Torak
poster
Imagination and fantasy are two components of delusion
Posts: 713
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Post by Torak on Sept 6, 2009 10:42:01 GMT -5
The Domino Effect Meltdown, 16th February 2006 Feeling Left Out (DE003) Being left out is horrible feeling. Whether you are rejected, ostracized from activities for selfish reasons or not being able to participate for other reasons it is an unquenchable feeling, usually it is boredom that encompasses you. The yearning you get to join in can not be satisified merely by being a spectator. It’s a young child being disciplined, grounded and restricted from leaving the house, standing at the window watching out as the other kids frolic. They toss a ball around playfully, throwing it between them lightheartedly and unselfishly. You wish you could throw that ball. You wish you could catch that ball. You wish you were the ball… Torak raises to his feet and surges towards the television. He grips it on both sides with his large masculine hands. He plucks it up off the desk it was resting on and yanks it hard toward himself to disconnect the lead from the socket. He turns around and promptly tosses the television. It is not the ball. It does not bounce. Torak stops and breathes heavilly, releasing an agitated growl everytime he exhales. He takes a moment to collect his thoughts before starting toward the door. He extends his arm, seizing the brass knob tightly in his hand, twisting it clockwise before tugging the door open toward him. He rushes onwards through the threshold and into the corridor. He surges on down the narrow hallway, powerful and unstoppable…like a bowling ball heading towards a set-up of dominos.
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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 10:45:39 GMT -5
Warfare, 20th February 2006 A Special Request (LtP005) We all have a distinct idea of what we want. Our desires and fantasies control us like no other emotion. They are the force that drives us, unremittingly encouraging us to achieve our goals and attain our targets. What differs in characteristic between people is the method of achieving such goals; Some may be courteous, simply requesting politely an opportunity to accomplish their goals. Some may feel the need to prove themselves worthy of an opportunity, fulfilling obligations of transcending any necessary tasks to demonstrate the fact that they posess at least the minimum requirements to be granted that opportunity. Then there are those who take the more…direct route. Kevin stands by backstage, drearily anticipating something to happen. He has dreams of his own. Every night before he closes his eyes, just before he drops off to sleep he consciously conjures up dreams of become a success. In his dreams he imagines the adoration and admiration of everyone around him. ? : Ladies and Gentlemen I present to you, all the way from San Diego, California…he is the World’s Greatest Interviewer and backstage journalist : Kevin Anderson!The crowd goes wild. Thank you! Thank you! It’s really great to be here. It’s at that point he falls asleep. Just like when you sleep, you wake up just as the dream starts getting good. He wakes up, disappointed that he is still just Kevin, ACW’s backstage interviewer and nothing special. He relishes any opportunity he gets to interview the stars of ACW, for their air time is his air time. However, he has a fairly distinct idea of who he would rather not encounter backstage… Either Kevin has psychic prowess…or just like most he can hear the roaring approach of the twisted, sadistic and mentally unstable Torak coming from a mile away. There is no-where to run however, not anywhere that Torak isn’t prepared to hunt you down if it his desire to. You only accept the inevitable, close your eyes, cross your legs to allay the drips of urine and hope for the best. Unfortunately, when Torak is around, the best isn’t usually good enough. Torak surges towards Kevin and at this early point of the segment you can summarize that Kevin is not going to get much rest in the coming weeks. However, Torak must have the best Anti-lock Breaking system installed into his heels known to man. He somehow manages to halt mere inches away from Kevin who at this point has frozen solid. One poke of the finger from Torak and he’d shatter into a million pieces. Torak glares down into the eyes of Kevin, draining all of his power like a super-villain from a low-budget super-hero television series. The moment freezes itself. The only movement is the rapid movement of the chest of Torak, inhalation and exhalation, each breath producing a different sounding grunt. Kevin’s lower lip quivers and he has the look in his eye that you get when facing your ultimate nightmare. Or an eternal loop of Hunter’s greatest matches. Torak reaches up and places his palm over the microphone in Kevin’s hand, creating a muffled scraping sound. He snatches the microphone away from him, not as easilly as you’d expect as Kevin’s hands have completely locked tight in fear. Torak tosses the mic away, an electrical crack emits upon impact with the cold hard floor. Torak, unsurprisingly, has no words for tonight. He closes in and either through the positioning of the lights or just through Torak’s sheer presence Kevin is engulfed in darkness. You half expect nocturnal animals to make an appearance in the shade produced by Torak. Torak reaches down, out of sight but his movement is audible as the rustling of paper is heard. Oh my god, he’s going to paper cut him to death! No. He lifts his arm up with the piece of paper in hand and slams it against Kevin’s chest with a breathtaking thud. It knocks Kevin back a step but he daren’t try to move too far away. He understands what he is meant to do and lifts his right arm, now liberated from the grasp of the microphone, placing a finger on a tiny corner of the paper just peeking out under Torak’s massive hand. Torak removes his hand from Kevin’s chest and backs away before disappearing out of shot. Kevin takes a moment to silently thank the gods of mercy before opening the paper, which was folded up, to read it. He follows the words then takes a breath, again appreciative of the mercy Torak had graced him with. He hunches down to retrieve the mic from the floor and tests it to verify it is still in working order. By luck it’s working. He lifts it to his mouth and interprets what he has read. He stutters slightly as the sweat pours down his forehead. Kevin : T-T-Torak has given me this n-n-note. It see-see-seems he has a request…no, s-s-sorry, a demand. He says…If he be…sorry, when he beats BK…sorry, when he obliterates BK London tonight then he wishes to face…at Bloody Valentine…one-one-one…none other than Latino.Your heart goes out to him. Many men prior to this year would have killed to be Latino. Not anymore. To be Latino, would have to be killed. How Latino takes the request is yet to be seen, but it’s hardly the best news he’s likely to get all year. Kevin pauses for a moment, glaring helplessly into the camera before glancing back at the note. He brings it closer to his face and examines it thouroughly. His eyes widen, as does his palms as he releases the note, leaving it float almost weightlessly to the floor. He backs away letting out a blasphemous comment. The camera pans down and zooms in on the note as it lands. The letters are tall, jagged and untidy. More notably, the letters are in red. Almost a blood kind of red. In fact…
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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 10:51:30 GMT -5
Bloody Valentine, 25th February 2006 Noose Cannon (LtP006) We are often told; what we don’t know can’t harm us. A prerequisite for the theory that ignorance is bliss. Yet it is sometimes not knowing that can harm us mentally. Living in a state of obliviousness, evaded by truth and the facts shrouded in secrecy can fill us with a feeling of insignificance, not important enough to know the truth. It can also create paranoia. You look over to a crowd of people locked in conversation. The distance between you and them is too much to overhear their discussion. You notice every so often one of them may glance over at you before quickly reverting their attention back to the conversation. A few of them share a smirk. Your paranoia kicks in and fills your head with sentiments of delusion. They are speaking ill of you, plotting your social demise, mocking you and eternally banishing you from their group. If only you could confirm this. Who said what we don’t know can’t harm us? What we do know at this moment is that we’ve paid a visit, invited or not, to a familiar location. Un-decorated and un-furnished, it has been a setting for many alarming incidents in recent weeks. We are, of course, looking in, a fly on the wall in Torak’s seemingly secret room in the depths of the ACW arena. The shot pans across and an immediate panic sets in throughout the arena as a taut rope hangs from the ceiling. What is suspended from it is yet unknown but the paranoia and disturbing assumptions whirl together in the minds of the most imaginative. The shot slowly descends and reveals a bit of human skin. Further descending reveals this skin to belong to a hand. Not as bad as first presumed, but still possibly bad news. The shot begins to zoom out now and before long the full picture is apparent. Suspend by the rope is an unknown figure, tied to the tense, rough brown rope by his hands. His identity is masked by a black burlap sack that covers his entire head. He is not alone though. Next to him is another poor soul, tied to a similar tight rope descending from the ceiling. He also dons a black burlap sack. There is something eerily familiar about the two mysterious men. Their attire of both men, you’ve seen them before. The man on the left, an African-American, wears short tights, red and silver in color. His hanging partner has a more latin complexion and is wearing red and white tights. A general feeling of horror overcomes most on-lookers as they fear the worst. One man can certainly exacerbate such a feeling. Torak emerges on screen and situates himself immediately in front of the two. He lets out his psychotic laugh that has become almost a catchphrase for Torak in recent appearances. He turns away from them both and collects something out of shot. He slowly lifts an object into full view which brings a cry of despair from the crowd. It’s a rather sturdy looking steel pipe. He gazes at it hypnotically. You half expect the pipe to begin to melt, either from super-mental powers, or just like most, total fear. Even inanimate objects could be excused for fearing Torak. He tears his attention away from the pipe and wickedly glares at the man on the left. He measures up…and viciously strikes him in the midsection with the pipe. The man lets out a muffled groan and a few seconds later a drip of red liquid creeps out from under the burlap sack. Torak switches his focus to the second man with the latin complexion. He closes in and sneers at him before delivering a brutal backhanded swing to the Lattissimus dorsi (or the lateral muscle for all you non-educated people). The recipient of the blow let’s out an agonizing yelp. The mark left by the strike is enough to make anyone cry. Torak returns to the man on the left, his once dark complexion now looking a bit paler. Torak glances down and without a second though smashes the pipe into the right knee, undoubtedly shattering it, coaxing a blood curdling scream from the man. It’s the second man’s turn next, a terrifying fact that he is fully aware of. Not even preparing himself would cushion the brutal wallops distributed by Torak. Feeling a presence near him and with the anticipation of the imminent strike the man cracks. His voice blubbing as he pleads through the burlap sack. “No please, don’t hit me again! Hit him, hit him instead just don’t hit me!”There’s something quite not right here. Even through the stifling fabric of the sack the voice doesn’t match up to the early assumptions. Not that it takes anything away from the segment. The other figure is in too much anguish to reply to this attempt to sell-him out. Torak lifts the pipe up in the air, looking for the fatal blow…but then drops the pipe mercifully. Both his gigantic hands reach up and grab a handful of burlap before tugging them both away, exposing the distressed faces of two complete strangers. The fellow on the left is openly and understandably sobbing. The other manages to control his tear-ducts, but pain is written all over his face. Neither man can stand to look at their captor. Torak looks at them both before bursting into that deranged, thundering laughter that echoes throughout the entire arena. His laughter stops instantly as he seizes both men in his hands, clutching at their necks. The man on the left stops crying, now possibly too scared to. Both of their lips quiver as Torak eyes them up like a butcher selecting his daily livestock. At one point you even think you saw Torak sniff them, like some beast that has just lured two helpless animals to his lair for feeding. He releases his grasp on the two men and backs away before leaving the room, leaving them helplessly hanging there. A moment passes until the man on the right, barely into his twenties, turns to the other who is possibly even younger. He asks sympathetically and guiltily: “Are you okay, man?”The young man is incredulous to the situation, shaking his head in denial attempting to convince himself this is merely a nightmare that he will wake up from in due course. He stops jabbering and looks up at nothing in particular. He utters in remembrance; “I only asked for an autograph.”
