel you deserved or earned the victory that so painfully eluded you. You feel cheated as all the effort and toil and hard work you contributed to achieving success had gone to waste. Everybody responds to such a feeling differently; Some may use it as motivation, drive or inspiration. Not content with the bitter taste of defeat they are left thirsty for the sweet flavor of triumph and will use the memory of that failing, chalk it down to experience, to inspire them on. Others may identify it as the end of their dreams; the slayer of hope and take it as a crippling blow to their self confidence, pride and respect. They allow it to eat away at them, taunted by the memory of disgusting failure, diminishing them into a shell of emptiness, a shadow of their former self and a minute speck on the face of existence. Then there are those that obsess over it…not only allowing it to eat away at them and haunt them…but wanting it to destroy them mentally…wishing it to rip apart any and all dreams and desires they once possessed. It will play on their mind all day; cavorting in their dreams…and nightmares during the hours that the stars shine brightest. There are not many of these individuals in existence but one does reside in the very depths of the ACW arena. The dowdy, dark gray and seemingly soulless brick walls of the dungeon-like room echo the angry, disgruntled and terrifying grunts of seeping insanity that emanate from the host. The growling discharges reverberate around the room, cutting through the air effortlessly like a chainsaw through cheese, with constant huffs of deep breaths exhaled through two nostrils providing background noise. Torak, needless to say, is not a happy bunny. In fact, it’s safe to declare that he is about as happy as he is a bunny. He paces around the room with no set path, buzzing around like a drunken wasp playing dodgeball, sweating so profusely that you wonder how long it would take to fill the room up with his exuded bodily fluid. His long black hair is matted and greasy, indicating that he has not had a shower or washed since Fallen Heroes. Personal Hygiene is the very last thing on his mind right now. The drops of sweat that stream down his face all serve as tiny reminders of his tremendous yet ultimately worthless run in the 30 man Battle Royale less than a week ago. It got worse. What irks him further into a state of psychosis is; The man responsible for ending his seemingly unstoppable reign of supremacy. The man who severed the link between inevitability and reality and inserted unpredictability into the mix. The man who had made Torak feel this way before; crushed and demoralized to a point that he could not face up to the challenge any more. Torak can’t even bear to mentally utter his name. “L…L…La…Lat…in….Lat-in-o”The thought alone crushes his face into a disgusted grimace and fills him with the desire to scrape out his brain to rid his mind of the acknowledgement of the dirty word. Torak has never really liked words, he preferred action, but he has just discovered one word that he hates more than any other. It’s a word he associates with despair, disappointment and dishonor. Against his will the image of him appears in his mind. Torak clutches his head and squeezes it tightly as if it were a pimple and the cocky, smiling face of his adversary a repulsive build-up of sebum. The only thing he manages to eject is a deafening, gruff roar of agony. He figures pressure doesn’t work and so instead tries a different method. Extracting it with his own hands. He grabs a clump of his own hair in each hand and with a blood curdling howl yanks out the hair from their very roots leaving two small bald patches on the side of his head. Unfortunately, this method proves as unsuccessful as his previous effort. Change of plan. He decides to try and force the image out. He begins to pound away at his own head with his fists, still with strands of tangled hair laced between his fingers. Each close-fisted strike seems to be harder than the last and at this rate you expect his skull to cave in from the self-abuse. Still, it apparently seems, the image is as prevalent as it was when it first appeared and Torak can only take so much more. He somehow manages to spark an idea, which is quite a wonder after all of the punishment his cranium has been subjected to. He realizes that physical torture has no authority over the power of the mind and he can only fight fire with fire. He immediately attempts to concentrate, hoping to summon the happier memories that he has that involve the owner of the face that haunts him. He forcibly conjures up a more satisfying image. It is the image of his foe lying motionless, yet undeniably in agonizing pain, following the incidents that occurred after their last meeting in the ring. That image of him, below him as he stands atop the stage, had burned into his mind and remained there for future recall, like a piece of art in a gallery. Torak begins to relax as the image soothes his mood, gently caressing his mind like a soft hand lightly rubbing across his chest. He delves further back into his memory bank and invokes another image. It is the same face of he who haunts him…but the expression is very different. He remembers back when he returned to ACW, that moment that he finally revealed himself for all to see after weeks of stalking his enemy. The look on his face then. He wore no grin. His eyes were not beaming with delight. He only showed signs of dread and trepidation. This image makes Torak chuckle, however, the enjoyment is short lived. The brief lapse allows the painful memories, momentarily allayed, to flood in through the crack created in his mental armor. The flash of a rusty chain, known as the St. Elmo’s Belt, swings by him; an image that seemingly chokes him as if it actually wrapped itself around his thick throat. He falls to his knees, gasping desperately for air as the memories continue to suffocate him. He envisions the scene from a week ago. To him, it’s almost as lucid as the moment it occurred. He feels he is a part of the moment, knowing full well what is about to happen but cannot do anything about. He can feel the energy drained from him but he is running. His momentum carries him on after a clothesline attempt is evaded. He can see his adversary, clinging to the ropes. It all goes in slow motion for him as he surges toward him with fury embedded in his intentions. However, his target ducks, bringing down the ropes with and subsequently lowering the bridge. He can’t put on the brakes and consequently his momentum takes him over the top rope and crashing to the floor. The pain of humility injects into his body like a lethal injection and he feels as though his life has ended. In reality, he is writhing and squirming on the cold hard floor like a worm in acid. He roars and bellows in anguish as the thoughts and memories assault him, they bombard him. The moment of impact begins to repeat on a perpetual loop. Every time he hits the mat is like another crucial blow to him. He is finally no longer able to endure this montage of a humiliating memory and he rises to his feet. He staggers about in the center of the room feeling disorientated and unsure of his surroundings. Everything is a blur, almost as if he were highly intoxicated. He is heading for a potential dangerous hangover as he grunts dazedly trying to register what he is seeing. He turns 180 degrees, not a wise move in his current condition, and comes face to face with him. “Latino!” he thinks. How does he have the audacity to stand there in his presence? Torak boils over with rage and with a stupefied growl hurls himself right at his foe…only to find himself pass right through him, like a ghost. Unfortunately for Torak, he is little time to react and the momentum of his charge leads him straight into the hard brick wall in front of him. The wall, previously presumed to be fairly solid and nigh on indestructible without the aid of high powered machinery, crumbles with hardly any effort. It merely surrenders under the weight and force of the onrushing beast. A number of bricks, and the mortar that had until very recently held them together, collapse and almost bury Torak who lies in a crumpled heap of torment. He is completely motionless and exhibits only slight signs of breathing. He seems to be unconscious…but that is probably the best state for him right now. One can only imagine what he will do when he recovers… If he recovers…
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Torak
poster
Imagination and fantasy are two components of delusion
Posts: 713
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Post by Torak on Sept 6, 2009 12:00:52 GMT -5
Warfare 8th May 2006 Dazed and Confused (TUC007) I'm not afraid to dream anymore. 'Cause when I wake up it's always worse. – Ellen Ripley
In waking a Tiger, use a long stick – Mao Tse-Tung
Sometimes the biggest disappointment can be waking up - TorakWaking up. Being instantly and discourteously jerked back to reality can often be the worst feeling in the world. Drifting into the relm of dreams is relatively simple for most, only a select few find it difficult to achieve this. However, on the other end of the scale, the majority of people find it difficult to adjust to their true existence so abruptly, regardless of the content of their dreams. If preceded by a good dream, where you acted out all of your fantasies and desires in a world that you thought truly existed you wake up feeling disappointed, discontent with the onrushing reality that hits you when you peel your eyelids open and sit up in your bed. Or perhaps you were snatched away from the clutches of a nightmare, the demons and monsters that infiltrate your dreams and create havoc by tormenting and torturing your imagination. You would assume that this would provide relief, pleased to be rescued from the illusory hell. However, the images and actions that pestered you during your slumber have a lasting effect. They remain in your mind as if they managed to stay inside. They leave you exhausted and feeling like you didn’t have much sleep at all. The more you dream, the less you sleep so to speak. This could explain why people wake up so groggy and petulant. So with that in mind, would an abnormally tormented mind wake up even worse? There are voices floating in the darkness… “Is he dead?”The tone of the voice is almost careless, almost as if hoping for a “yes” just add some excitement to his day. “I don’t know, I think he’s still breathing.”The response is swift and professional and is accompanied by a more concerned tone. It isn’t finished yet. “I think he’s been here, unconscious, since Thursday. People had spotted him but didn’t dare come in.”The statement brings about an eery silence in the, well, wherever the hell they are. The first voice nervously poises a question; ”uh…do you think we should be here?”A pause of dread filled consideration follows. ”Well, I guess we can’t just leave him here…”The kindness and concern, while greatly admired, is probably not the most beneficial attitude to adopt in this situation. His next suggestion is probably worse… ”Maybe we ought to take off his mask”The remark acts almost as a thunderous sound that could wake the deepest of sleepers. Torak’s eyes open so suddenly his pupils almost scream in pain from the onrushing light, light which they hadn’t been subjected to since Thursday. A spot of light casts on his cheek, emanating from a small torch held in the hand of one of the owners of the voices. Torak sees before him two gormless looking, curious and slightly shocked faces. On the right; a caucasion man with short, neat, black hair with piercing green eyes wearing a scruffy loose T-shirt bearing the ACW logo. The man on the left, slightly in front of the other and holding the torch is an african man with a shaved head and small dark pupils dotted in the middle of his big white eyes. He is wearing a white medical uniform. ”Jesus Christ!”Torak sits up sharply, almost headbutting the medical worker. However, he hasn’t got off scot free as Torak’s right arm lunges at him and the masculine, rough hand wraps itself around his neck in a move resemblant to a scene from Alien. With frightening brute force Torak manages to shove the medic away from, sending him crashing to the floor around 10 feet away from. The staff worker assesses the situation and concludes that it would be in his best interests if he left the room in the very near future. He turns in an attempt to scarper, the proverbial tail hanging between his jelly-like legs. Unfortunately for him his legs are about as available to grab as a tail would be as Torak pounces out, grabbing him by the knee and squeezing it, crushing it excruciatingly. Torak pushes himself to his feet and with his free hand grabs his victim by the back of the neck, slowly turning him around to introduce him to his biggest fear. Torak is disgruntled, not just because he was recently awoken from his not-quite-beauty sleep, but because of the images he was treated to during his unconsciousness. Images that he does not wish to share. He looks deep into the eyes of the fearful worker, trying to make sense of the incidents that led up to this moment. He remembers just what happened prior to his lengthy snooze. He remembers what sent him into the senseless frenzy that caused him to lose control of his own body. He sneers at the worker before sending him crashing into the pile of bricks that Torak had previously lain, sending him into unconsciousness immediately upon impact. Torak glances at the medic who is stirring but he determines that he is no threat. He looks up at the door to ahead of him then promptly rushes at it, barging through it and knocking it off it’s hinges before disappearing down the corridor. One can only imagine where he is heading.