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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 10:54:53 GMT -5
Bloody Valentine, 25th February 2006 An unfamiliar sound (LtP007) The lights dim, engulfing the entire arena in darkness. Here come those nocturnal animals again. The crowd knows what is coming next…or at least, they think they do. An unfamiliar sound begins to emanate from the speakers. Fans frantically consult the show program, checking the event schedule for anything they may have missed. Is this some kind of mistake? The music is soft yet quite haunting and invites all eyes to focus on the Alphatron. On screen, dark and grainy footage of a mysterious man stood alone in an empty room. Due to the darkness cast on his body it seems at first that he has no arms, however as the video continues it is realized that his arms are in fact restricted to his torso by what looks like a straight-jacket. He staggers around, psychotically bouncing between the walls with no purpose. He eventually begins to walk toward the screen, his face shrouded by darkness but his eyes visibly terrifying. As the introduction of the music comes to an end and the burst of drum and guitar kicks in the mysterious man explodes in rage, sending the straight jacket flying across the room. At the same time in the arena, at the peak of the stage a pyrotechnic explosion startles anyone who isn’t paying any particular attention. The main guitar rift cuts through the atmosphere like a buzzsaw. The guitar stutters then repeats the rift. As the guitar stutters again a figure emerges from the back, through the curtain and onto the stage in full view. It is Torak, as the fans initially anticipated. Torak stops, keeping a mean stare as he slowly surveys the crowd while the guitar, his new music continues to tear through the arena. The harsh guitar rift finally comes to an end and we return to the soft but haunting notes. Torak continues, albeit very slowly, almost in time to the dawdling beat. His poweful swagger remains but it’s almost as if it’s in slow motion. An entire verse elapses before he makes it to the ring. He hauls himself up onto the apron then enters through the ropes. He struts to the center of the ring and stops again, glaring out at the thousands of people around him. The vocalist of Torak’s new song screams something along the lines of “I’m a Broken Man!”. Is that referring to Torak? Or is it paying homage to his countless victims. Torak turns 180 degrees, turning his attention to the entranceway, willing Affirmative Action to join him in the ring. {What followed was the Handicap Match of Torak vs Affirmative Action which Torak won by DQ
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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 10:58:44 GMT -5
Meltdown, 2nd March 2006 An unhealthy Suggestion (LtP008) Sometimes we should just learn to bite our tongues. Those moments when we just let something slip out, not realizing the hot water our words can land us into until it’s too late. The moment of realization that we’ve said the wrong thing at the wrong time and definitely in the wrong place hits us like a tidal wave, soaking us in either embarrasment or fear. On screen is the beaming grin of the new number 1 interviewer: Gary. His expression is brimming with enthusiasm and eagerness as he embarks on his brand new career path. He holds the microphone that he is grasping tightly in his hand at jaw level and about six to ten inches away from his mouth. ACW’s mics have been quality tested and do not require the user to almost swallow the thing to be heard. He begins to speak with an ardorous pitch, quite obviously excited to be given some free air time. Gary : Ladies and Gentlemen! Boys and Girls! Dogs and Cats! ACW is pleased to announce that tonight…a year since their first meeting Latino and Torak will go one-on-one in the ACW ring! YAY! Gary holds both his hands up in the air and performs a cute little shuffle of joy. Once he’s finished he reverts to his more composed poise and continues. Gary : But that Torak…he’s a bad man. Not like Rikishi because he was once good…but Torak is always a bad man. He is being nasty to some of our ACW fans in his room and I think he should stop…Stop is the final word that Gary utters before his attention turns to something off-screen. He grimaces and shakes his head in apparent fright. Something closes in, casting a shadow on the 5’7 figure of the new interviewer. It’s soon revealed to be Torak and somewhere, somehow you are certain you can feel Kevin breathing out a huge sigh of relief. Torak looms over Gary who is cowering behind his microphone as if it offers him protection. As Torak exhales you notice the hair, short though it may be, ruffle from the travelling air as it passes, seemingly tickling Gary menacingly as it whirls by. The masked beast glares into the innocent eyes of Gary, piercing right through them and reading his thoughts. However, Torak could not foretell what follows. Out of nowhere a spell of courage overcomes Gary, either through immense bravery or, most probably, sheer stupidity. He lifts the mic up to his mouth again and claims: “You’re mean!”This knocks Torak back as Gary’s remark catches him by total surprise and confusion. The people watching on bury their heads in their hands in disbelief as they envision several wrestling website editors beginning to write Gary’s obituary. Thankfully, Torak seems to see the funny side of things. He emits his powerfully demented chuckle that echoes through the backstage area. Gary laughs along with him, hoping to alleviate Torak’s mood. After all, laughter is the best medicine, right? Then again, have you ever heard of a psychiatrist prescribing laughter to the local nutjob? “Here you go Mr. McMurphy, take two bouts of light chuckling a day followed by a hearty giggle before bed and the potato people should stop tormenting you in two to three weeks.”Didn’t think so. Torak swoops in with his right arm and seizes the comparatively thinner arm of Gary. Make no mistake, he has no intentions of the foxtrot or the tango. The only stars Gary will be dancing with are the ones he’ll be counting. Torak squeezes tightly, forcing Gary to relinquish his grip on the microphone. Torak confiscates it and holds it up in front of him, teasing Gary with it. “Hey, give it back, that’s mine!”What follows is completely unnecessary and cruel. Torak takes the mic in both hands and with relative ease snaps it in half with an unpleasant crunch. Gary screams in dismay, like a child on Christmas day who has just had his new toy broken within hours of removing it from what seemed like 30 layers of wrapping paper. Torak tosses the two separated pieces of the microphone to the floor and then exits from view. Gary bends down to retrieve the two pieces from the ground and when he stands up to examine them a tear can be made out, forming in the corner of his eye. The shot fades out with Gary desperately attempting to mend the broken microphone.
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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 10:59:40 GMT -5
Meltdown, 2nd March 2006 Cutting down (LtP009) It’s interesting how one insignificant suggestion can spark a large idea. One note can lay the foundations for an entire album. One word can inspire a novel. One idiotic remark can start a war. The mind works in a mysteriou way such as how one simple object or thing can kick-start a complex thought process, eventually presenting a bigger scheme. We are presented with a shot of the interior of Torak’s secreted lair. The two unfortunate gentlemen that were captured and tortured at Bloody Valentine remain suspended from the ceiling. Their attires are the same except for the stained red blots and patches scattered all over them. There are barely conscious and they look very weak. Out of shot the door is barged open, the brick wall taking a hard blow by the steel as the monster returns to his chamber. The two victims just manage to peel their eyes open to witness their tormenter enter the room. He storms into the room and stops in between the attenuated duo. He inspects their condition, pressing his fingers down on their visible bruises causing them to murmur in pain. They are so depleted in energy that they can barely cry out in anguish. Torak backs off and disappears off screen for a moment and the barely opened eyes of his prey follow his every move, calculating what is in store. At the same moment they both flinch. Their eyes widen and they desperately struggle in an attempt to free themselves from the ropes. However, it is an attempt in vain. Torak returns on screen, apparently shielding something with his arm. What could be causing this abrupt bout of panic? Surely they’ve endured the worst in the last few days already. The worst may be yet to come. Torak brandishes the long silver kitchen knife that has featured so prominently in recent weeks. The poor unfortunate victim that he stands closest to (the one in the BK London attire) turns his head away in a useless effort to put as much distance between himself and the knife…but Torak moves it closer and closer until it is mere inches…no, centimeters from his neck. The victim closes his eyes, thinks of his family and utters a silent prayer. When he opens his eyes he finds himself plummeting to the floor. Is he dropping down to hell to reside with the devil? No. He crashes to the floor, letting out a resounding “oof” upon impact. Torak had cut through the rope with the knife just above the hands of the victim. Now his arms can recover from the strain they have suffered from supporting the heavy body of the fan. A back-handed slice chops through the second rope, sending the other poor sap into the hands of gravity. He quickly gets acquainted with the floor and rests his tired arms. Their ordeal is not over that easilly though it seems. Torak was not being merciful, he was merely providing a challenge for himself. He lifts the knife up in the air as he glowers icily at the downed pair. He steps toward them with malevolent intentions. He prepares to lunge… The two cower up against the wall, embracing each other for comfort…however, as they look up Torak is frozen, his eyes fixed on something else. He lowers the knife and takes the dangling rope in his free hand. He looks at it, almost in amazement as the two on-lookers glance at each other in confusion. Torak looks up with the rope still in his grasp. He ponders for a second before beginning to chuckle to himself again. What is going through the mind of the malicious beast?
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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 11:05:07 GMT -5
Warfare, 6th March 2006 Roped in satisfaction (LtP010) “Pride and Conceit were the original sins of man.” – Alain René LesageWe all take pride in our own achievments. Sin or not, the feeling of self-satisfaction re-assures us and asserts us with the knowledge that we are in control of our self esteem. The more narcissitic of us may take so much pride and pleasure from their own work that they frequently ignore the accomplishments of others, discounting the effort and dedication demonstrated by their peers. Our pride can be displayed in various ways; One might persist in reminding others of their feat, bringing the subject up in an unrelated conversation or directing their attention to a reiteration of their acheivement. For example, a self absorbed writer may gloss over the writings of his fellow authors but alert them to the publication of their own work and insist that they read, under the guise of mutual appreciation for each other’s work. On the other hand it may be enjoyed secretly and displayed in the privacy of their own company. The image presented on screen is of Latino. An audible cheer resonates through the winding corridors of the ACW arena. It is a cheer of surprising delight. If there was one face they did not expect to cast their eyes upon tonight it was the one belonging to Mr. Laureano. He is motionless and the footage is slightly grainy. It reminds you of an image presented on screen when you pause your VCR. A little skip in frame and suddenly Latino comes to life. It quickly dawns on the on-looking fans that this is not in fact a live broadcast of a Latino segment, but a re-run of his match last week. This is soon confirmed as the shot zooms out, revealing an old black television that contains the footage, containing Latino in-between the thick black plastic exterior like a prison cell. Latino is currently poised on the top rope as at the bottom of the screen of the television a white line of dashes appears. A single vertical line shifts from left to right and as it reaches the end of the line the volume increases to maximum. The sound emitting from the cheap built-in speakers is of a crowd cheering wildly, similar to the reaction at the conclusion of a match. Latino leaps off the top rope and crashes to the mat, missing his target, Torak, who had moved out of the way at the last second. The crowd need no reminder of this, as they can fully recollect the outcome of the match from this point. Sure enough it follows it’s course with Torak delivering his signature MediEvil Driver ’05 before picking up the victory. A painful reminder and one that most had wished hadn’t been brought to mind. The action continues on the television as the camera zooms out further, drifting away from the re-run of Thursday night and eventually a hunched figure comes into view. It is a figure that invokes a enormous amount of heel heat that drowns out the sound emanating from Torak’s source of enjoyment. They remember what he had done post match, fully aware of the consequences of his actions and they aren’t prepared to forgive him anytime soon. This is to no inconvenience of Torak though as he watches on with egregious enjoyment. One can only wonder how many times Torak has repeated the incident of Thursday night, both mentally and visually. He chuckles to himself, amused in the way that you usually are when you are being told a hilarious joke and you already know the punchline. However, this particular incident is no laughing matter. At least, not to the normal human being. Then again, Torak has rarely been described as normal. ? : …and you, you there! What are you doing with that screwdriver? Hey, is that your little kitten? Isn’t he a cute lit…oh my god, No! What are you…no! That’s…I think I’m going to be sickTorturing little kittens. Now that’s how to get over as a heel. Richard Parker, watch your back. Back to the present. The re-iteration of Thursday’s events continues as Torak watches on, notably stimulated as he’s fully aware of the outcome of the scene that is playing out on the television screen. He hunches over further, trying to get a closer view, clasping his hands together and rubbing them incessantly as his breathing starts to get heavier. On screen, Torak has just restrained the arms of the limp Latino with the thick rope once used as a noose for one of his prisoners. He inevitably proceeds to lift Latino up into the air before hurling him off the stage to the electrical equipment below. This seems to be uproarious to Torak as he bellows out at the top of his lungs with a hefty guffaw. Mr. McMurphy has had his dosage increased this week it seems. The tape concludes with the hypnotic stare of Torak preceding the fade out. The black screen seems to sedate Torak as his unhinged chortling begins to languish. Suddenly, the blackness is replaced by another image as the tape reaches it’s end and it automatically stops, restoring the television broadcast as the unmistakable sound of a VCR rewinding a video-tape whirs into life. The new images arouses interest in Torak’s eyes. He sits up, recognizing the shot he is now presented with. His eyebrows raise in interest as the camera zooms in on the screen… {{Atomic Kitsune Segment}}We return to Torak, this time a head-on shot. Most people may have felt squemish after the disclosed details of Latino’s suffering. Not Torak though. He has look of re-inforced pleasure etched on his face. An antonymous scenario would be along the lines of giving someone you owe the money they are due then they go on to win the lottery with that money. Torak’s eyes are clamped shut, his mind imperatively attempting to conjure up images of Latino lying prone in the hospital bed. Torak’s hands meet each other at the base of his neck, set in a position that almost seems like he’s about to strangle himself. Instead, he lets his hands slide slowly but eloquently down his body, stroking past his chest down to his abdomen. His hands part company at the groinal area and subsequently slip down onto the huge thighs and make their way to the knees where they conclude the movement with a tense fondle. Torak’s eyes open and as the light of the room floods in a pleasured grunt escapes. He glances to the side and his focus fixes onto an object. His right arm departs from the knee and clenches an as yet unknown object, the eyes remain transfixed on it. The object is soon brought into shot and into closer view for Torak to inspect. It is a length of rope, presumably the same one used to subdue Latino Thursday night. His left arm rises up and also takes the thick but frayed rope in it’s grasp. He lifts the rope up to his face and inhales deeply, intaking the scent that it possesses of Latino’s recent torture. His eyes close shut again and Torak is in an almost orgasmic state. He thrusts his masked face into the rope and starts to rub it thoroughly as if washing his face with a wash cloth. The rope makes it’s way down to the neck of the masked beast, chafing the skin as it slithers around it like a python constricting it’s prey. The rope coils itself around the neck, almost as if it has a life of it’s own, wrapping around the thyroid cartilage. Torak wraps it so tight around his own neck that it is certainly cutting off his air supply. There are no signs of panic in the eyes of Torak however. On the contrary, he seems to be enjoying the act of self torture. His breathing becomes heavier as his grip and pull on the rope tightens, causing the rope to become tense and perfectly straight. You begin to wonder where this is going to lead. Is Torak going to choke himself to death right here in this moment of self-pleasure. Suddenly, off screen, the distinctive sound of a VCR completing it’s rewinding process and automatically stopping the tape dead as it reaches the beginning. Most assume that it’s the beginning anyway. However, eerily enough the tape begins to play on it’s own accord. Torak certainly does not press any buttons, apart from his own, on the remote control. In fact, no remote control has even been presented in this entire segment. With the television momentarily out of shot the only clue as to what is going on is through the sound emitting from it: "One by one, you will all fade and share the fate of numerous others. Nothing can stop me, and no-one is safe, from the least to the greatest… I proved it at Bloody Valentine in a manner that none will soon forget.!”Torak snaps out of his orgasm, his eyes widening to put an image to the sound he hears. The camera quickly swings around to include the television in the shot. It’s quickly recognizable as the haunting promises that Angelus Kincaid declared last week. Torak loosens his grip on the rope, allowing it to slide down into his lap as he watches on with intrigue. "Hunter, it is true...The hunt has begun...and at Bloody Valentine, it was apparent the hunter had become the hunted. No one is safe! Those footsteps you hear in the dark can no longer be brushed off as a figment of your imagination .Like Torak tormenting Latino, I shall torment all of ACW!”Torak titls his head musefully. He considers the words of the fellow masked monster that has wreaked havoc in the ACW recently, much like Torak has done in the time he has been there. The footage jumps and a line of white static cuts through the screen and it repeats… “Like Torak tormenting Latino, I shall torment all of ACW!”This startles even Torak for a moment. It may be coincidental, but the idea of a constant loop of a fellow freak’s words is quite galvanizing. It skips again… “Like Torak tormenting Latino, I shall torment all of ACW!”This freaks Torak out. Not even he can understand why this is happening. He lunges toward the VCR and promptly prods the eject button. He pauses expectantly for a second but is frustrated when he isn’t presented with the video-tape. “Like Torak tormenting Latino, I shall torment all of ACW!”Torak cracks and wraps his enormous arms around the television set. In a moment of madness he hurls the television across the room as if he’s just witnessed a show booked by Vince Russo. The television smashes against the solid brick wall and explodes into pieces instantly before crashing to floor in a demolished wreck. The offending VCR doesn’t escape Torak’s wrath either as it soon follows suit, hitting the wall at some speed, causing the plastic casing to snap, revealing the now broken internal “organs” of the VCR. Torak reaches down and snatches the video tape from inside before snapping it in half with ease. He tosses it away into the newly formed debris on the floor. Torak exhales heavily, pondering to himself. He should possibly be contemplating psychatric help…or the maybe employing the service of a maid. But neither of those are running through the mind of Torak right now. Instead he considers the words of Angelus Kincaid. He reflects on the words of Alicia Kitsune. And he revels in the memory of Latino, lying helplessly and vulnerably in a hospital bed, wishing he could be at his side when he wakes up and be the menacing face looking down at him as his eyes open. He imagines Latino’s electrocardiogram exploding at that very moment that Latino opens his eyes. The last thought highly amuses Torak and he lets out a jovial yet sadistic chuckle. The scene fades with Torak chortling maniacally to himself.