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Torak
poster
Imagination and fantasy are two components of delusion
Posts: 713
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Post by Torak on Sept 6, 2009 12:03:18 GMT -5
Meltdown 11th May 2006 Ward Wars (TUC008) It has been an interesting evening thus far, though, no more or less than a usual Thursday night but Alpha Championship Wrestling retains the threat of unpredictability, a proverbial can of worms, waiting anxiously to be spilled into the situation. It can seize upon the unfolding events at any given moment without warning and without restraint. It is this unpredictability that keeps ACW interesting, keeping the viewers on the edge of their seats. The viewers in attendance are readily poised, anticipating the forthcoming incidents, in a position that leaves them prepared to stand promptly in order to cheer or hiss the next arrival. On their minds; the events prior to this moment. They ponder the repercussions and the reasonings for what they have already seen, slowly calculating their opinion of this particular show. They await the next occurrence set to tip the balance into remarkable or dismal. The attentive eyes in the crowd notice the fresh scene displayed on the Alphatron. The brightness of the image is almost blinding at first glance but pupils adjust accordingly to the intensity. The scene is of a familiar location for wrestlers and fans alike, especially recently. The luminescent white walls of a hospital ward enclose the air congested with echoes of pain, suffering and despair. Busy nurses scurry around between beds, inspecting the vessels of anguish that are their patients. Despite being surrounded by such illnesses and pain the nurses display no sign of fear or worry. Entering the scene; a huskily handsome middle aged man clutches a clipboard and tries to garner the attention of the slim yet voluptuos, dark haired nurse that stands at the foot of a bed. Upon closer inspection you get hit with the feeling of familiarity. You’ve seen that doctor and nurse before somewhere, but you can’t remember when. Time to dig out your old Warfare and Meltdown tapes again. ”Nurse Allitt! You wanted to see me?”The nurse looks up with a professional smile before approaching the doctor so that she can speak to him without raising her voice. She doesn’t intend to disrupt her patients rest. ”Yes Dr. Shipman, there’s a patient I would like you to take a look at…”She motions her head to the left and slightly behind her, indicating to him the direction of the patient mysterious patient. The doctor sighs before issuing a rather disrguntled response. ”What’s the problem? Couldn’t you deal with it yourself?”She shakes her head. She clearly knows something that he doesn’t; something quite odd or maybe disturbing. ”No, you really ought to see this. It’s that wrestler guy we had brought in a couple of hours ago.”The doctor seperates his lips, his tongue lapping at his teeth, creating a tutting noise. ”Okay, but this better be important.”Her eyes widen and she intakes some air through her nose before turning away from him. He follows her every step until they reach an occupied bed. A pair of very large feet hang over the edge of the bed. ”This is the guy who had a vending machine fall on him”He looks at the patient and tries to extract some humour from the situation. ”He probably should go on a diet anyway.”He snickers through his nose before turning to the nurse who does not share his sense of humour (or lack of). She adopts a more serious tone. ”we think his ribs may be bruised, possibly even broken…”The doctor returns his glance at the patient and, noticing something that he didn’t upon first glance, furrows his brow. ”What’s with the mask?”The nurse takes a deep breath as she prepares to explain. ”That’s the weird thing you see…we could’nt get it off. No matter what we tried. It’s almost as if…it’s part of him.”The doctor offers her a strange look which she returns. He closes in on the patient, (who if you hadn’t guessed by now, is Torak) carefully examining the facial area of him. He lifts a finger up to the chin and tries to squeeze his finger into the gap between the mask and skin but to no avail. Frustrated, he brandishes a pen knife from his pocket and slowly raises it to the mask, aiming to cut it free. The hand jolts out and grabs the doctor by the wrist causing the nurse to jump and shriek in alarm. The doctor looks up and sees the confused but intimidating eyes of Torak and soon relinquishes the pen knife. In a rare moment, Torak shows mercy and releases the doctor, allowing him to back away out of harms way. Torak sits up, disorientated and out of sorts. It’s always strange waking up in an unfamiliar location. Torak is almost a stranger to hospitals, never really suffering serious damage to his body…he normally suffers mentally. For a moment the room seems to spin, everything is a blur. He feels a discomfort in his right arm and sure enough, when he lifts it up to inspect it he notices the intravenous needle piercing his thick skin. You can justifiably assume it took a few attempts to penetrate. He doesn’t like this feeling of intrusion into his body and promptly yanks it from his air, spurting blood all over his arm and the bedsheets. It’s probably too late to warn anyone who may be squeamish to look away. Torak certainly isn’t affected by such a sight but he is slightly nauseous from the unfamiliar territory. A few feet away from him, just opposite his bed, he can make out a group of doctors congregating by the bed opposite. Or maybe it’s just one doctor and his eyesight isn’t exactly normal right now. He can hear only one voice travelling from the general area, but it’s distorted slightly; his hearing is seemingly impaired too. Not every syllable manages to register. ”So, th-n l--‘s h--- - loo- -t –ou- b-ck. … Hmmm, So…h-w –o yo- fe-l, Mr. Laureano?”The very utterance of the name virtually snatches Torak out of his bed, holds him up in the air and slaps him ruthlessly across the face. It almost serves as a miracle as all of a sudden his vision and hearing come flooding back to 100% Or maybe he has just ignored the impairment and the rage building up internally blocks out all of his other senses. Meanwhile, in the bed opposite, Latino sits up almost as annoyed as Torak. He hopes his back injury hasn’t recurred, keeping him out of action for more months, not with his glorious title shot just around the corner. He feels fine physically, but the doctor insists that he remains in the bed for them to monitor his condition. However, the doctor or Latino have both failed to notice the commotion going on across the ward, neither do they see an infuriated Torak stagger over towards them. The obvious question that lingers in the air is: Who could be foolish enough to put these two great rivals in beds opposite each other, let alone the same ward. Latino is first alerted to his foe’s presence as he witnesses the doctor that had been standing in front of him fly helplessly out of sight, flung halfway across the ward by the powerful but bleeding arms of Torak. Latino is so shocked by the looming figure he sees approaching him that for a moment he freezes, mortified on the bed. Could this be an hallucination? His questioning thought is swiftly and parlously answered as what the sees is very real. Torak thrusts his arms forward and wraps his hands around Latino’s neck, applying pressure to the larynx with his thumbs in a callous attempt to obstruct his air supply. Latino writhes desperately, still so stunned by the situation that he can’t even begin to attempt to power out of the deadly clutches of Torak. His eyes wander, frantically seeking assistance. He finds it; his left arm reaches out and grabs the bedpan innocently lying on the bedside cabinet and with one swing he manages to gain a reprieve. It isn’t the impact of the bedpan that releases the grip of the wrathful beast, but the fear of what the object main contain causes him to back off. Thankfully for him the bedpan is empty but he now must deal with a Latino counter attack. Latino springs from the bed, diving at the hesitant Torak and tackling him to the cold, hard floor of the busy ward. Nurses, doctors and patients alike all stop what they were doing and watch on in perplexity. Latino delivers some stiff strikes to the masked face of his enemy, attempting to subdue him. However, Torak does not wish to receive any medical treatment for facial injuries and so powers out of the move by rolling over to his right and forcing Latino face first into the steel structure of the bed. Torak pushes himself to his feet as Latino swaggers dazedly from the impact. He gets hauled to his feet by Torak who first delivers a clubbing blow to the back of the neck then launches him into an empty wheelchair, vacated recently by a frightened patient. Torak immediately takes the helm and begins to push Latino at hurtling speed out of the ward and into the corridor. Latino, still quite dazed at this moment, can only hold on to the armrests as he speeds down the corridor. They eventually reach a reception desk. Torak abruptly puts on the breaks, sending Latino flying into the hard wooden desk, prompting the attention of some of the nurses gathered in the area who ask if he’s alright as he gets to his feet. He is far from alright, but he could be worse as he notices Torak charging at him at great speed. He thinks fast and grabs a desk lamp from behind him and swings it wildly, catching Torak in the temple and knocking him off course and eventually to the ground. Latino hurls the now broken lamp down at him before aiming hard kicks at the torso of the downed monster. Torak urgently tries to pull himself to his feet, but the loss of blood and cranial damage is starting to slow him down. Latino, on the other hand, thinks fast and spots a discarded gurney sitting by a wall just a few feet away. He delivers a shot to subdue Torak before stumbling over to retrieve the aforementioned mobile bed. He returns to Torak who is by now slumped over the desk, trying to catch his second wind. He turns and aims a wild swing at the approaching Latino but he ducks and delivers a rising knee to the abdomen, taking the wind out of Torak. Latino uses all of his strength to lift Torak up onto the gurney, rolling him face up before frantically pulling the straps up and over him, securing him to the bed. Torak, despite his usual strength, is just too drained from the battles he’d encountered this evening to break free. Now it’s Latino’s turn to play driver. He grips the top of the gurney, just above Torak’s head and begins to push forward. The weight makes it difficult at first, especially with Latino’s damaged back but he manages to overcome it and once it’s rolling it’s easier. He spots the exit just ahead and digs deep into his reserve to make it to the glass door. Just before the door he notices a short decline, a couple of steps leading downwards. That’s perfect, he thinks as he prepares to let go of the gurney. Just a few more steps and he releases his grip of the gurney sending it hurtling towards the door. It flies off the top step and sails through the air before crashing through the glass door, Torak side first. Latino drops to his knees, exhausted from the whole affair, slowly crawling towards the exit. He spots a crowd assembling around the broken gurney with the presumably slashed beast strapped to it. Latino slowly crawls down the steps and uses the top step to push himself to his feet. It wouldn’t be a good idea to crawl across the shards of glass that now litter the floor. He stumbles through what remains of the door frame and staggers down the path that leads into the hospital. He acknowledges the gathered crowd and reads the astonishment on their faces. They turn their attention to the bruised and exhausted Latino. Somehow, he manages to pluck some light humour from it all, probably due to the relief of ending the battle. “I guess he didn’t have any medical insurance…”The entire crowd is too shocked to laugh or even titter, they just swtich glances between the discarded gurney and the battered fighter that just emerged from the hospital. Latino decides that he wants to make sure that it’s over as he carefully trundles over to his fallen enemy. He sees that his eyes are closed and there are no signs of movement. …but Alpha Championship Wrestling retains the threat of unpredictability Suddenly, the straps that once seemed unbreakable split open as Torak, more furious than ever, bursts from the gurney and charges at Latino. The shocked crowd disperse as the two go at outside the hospital. They exchange hard right hands, knocking each other back and vying for the upperhand. They connect simultaneously and fall backwards. Torak lands in the doorway where the shards of glass lay while Latino lands on a patch of grass, striking his head on a sign that ironically reads “Keep off the grass”. The sign is unearthed from the impact and lands horizontally alongside Latino. He sits up and notices the base of the sign post is sharp, like a wooden stake. Without thinking he picks it up off the ground and rips the sign away from it. Torak, meanwhile, finds the biggest sharpest shard of glass and holds it up like a dagger. They pause and begin to stare each other down with the moonlight illuminating their showdown. They read each other’s thoughts, or they just happen to have the same idea. They just wait for the other to make the first move… Suddenly, from out of nowhere, at least two pairs of arms grab Latino from behind and hoist him away from the scene. They eventually lead him to a parked ambulance with the rear doors already open and the engine running. Latino is bundled into the back of the ambulance and his two captors follow behind him, closing the doors before shouting the order: “Go! Go!”. Latino, still clutching the makeshift stake looks at the two men and notices they are two burly paramedics. Latino is not impressed by their heroics? ”What the hell are you playing at?”One of the paramedics tries to calm him with a reassuring hand on the shoulder. ”Sorry, but we had to get you out of there. Who knows what he would have done”Latino, not sure whether he is more relieved or frustrated, notices the other paramedic looking at his weapon. ”Uh, what were you going to do with that?”Latino’s expression changes as he holds the wooden implement in front of him. He glares at it for a long while before turning his attention back to the paramedics. ”I don’t know…I really don’t know”From outside the hospital, a ragged Torak gave chase for a few metres but soon realized that it was a futile attempt. He stops dead in his tracks as the ambulance speeds away. He knows how he feels, frustrated and irate. He holds the shard of glass up in front of him, glaring at it for a moment before tightening his hand into a fist, shattering the glass into tiny pieces, cutting his huge hand. He looks up at the path that the ambulance took and narrows his eyes as the scene fades out.