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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 11:07:38 GMT -5
Ups and Downs Meltdown, 9th March 2006 (LtP011) A feeble body weakens the mind – Jean Jacques RousseauAn intriguing citation by an influential man. Whether you agree with it or not, it remains significant in the minds of many people. Some people are capable of having that effect on others. Everybody has the potential to be influential with their thoughts, words or actions; whether that influence is used for virtue or sin depends solely on the recipient. It is easy to influence someone if they have an open mind. A rousing speech by a captain can influence the team to victory. On the other end of the scale, a preacher fuelled by hate can influence chaos, anarchy and violence. Others may be influenced in different ways. One may admire someone’s acheivements and successes and be influenced to follow in their footsteps with aspirations to be on par with them…or even surpass their accomplishments. Alternatively, one may witness the downfall and failures of another, discouraging them from continuing with their plight. We live our lives through our influences and in-turn, influence others through our lives. An another example of how certain people can be influenced that hits closer to home is ACW’s own “Welsh Dragon” Dan White. Recently awarded with a World title shot, rewarded for his ability with an opportnity of prestige and greatness. However, he floundered this opportunity due to the influence of another. Another profound image that remained in his mind, influencing his behaviour from a brief moment. The key moment. The face that haunted him for those few moments, inducing a fit of sheer panic and ineluctably led to his defeat. If one mind can be so easily infiltrated by the influence exuded by one individual, then is any mind on the entire roster of Alpha Championship Wrestling completely secure? For a brief moment you surmise not, as that very face that inhabited the over-active imagination of Dan White on Monday appears in front of you. The glaring eyes, peering over the brim of the half-mask, stare deeply into your soul, draining your ability to speak, think or even move. It’s that feeling you get when you thought you heard a movement outside the window late at night. There might have been a shadow cast, but you can’t be sure. The closed curtains do nothing to aid your doubt. You tentatively shuffle over to the window, fearing the worst but truly believing that your imagination is just running wild, as it always does at night…in the dark…alone. Your hand slowly reaches out toward the curtain and your index finger and thumb meet, pinching a tiny bit of the curtain, not wanting to create a noticable movement in the curtains. You edge closer to the window, the curtains still shielding the view of the scary outside world. You feel the curtain is your last line of defence, your last form of protection from any lurking dangers. You prepare to rip your kevlar vest off in the middle of an empty battlezone knowing that an enemy may possibly on the horizon. You inhale, the oxygen serves as a double dose of courage and you finally have the nerve to sharply slide the curtain open, almost tugging it off the rail. The view of the outside floods in… . . . . . THERE’S SOMEBODY AT THE WINDOW!… His eyes continue to glare. He’s frozen, just as you are, but he has the advantage; he’s not afraid of you. Under the mask it is difficult to tell whether he is frowning or smirking though neither would be a comfort to you. Finally, he moves, lowering himself toward the floor, but still his eyes remain fixed in front of him. It seems Torak is preparing for his match later tonight by performing squats. It’s amazing how many people forget that Torak is a wrestler. He stands up straight again with relative ease, but you still feel that he is lifting something other than his own body weight, which is enough in itself for the legs that support it. You can’t see a barbell resting across his shoulders, so that’s out. His arms are also out of view in the current shot so you can’t tell if he’s holding something in his huge hands. After a few more stoops and raises the glare of Torak forces the camera to retreat cowardly. The objects in either hand become more and more visible as the shot zooms out. The objects are human figures, quite familiar in fact. It's the pair of (ex-)ACW fans making another unconsented appearance, both tied up at the wrists with rope and draped over the shoulders of the exercising beast. Their cries of help are muffled by straps of tape stretched across their mouths. Torak stoops down once again and returns to verticality with ease. He performs one final squat before deciding enough is enough and promptly drops his makeshift weights to the floor. They slump down onto the concrete and writhe in pain after being stretched for the benefit of Torak's workout. There's even a possibility that they're suffering from vertigo. Torak stands up straight, barely out of breath. The scene fades out with a familiar scene. Torak standing tall over two crumpled bodies. Scott Andrews will have some work to do tonight to avoid being stretched.
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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 11:14:41 GMT -5
Meltdown, 16th March 2006 A lack of reverance (LtP012) [Joint Credit: Welsh Dragon Dan White] Coward: One who, in a perilous emergency, thinks with his legs – Ambrose BierceCowardice can be considered either a positive attribute or a negative one. For a proud man, the shame of averting certain risk or difficulty through fear of failure is a feeling that he can not redeem himself. However, cowardice can be our greatest asset to our safety and survival. Opting to high-tail it when faced with danger may not spare us our honor or dignity, but it at least ensures our physical well-being. Cocky, smiling, full of life, Dan walks into the entrance of the building through the front door. He’s wearing a black shit with an open collar, strutting through, with his kit bag over his shoulder. He has a match tonight against Mr. Red, a stablemate but the two’s relationship has been murky at best recently. Dan has put his number one contender’s spot for Jake Cheng’s Light Heavyweight Championship on the line. But he secretly only hopes to get both a victory and keep his friendship with the guy, as he walks into the private area, the highways and intersections of the never ending Locker Room Area. Dan knows the place like a book, firstly walking by what used to be Mercer Stanton and Yoko Satoshi’s locker room with a skip in his step. Life is clearly going well for Dan, but that comes as no surprise, especially with previous notified earlier on in the show, that his mental issues are all but over. He gets to a part on the locker room area with a coffee machine, and Dan places his kit bag on the floor. He notices Charlotte chatting away to a backstage worker, and Dan checks her out, looking up and down, and then at the crucial parts of her body. As his coffee - black, no sugar - pours, he makes an abrupt cough, intent of getting Charlotte’s attention. She turns around, and smiles at Dan, who’s smiling back. Charlotte: Hi Dan, or is it Mr. White? I’m not too sure what name basis we’re up to at the moment.Dan lets out a cheesy smile as he grabs the coffee and takes a slow sip. Only the pain of heat sips through Dan’s mouth. He’s almost to the point of spitting the coffee everywhere, but swollows it, and with a sour look answers Charlotte’s question. Dan: Um...Oooh that was terrible...Erm, yeah, first-name basis, I think.Charlotte: Oh ok.She smiles at Dan, who smiles back, silently back-handing the coffee into the rubbish bin. The liquid falls into the bin perfectly, and the cup rolls across the edge of the bin, and then rolls into the bin. Score. Dan: So I was wondering if we could take a walking interview. I mean since my return I’ve only had one or two...
Charlotte: Yeah, sure. That shouldn’t be a problem.The two begin to walk at a steady pace down the corridor, with the camera following the two. Dan: Well basically, I just wanted to say that I have pretty much been screwed out of everything I’ve had my chance to win. I mean firstly there was the International Championship, where that referee made a quick count. Believe me, I saw it. It was a quick count. And then there was the Entertainment Championship. Not once, but twice. Believe me, that pisses a man off to no possible boundary. And then when I have the World Heavyweight Championship finally in my sights, I lose because of my fucked up brain. And then I get my chance at winning the Light-Heavyweight Title, but the man that is supposed to be my friend, Mr. Red, complains about some bitchy thing that his ‘foot was on the ropes’. Bullshit. Now I treat Red as a friend, but I’m going to seriously kick some ass tonight, regardless of any friendship.
Charlotte: But I mean what about Torak? He’s something so destructive that you yourself had severe troubles beating him. Are you going to be able to go the distance and defeat him on your own?
Dan: Oh Charlotte, I would have thought that with our history, you would have known by now that I’m not a quitter. Torak, yes he’s an absolute beast, but I’m sure that I’m more than capable of defeating him. Whether it’s tonight, whether it’s on Warfare or even if it was on the PPV next week at Genocide, I am absolutely certain that I can beat him, because I am the Welsh Dragon Dan White.
Charlotte: So...where are we going now?Dan smirks Dan: We are going on a mission, to find Torak and to tell him personally that I am not scared of him. To tell him that he no longer controls my brain, and to tell him that I am prepared for a fight, any day, any time, any place.
Charlotte: But Dan...
Dan: No buts Charlotte...Dan walks at a quicker speed. Charlotte decides to follow, knowing that if the worst came to worst it would still make for some great TV. Dan takes an abrupt right and ends at a dead end. His path is not blocked, however, by a solid birck wall. Nor is it blocked by a sturdy wooden door. In fact, the buffer that halted Dan in his tracks is not even an inanimate object. It is none other than the one that Dan seeks…namely, Torak. His fists are clentched. Charlotte places an arm to Dan’s back but Dan walks forward, taking something resembling a Christian Cross and points it in the direction of Torak. Dan: The power of Christ compels you! Exalt, Demon!Charlotte looks quite scared as Torak remains standing. Dan: Um...Exalt!Torak is still stood, and Charlotte looks really nervous at this point. Charlotte: Oh screw this Dan, you’re on your own.Charlotte exhibits her cowardice and makes a sharp exit, though you could hardly blame her at this moment. Torak peers down at Dan then glances up at the retreating Miss King. After a few moments his focus reverts to the anxious poise of Dan. Torak’s eyebrows furrow as he is overcome with a mixture of confusion, curiosity and anger. He looks at Dan like a butcher looking at a customer who has just walked in and started making love to some of the meat. He is slightly aggravated by this confrontation, but he has no idea of what to do to make him stop. Dan continues, desperately trying to muster up more exorcism quotes. Dan : Um…uh….evil spirits begone!Torak’s arm lashes out, hurtling toward the cross that Dan holds tightly in his hand and clutching it firmly. Torak glares down into the eyes of the Welsh Dragon and, without words, urges him to release his grip on the religious symbol. Torak snatches the cross from Dan’s grip and pulls it in close to inspect it. Dan starts to pray that it begins to burn through the hand of the masked beast. No such luck. Instead, Torak positions his fingers so that they wrap around the cross section and in one squeeze he snaps the cross in half…one handed! He hurls the two broken pieces of the cross to the floor and the ACW complaints department suddenly becomes inundated with mail. Dear ACW,
I am writing to you regarding the segment aired on the Meltdown occuring on the 16th March 2006. The particular segment I am referring to involved Torak and Dan White which severely offended my family and I as we watched as one of the ACW roster performed an act of sacrilege, disgracing a symbol of our religious beliefs. We are apalled that such an incident should be allowed to take place blah blah blah [insert bible quote and hypocritical comment here.
We hope you take action on all those involved in the incident and issue a public apology on the next show.
Yours sincerely,
Mr. A. SadbastadMaybe ACW should consider putting Torak in charge of these sort of letters. Dear Mrs. Sadbastad and family,
I regret to inform you that, in regards to the letter sent to the complaints department of ACW your husband was promptly captured and tortured brutally for 36 hours before being passed through to the Angelus Kincaid sorting department. If you wish to retrieve your husband then you may collect him from the dumpster located outside the ACW arena. And the trunk of the dark blue 1971 Chevrolet Nova S.S. And from the food disposal unit outside the catering area.
Yours mercilessly,
TorakDan frantically fumbles in his pockets, searching for a lifeline. A knife. A gun. A massive ordinance air blast bomb. Anything you feel will do. What he does produce is slightly less lethal. It’s a small jar filled with water. He frenetically twists off the lid and discards it to the floor. With a flick of the wrist he throws some of the liquid onto Torak. Dan : In the name of the father!Torak looks down onto his chest where most of the water landed before returning his stare to Dan, looking less than amused. Another flick of the wrist and Torak gets even wetter. </innuendo> Dan : and the son!Torak is fed up of this charade now and again thrusts his arm forward in an attempt to procure the tiny jar. However, Dan releases the jar before Torak can reach it, sending it plummeting to the floor with a smash. Torak looks down at the broken jar and the water that escaped upon impact, some of which landed on Torak’s thick black leather boots. He looks up again only to see Dan backing off nervously. Torak slowly follows him with malevolent intentions. Dan urges his legs to work at a quicker pace but at the moment they don’t seem to be in full working order. Unfortunately for Dan, he eventually meets a wall, backed in by the oncoming monster. He feels the wall desperately, contemplating whether or not he could burrow through it in an attempt to escape. Instead, he opts for the sensible escape route and uses the wall to propel himself away and then back down the corridor he came from. Torak stops in his tracks and chuckles to himself 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 11:19:25 GMT -5
Warfare, 20th March 2006 A History of Silence (LtP013) [Joint Credit: Angelus Kincaid] Imagination and fantasy are merely components of delusion – TorakAn active imagination exists in the mind of every person. Thoughts, dreams, fantasies and paranoia are all byproducts of the imagination. Some people are in control of their imagination and are able to stifle those thoughts and fantasies. Those not in control, however, are liable to suffer from a wild, over-active imagination. They may yearn to achieve what they dream of, only to realize that their dreams are not attainable. They become deluded, their convinces them that they are able to replicate their fantasies. Even worse, paranoia can be produced easily by an over-active imagination. Just a subtle gesture, such as a momentary glance of another’s eyes, can spark fears, obsessively contemplating detrimental intentions by the source. A familiar location greets the eyes of the on-looker. The drab gray concrete walls containing an almost empty room. There are no furnishings, no decorative items and a dim light indicative of the empty heart, empty soul of the inhabitant. The image serves as a warning as you prepare yourself for the worst, anticipating certain mental disturbance to the mind. The usual suspect, Torak, appears on screen. He does not look happy, but then, what’s new? He is motionless glaring endlessly into space, his breathing, heavy and continuous, the only sound emanating from his presence. His eyelids meet as he closes his eyes. A rare calmless surrounds him as it seems he is focusing on his match scheduled later against the self proclaimed “Natural Born Killer” Lex De LaRocha. Not to generalize, but Mr. LaRocha is certainly one of the very many types of personalities that Torak strongly dislikes. The egotistical manner, the bloated self-confidence, the self-assured arrogance and the sheer fact that that type of person believes themselves to be better than anyone else, regardless of the facts. The notion that a person can spend hours in front of the mirror admiring themselves or using cheap women with minimal morality to aid their self esteem is something that truly irks Torak. Oh yes, he’s encountered his type before. A school corridor, youthful excitement, curiosity and ignorance flows eloquently between rows of towering lockers, the stream of adolescence flowing around the rocks of authority who monitor the halls.
In a dark corner a lonely child, quite bulky in physique but not intimidating, reaches a battered locker. His head hangs piteously and his left arm clutches a collection of books. His free arm reaches up and opens the locker door. As it swings open with a helpless squeak his grip on the books diminishes and a single book initially plummets to the floor. However, in an attempt to rescue it the other books soon follow and amidst the panic the young boy drops to his knees to salvage the books before anyone notices. Whilst he’s down there he seeks hopefully for some dignity.
It gets worse. Prior to this moment he was hopeful that his clumsiness had gone un-noticed, sparing him from any ridicule or embarrassment. However, as he looks up there are a pair of long, slender legs in front of him. They belong to the most beautiful sight he’d ever had the priviledge to witness. He scoops up the books and struggles to his feet. He is the same height as the girl, but he imagines he is nowhere near her league. She glances at him and offers him a smile that is surrounding by flowing golden hair. The simple, warm gesture causes his heart to skip a beat. He freezes mentally for a moment and before he can return a smile of his own she turns away and focuses on the interior of her locker.
His mind races, rummaging around in the very depths of his conscious for the words to proffer. It turns up a blank. His eyes remain fixed on her, quite creepily from the outside, but inside he knows that he just can’t tear his eyes away or else he knows this moment will pass and he’ll never get another opportunity.
“Hi” it strikes him. That’s a recommended conversation starter, tried and tested in countries across the world. There it is, there’s the idea, now use it.
Except, it’s not that easy. Conjuring up the word was the easiest part. Building up the courage to use the word, that’s a different story. In a split second he enacts the hopeful, but unlikely following scenario in his head.
“Hi! I’m Jack. You’re beautiful, I love you!” “Wow, I love you too Jack, let’s make out!”
Remember that imagination thing I was telling you about.
At any rate, this imaginary scene does little to inspire confidence, but he realizes time is of the essence and decides to suck it up and go for the blow. He inhales deeply and nervously shuffles forward. It’s a wonder she can’t hear his heart pounding away inside his chest. He can hear it clearly, and it’s starting to give him a headache. Or is that just the nerves?
“Hi!”
The voice catches her by surprise and she turns around instantly. In fact, the voice catches him by surprise too, as it doesn’t sound much like his own. He soon realizes that this is due to the voice, or the work it utters belonged to him. From out of nowhere a figure appears. His muscular physique is impressive enough to demand attention but his youthful good-looks make an enormous effort to detract attention from it. The girl looks into his deep eyes with obvious wonder. She flicks her hair in a flirtatious manner, opening herself to his advances. His advances are direct as his right hand swoops in low and connects with her backside where it rests. She looks down at it, initially with disgust but upon remembering who the hand belongs to she lightens up and smiles at the owner.
The attention quickly turns to the lonely young boy, still clutching his books, standing there watching on with disappointment in his eyes. He doesn’t even notice the guy looking at him, he’s still transfixed on the beautiful girl.
“What do you want, dork!?
The question catches him by surprise and before he can offer a response the hand that was previously in a more desired location thrusts toward him and knocks him backwards into the open locker. He laughs wickedly. Despite the forlorn look on the lone kid’s face the guy displays amusement. The girl, whose smile previously exhibited friendliness, does not speak up in defence of the innocent bystander. What a traitor.
The arrogant guy drapes his arm over the shoulder of the blonde traitor and leads her away, leaving the lonely Jack in the dark corner with a scornful look on his face.Torak’s eyes open instantly as if distracted by something. There is a definite presence in the room as Torak stands promptly, seriously risking orthostatic hypotension. However, head rush is seemingly lower on the list of Torak’s concern. A voice without a face, but unmistakably familiar, speaks to him; “When you close your eyes, is it hell you see?”Torak squints and tilts his head slightly in confusion. Suddenly the shot cuts out and we are presented with another. A re-run of a previous incident. A spotlight turns on without warning, and focuses on a large coffin sitting on the top of the ramp. NBK catches sight of it, and instinctively backs away… until suddenly, he feels himself touch against something that should not be there…
The lights snap back on, and disorientate everyone for a moment. Everyone, that is except Angelus Kincaid himself.