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Torak
poster
Imagination and fantasy are two components of delusion
Posts: 713
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Post by Torak on Sept 6, 2009 12:07:21 GMT -5
Meltdown, 18th May 2006 The Tarantino Telephone (TUC009) Part I We are presented with a rare distinctive view of the exterior of the ACW building. The night air is clear and carries a frosty chill. Summer hasn’t quite reached this part of the world yet. However, there is no biting wind or saturating rain pouring down so it is safe to venture outside without being draped in a heavy coat or lumbered with a flimsy umbrella in your possession… Which is fortunate for the chairman, as he didn’t have the patience to grab either on his way out, he just wanted to get the hell out of there before it turned nasty. The door creaks agitatedly as it is forced open and the cold air capitalizes on the aperture by quickly infiltrating the building as the chairman emerges through to the outside. He closes the door behind him and backs into it, creating a blockade between himself and the problems he faced inside the building. He exhales a deep sigh of relief that is visible in the cold. He pushes himself from the door and takes a few steps forward into the external area. As he takes every step he realizes the area is devoid of life, noise and movement and begins to notice the inanimate objects that create his new surroundings; A rather hefty looking dumpster casts a huge shadow before it. A discarded bicycle lays almost lifeless on the floor, dying from the rust that spreads over it’s frame. The tall, thin iron railings that enclose the area with a rickety gate situated towards one end of the fence, hanging lethargically from it’s hinges and only held in place due to a thick padlock. He continues out into the area, his expensive shoes scuffing the conrete as he walks, too exhausted to lift his legs more than an inch from the ground. He looks up at the sky above him for a brief moment before returning his gaze ahead of him. This time he looks further out, beyond the iron bars, and notices the landscape that peers down at the ACW arena. Even the land prefers to view the brutal ACW action from a distance. Ginger scans the distant horizon, moving his eyes slowly from right to left, until he reaches a lone tree sitting half-way down a nearby hill. He glares at it, wondering what kind of tree it is, trying to make out through the slight-darkness if the leaves are green, if fruit hangs from the branches or if a swing rocks gently from it. Suddenly… Suddenly is a word that, without fail, can instill fear or dread into the heart of any man when read or heard. It is a word that derives from unpredictability. It is something that is out of the blue and unexpected. One moment there is normal then there it is…that word. Sudden is as sudden does. Suddenly, a small flock of birds fly swiftly from the branches and embrace the night sky before soaring to a new location. Their wings aptly flutter, just as the chairman’s heart does. For a momentary second he froze on the spot, as if the temperature dropped staggeringly. However, once he realizes what was the suddenicity (Yeah, it’s a word I made up) that frightened him, he lightens up and finds his jumpy nature quite humorous. He begins to laugh quietly to himself, a laugh that contains a hint of embarrassment. Suddenly… There it is again. His laugh ceases in an instant and he once again becomes frozen. He no longer finds the situation he is in funny. His eyes widen and his breathing becomes much heavier. A horrible feeling sweeps over him, a dreaded sensation that induces horripilation, spreading goose bumps all over his body. It is an icy chill that can not be attributed to the temperature. For the first time in the past few moments he gets a frightening feeling that he is not alone. At first, he is too petrified to turn around and examine the area that he feels the presence lingering from. His eyes frantically try to seek out a gap in the iron fence to possibly squeeze through but they turn up no results. Even the sleekest of cats would find those railings a tight fit. He swallows hard, hoping for a dose of courage mixed in his saliva, before slowly turning around to face the dumpster. Sure enough there is a shadowy, ominous figure loitering in the shadow of the dumpster. Unfortunately, a shadow is another shadow’s best camouflage. The chairman returns his glance to the discarded bike. Unappreciated by someone, but how it could be cherished by the chairman right now. Unfortunately, he quickly notices the distinct lack of chain around the crankset, rendering any quick getaway impossible. Besides, the padlock that supports the gate at the end of the fence appears to be too sturdy to break through and the door that he exited from is far far away. Or at least, that’s how it seems. He decides the best course of action from here is to face up to his fear. He clears his throat and pipes up, nervously… ”Who’s there?”He patiently awaits a response, though he actually dreads any response at all. He hopes it was just his imagination playing tricks on him. However, he spots movement in the shadows near the dumpster than can only confirm that there is indeed somebody…or something there. He clears his throat again, this time adopting a more authorative tone. ”I am the CHAIRMAN of ACW… I demand you come out right now.” His words hold more confidence than he possesses, but he can take no more of this chilling buildup. A rough but equally nervous voice replies. ”uh…it’s just me boss…”The chairman squints his eyes as the figure approaches him from the shadows. ”Wh-Who? I can’t see you…”The figure fully emerges into the brighter portion of the area and becomes fully known to the chairman. He’s is slightly familiar… ”Sorry sir, it’s me…Steve Osbourne…I just came out for some fresh air…I thought you were…”It’s Steve, an ACW staff member who frequently appears in segments. However, he only usually appears in a certain individuals’ segments. ”Thought I was what?”Steve considers answering his question, but then decides it unneccesary. Both men have had quite a scare already so it would be unfair to start mentioning names. ”Nothing sir, I just didn’t know it was you. Are you okay sir?”Ginger exhales deeply, aiming wide eyes at his employee. ”Well…I am now. You gave me quite a scare…so…what’s that in your hand?”Steve holds up his hand to reveal a mangled mess of electronics and plastic. ”Uh…this is my cell phone sir, I was trying to fix it.”His employer furrows his brow and sarcastically quips… ”Well, looks like you did a good job there, mate. So, what happened to it?”Steve isn’t amused by the chairman’s remark but he offers a smile anyway. You tend to laugh and smile at the jokes of those who pay your salary. He recalls the events that led him here in his head quickly before preparing to tell. ”Well…”
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Torak
poster
Imagination and fantasy are two components of delusion
Posts: 713
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Post by Torak on Sept 6, 2009 12:10:33 GMT -5
The Tarantino Telephone Part II …and there he stands at his desired destination. The large wooden door stands in front of him, obscuring the view behind it and to a certain degree, muffling the sounds from inside. About two thirds of the way up the door, about eye-level, is a golden plaque with quite fancy, decorative letters that make out a title and a name. ACW Chairman: GingerdudeHis eyes read and re-read the letters that grace the sign-plate, confirming the content of the room. He’s been here before, as well as inside the room…but it was a long time ago. He remembers the last time entered the room before him he barged in, mercilessly knocking the door to very limit of it’s hinges. He contemplates a repeat performance as he imagines the face of the chairman as he witnesses him surging into the room like an unstoppable missile, cowering behind his desk as tears flow down his face and urine drips in his underwear. However, he considers the nature of his visit and instead determines it necessary to knock. He does so, only once, but the thud produced from the thick, hard knuckles is enough to send a shiver down the spine of anyone on the other side of the threshold. The voice from inside beckons him to enter, the tone liberated from the fear that would normally come with acknowledgement of the fact of presence. He reaches for the door handle and with a turn of the wrist he reels the latch in from the door frame, gently opening the door and allowing the seeping light of reality that is his existence made known to the occupant of the room. Torak enters the room and with a slam of the door, what goes on inside the room will occur without a witness. -- The door closes tight and in walks Steve, feeling rather exhausted from his duties tonight. He takes a seat, in this case a rather comfortable looking sofa with plump cushions, and rests his head back on the spongy backrest. The ACW staff lounge; the favorite area for the staff members under the employment of Alpha Championship Wrestling. Normally it is only occupied by the referee’s who are not currently on duty and the interviewers who haven’t been scheduled to grant any egomaniac the interview time that they have demanded. But occasionally, as exhibited in this case, the other various blue-collar staff members, the hard grafters who work on various aspects of the running of ACW, such as engineers, technicians, make-up artists etc… Steve rises up from his seat, agitated by something he just sat on. He removes an item from his back pocket and places it on the wooden table that rests in front of him, usually used to accommodate the tired feet of the over-worked, under-paid cart-horses of the ACW. The object rattles as it lands on the table due to it’s curved shape. It is an expensive looking cell phone. ”Not another one of those new fangly technology phones, Steve?” Steve turns his head to the right and notices he is being joined on the sofa by none other than Raymond Allen Fleming. His thick English accent is easilly distinguishable. He’s obviously taking a moment to relax before taking charge of the main event later in the night. As RAF takes a seat the sofa creaks slightly under his weight. He places a tall glass of clear liquid, presumably water, next to the phone which clearly alerts Steve, who jerks forward to retrieve his phone. ”Woah, watch you don’t spill that on it…this damn phone cost me a fortune!”Fleming offers him a pitying glance. ”I don’t know what’s wrong with just using a normal house-phone. And that texting rubbish…why don’t you just write a bloody letter?”Steve rolls his eyes whilst mouthing RAF’s criticism sardonically. He holds his new material possession high up for him to see with a certain pride in his eyes. ”But Ray, this phone is awesome. It’s got a 540 by 480 pixel camera that can take pictures AND video…it can play mpeg’s, mp3’s and wmv’s, vibration function…one thousand phonebook entries…sixty five thousand colours…it’s got…”The confounded look worn by RAF acts as a buffer that stops Steve in his verbal tracks. Steve furrows his brow, quite insulted that Ray isn’t paying more interest to his new toy. ”What’s wrong with you?”Fleming inhales before, quite pedantically remarking… ”Does anyone ever call you on it…”Steve pauses to think for a moment, trying to actually recall if anyone has rung his number yet. He can’t think of anyone but he doesn’t want to look like a fool, or more of one anyway, and so blurts… ”Yes, yes, of course…people call me all the time. I’m never off this phone.”RAF raises his eyebrows at him. Unfortunately for him, by some sheer chance or coincidence, Steve’s phone chirps a melodic tune, demanding to be answered. Needless to say, Steve is smug as he prepares to answer the call. ”There, you see…someone’s calling me right now…I wonder who it is this time…Hello?”He pauses for a while as a voice unfamiliar to him speaks. Confusion steadily manipulates his expression as his eyebrows furrow, his forehead wrinkles, his mouth widens and his eyes display perplexity. Every time he attempts to speak he is seemingly cut off by the person on the other end. However, quite soon his expression is manipulated and determined by another feeling. His eyes widen this time and his lips squeeze tightly together. He swallows hard as the secretive one-way conversation continues. The hand that contains the phone begins to quiver uncontrollably. Finally, it seems Steve is offered the opportunity to speak. ”But what do…Hello?...Hello?”Unfortunately, he is cut off as the other person hangs up. He lowers his phone and stares at it, his face aghast. “was that you missus? She left you for the postman yet?”Steve has clearly been knocked off course. He begins to sweat and breathe heavilly. There is even a hint of him fighting back tears. ”Why does this always happen to me? What did I do…? Oh my god.”Raymond’s tone becomes more concerned though he is also partly curious to this ghostly phone call. ”You alright son?”Steve lurches forward and snatches RAF’s drink from the table and gulps it down in one go, much to the annoyance of the veteran referee. Suddenly, he’s not so concerned. ”Oi you little tithead, I was drinking that!”Steve ignores his insults…he has bigger problems that a disgruntled referee to deal with. He rises to his feet and wipes his mouth with his sleeve, mopping up any water that dribbles from it. He glares at the phone once more before psyching himself up to leave. He slowly approaches the door, hesitant to meet his fate but when he reaches it there is nowhere else to go. He reaches out for the handle and pulls the door toward him before exiting the room.