NBK doesn’t stand a ghost of a chance; he gets only a second to look into Angelus’ eyes before he is grabbed, inverted, and piledriven on to the metal ramp. The crowd screams, and Angelus drags his victim up the ramp to the waiting coffin. A shot from ringside momentarily juxtaposes Angelus and Torak, and reveals their similarity of height and build; Torak watches, as rapt as anyone else in the arena, as Angelus dumps the barely conscious body of NBK into the coffin. He slams down the lid, regards it for a second… and then with a practiced stroke, he kicks the coffin and sends it hurtling down the ramp. It slides all the way down, and crashes into the ring apron, striking some concealed equipment and finally tipping up, disgorging its occupant on to the outside mats. By the time anyone thinks to look back at the stage, Angelus is long gone.Cut back to Torak who almost seems to have noticed the change and he acts surprised that he is the focus once more. The voice of Angelus continues. Torak’s eyes are focused on a spot off screen. Is Angelus standing there? “Is it pain and suffering you see?”Torak turns his head away to consider the question and once again we cut away to another screening of ACW history. Hunter looks at the stage wide-eyed, and so does everybody else. But this is not where he should look, and as he is being diverted along with everyone else there is a loud, crunching, thumping sound. Everyone looks around trying to work out where it’s coming from… and Hunter’s expression changes in a fraction of a second from peeved annoyance to genuine shock as he realizes it’s coming from under the ring, directly beneath his feet…
The fist that punches through the canvas is smeared with grime; the audience screams in horror, and Hunter is frozen for a crucial moment as the hand grips his ankle, and a second one joins it, ripping a gaping hole in the fabric. The wrench is immensely strong and drags Hunter off of his feet; in the darkness beneath the ring a face is visible for just a split second, grinning with a sadistic glee.
And if he never knew paralyzing fear before, Hunter knows it then; his expression is rigid with terror, and his tongue becomes lead. He is unable to cry out or call for help and his struggle to save himself is in vain, as he is dragged into the void beneath the ring. It’s all over before anyone can even think about moving to try and assist.Revert back to Torak. He is growing agitated by the interuptions. He returns his gaze to what we assume is Angelus off screen. “Is it rivers of blood you see?”Hunter raises his arms but cannot help look over confusingly at the motionless form of Angelus. Curiosity gets the best of him and he slowly approaches Angelus…and this is his last mistake, as Angelus springs up and grabs Hunter’s face, lifts him up, and hits a cringe-inducing Gravedigger onto Hunter’s title. Angelus then takes that title and holds it in his arm. Torak seems mesmerized glaring at the floor in contemplation. His train of thought is brought to a halt by a single utterance. Torak!Angelus’ voice seizes the attention of the beast whose name he called. Torak’s gaze revisits the same spot once more and he listens carefully. You an I are a lot alike. We have similar goals and pursuits in this fragile business they call wrestling. While neither of us pursue title belts, we do deem it necessary to abate our enemies and rivals. While you believe that it must be done physically, I believe it can be achieved mentally…by taking away whatever they hold dear…including championship titles.Torak nods in agreement. Angelus speaks no lies, only sense in the opinion of Torak. Which is why I feel that it would be in our best interests, and our opponents worst, that we collaborate in our efforts to eradicate our competition, starting with our current rivals the so-called “Cold Blooded Killers” and that nettlesome Dan White. Together, we could dominate. Together, we could annihilate. Together we would bring a darkness and suffering to ACW. A darkness and suffering that ACW will not recover from. A darkness and suffering that all of ACW will fear, regardless of their stature or position. Torak, you and I could introduce a nocturnal morality to ACW, starting at Genocide, an appropriate title for our intentions.Torak’s close again as he bows his head. His breathing becomes heavy again as he considers Angelus’ proposal. His eyelids part and the light floods in…but something’s amiss. Torak searches the room frantically as it seems Angelus has now disappeared. The shot pans around the room to reveal there are no hiding places. Confusion wages war with reason in Torak’s mind. Where had Angelus gone? Torak surges toward the door and attempts to swing it open, however, it does not budge. Upon closer inspection it’s noticed that the door is locked by a sturdy bolt on the inside. No-one has entered or left the room any time previously. So, how was Torak able to hear the voice of Angelus Kincaid? Was it some sort of sppoky trickery? Was Angelus even present in the room? Maybe Torak imagined the entire thing…
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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 11:21:27 GMT -5
Genocide, 25th March 2006 Of Mice and Mentality (LtP014) All Animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others – George Orwell
“For survival, we resort to the most drastic of measures.” – TorakSurvival. The most basic of human insticts, one that we are born with and practice on a minor scale on a dailly basis. Survival on a normal day is relatively simple and requires no serious effort. It is so simple, in fact, that we do not even notice that everything we do is to keep on surviving. It is because of this that we take everything we have in our normal life for granted, seriously depleting our ability to survive when in the face of adversity. Our primary instinct is to run. Flee from danger with your tail between your legs. However, this is not the most honorable of instincts The secondary instinct is to negotiate our way out of trouble. Offering whatever we have; words, gifts or money, in order to save yourself. Not as shameful as running, but not quite as honorable as the final option. To fight, by whatever means necessary. Standing up for yourself and tackling the danger head-on. Honorable. But not always wise. A wave of familiarity crashes over you as the scene transmits images of pain, suffering and disturbance. Not since the days of Ridley’s Demon Pit has the sight of a single room rung the proverbial alarm bells. “Brace yourself” you think, clutching the remote, ready to change channel before you catch even a glimpse of something distressing to the mind. ARGH! Oh, it’s okay, it’s just Torak. Quite a nightmarish image, but you’ll be okay. Torak is not alone, however, as in his hand he has a small four legged friend. It is a tiny house mouse, dangling helplessly from it’s tail that is gripped tightly by the hand of the psychopathic monster. It’s tiny claws rake the air rapidly, desperately trying to gain some purchase on anything in a futile attempt to escape the grasp of Torak. Torak holds the mouse up high and maneuvers his head so that it is below it, looking up at the distressed rodent. You are immediately thankful that Torak’s mask restricts anything from entering his mouth. The way his mind works, or more accurately; doesn’t, you wouldn’t rule out Torak considering the consumption of the poor mouse. Torak does not look interested in eating the critter, but is scant consolation for it as it is instead fed to gravity. The firm grip of Torak is gradually relaxed, releasing the tail from his clutches, sending the mouse plummeting to the ground. Unfrotunately, there is no such thing as a mouse parachute, so it’s safe to assume his landing will not be pleasant. However, luckily for the mouse he receives a soft landing. A pile of sawdust welcomes him upon impact, cushioning the blow. The pile was situated in what seems to be the surface of a very large, silver open cage. Way too large for a single mouse. A substantial amount of sawdust scatters after impact and eventually half-covers two other mice who occupy the cage. They rush over to their new guest, as if to aid him following his freefall. He seems heartwarmingly fine though as he quickly recovers and staggers away from the landing zone. The three mouse congregate and squeak at each other, almost trying to work out what the hell is going on. Even for a mouse, this is turning out to be an eventful day. Torak squats down, his massive bulky physique surely putting strain on his knees, glaring mischeiviously into the cage at the three mice, showing no signs of suriphobia. He extends his arms and hugs the cage, bringing it up to head level to examine it. The cage is so vast that Torak’s arms are at full stretch and he can’t even reach around to the other side. Despite it appearing quite heavy, he proceeds to, with apparent ease, shake it wildly like some sort of snowglobe. The mice try to cling on using their sharp claws but they get flung around the cage. The slide from on side of the cage to the other like a sailor in socks on a boat in a storm. The cagequake finally comes to an abrupt end as Torak slams the cage down onto the floor again, allowing the mice to convalesce and count how many brain cells they have left. No, it’s okay, they each have more than the average WWE fan left. Torak turns his attention to an object in the corner of the room. It looks like a plastic box, grey in color, with holes in the side and the top. Amidst some of the holes on the top there is a handle, set up ready to be hoisted up off the floor. Torak slowly rises to his feet and swaggers over to it. He reaches down and taking a firm grip of the handle lifts it up to waist height. It looks like a cat-carrier. !An unmistakable cry emanates from inside the carrier. A cat cries out with a desperate meow. Almost immediately a hundred calls are made to Atomic Kitsune’s mobile phone, just in case she isn’t already seeing this. If she is, she might well have just had a heart attack. Torak twists his wrist to reveal the cage door on the front of the carrier which he opens by releasing the lock with his free hand. He swings the door open and quickly plunges his arm into the darkened box, not detered by the threatening hiss of the occupying moggy and completely ignoring the hazard of it’s sharp claws. There is quite a struggle but Torak eventually prevails and produces from the carrier…a strange looking cat. It’s not Richard Parker, a revelation that brings a sigh of relief to everyone, but you still sympathise for the poor creature. Torak holds it up by the scruff of it’s neck, glaring into it’s dark and wicked green eyes, merely inches away from his face. The cat, quite annoyed at this point, reaches out with a paw, equipped with extended claws, but just misses the nose of the madman. Cat scratch fever, the cat thinks, that’ll teach him to mess with me. Using a complex cognitive process, you predict an ominous future for the three mice. Then again, the future probably doesn’t bode well for the cat either, taking into account Torak’s apparent history with cats (See: Roped in Satisfaction, 06.03.06). The cat receives the same treatment as the mouse as he is sent plummeting into the cage. The mice scramble to avoid being squished by the incoming mog. Of course, as we all know, cats always land on their feet, a notion reinforced by this particular felines ability to do just that with eloquence. The mice surround the newest addition to the party, eyeing it up like the univited guest that he is. The mice quickly realize that there is no escape from this prison and that the only chance they have is to somehow take on the cat, maybe by ganging up on him. The cat has other ideas however. He has his mind set on kill-it-yourself three course meal. His tail swings wildly as he assesses the situation. He exchanges glances between the two mice poised in front of him in opposite corners of the cage and hisses violently at one of them. The mouse behind him is opportunistic. He rushes in and blindsides him, pouncing onto his leg and nibbling away as if it were a piece of cheese. The cat cries out and attempts to shake the mouse off. The other two mice close in and also start gnawing away at the paws of the cat and in the early stages of this impromptu bout it looks promising for the mice. However, the tide quickly turns. The cat manages to shake off the mouse that had seized his back leg, sending him into the cage, stunning him. He then shakes his front-right paw, freeing it from the gnashers of the second mouse. His free paw then comes pounding down on the mouse and breaks it’s neck instantly. Then it’s just the final mouse. He desperately nibbles away at the left paw, hoping to find some kind of weakness. However, the cat just watches him, almost mockingly. The mouse relinquishes his hold on the paw and backs off. The cats paw comes down again and traps the tail of the remaining mouse beneath it. The mouse tries to scurry away, frantically clawing at the cage bed, but to no avail. His head turns to the cat…just in time to see the cat close in and chomp down on the neck of the mouse. The cat wrenches and tugs for a second, using his paws to keep the mouse stationary until eventually pulling away, tearing the head of the mouse clean off. The chin of the cat bears red stains as he spits the head out. Satisfied that the all the mice are incapacitated he tucks in to dinner. Torak meanwhile laps up the animal entertainment, chuckling malevolently to himself. Was this supposed to be symbolic in any way? A sign of things to come? How will the three ‘mice’ fair when there are two predators lurking in the cage with them? No Animals were harmed during the making of this segment. … Except the mice…obviously.