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Torak
poster
Imagination and fantasy are two components of delusion
Posts: 713
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Post by Torak on Sept 6, 2009 12:12:12 GMT -5
The Tarantino Telephone Part III The drab grey walls provide the surroundings of the current scene. A single, naked lightbulb hangs by a thin wire from the cracked, decrepit ceiling that lingers above. The bulb does little to illuminate the room, the tungsten filament glows only dimly, casting an unnerving darkness that seems to accomodate these particular segments perfectly. The room, as it does more frequently, has only one occupant at this moment. Even in such a large room his presence is domineering; even while hunching over, his elbows digging into his knees, his burly physique seems to outnumber the pockets of emptiness that surround him. His face hides behind a sort of cage formed by his hands and fingers, the tips of which slowly carress his face, particularly his soft yet maliciously sharp eyebrows that contribute greatly to his menacing stare. Slowly his hands descend, sliding down his face over his eyelids being brushed by his eyelashes before they reach the cold hard material that forms his mask. His fingers close together and his palms slide eloquently on the smooth surface. A rare look of concern is apparent in his eyes as he recalls the incident that occurred on Monday when his great foe, Victor Laureano, threatened to remove his mask, attempting to pry it from his face with the aid of a cold, sturdy crowbar. Torak is relieved that Latino turned out to be unsuccessful but now, he realizes, there is a shift of balance in their feud; A shift that greatly benefits his adversary. For the first time, Torak finds himself experiencing slight dread toward the prospect of being in the same vicinity of Latino again, being unsure of what will occur the next time they meet. He knows that Latino can rely on this ploy of exposure to unsettle him at their next encounter. He isn’t exactly relishing the possibility of being on the end of a crowbar assault either. He imagines being on the end of such an attack, a wild swing whirring as it cuts through the air towards it’s target. The throbbing pain that would course through his body. The frightening sight as it reels back away from him, preparing for another strike. The bone-crunching sound it will produce upon impact… Thud! Thud!The sound startles Torak as he reacts with a flinch. He directs his focus to the steel door; clothed in rust but nevertheless a sturdy obstruction to protect the privacy of Torak, and the well-being of the individuals on the other side of the door. However, at this time it is Torak who is concerned for his personal safety. He wonders what lingers beyond the thick steel. Is it it’s cousin, the steel crowbar, seeking to damage Torak physically or mentally? If so; is it his enemy, Latino, brandishing the implement, hoping to successfully pry the mask from his face this time? He rises to his feet, clenching his fists in prepartion for the unknown. He cautiously shuffles toward the door, aware that the door could fly open at any second in an attempt to catch him by surprise. He decides to counter-attack that idea by lunging forward to seize the door handle and yanking the door open, inviting a rush of air into the room along with the sight of what awaits him. ”Oh my god!”Steve’s heart skips a few beats as the door swings open and a very disgruntled looking Torak almost appears out of nowhere in the doorway. He notices he is pumped up and seemingly ready to pounce on an unsuspecting victim, no doubt tearing them to pieces. However, Torak exhales and relaxes once he realizes that it is Steve. He finds the sight of him cowering up against the wall quite humorous as he always takes great pleasure in other people’s torment. Steve eventually pushes himself away from the wall but wisely keeps his distance as he can feel Torak’s impatience growing. He hopes to keep this as brief as possible. ”I…er…I got a phone call for you.”Steve holds up his phone as if trying to translate his words into actions. Torak, meanwhile, offers him a curious look as Steve then begins to press some buttons on his phone. ”I just have to…just have to redial the number for you…”Steve extends his arm, with the phone in hand, towards Torak and offers a nervous smile. Torak sharply snatches the phone from his grip and stares, dumbfounded by the gadget. It looks miniature in the palm of his hand and you just know that Torak could destroy this thing just by pressing it between two fingers. It’s something that Torak knows too and it is something that he actively contemplates. However, his curiosity gets the better of him and he cautiously lifts the phone to his ear. It’s probably safe to say it’s going to be a one way conversation. He reacts to the voice that only he hears…it is somehow familiar to him but he can’t quite place where he has heard it before. He listens intently and can do without the distraction of a simpering coward quivering in his sight and promptly grips the edge of the steel door and slams it shut, the force alone almost knocks Steve over despite standing at least 8 feet from the door. As one door closes…
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Torak
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Imagination and fantasy are two components of delusion
Posts: 713
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Post by Torak on Sept 6, 2009 12:13:44 GMT -5
The Tarantino Telephone Part IV The wooden door slides open, brushing eloqeuntly across the plush, expensive carpet that spreads across the floor inside the room. A pair of jelly-like legs strut out over the threshold. The chairman emerges into the corridor with his face sporting a very unhealthy pale color. Drops of sweat cling to his forehead and trails of moisture from sweat that had long departed remain on his face. He pulls the door closed behind him before pressing up against it, exhaling deeply. He seems glad to be out of the room that lies behind the door. His right hand, which quivers uncontrollably, rises up to his neck in order to loosen his shirt in an attempt to breath easier. He quickly stands up straight, trying to compose himself as an unknown individual approaches. However, he is visibly shaken which is easily discernible by the passing stranger; a female staff member who displays common feminine concern. ”Are you okay, Sir?”The chairman stumbles over his thoughts as she awaits his response. ”….uh…what?...er…Yes, Yeah, I’m okay…”She isn’t convinced and she leans in, placing a comforting hand on his elbow as he looks unsteady. ”Are you sure…you look a bit pale…would you like a drink of water?”He seems a little edgy as he flinches as soon as her hand rests on his arm. He motions for her to back away. ”No, I’m fine…really…I just need…I just need some fresh air. I’m going outside for a bit…”She backs away obediently as the Chairman starts to make his way down the corridor, stumbling on his first step. Once he is firmly out of sight, the wooden door begins to slide open again, indicating that the chairman was not alone in the room. -- Steve slumps up against the hard brick wall, his eyes closed as he drifts off into a snooze. He has almost lost track of time as his hard makeshift pillow manages to restrain dreams from conquering his consciousness. He has spent the last few minutes or so wondering whether he will see his brand new phone again. His ears prick up as he hears noise from inside the room that is occupied by the man who currently has custody of his gadget. He reverts to full alert and stands rigidly straight, bracing himself for the re-emergence of Torak. He inhales, hoping the intake of oxygen will give him strength for his inevitable and imminent encounter. The door swings open and the gust of air causes Steve’s fringe to wave forward. It quickly retreats though as Torak surges out of the room giving Steve no time to react. He barges into him at full pelt, sending him careering into the wall that he recently rested upon with great force. Torak, meanwhile, charges with intent down the corridor away from the scene. Steve bounces off the wall and stumbles dazedly in the corridor outside the doorway of Torak’s room. You realize that he must have hit his head quite hard on the wall upon impact as he makes a particularly unwise enquiry; ”Hey! Where’s my phone!?”He gazes into the distance in the direction that Torak set off in for a brief second before his eyes suddenly widen and a look of shock and panic mould his expression. Almost as if an imaginary trap-door had opened beneath him, he descends quickly to the floor, narrowly avoiding a small object that hurtles toward his direction. It flies overhead as he takes cover and lands a few feet away from him with a heart shattering smash. He looks over towards it’s landing place and clumsily scurries across the floor towards the mangled wreckage of his now worthless gadget. He scoops it up in his hand before rushing off down the corridor, desperately needing to get out of there. Perhaps he could do with some fresh air. And so the story begins…
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Torak
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Imagination and fantasy are two components of delusion
Posts: 713
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Post by Torak on Sept 6, 2009 12:18:59 GMT -5
Warfare, 22nd May 2006 A Match made in anywhere but heaven (TUC010) ”Self sacrifice enables us to sacrifice others without blushing” – George Bernard Shaw If walls could speak; these four walls could hold an eternal conversation regarding the scenes they have witnessed within. The emotions they have enclosed include fear, distress, sadness, envy, hatred, love (in small doses), relief (in even smaller doses) amongst man more. They have housed scenes of torture and pain and have hosted the desperate attempt to maintain sanity and the subsequent breakdown, crumbling despairingly into insanity. The walls themselves could speak of pain as they themselves have not remained unscathed. They have been splattered by humanly substances, had a television hurled at them and, even more recently, been partially destroyed by the consequences of emotions overloading. A crumpled heap of remains, the bricks and cement spilled out on the floor like intestines from a stab victim, serve as a reminder to the incident. Torak glares at them thoughtfully, assured in himself of the destruction he can cause if needed. If a sturdy brick wall can’t resist the immeassurable force of Torak then what chance does a normal human being stand? He contemplates this question, ostensibly to re-assure himself of his power. But what he really considers is his inability to fully incapacitate his sworn enemy, namely: Latino. (Out of character Latino Tribute) Latino is nothing less than an extremely nice guy who is determined, hard working and helpful to all. He sacrifices a hell of a lot of his own time to maintain ACW despite the amount of work and other commitments he has outside of it. Many would be dragged down, stressed out and close to their limits by the prospect of what he manages to do. Managing to stay on top of everything as he does is a very enviable quality and he garners the respect of everyone who knows him.
It is a great pleasure and privilege to work with him for such a long time. For him to want to work with me for this time is a real honor, especially when there is a seemingly never-ending list of people who would easilly work with him in a heartbeat. He was one of the contributing factors in my decision to return to ACW and had it not been him whom I had been working with all this time I might have not reached the level I am right now.
For that, I thank Latino.Torak shudders. He faded away for a moment there, not quite sure of what he was thinking for that brief lapse. There is no clock in the room so there is no way to determine how long exactly he was “away”. He never really had an interest in time, though, following his phone call last week that may change. Speaking of which, he still hadn’t had a reply from the Chairman for his request. He hopes that he didn’t frighten him too much, ruining his chance of attaining what he wanted. Although, rejecting Torak’s request probably wouldn’t benefit the Chairman in any way. There is a firm knock at the door that arouses Torak’s curiosity. It is not often that he receives visitors. Arriving at his door is like climbing into the Lion’s cage at the zoo; not very wise and you had better hope they just fed. Torak slowly meanders over to the solid steel door and opens it, the hinges creaking in distress as the heavy metal door swings inwards. Torak is greeted by a dozen or so eyes, most notably the pair that belong to the chairman himself who holds a stern expression. However, a fountain pen nervously fidgets in his hand, unveiling his confident exterior as a cover for his rapidly thumping heart. To his left stands Steve, now without a cell phone after Thursday, sweating quite profusely after being thrusted into this situation by his boss as backup. Behind them stand a handful of burly security guards who look firmly at Torak, poised readily to diffuse any situation that may arise. Torak seems unusually relaxed however, probably keen to discover the verdict of his request. He notices that the chairman also holds in his hand a clipboard with what looks like a contract clipped to it. ”Evening Torak…now, I’ll try to keep this as brief as possible. I’m sure you don’t our company as much as we don’t want yours…no offence!”It’s none taken by Torak, but he is beginning to become impatient already, eager to bring this meeting to an end quickly. ”Okay…so, I have given your request some consideration over the weekend…and, I must admit, given your history together I was slightly reluctant to grant you it…”The chairman immediately notices the anger and disapproval building up inside Torak and so tries to finish the sentence before he feels the wrath of the monster that stands before him. ”…but, you will be pleased to know that I thought that it would be best if we reached the end of this conflict before Omega Effect. So you can have your match…at Spring Into Hell it will be, one on one, Torak vs Latino!”Torak chuckles under his mask, apparently quite pleased with the decision as a ripple of discussion breaks out in the crowd as they anticipate the climax of the rivalry of these two warriors. Unfortunately, Torak is not aware of the full story and now the chairman is a little tentative toward breaking the news to him. He inhales deeply before continuing. ”However…”The insane chuckling ceases immediately as Torak turns to the chairman, glaring into his eyes, expounding his displeasure of the word just uttered. ”…however, I must decline your request for it being a no holds barred, anything goes street fight. In view of your previous encounters and the subsequent chaos and destruction caused by them, I am concerned about the state that the ring and the surrounding aea will be in if subjected to the stipulations you requested. We have a huge main event planned and I do not want to jeopardise that by allowing you and Latino to raise hell before it. Therefore, I can only allow it to be a normal one on one contest.”Torak’s blood is on the boil and he looks about ready to snap. The security guards begin to make their move forward but the chairman raises an arm to halt them. Steve looks on, more nervous than anyone at the prospect of being utilized as a human club, serving to batter the men around him by the disgruntled beast. The chairman steps forward. ”Okay, okay…I see you aren’t a fan of that idea so I think we can make a compromise.”Torak begins to calm himself down, intrigued and slightly amused by the chairman’s idea of bartering with him. ”I can give you a street fight…and I mean that literally. You and Latino may wage war in the streets in a sanctioned match, well away from the ACW arena where anything goes and nobody can interfere. Now, to ensure that you do not disrupt the show in any way I will place your match right at the beginning of the show. When your match is over then we can get on with the rest of the show with your match only reserved to memory. Not only that, but as soon as your match is over…and I MEAN when your match is finished…you will both be banned from entering the ACW arena for the rest of the night. You get that? As soon as your match is over!”Torak nods his approval…he seems at least content with the conditions of the match. There is a common feeling of relief that the men outside the room experience, glad that it seems nothing will erupt now that Torak is pleased. However, unkbeknownst to the security guards and Steve, the Chairman still has one more trick up his sleeve. ”There is…one…more…thing. As you must understand, sanctioning a match like this with, let’s face it, two of my biggest assets is a huge risk for me to take. It is quite a sacrifice for me to put you both together in a potentially lethal and unpredictable match. Therefore, there is one more condition to the match that you need to accept to allow this match to go ahead.
As I’ve just stated, this could be a great sacrifice for me…a sacrifice that I am willing to make IF…and only if you too are prepared to sacrifice something.”
Torak squints his eyes, tilting his head as he wonders where this is heading. The only thing he is interested in sacrificing is Latino himself. However, he allows the Chairman to continue in order to supress his wonderment. ”As you know, Latino earned his title shot after Fallen Heroes where he elimin…”The chairman backs up, really not keen to finish that sentence for fear of the repercussions that it may bring. He spots that Torak hasn’t noticed where it was going…presumably erasing that moment from his memory. Once he is sure that he can continue safely, he does. ”er…Latino is currently on his way to main eventing Omega Effect. However, for him to participate in this match…and take it from me, I know he does, he wants to end this conflict that you and he have had. For Latino to accept this match then he must sacrifice his title shot should he lose. So, I’m making a sacrifice…Latino will make a sacrifice…which leaves you…”Torak steps forward, closing the gap between himself and the chairman. The chairman doesn’t back down though, his confidence is re-inforced by the entourage he brought with him. ”I’ve noticed recently that Latino has taken a certain disliking to your mask. Of course, we’ve all been curious as to what you are hiding under there but it has never crossed our minds to remove it, or at least, attempt to. However, Latino has been driven by his scheme to unmask you to the point where I myself have become intrigued by whatever it is that lurks behind that mask of yours.
So, for this match to go ahead then you must accept; if you should lose the match then you must sacrifice the mask that you hide behind…”The clause knocks Torak back a step. He can’t even begin to comprehend life without the mask…but there is no way he can pass this opportunity up. His hands reach up to his face that is guarded by the mask and his fingers gently caress the hard material that forms his mask. The chairman, meanwhile, extends his arms out toward him with objects in either hand. In the left hand he grips the pen that he was recently twirling between his fingers. In the right he holds the clipboard with the contract fastened to it. Torak glares down at them as his hate for Latino and his fear of losing his mask vie for control of Torak’s decision. His eyes give indication of the battle that rages behind them as they move erratically. Finally a conclusion is met and his mind is made up. His arm lunges out and snatches the pen from the grasp of the chairman and reels it in to his chest. He doesn’t hold it like you would normally hold a pen. He holds it like you would normally hold a dagger…if that’s the sort of thing you do normally. Steve is the first to notice this and naturally is the first to become tense. Justin Jehst can edify the way Torak prefers to write. However, Torak is calm and does not appear to be a threat. His arm slowly descends down to the clipboard in front of him and scratches a signature along the required line before lifting the pen away. The chairman lifts his hand in an attempt to retrieve the pen but Torak pulls it away, holding it above his shoulder, still as if it were a dagger. He turns his attention to Steve, who is still stood tense and anxious outside the door. Unfortunately, being tense tends to restrict sudden, quick movement. Torak lurches forward and in a stabbing motion brings the pen down at Steve’s chest as everyone looks on in horror…including Steve. Steve covers the point where he was stabbed by his hand and hollers in pain as Torak backs away. Steve falls backwards into the arms of the shocked security guards who promptly lay him on the floor and call for medics. The chairman frantically barks orders for the guards to treat the wounded staff member as no medics appear in the dark mysterious corridor. Steve whimpers out in pain… ”Tell my mother…I…I’m not really a wrestler, I just fix the toilets…”He grips the chairman’s hand for comfort as the guards try to keep the employee still in this moment of stress. Torak watches the pandemonium outside with obvius joy. One security guard manages to pry Steve’s hand from his chest in order to treat the wound. It runs thickly down his shirt and leaves a stain on the hands of the security guards. It drips down their fingers onto the floor and the liquid quickly builds up. The chairman takes a glance at it and notices it. It’s thick. It’s dark. It’s…blue… The chairman arches forward and removes the pen…from Steve’s breast pocket and realizes… ”It’s fucking ink!”The Chairman pushes himself to his feet and brushes himself off before shaking his head and walking away. The security guards also rise to their feet, some of them letting out a sigh of pity. They march away, following the chairman as Steve remains on the floor. He looks up and sees Torak standing in the doorway chuckling very loudly to himself. The door closes swiftly but the laughter echoes from the room as Steve collapses back to the ground. He’s not sure whether to laugh or cry.
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Torak
poster
Imagination and fantasy are two components of delusion
Posts: 713
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Post by Torak on Sept 6, 2009 12:27:23 GMT -5
Meltdown, 15th June 2006 A Familiar face (TUC011) Since Spring Into Hell, life in ACW has continued. With Omega Effect in close proximity the days that once stood seemingly robustly between the present status and the dreams of men have succumbed to the determination of inevitability and swiftly ushered the minutes that make hours by, reeling the event that lingered far beyond them closer and closer. Similarly, life outside ACW continues everyday. The majority of people walk the streets wearing smiles granted to them by fulfilment, their lives caressed by fortune and their hearts simmering with love. The familiar bustling of normal, everyday life continues… …but for one man. One whose whole life had recently been ripped apart, snatched away from him for good. It is almost like a hand had penetrated his skin and removed an organ as he feels empty inside. Though in truth, it was not an internal removal…but an external one. Torak sits, unusually, not inside his creepy dungeon that is tucked away in the dank and dark depths of the ACW arena. Instead, he occupies a hard, unwelcoming seat in what appears to be a small, local café. There are very few customers, either due to the presence of the normally intimidating but now maskless beast or fact that the food is notoriously bad. Torak can think of anything but eating right now as he is hunched over the uncleaned table in front of him. There are remains of a meal; a dirty plate with a pile of cold, discarded beans huddled in one corner with the rest of the porcelain crockery decorated by crumbs of bread. Accompanying the plate is a half-full (or half-empty) cup of black coffee which sports a “bleeding” stain down it’s side that leads to a ring of black beneath it. None of these were used by Torak, they were here when he arrived, unfussy about the selection of seats. The petite blonde waitress that shuffles, strangely enthusiastically around the ghostly café did consider clearing table 7, but she noticed the air of disappointment coupled with restrained fury of it’s occupant and eventually decided against it. He had shown no interest in ordering anything since he came in anyway and while using the café for anything other than consuming the in-house food or drink is usually discouraged, she didn’t really fancy attempting to eject him from the premises. His face rests in his hands; his clasped fingers forming a makeshift mask for his exposed face. He shields his face as you would shield your genitals if you found yourself exposed in public. Suitably, he feels naked, stripped of his dignity and left bare for the world to see. Even the sun wishes to get a glimpse as streaks of sunlight seep through the half-open blinds and spread across his hands that hide his uncovered face. Peering over his thick index fingers he views a shadow creeping over the messy table situated in front of him. It is a familiar shadow as it closely resembles the type of shadow that he himself casts when standing above an individual. Clarification of the source’s identity is unnecessary; he is fully aware of who could cast such a shadow. “We meet again Jack”The deep, air-grating sound resonates inside Torak’s auditory canal, scratching his tympanic membrane and subsequently arousing his full interest. He slowly glances up to ingest the image of the figure stood above him. He immediately notices the face; it is one he knows so well: The sharp, dark beady eyes that pierce through the air hide underneath bushy eyebrows that could provide home for all kinds of creatures. The thick, powerful jaw coated in black facial hair that forms a bridge above his fat, dry lips. Long and thick jet black hair surrounds his face, which sports evidence of belonging to a man in his late forties or early fifties, eventually resting on the strong, wide shoulders. The bulky, muscular physique also contributes to the wave of familiarity that stretches beyond Torak and into the viewers themselves. You’ve seen this man before somewhere. In his possession he has a large carry bag. The weight of it puts strain on the handles, but not the massive brawny arms of it’s carrier. He looks down at Torak with an almost roguish smirk. Torak turns his attention away from him and focuses on the untidy table once more. His visitor takes this as an invitation to take a seat. He sits in the chair directly opposite Torak, placing the bag in the adjacent seat. He immediately turns to Torak. ”I’m not going to ask you how you are feeling…as I already know the answer”Torak does not flinch at the comment; he merely continues to glare into the cold and murky coffee contained in the grimy cup on the table. It doesn’t take a genius to work out Torak is very unhappy, angry and possibly ashamed following his loss to Latino at Spring Into Hell. He holds slight resentment towards himself for putting himself into this position; resentment that he also aims toward the man opposite him. ”I’m sorry for urging you into the match and consequently, this situation…but I knew what would lead from it so you must trust me.”Accompnaying this comment, his left hand rests on the bag that he arrived with, grabbing Torak’s attention and directing it toward the bag, generating speculation in Torak’s mind to what it may contain. ”Don’t worry about this. This contains your future…your potential, something that you weren’t really aware of in your past. But I won’t get into that right now. I would rather talk about our past…your childhood and teen years which I know very much about.”He notices he has once again procured the attention of Torak with his statement. Torak, whilst eager to learn what occupies the bag he is keen to discover just how much this “familiar stranger” really knows about him. Jack always used to watch his father work. His father, when he was still alive, was a mechanic that worked for a well-known car dealership though his skills weren’t restricted to his workplace; he would often tend to cars of friends or relatives, or friends’ relatives or relatives’ friends…whoever needed their vehicle mended would always come to Jack’s father.
Jack would stand outside his grandparent’s garage and watch his father work with wonderment as the sparks flew off in all directions through the dusty air that carried the sound of a rattling compressor and the smell of spray-paint. He never knew what it was his father was doing to a car in any particular job but it still amazed him how easy steel could be welded together by heat. He was just 6 years old, after all.
Jack stood a few yards outside the garage, the tall black doors wide-open to allow fresh air to circulate in the building. His father was busy working on the car creating a fair share of sparks as metal met metal at high speeds and high temperatures. Without warning, a roasting hot ember hurtles through the air with conviction, determined to strike it’s target. It connects, catching Jack directly in his right eye and sends him crashing to the harsh, stony floor below.
By chance, Jack’s mother steps out at that precise moment to witness the incident, the horror hitting her eyes like a spark. She swiftly rushes over to her beloved son and scoops the fallen child up in her arms before rushing back toward the house. Blinded by panic she does not notice the wooden door, with a pane of glass in the center, had been closed behind her to prevent the family dog from venturing outside. She, with child in arms, subsequently crashes through the door, taking it off it’s hingers and collapsing to the floor. To exacerbate the already traumatic experience, Jack finds himself with a shard of glass lodged into his stomach before falling unconscious.”Ten stitches were required as a result of that, I’m sure you remember. The eye was fine though, never needed glasses or anything. Unlike your father, of course.”He notices the last comment stirs something inside Torak. He himself felt his own heart skip a beat as the remark was made. He lowers his head, exhaling deeply through his nose as he begins to speak a little more deeply. ”I remember when he died…that damn illness, it was devastating…you were inconsolable for a long time after that. You even stopped talking about that Amy Gibson…you never stopped talking about Amy Gibson.”Torak needs no reminder of his feelings. His father dying was the greatest pain in his miserable life…but he appreciated his acquatance’s attempt to quickly lighten the tone by changing the subject. ”You were obsessed with that girl, everyone said “Jack and Amy, what a lovely couple they would make. They’ll be married for sure.”He quickly realizes he ventured back before the grief again and so strategically skips over the painful memories and evokes a rare but happy memory. ”Of course, you forgot all about her as soon as you met Cordelia. Nobody else liked her, nobody else would accept the fact that you were together…but you knew you loved her and nobody could change that. She was destined to spend the rest of her life with Jack, forever making him happy.
Until…what happened…happened. You took that loss badly, you lost yourself so much in the anger and humiliation that you forgot about her. You raised your hand to her for the first time ever…and she deserved better than that. When she left, there was only one thing for it…revenge on the person responsible for causing you to lose everything you had.”Torak’s head sinks deep into his hands as his elbows plant themselves into the table, almost denting the cheap plastic surface. Torak knows exactly what he is talking about. ”Sure, it worked at first…he was close to snapping, losing his mind for a long time by the distress caused by the only man that can dish out that sort of distress. Yes, you put him into hospital in a critical state after beating him senseless in the ring…but now, here you are again, languishing on the outside, so tormented by the embarassment that you can’t even return to that place.
And that is why I wanted you to meet me here.”He turns to the bag that is rested on the seat and begins to unzip it. Torak’s hands slowly slide away from his face, partially revealing it. The bag is soon fully open and the man pulls an object out of it. ”That phone call I made to you was the first part of the plan…I knew what would be the outcome of the match but it had to be done in order for this to happen.”He pulls a long leather strap of a belt out of the bag and holds it in front of him. It is not a belt for supporting trousers worn by someone; it is much too big for that. It looks just like a championship belt for a boxing or wrestling organisation. Torak looks on with great interest. ”One of the biggest reasons you have failed to succeed in this industry is because of your lack of motivation. Now, I know you enjoy bashing the brains out of anyone that is stupid enough to get in your way…but you have always lacked that burning desire outside of punishment. Whilst, against your average competitor, that is more than enough to achieve success. However, as you have so readily discovered in ACW, many of your opponents have that leading edge in bouts because they are spurred on by their dreams of triumph, accomplishing their goal of attaining objects such as this…”He lays the belt out on the table, upside down to him but the correct way up for Torak to read, in front of him. Torak inspects the item closesly. Three gold plates adorn the thick leather strap with four gold buttons to connect the two ends of the belt, should it be worn around the waist. In the center of the largest gold plate he notices an image of the earth with the initials “ACW” printed above the word “WORLD”. Then he notices the nameplate below it, fastened on with screws, bearing a name which Torak reads multiple times. He looks up at the man sitting opposite him, confusion dictating his expression. He returns his bemused glare at the nameplate again. It reads: “TORAK”He looks up at the man again, demanding an explanation. ”This…is yours. Or, at least, it will be, providing you follow my instructions – which I am sure you will because, well, I did at the time. Sometime, in the future, you will willingly earn the right to compete for this title. When you do, you will, with little difficulty, become victorious and capture the title…becoming a Champion once and for all, retaining it for a very, very long time.
But before that, you must establish yourself, not only into the title picture…but into the ACW hall of fame itself, attaining the legendary status that you so entirely deserve. And I think I might just have the match for you to ensure just that.