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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 11:24:24 GMT -5
Meltdown, 30th March 2006 A Bloody Shame (LtP015) Shame may restrain what law does not prohibit – Lucius Annaeus Seneca
Shame; the automatic mental reflex that notifies you that your actions were not in the best intentions…or not of your best ability – TorakShame. The complete opposite of pride (described on 6th March 2006, with ropes. and soft porn). An emotion, uncontrollable and unwelcome, usually setting in during the aftermath of a bad decision or action. Whether it be bad in the sense of morally incorrect; hurting another individual mentally or physically, or bad in the personal sense that you could have done much better, that you’d let yourself down. Shame has only one antidote: Rectification. An apology is a mild remedy for shame, though ironically, those with more pride may refuse to resort to the simple method of amendment. Another method of psychological purification is by offering empathy, even possibly sharing the experience voluntarily. For example, after damaging a valuable possession of another, one may offer a valuable item of their own as a replacement, willing to depart from a treasured possession of their own to signify how shameful and apologetic they feel. Shame from letting yourself down, failing to achieve to your expectations, is usually more difficult to rectify. A student who fails their exams despite the high hopes and expectations of not only others, but themselves, may deem it tougher to redeem their failure. There is no-one to apologize to. No-one to sympathize with. No-one to deliver excuses to. The only way to rectify this kind of shame is to try again, refusing to quit and only bettering your failed attempt tenfold. Surrender is the ultimate contributor of shame. You sometimes wonder if Torak feels shame. A typically human based emotion, and let’s face it, Torak rarely exhibits signs of humanity. Though, behind that daunting mask and those maleficent eyes, rest assured, there is a human being. Needless to say it is a broken human being, one with a scarred and mangled mind that houses sinister thoughts, iniquitous intentions and opinions laced with revulsion. Oh yes, Torak is human, but he is one that you would least like to encounter unless you had a lethal weapon in your possession, much like Jack Thompson. Torak’s piercing eyes are like two bright lights, causing the onlooker to squint their own and turn their head slightly from fear of being blinded by the hatred. Though, the look in his eyes is not of anger. It is a mixture of anger and sadness, like a great loss or disappointment has revealed itself to Torak. Shame is an emotion he calls his own. Latino’s return to the ACW is that revelation that so mirthfully perturbs Torak. He is recalling that very moment that Latino showed his face after only a mere month of absence, the nerve. The memory serves as fuel, fuel that Torak’s inner-psyche is only too happy to introduce to the fire of rage that burns constantly in the pits of his heart. The rage builds uncontrollably, rising up through his oesohpagus, past his bulging adam’s apple, shoving the tonsils aside before sliding abrasively along the tongue before escaping between the lips of the brute. Not even the thick mask can muffle the sound that emits; a hefty tempestuous roar of discontent. A disconcerting sound, but not as alarming as the one that follows. SMACK!From out of nowhere a right hand surges into shot and clouts Torak in the side of the head…hard. Torak’s head snaps to the right then slowly returns to center. An involuntary, instintive moment of panic sets in on the on-looker. ”Oh my god! Who was that? Was it me? I didn’t mean to! I’m sorry, don’t hurt me!”Relax, as it dawns on you that, fortunately, the hand belongs to none other than Torak himself. This is quit pleasing, as you didn’t fancy attending another funeral this week, in or out of the coffin. Besides, you don’t have any shoes that go with oak. Torak steadies himself, clearly he isn’t aware of his own strength. Insight deemed reassuring by Torak. He isn’t finished with this bout of self-abuse, though thankfully, it is not similar the self-abuse witnessed earlier in the month. Another hand, this time his left, flies up from below and catches him in the jaw, sending his head reeling backwards before bouncing back to it’s normal position. A bruise is beginning to show on the side of his head. It seems that Torak is unhappy with himself, unhappy that Latino is able to return to work so soon after that incident that took place just one month ago. How could it happen. He could have ended Latino’s career. He could have ended his life. So how is Latino able to walk right into the arena like that? Torak deems this as failure. A knife is produced, the very same one that has made cameo apperances since Torak’s return and it’s seen it’s fair share of action; decapitating a doll, removing the eyes of a poster and more horrifically, threatened to slice up a couple of ACW fans, who incidentally, have not been seen since the ordeal. This appearance, however, has the prospect of being much more disturbing. Without a moment of dramatic hesitation or tense build up or so much for a “Look out, here it comes”, Torak stabs the knife into his own hand and carves out a thick line across his palm. Upon removing the knife a chunk of skin and flesh slithers down his arm and lands on the floor with a sickening squelch. The stream of blood runs deep with displeasure and punishment. Torak holds his hand up in front of him, glaring deeply into the self-inflicted gash. Is this rectification? The bloodied hand slowly looms in on the masked face of the maniacal beast before eventually meeting it to share the dark red mess that it embraces. It smothers and smears the face, mask and hair, painting them with the crimson liquid. Red and green have never looked so wrong together. The taste of blood enlightens us. Torak freezes like he is being summoned by the gods themselves. However, it is not the gods who motivate him, it is his own thoughts. Through the dark red camouflage adorned by Torak you can see his thoughts. His eyes transmit his exact idea. That, and the helpful, clarifying comments from McNally and Edison. ”Hunter. Through Hunter I rectify myself.”A smile is visible, not through the mask, but by the angle of his gleaming eyes dotted in the ocean of red like an archipelago. If Torak is willing to do this to himself, what is he willing to do to others
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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 11:40:46 GMT -5
CHAPTER 4 A CHANGE OF HEART AND SOUL The Epiphany Warfare 3rd April (TUC001) ”Expectation is the root of all heartache” – William Shakespeare
Expectation is the prelude to disappointment. – TorakWe all garner expectation throughout life. From personal experience or just logical assumption we come to know what to expect. Expectations can also craft ambitions, shaping them based on realism and likelihood. High expectations can be attributed to false hopes, lies and delusions of something greater than we know, leading us to believe we can achieve beyond our potential. Our dreams are cruelly waved in our faces, tempting and teasing us, but they are almost always out of reach. Those of us with low expectations may not be happy in the early stages of life, a person commonly referred to as an emo, or Jake, but they grow and mature into a happier person knowing that they achieved all they can. Expectation can also be a momentary thing. For example; the moment we catch a glimpse of a certain person, we instantly know what to expect when we encounter them. However, Expectation has a rival. That rival is unpredictability. It’s through this unpredictability that we do not know what to expect, hurling us into a state of surprise or fear for the unknown, keeping us on our toes. The constantly glaring eyes of Torak usually dictate your expectations. Mostly ones of malice and torment. You expect pain. You expect anger. You expect the suffering of a poor soul and, due to the events on Thursday, would not rule out that soul being of Torak, if he has one that is. Unpredictability strikes again. Torak sits, ever silently, but unusually calm and solemn. His hands clinch each other tightly, hiding the self-infliction of Thursday, almost protecting themselves from the usually malevolent mind of Torak. At this moment though, they appear quite safe. Although, you half expect unpredictability to show it’s dastardly face once more. Torak continues to stare dazedly, his eyes laden with disappointment. His thoughts weigh a tonne yet race through his mind rapidly, twisting and meshing together, obscuring solution or explanation. It all builds up, Torak swells up from his cerebration and he tries to block it out the only way he knows. His eyes clamp shut. The old man reads every line carefully, a similar disappontment etched on his face. His eyes view each letter from behind a pair of old fashioned, thick lens spectacles. His dark, bushy eyebrows rest in a frown on the bridge of the glasses. He intakes some air through his elderly nose then follows it up with a sigh. He lowers the paper and looks up.
”Well son, I must say I’m disappointed.All that time in school studying has gone to waste. These exam grades are quite frankly, appalling.”
His voice, carrying a slight English accent, pauses as he awaits a response. Young Jack seems unfazed though as he continues glaring hypnotically at the television. After a few seconds of silence he offers no response and the old man picks up the baton of conversation again.