Are you interested?”Torak has never really chased titles before, for personal reasons. But, for reasons he cannot fathom, he feels he must trust this man. He accepts his proposal with a calm nod. His eyes return to the belt that the man begins to pack away into the bag again. He seems quite pleased that he has managed to persuade Torak into following his instructions. He quickly zips up the bag and begins to stand up but, forgetting something, he sits back down. ”There is, just one more thing that I feel I should clarify. I know you’re wondering just how I know all this. I know I was when it happened to me. Well, Jack, I can tell you:
The reason I know all this is…”He glances over his shoulder, surveying the empty café before continuing. He wants to make sure there are no witnesses present for his revelation. Thankfully, the waitress is busy out back taking a break and so Jack and his visitor are the only two people in the smelly old café. He gets to his feet and removes his shirt. Immediately, Torak spots something on the man’s now naked torso. On the left side of his stomach, a couple of inches above his navel and about six inches long…a scar, just like the one he has. ”…because, I am you!”Torak’s face, sure enough, looks frighteningly like the man’s, albeit it a few years younger. The sharp, cold eyes, the bushy eybrows, the black facial hair…it’s almost like looking into a mirror. Torak doesn’t adopt any look of surprise; why would he? He’s spent the last few minutes talking to him, staring at his face and observing the similarity. However, perplexity dawns on him from the comment made by…”him”. He notices the confusion in Torak’s eyes as he heaves the bag up from the seat and begins to move away from the table, chuckling to himself at what he sees. He starts to make his way toward the door. ”See you around Jack…maybe I’ll explain it to you next time.”He slowly marches away, reaching the door and opening it, causing the bell to ring and leaving Torak alone at the table. The sound of the bell prompts the waitress to rush out into the dining area with the belief that someone had entered. Slightly flustered she approaches the table that Torak occupies with a tentative smile. ”Was that your brother?”Torak, typically, does not respond but he does consider her question as he stares blankly out of the window beside him. That man could not be his brother…for he was an only child. The mystery expands inside his mind as every possible explanation he can produce is shot down by truth. Eventually, he rises to his feet, pushing the chair backwards, causing it to screech as it grinds across the floor. He surges past the waitress, almost knocking her over, before exiting the door. He heads toward the one place he hasn’t been since Spring Into Hell: The ACW Arena.
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Torak
poster
Imagination and fantasy are two components of delusion
Posts: 713
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Post by Torak on Sept 6, 2009 12:30:00 GMT -5
Omega Effect, 24th June 2006 A History of Silence II/ Back from the Future (TUC012) ”To run away from trouble is a form of cowardice and, while it is true that the suicide braves death, he does it not for some noble object but to escape some ill.” – Aristotle
“Seldom do we run from problems. More often we run into them.”The soft, dew-clothed grass tickles his bare, pink soles; but he does not feel like laughing. His thick, embracing coat hugs him tightly, keeping him warm from the bitingly cold breeze that sweeps past him; but he does not feel warm inside. In fact, nothing could possibly detract from the misery clawing away at his insides.
He doesn’t regret rushing out of the house without any footwear. By the time he would have found and fit his brand new shoes any one of the adults could have prevented him from rushing out. Thankfully, the damp concrete that pathed his journey was smooth and clear of any debris that could pose a threat to his naked feet.
Unfortunately, he is not granted the luck of the elements as he finds himself exposed to the lashing downpour of rain, each drop slicing it’s way to the ground and splattering on whatever surface it lands on: concrete, grass, skin. A mop of hair that resembles a cat that has just been dragged out of a river sits above his cold, pale face. From his nose: a stream of wet snot rolls down toward his quivering lip. His mouth frequently exhales a white mist that drifts into the night-sky, indicating his haste filled steps taken to reach his current destination. Only two rings of color can be found on his pastel painted face; those dark red circles surrounding his bleary eyes, coloured by the mixture of tiredness and tear drops.
The remarks that prompted his exfiltration echo unrelentingly in his mind…
“Oh, he’ll get over it in no time. We’re all upset, he’s just a little more sensitive.”
“He hasn’t said a word since it happened, I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
“Even that poor little Amy girl couldn’t get a word out of him, she’s very upset after what he did last week.”
He sinks to his knees, defeated by the double-teaming tactics of exhaustion and emotion. Another solitary tear clambers from his eye and becomes a victim to gravity as it crawls down his pallid cheek before plummeting to the ground below, joining it’s damp relatives that soak the green carpet of the earth.
Visible breaths continue to escape from between his trembling lips, carrying the sound of pathetic whimpering broken up by the wet sound of a blocked nose sniffling. Through blurry, tear filled eyes he examines a monument, almost twice the size of his young and feeble figure, that stands firmly before him.
Deathly gray is the outfit that suits the gravestone, it’s color a preferable choice shared by the other monuments that surround it. Carved deeply into the solid stone there are a few inscriptions that bear reminder of the soul it marks in he ground. He reads it, clenching his jaw and tightening his lips in order to prevent himself from bawling loudly as he scans each letter:
“HERE LIES DAVID XXXXXXX BORN 9th FEBRUARY 1954 CRUELLY TAKEN AWAY 12th JULY 1989 HUSBAND TO SOPHIE FATHER OF JACK”
He finally releases an audible sob as reading the epitaph serves as confirmation, not that he needed it. He suffered from that wretched disease for two years before it eventually got what it wanted and murdered an innocent soul. It was throat cancer that killed him. Where were you then Hunter? Even then everyone assured him that it would be okay, that he will be fine and everything will be fine given time. What a bunch of lies that turned out to be. It was cancer, not a fucking headache. Maybe it was the lies that they so eloquently rendered where the fuel of the cancer; maybe lies are the lifeblood of cancer. He no longer wanted to speak because he was afraid of the lies he might inadvertently produce.
Then again, maybe that’s what he wanted. Maybe he should lie…lie until HE got cancer and finally he could join his father away from the others. But he wasn’t sure how long that would take. It could take 2 agonizing years, just like it did for his father; he didn’t want to wait two years, he wanted it now.
That probably explains why he brought IT with him…
He produces from his coat pocket a small but nonetheless sharp and threatening knife. It’s silver quilted blade reflects the ghostly moonlight that peaks from behind the veil of clouds that seem desperate to conceal the spherical satellite that lingers inquiringly in the murky sky above. The knife soon follows the trend adopted by the surroundings, quickly becoming soaked by the rain drops that descend down upon it. He contemplates his likely actions thoughtfully, deeply considering the consequences and implications that may introduce themselves should he follow through with his intentions.
The first on the agenda, of course, being Death. So many people talk down death, claiming it is a bad thing and something you want to avoid; how do they know it’s bad if they are yet to experience it? That’s like criticizing a song you’ve never heard; or spitting out the taste of a food you’ve never tasted; or hating a person you’ve never met. Everyone complains about and condemns life yet they seem so happy to accept it when faced with the alternative. Of course, the problem here is choice; You can choose to live every day, but you can only choose to die once.
He’s made his choice. He lifts the knife up and selects the precise point of entry before closing his eyes, preparing to inflict it upon himself. However, something bites the very edge of his subconscious. He considers his family, his friends and the people around him. He considers their feelings for a brief moment, speculating if they would actually care, really be concerned if he were to leave them in order to join his father? He doubted it. None of them seem to be affected by the loss of his father, not as much as he is anyway.
The knife edges anxiously closer skin, the raindrops that decorate it drip from the blade like drops of sweat. Another distraction in his subconsious makes a last gasp attempt to dissuade the actions of his body. It materializes in his mind in the form of a question: Does this make him a coward?
He acknowledges the firmly believed notion that taking your own life is the most cowardly option to take when in the face of adversity – but as he is slumped there before the gravestone, bearing the grim adversity that is living on without his father, he comes to realize that his belief is quite the contrary.
Most people will cling to their life for all they are worth. They will avoid speaking of such a subject as death, ignoring it in the hope that it will pass them by, forgetting to collect them as it sweeps across the bridge of life that runs over the river of non-existence. Then when it comes to facing the iniveitability that is death – they curl up in a ball of fear, cowering behind pleas of mercy. So with this, actually confronting death, accepting what everyone else is afraid of, particularly when it is of your own accord, then that is the least cowardly act possible.
He is convinced. The knife penetrates the bare skin of his pale, wiry arm, carving into it it’s mark of satisfaction. As the knife retreats from the freshly cut wound it is followed by a squirt of liberated blood. His once white arm is rapidly painted crimson as more and more blood spurts from the wound and onto the grass, forming a deep puddle of red fluid. The geyser of life, and soon to be death, seems intent on emptying the entire contents of the crimson substance.
He suddenly becomes very queasy. He is in no way squeamish, but the rapid loss of blood causes a hazy white screen to take over his normal vision. Even in the freezing cold air of the night he can feel a warm sensation coarsing through his body. He begins to sweat profusely, now he is leaking all kinds of fluids. Eventually, the white screen transforms into a black one and he collapses into the damp, and now blood stained, grass.
He can hear a voice…
“Jack!? Jack!!”
The last thing he remembers is being carried away in his Father’s arms, speaking to him…
“Jack…Jack…Jack…”“Jack!”Torak looks up at the man standing before him. It is the strange man that he received a phone call from all those weeks ago and then later met in that grubby café over a week ago. That meeting prompted him to be here: back in his sinister dungeon that is tucked away in the deepest corner on the bottom level of the ACW Arena, far away from where anyone may disturb him – far away to ensure nobody accidentally ventures there. He looks down at his right arm and examines the dark pink scar on his wrist; a reminder better than any diary or story could tell. He glances back up at the man – it’s almost like looking into a mirror. As he noted back in the café, and indeed when he sent that picture through to the cell phone, the man looks remarkably similar to him, albeit a few, maybe twenty years older as told by a few wrinkles on his forehead and beneath his eyes. If he is who he says he is then at least he knows he will age well. ”You need to forget about what happened in your past, it is your future what is important. I AM your future!”Torak’s eyes flash at the statement, acknowledgement barters with understandment and logic for right of place in his mind. His claim seems to be so far fetched – but he still finds it difficult to distrust someone who, on the surface, is essentially him. Placing trust in another – be it a person, an object or a higher entity, such as a god, happens everyday; placing trust in yourself, your instincts and decisions, is a given. If you can’t trust yourself – who can you trust? ”I sense doubt in your reaction. I do not blame you for carrying this uncertainty, I mean, I myself also experienced such skepticism in my time but I ask you: Can you honestly say that stranger things have not occurred here in this in this company?”He casts his mind back and sure enough he agrees with the notion that ACW seems to cater for the unbelievable and otherwise implausible. It’s not as if this sort of thing hasn’t been contemplated, discussed, theorised and practiced through the sands of time so maybe it isn’t so difficult to suspend his disbelief at the possibility that he is who he says he is. ”Let me go through it for you again, maybe that might make it clear for you…”He clears his throat, carefully choosing his words and explanations in the safe silent booth of his mind before translating the thoughts. ”Sometime in 2015 Time Travel will be made possible by a Professor Harser. However, the usage of this time travel for the general public was prohibited by government agencies as they feared it would expose the time space continuum, altering the history of the earth for better, or more feared, for worse. Even an insignificant presence moving through time could cause a vital change in the fabric of time, as you may know as the butterfly effect.
Of course, with such a huge level of interest in this subject, by scientists, enthusiasts or just the mere malevolent who hold intentions of chaos and destruction, all sought after the method of travel invented by Harser. Subsequently, a handsome reward was a prospect for whoever could get their thieving little hands on the plans.
A man, whose name I obviously cannot mention but he is a man you will meet in your near future, does indeed “acquire” these plans and uses the method for his own personal experiments.This is where I, or you, come in. This man, I shall call him “Ronald” – Ronald wanted to experiment whether or not the life and fortunes of one man could be altered by sending that person back in time to meet themselves.
As you can guess, it worked, as meeting my future self (Torak’s future future self) prompted me to glory, success and wealth. Of course, this was not the easiest mission of persuasion ever, as you know,and you (and the others) were all hard to convince and influence our firm belief that we do not need glory, success or wealth to justify our existence – a belief that now I have come to see as ignorant and merely unambitious.
You, and my former self, only refused the opportunities of greatness because, deep down, we truly believed that greatness, for us, was unattainable, something that was not destined for us, something beyond our potential.
But now, as “Ronald” has learnt from his experiments, that any man can be changed…even the strongest minded man, you and I, can have their perceptions and opinions altered if given a glimpse into their future.
That, Torak, is how you and I are the same person.”The elaborate story does little to really clarify the situation, nor does it confirm the man’s identity…but there are so many startling similarities between his own and the man’s personality. The way he speaks…the way he acts…the way he thinks. When he looks at him, he isn’t just looking into a reflection – he is looking into his own soul, seeing himself from a different, third person perspective. The sincerity in his eyes and the calmness of his voice forbid the intentions of a liar. He is convined. Almost. ”But let’s not look too far into the future, what we must concern ourselves with is the very near future – Tonight! Tonight is the night that these men, these so called proud and passionate warriors make names for themselves, money for their family and stories for our history. This is your first opportunity to alter your destiny by becoming what you never strived to be before: A star! A legend! A Champion! Become me…become you!”The rousing speech does it’s job well, stirring a plethora of emotions inside Torak to come rushing to the surface, lifting him from his seat. This is how his mind usually works. This strange man, his future self is playing the part of his own conscious. The words replace the thoughts that exhort him to act on his desires. This entire scene could probably be described as an allegorical re-enactment of his mind. He is listening to himself – as his self is the only one he will listen to. His future self, “Torak II” (or should it be Torak I since he was technically first?) places his emotion charged hands on the muscular shoulders of the Torak that we know. Torak’s breathing is heavy from the almost chemical-like reaction that occurs from so many emotions, some of which have never met, combining together inside him. Torak looks deep into Torak II’s eyes, those familiar, frightening green eyes that peer back at him. ”Do you trust me?”
“If you can’t trust yourself – who can you trust?”Torak returns his answer in the form of a nod. His unfamiliar, maskless face bears a wicked grin. A grin that does not bode well for a certain number of individuals…
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Torak
poster
Imagination and fantasy are two components of delusion
Posts: 713
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Post by Torak on Sept 6, 2009 12:32:01 GMT -5
Meltdown, 13th July 2006 Forward Regression (TUC013) ”Destiny is not a matter of chance, it is a matter of choice; it is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be achieved” – William Jennings Bryan
Our destiny is shaped through our past; In the future, we wonder where it went wrong. - TorakThroughout history, men have fought for their desires; each battle embodying a different desire, desires that carry diverse levels of motivation and hope that urge the embroiled warriors and soldiers to glory. Some of these men’s desires are characterize by honor; the will to fight for their name, their family, their reputation. Disgrace, the common foe of honor, may latch itself to one’s fear, reminding the battling mind of the consequences of failure. Pride also often presents itself in the ostentatious guise of desire. The indignant requirement of self-importance and egotism can prompt merciless and ruthless actions from a man. They serve as the drive to the prominent ambo of glory, raising their own level of significance, in their own mind at least, above all others. Then there is wealth and power. A predominant form of desire, an impulse that bypasses spirit and mind and is more benefitting to one’s body. Material possessions and influence are dreams of the superficial warrior. Usually he will sacrifice the aforementioned honor and pride in order to attain his desires. Desires that do not extend beyond one’s earthly eternal bed. This battle, however, is not governed by desire…but destiny. One man’s dream is his own destiny. It is his prerogative to succeed, not only because he wants to – but because he has to. There is a drop of sweat for every minute that has passed. There is a stain of blood for every aching blow delivered. There is a heavy breath for every breathless moment witnessed. In the center of the canvas-woven battlefield, these two warriors are heftily engaged in combat. Their pain and exhaustion only matched by their dedication and obstinacy. Neither are willing to submit to their adversary but they also cannot hide from the fact that the culmination of this conflict hurtles alarmingly towards them. Though dazed, they both understand that one mistake now will surely cost them dearly. A lethargic right-handed open-palmed thrust misses it’s target and, aided by momentum, drags the aching body that it belongs to stumbling forward. Inevitability takes a firm grasp of the destiny of one man, changing both of their lives for now – or maybe forever. He effortlessly lifts the body, made weightless by the absence of hope and vigor that fate had cunningly drained from it in the preceding moments, draping it over the broad, sweating shoulder – lingering for a moment that seems to last a lifetime. The tensity of the occasion is painted on the faces of the thousands of wide-mouthed and similarly wide-eyed witnesses who watch on, so close to the action but unable to alter the outcome. Gravity gratefully volunteers assist in demolishing the layer of anticipation, dragging the momentarily airbourne victim downwards – his cranium crashing to the white surface that offers no lenience. Suddenly a contrast of color. For one man it is the bright white light of hope and success; for the other - the blackness of failure. Skin greets skin again – this time horizontal to accommodate the recent and unfortunate position of the fallen fighter. The man in the zerba-like outfit elementarily demonstrates his grasp of numeracy by striking the ground on which the battle took place. A roar of appreciation and pleasure crashes down on the the victor like a raging tsunami, deafening but none-the-less satisfying, particularly in the circumstances. Torak stands in the very center of the ring above his vanquished opponent, his emerald green eyes house the merciless glare that is nonchalantly directed at the defeated champion. Suddenly, he realizes, his destiny is accomplished – and subsequently, his desires are fulfilled. From below his pedestal there is a lowly voice: ”Here is your winner and NEW ACW Champion…Torak!”In the hand to his right; he holds the wealth and power that accompanies the World Title belt. The same assortment of gold and leather that once upon a time held no reservation in the mind of it’s now current possessor. In the hand to his left: he holds the honor of victory that at last admonishes his disgrace, separating it from his name and reputation. In his eyes, those emerald eyes, he displays pride. The pride of once and for all declaring himself to the world and achieving his true potential. There, in the space before him he sees her. A string of perdurable attention connects their lingering stares – they almost draw each other closer with their eyes. He sees his desire – beautiful but strong – he moves towards her. She outstretches her soft palm to his face, warmly soothing him and he immediately forgets the conflict that preceded this moment. All he can think of now is her – Cordelia. But she is not meant to be here, she is not part of this scenario. Her presence was craftily infiltrated into the situation by the imagination of Torak. Whether her addition was conscious or subconscious is anyone’s guess. All that matters is he can see her now. She looks into his eyes, presenting them with a cute furrow of her eyebrows and a pleasing smile with her supple, pink lips. She leans in close to him, her breath tickling his ear as she presses her hot, affectionate body against his. She whispers unto him; “Jack”Torak’s eyes open suddenly and a startled expression envelops his face. Immediately he is occupied by frustration and disappointment. It’s that feeling you get when you wake up from a good dream that seemed so real then quickly realize that it was all just a dream. His heart is submerged in disappointment. The face that greets his vision in this true existence is not that of the young and beautiful Cordelia. Instead, he finds himself glaring at himself…or rather, his future self (allegedly). The eyes carry identical traces of lament and vexation as his own, but somehow, he detects, the possessor of those eyes has now learnt to grapple with these emotions and eventually conquer them. He yearns for that self-control that awaits him - he anticipates attaining such control anxiously and impatiently. ”You see Jack. That is what is destined to become of you – in the very near future in fact.”Torak finally averts his gaze from his potential, selecting the cold, hard unwashed floor of his deeply located dungeon-like room as his focal point. Whilst he has come to trust the words of what is essentially him he still can not accept the fact that sometime in his future the pursuit and acquisition of such a self-conglaturatory trophy that is the ACW World title will become his main objective in life. Never before has he even considered adopting the materialistic attitude that so many of his egotistical and insecure fellow professionals have submitted to – their emotions and personalities shaped by one insignificant object. However, once again the future Torak manages to uncannily read his mind, seriously supporting his claims that he had already journeyed along this timeline. ”You should not think acquiring the title as purely an avaricious quest. See it more as proving all those negative words of discouragement and criticism wrong, setting the record straight and demonstrate once and for all the dominance that I, and of course you, believe you truly possess.”Torak’s gaze does not divert from the concrete floor. Inside his mind he silently debates. The sentiments and views that have been a part of him for his entire life, those that made him who he is today are being probed and tested by the ideals of none other than; himself. His vision of the future is being dramatically transformed whilst his old precepts fade away, shrouded by the cloud of judgement that descends upon him. ”They don’t want you to have it, you know.”His attention is firmly grasped by the remark. Who are “they”? Who are these un-invited additions to the situation? ”The top brass here in Alpha Championship Wrestling. You know, as you learned from your very first meeting with the chairman here, that you do not represent the image that ACW wishes to uphold. I found that out myself. You are merely considered to be enhancement talent. They only wish to utilize your reputation as an unstoppable force to ameliorate the careers of their lovable, charismatic stars. Losing the mask was the first step to displaying to the superiors here that you have a normal face, a face of a human…a face of a champion.”Torak reminisces, rekindling the moments of security he enjoyed with the mask secured firmly to his face. Even now, having been without it for a couple of months he feels naked. He feels like concealing his face with his hands in the same manner that most would feel inclined to hide their genitalia if exposed in public. ”You may have noticed in the vision of your future that I described the next step that you must take in order to accomplish your destiny. When you raise that title belt high above your head there will be joy felt in your surroundings. People will be happy with your achievement. They would have hoped for it prior to your success. To win over your employers you must first win over the customers. If you can make those people exhibit glee and pleasure just by the very mention of your name – make them talk to their friends and family about you after a sighting – make them wish to see such moments as this, you, in the flesh and behinds the scenes, then you will be in control of your employers intentions.”Torak adopts an askance expression. He doubts the notion suggested possible by his future self. Nobody has ever liked him before – why would they start now? Revel in his success? Somehow he could not foresee it. However, he chooses to consider the assignment issued to him, curious as to how he could even begin undertaking such a task as seemingly impossible as popularity. He leans backwards, resting on the back of the chair. As the scene fades out he is struck by a peculiar question. Who in their right mind would enjoy a Torak segment?
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Torak
poster
Imagination and fantasy are two components of delusion
Posts: 713
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Post by Torak on Sept 6, 2009 12:35:08 GMT -5
Warfare, 17th July 2006 Partners in Time (TUC014) “Friends are God’s apology for relations” – Hugh Kingsmill
“One scathe from a friend is worse than a thousand from an enemy” - TorakTime: Hypnotic-tock. The rhythm of time mesmerizes us, beating slowly, lulling us into the false belief that it continues forever. Chaotic-tock. As it dawns on us that time, for the individual, is not eternal, a rush of realization surges to the surface and makes us question our existence. Psychotic-tock. You’ve wasted your life. A notion you cannot accept. You must compensate for it. Your mind takes over and fills you with distorted truth. Symbiotic-tock. Time is the enemy of life, eroding anything it’s malevolent finger touches. For now, the finger touches the 10. It’s late, but not too late to make a difference. Who says Time Travel isn’t possible when everyday we find ourselves hurtling unstoppably through time. As each second impatiently elapses he begins to wonder about the future that he is venturing toward, converting it to the present and his prior present his past. He wonders where his future is and if it does exist in the form that it has presented itself. Maybe he has subconsciously realized that he has failed to achieve any sort of significance in this mortal curl and as mental reimbursement – the man he knows as his future self is a creation of his imagination, filling him with hope and desire. Maybe. He sits, seduced by the circular face that clings to the dreary walls of the dank dungeon that accomodates the malicious, iniquitous and possibly psychotic ideals of Torak. Perched high up it seems to sneer at Torak as the seconds elapse, almost mockingly slow, building a sturdy wall of tension between them. A wall that only Torak’s cumulating impatience dressed in anger could hope to break through. A solitary droplet of sweat manages to escape through one of the pores on Torak’s forehead and quickly rolls down his face, pausing at the corner of his eye en-route to momentarily masquerade as a tear before continuing to allow the grip of gravity to entice it to his chin then finally taking a brave leap from the pale but warm skin of Torak’s face. The sound of impact is almost audible in the silent fog of waiting. The clock once again takes control of the confrontation, seizing the undivided attention of it’s host. It seems to tease Torak, stopping for longer pauses than usual then compensating for the lapses by skipping seconds, hopping cheatingly into the future before stopping again, lingering in the present. The rhythm of the ticking emanating from the clock soon resembles the sound of wicked cackling aimed at him. In the lower half of the clock he spots the name of the clock manufacturer – it’s shape eerily resembling a grinning mouth. He glares at the “mouth” that looks set to hurl verbal abuse at him. ”Jack”He shoots readily and startled to his feet. Just as he begins to truly believe his sanity had recently departed, from his left; ”They do say “Only Time Will Tell”.”He swiftly swivels to face the source of the remark. Once again he finds himself looking into his future. The slightly aged version of him stands at the open doorway with an obvious cocky and gleeful expression etched on his face. He shifts from the doorway and shuffles toward Torak. ”Been waiting for me? You used to be so self-dependent – you are learning.”Torak’s eyebrow raises quizzically. Learning? He didn’t know he was being taught. Silence, as ever, is his choice of reply allowing his future self the opportunity to delve deeper into his pockets of wisdom. ”To be accepted by others: you must first accept them. All great men in history achieved what they did by surrounding themselves with people they could trust. Relatives. Friends. Acquaintances. Allies. If you are seen to be tolerated and enjoyed as company to others then everyone else will be more willing to tolerate and enjoy you. You know how most people can’t make their own mind up – they require help from the few who can.”Torak turns away. He has never trusted, tolerated or enjoyed the company of anyone in his life – now, for his future’s sake he must welcome everyone with open arms? Besides, who would be crazy to want to enrol the friendship or allegiance of Torak? A single, masculine hand lands softly on his shoulder and it sends a strange wave through his body. He is now, technically, touching himself. An unfamiliar experience for many of ACW’s viewers but for Torak it is a strange feeling. He turns to face his future self again and he notices his free hand is aimed at the open doorway. ”It is up to you to seek this kind of acceptance. I can guarantee that if you truly want to you will successfully seek an ally. If you are lucky, that ally will also be seeking you.”Torak glares into his future’s eyes, seeking legitimacy in his claims. He has already gone over this with himself; if there is one person he can trust it is himself. He turns to the doorway and pauses. There are very few incidents that can motivate him to leave the safety and pleasure of his dungeon-like room – he never thought seeking a friend would be a motive. Finally, without exactly knowing why, he crosses the threshold and makes his way into the dimly lit corridor outside before disappearing out of sight. The doorway is a fitting sight. It symbolizes Torak’s heart: Empty but open.
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Torak
poster
Imagination and fantasy are two components of delusion
Posts: 713
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Post by Torak on Sept 6, 2009 12:45:47 GMT -5
Warfare, 24th July 2006 Finding a Name (TUC015) [Joint Credit: Hunter] ”Those who cannot remember their past are condemned to repeat it” – George Santayana
“Keep treasuring all I possess in memories, Never sin or defect or I’ll accept my penancy” - TorakIt is no wonder that, in this bustling, busy and hectic modern age that we occupy, we find ourselves slaves of absent-mindedness. To our days gone by we are inattentative and wear a veil of nonchalance when viewing the past. We are the people of the now. We do not want to be bound to memories, distracting us from our everyday pursuit of future. This is why we keep memoirs, mementos and souvenirs. These possessions serve only as proof of our previous experiences to show others of our achievements and escapades. “Look, look at what I’ve done with my life – I have lived”. Senility is a unsurprising affliction that preys on these types of minds. How can a mind stay active in later life if not properly exercised, particularly memorizing, whilst in it’s prime? Many people are reluctant to consider all the circumstances and chances that have led them to where they are now, feeling that the past no longer bears any significance to their existence and therefore does not require resurrecting in any form. The river of discarded memory flows freely beneath the bridge of life. But he rarely dismisses his past. To him, his past defines exactly who he is, it is the circumstances that he faced, conquered or surrendered to that made him…unique. He is reassured in himself that it is just not his current state of mind that values his past – in his future he will care enough to return to his past, his present, to teach him that very value. What had gone on in the room prior to this moment may never be fully explained but they glare at each other with faint unease – like that feeling you get when you stare into the mirror for too long and all of a sudden, you almost don’t recognize the face that’s staring back at you and so you have to avert your gaze for a second to refreshen the view. The almost reflective pair move their eyes around their opposite, disinclined to clasp firmly to the piercing stare of the other. It is actually difficult to tell which is the real Torak and which is the supposed “future” embodiment. Almost impossible in fact – almost like distinguishing a left sock from a right one. There is, however, one tell-tale sign that separates and identifies which of the burly figures belongs to our time-line, and which has apparently materialized from futurity – the voice. Suitably deep, cold and rough it reverberates through the similarly deep, cold and rough room which, as always, maintains an emptiness that any modern feng-shui expert would be proud of. ”He wishes to put a stop to your destiny. He believes that inevitability can be obstructed.”Torak ponders this remark, briefly delving into his past and procuring names and faces that could fit the description. He glances up, looking for reassertion of the details. ”All I know is he is someone from your past. Distant or recent is not clear to me but he is upsetting the time-line. This was not meant to happen, meaning somewhere along the way you made a different decision than I. This could set us back slightly. He must be uncovered and dealt with.”Torak’s eyes gleam, despite the darkness of the room, as he manages to produce the first suspect. He analyzes the subject much like a cyborg warrior would assess a battle situation: Name: Dan White Height: 6’ 4 Weight: 225 pounds Description: Firy extremist with passionate beliefs. Threat: MinimalHe concludes that due to Torak’s dominance in their last two encounters, he poses no threat to his pursuit. In fact, he finds his potential as a hazard laughable. ”There must be someone whom you would have had a strong history with or at the very least managed to distress at one point in your life.”A strong history. The new search criteria procures two candidates from his memory banks. Name: Victor “Latino” Laureano Height: 5’ 9 Weight: 242 pounds Description: Hot-headed delinquent, current holder of his destiny Threat: HighBut Latino pursuing Torak wouldn’t make much sense, not even it he had taken up drinking again. After their arduous battles in and out of the ring it would be unlikely for either of them to want to square up again. Name: Rattlesnake Height: 6’ 8 Weight: 277 pounds Description: Resilient, determined and menacing Threat: Approach with CautionHe reverses his train of though, reverting from reminiscing and hurtles forwards into the future. It would be logical to suspect Rattlesnake as the mischievious type who certainly would not take kindly to Torak’s new aspirations – mainly as it mirrors his own. With a deep history together with both men costing each other their chances of success at least once then it is safe to assume that Rattlesnake is the one who wishes to deny him his fortune. How fitting it is then, that they will meet once more later on this evening and then only a few days later with success firmly on the line. Torak returns his glance to his future, satisified that he has revealed the culprit. He feels that he, his future, also knows who it is. They simultaneously nod their approval, convinced that the other shares the same intentions – those of brutality and triumph over he who wishes to stop them. However, it is Torak who first reels away from the glare of those eyes as a twinge in the back of his mind triggers his immediate attention. He feels like he has forgotten somebody. He internally investigates this feeling and conjures up a face. It is slightly familiar – but he can’t seem to put a name to it. Frustratingly, the name he craves to retrieve is agonizinglu on the tip of his tongue. It’s so close to presenting itself he feels like he is looking at a blinding bright white light that surrounds the faint letters that make up the name. He glares at his future, hoping for some assistance in resurfacing the memory. ”Wait a minute…You don’t think it’s…HIM? Do you? Hmmm, Well, I guess he could have used all this time to prepare himself for you, but do you really think he could possibly be a threat to our goals?”Torak turns his glance away diffidently, still unable to grasp the name that belongs to the face that lingers in his mind. Suddenly, it hits him and he returns his gaze to his future. The name floats in his head – but can find no way to swim to the surface. It needs a voice… ”Do you think it could be…”Rewind: 5 seconds earlier… The scene fades in at a somewhat slow speed, clearly showing for all watching that those behind the scenes of ACW are assholes who refuse to find a speed of fading in and just stick with it. Regardless, once it fades in, one Andrew Hunter appears on screen, his back to the camera. His black trench-coat (which he apparently always has with him) hangs from his back somewhat genially, and he flings a lock of his hair behind him so as to see a tad better. He has never been in this part of the ACW arena, and his presence here is not a welcomed one. But he presses on, despite this, and eventually reaches a tall wooden door. From inside, he hears what sounds like conversing voices. He does not want to interrupt...but come on, he's Andrew Hunter. He DEMANDS whatever the hell it is that he is searching for. And so without so much as a thought, he knocks on the door and waits for a moment before it swings open with such a force it almost drags him into the room. Hunter: ...erm...hello.Torak looks down at Hunter rather blank-faced, as Hunter simply looks up at him with widened eyes and the hint of a nervous smirk on his face. Hunter: ...am I interrupting something?Torak raises an eyebrow at this statement, and Hunter catches a quick glance inside the empty room. Hunter: Wow, I'm probably losing my mind again. I thought I heard voices in there.Somewhat courageously, somewhat moronically, he steps inside Torak's room and sits down on the first chair that he finds, which is situated on the left side of the room. Torak looks at Hunter curiously, and deciding that perhaps there is an important reason that he is here. He turns to face his new guest whilst wondering where his other one had disappeared to. He decides to leave the door open now, hopefully Hunter will get the hint that he isn’t welcome to a long stay. Hunter's mention of the voices is still stuck in his head. Hunter: So how you been?Torak stops walking and folds his arms, clearly not about to answer Hunter's question. Hunter: ...rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh...t.Hunter gets to his feet and starts to walk around the room, looking at the decorations...which are, well, nothing. The room is completely barren, sans the chair he was just sitting on. Hunter: Ummm...well, look, I've been thinking, and I realized that all of the best tag teams have a good tag team name. Like...you know...the World's Greatest Tag Team...the Rockers...umm...the Legion of Doom, all that nice stuff. Hell, even the Kings of Satire, Top Draw, and Orange Darkness. And so I thought that we should have a tag team name too! Because just like me, you want to be part of the greatest tag team of all time, right?Torak remains silent. Hunter: Excellent! So I've been thinking about some names, and tell me what...well...erm...hold up three fingers if you like the name, and two if you don't. Or...no...well, fuck it, I'll just read you the list.He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. He unfolds it, clears his throat, and begins. Hunter: As an homage to the World's Greatest Tag Team, I was thinking of the World's Awesomest Tag Team. Or maybe we could combine our names: Huntorak? Torter? What say...show...erm...think you?Torak does not even blink. Hunter: ...right. How about the Odd Couple? You ever see that movie?Silence, and not so much as a twitch. Hunter: Perfect Strangers, perhaps? We could use the Deep Purple song as our entrance theme!Yet another silence. Hunter: How about Beauty and the Beast?Torak's eye slightly twitches, and Hunter can tell by the look of his face that this is not the best course of action. Hunter: Okay, okay. Well...you like to destroy things. I'm a Jew. So how about the Jewish Destruction Connection? JDC? It kind of rolls off the tongue.Torak slightly covers his eyes with his hand as Hunter nods. Hunter: Right...right. Umm...OH! How about the Hell's Angels?Torak does not even think about uncovering his eyes right now. Hunter: This Team Is A Sealed Tuna Sandwich?It is at times like these that Torak regrets not having a sharp weapon close by. Hunter: Oh! As tribute to KYSPBA: If Hunter And Torak Had A Baby, It'd Truly Make A Killer Flick, or "I-HAT-HABIT-MAKF."Torak now begins to ponder how loudly Hunter would scream should he just spring on him and attack. Hunter: Here's a good one: Andrew Hunter and the Fathers of Wrestling featuring Torak on Drums!He's gotten away with it before. And besides, no one would miss Hunter. Hunter: Gotcha. Okay, well there's one more left. How about the Weapons of Mass Destruction?Something about that makes Torak's malicious intentions disappear...for the time being, anyway. He hangs his hand down and looks back up at Hunter. Hunter: ...is that a yes?Torak says nothing, perhaps in the hope that Hunter will just figure it out himself and leave as fast as humanly possible. Hunter: Then a yes it is! Hunter and Torak: THE WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION!Hunter stuffs the list back into his pocket and jovially prances up before Torak. Torak leans back slightly as Hunter extends a hand. Hunter: Put 'er there, partner!Torak slowly moves his eyes down at Hunter's hand and stares at it for a moment. Hunter: ...erm...right. Maybe another time. And on that awkward note, I think I'll go now. Somewhere inside Torak's hideous form, something smiles. Hunter: I'll see you at Seven Deadly Sins! We're gonna kick some midcarder ass!And with that, Hunter walks away from Torak, exitting through the open doorway and turning out of sight down the corridor, leaving Torak, seemingly and strangely alone in the room with a curious expression on his face. He staggers over to the doorway, almost lifeless from the seemingly endless one-way conversation. Confused, he clutches the open door and pushes it closed before turning back into the room and staring quizzically into thin-air. Suddenly, there is a voice. ”Quite a partner you have there”Torak spins around and immediately notices his future self standing in the corner of the room. That was quite the dissappearing act. Was it some sort of Prot-like futuristic light travel? Or was he merely standing behind the door the whole time? In any case, there are now back to where they were before being interrupted. So, where were they? Ironically enough, he can’t remember…
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