”Come on now Jack, don’t you want to go to college? University? Do something with your life other than sit around all day watching that stupid wrestling show you watch”
Again he opens the door for Jack to reply but Jack, as always, does not issue a verbal response. He merely shrugs, universal sign-language of the indifferent. The thing is, Jack didn’t want to go to College. Jack didn’t want to go to University. He didn’t want a career, sitting behind a desk performing menial tasks day-in, day-out for the rest of his short and inevitably pointless life.Pointless. Not so. Torak inhales deeply and drops his head into his hands. They glide through his hair slowly, straightening it back behind his ears. The sensation of the thick matted hair rubbing along his left hand causes him to pull away, a rare moment of pain for Torak. He examines his scarred hand, a reminder of his fury that become his biggest detriment last week. One memory always leads to another and as Torak travels down the road of recollection, passing through the junction of self-inflicted wounds he heads inexorably to the cul-de-sac of defeat. There is nothing beyond the defeat to Hunter last week, nothing else has mattered since then. The failing of his exams was an early metaphor of how his stint in ACW had progressed. He studied through the subjects of ACW, defeating them one-by-one, but when faced with the final test, the former champion, Torak’s opportunity to display just how unstoppable he is was scuppered by Torak’s own doing. He has no-one to blame but himself. This recall has done little, if anything to pull him out of the pit of depression, only sinking him deeper in his sense of failure. He Expected to beat Hunter. That thought strikes Torak hard and he attempts to clear his thoughts again. His eyes shut out the images. 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.
I…I thought that one day you and I could have children. I thought that was what you wanted. I know that’s what I wanted.
She must be joking. Offspring was the last thing on the list of his desires. There is no way Jack could handle the responsibility of a child. Nor could he feel right about setting a child into the world that was so unjustifiably cruel to him. Besides, children require selflessness in their parents but Jack hadn’t done what he wanted yet. He hadn’t fulfilled all of his own ambitions yet. He had other priorities.
His main priority? Defeat Latino!He did defeat Latino. However, he did not have the desired effect. Latino’s victory kept Torak out of action for a year. Torak’s victory only kept Latino out for a month. It goes to show that mental anguish is harder to take than physical anguish. He expected to keep Latino out longer. Back to the matter at hand, Torak is not doing himself any favours by conjuring up memories of the past creating a Snowball effect of emotion. Unpredictability rears it’s head once more and the unthinkable occurs. A tear, tiny in size but huge in terms of relevance, forms in the corner of Torak’s eye and slowly rolls down his cheek. A tear representing the last drop of pure emotion escaping and trying to put as much distance between itself and it’s source as possible. It eventually seeks cover underneath the mask and is never seen again. A dawn of realization sweeps by him and urges him to his feet. Expectation WAS the root of his heartache! Expectation WAS the prelude to disappointment. Expectation is a bitch. But now he’s faced with two choices. Does he continue to expect, aim high and risk further disappointment, spurred on by his past failures., altering his goals such as his pursuit for Championship gold. Or does he give up. Walk away like last time, foiled by disappointment and sit at home and decay, both physically and mentally. Surrender his expectations and accept life and the failure that he is. Fallen Heroes approaches every second with all eyes and dreams focused on becoming the last-man standing, rightfully gaining the opportunity to contend for the coveted ACW Championship. Usually Torak would not care for such a reward, he would just be content with participating in a free-for-all Battle Royal. He would see it as a “Torak and 29 casualties match”. He would expect to win the match. Torak DOES expect to win that match He nods his self approval, reassured that he is indeed capable, despite the self-doubting of the last few minutes. He holds his scarred hand up again and glares at it calmly. After a few seconds he slowly closes his hand, balling it up into a fist. Not a fist of anger…but a fist of concealment. A fist of progress. A fist that urges him to put everything in his past behind him and look into his future. Expectation is with him now
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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 11:44:09 GMT -5
Meltdown, 6th April 2006 Vignette of a Linchpin (TUC002) There was emptiness more profound than void between the stars… - Heinz R. Pagels
Emptiness is not simply a description. It is also a powerful emotion - TorakThe vessel steams on, gliding through the waters with ease, cutting through the emptiness that is the ocean. Despite the volume of life that swims deep beaneath, the ocean manages to maintain an aura of emptiness. Emptiness; a noticeable void of existence. Emptiness also manifests itself as an emotion. The feeling of something is missing that clings to the back of your mind like a limpet, attaching itself firmly despite the waves of recollection that crash over it. A feeling that has been on the minds of the 900 strong following on board. It takes just one momentary prompt of significance to flood that feeling away. On the big screen, smaller in comparison to the Alphatron but big none-the-less, darkness forms. Music drifts grippingly through the night air, emanating from the modest speakers. media.putfile.com/Torak-VignetteOn screen; images of Torak from various instances. { In my head I hear your voice Is this the voice of my master In my chest I sense a spear Are these the looks of my mistress As the haunting voice recites these words pictures of Torak from Monday night, sat in his room, reflecting are displayed. He bows his head and brushes his hair back with his hands. } { In my head I hear your voice Why do I suffer In my chest I sense a spear Why can't I see youAs the angelic voice takes over the tear forms in his eye and rolls down his cheek. The heartache of his contemplation takes it’s toll. } { Have I become a bounded slave Shall I be lost in your spell What do I fear Is this a dream?The harsh, haunting voice returns and accompanies images of weeks before where he almost reached a state of autoerotic asphyxiation with the length of rope used to injure Latino. } { My bitter spirit Has become a burdenRe-run of Torak’s defeat to BK a month ago where allowed the appearance of Latino to distract him, costing him victory. } { Lady fear Mistress of my dreams (Temptation) Let us share Body, soul and sorrowsAs the music becomes heavy, more happier memories for Torak are shown. Taking out Tornado, Mr. Red, The Senator and Scott Andrews in various ways. } { I rise and walk Into the waves Will you save me You interrupt My intellect You take what you demandReturn to Monday night and the shot of Torak concluding his epiphany with a balled fist. It is slow and dramatic, accompanied by his nod of self-encouragement. } { My bitter spirit Has become a burdenA clip of Torak’s loss to Hunter last week, exhibiting his loss of temper that turned out to be his detriment. } { Lady fear Mistress of my dreams (Temptation) Let us share Body, soul and sorrows }Re-runs of Torak’s destruction of Dan White (twice), various footage of Torak performing excruciating maneuvers on his opponents and finally the incident where Torak hurled Latino off the stage. } The voices stop and various footage of previous Fallen Heroess matches exhibit the pain and affliction that Torak aims to introduce in his first ever Fallen Heroes. The music fades out as a shot of Torak in a darkened room lingers on screen, standing tall as he aims to achieve at the end of the month at Fallen Heroes.
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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 11:47:12 GMT -5
Warfare, 10th April 2006 Picture of the past (TUC003) ”Grief is only the memory of widowed affections. – James Martineau”
Memory is our existence. Life operates only for the production of memories. – TorakMemories are the extended highlights of our life: the positive incidents and the negative situations that we encounter deemed significant by our subconscious, then recorded and reserved in our mind for later recollection. However, some memories are not just stored away, awaiting conscious recall or require prompting, unlocking from the memory banks by a key word or signal. Some memories linger in the realms of consciousness, constantly haunting it’s source and sometimes manipulate their thoughts and influence their actions. Rarely is this type of memory a good one. If it is, it usually only leads to realization that it is in the past and can never be attained again. There was a time, you remember, that you would approach a Torak segment with precaution, fearing the repercussions of extended viewing and full attention. The sight of Torak alone lures negative memories flooding to the surface of consciousness, you are not particularly keen to add more to the archive. You do feel a sense of relief though, through last weeks’ events, Torak’s sanity (or lack of) has seemed to simmer. Maybe his loss to Hunter was a slap in the face, so to speak, urging him to make a last gasp attempt to salvage his senses and is now free to make the decisions of his own. He sits, quiet and tranquilly, hunched over an object. Perplexity overcomes you, and you begin to wonder: How exactly did Torak make it to Andros Island? It was fairly evident that he was not on-board the S.S. Minow Johnson when it set sail. You couldn’t imagine Torak checking in at customs, sharing a room with a fellow ACW member or indulging in their company. Did he perhaps row himself out in a rickety old rowing boat? Or did he swim the entire length of ocean? In any case, he’s in attendance now and his attention is transfixed by the object in front of him. The object in question is rectangular in shape, about five inches by six and has a brass frame. Centered in the frame is a photograph, a visually captured memory, and a positive one for Torak. The young, fresh, beautiful face with provocative, seducing eyes framed by long jet black hair. Cordelia always was a sight to behold, even if her attitude and personality were not. The love she and Torak shared was unrivalled. Some would say it went beyond the common bond shared by couples, it was more than love. It was more than giving gifts. It was more than caring for each other. It was more than sex. They felt each other, they knew each other, they were each other. A million miles could separate their bodies but their heart and soul would still be together. But not anymore. Torak stopped feeling her. Torak stopped knowing her. Torak stopped being her. Their love was ended due to the loss of sense of reality by Torak. Cordelia always had the advantage over Torak, she could do one thing that he himself could not. She could control him. Not in a dictatorship sense, or a brainwashing sense…but in a sense that she could stop him from hurting himself, physically and mentally. His recent actions are memories. Memories that lead to the realization that he has not been complete without Cordelia. Alone, he lacks self-control, lacks focus and lacks the ability to retain his sanity. Without Cordelia, he is only a small percentage of his potential. A memory rushes to his awareness. They lie there, embracing each other with an aura of deep love wafting around them. Exhaustion is apparent in their eyes, an indication of their display of love that preceded this moment. Her head rests sleepily on his mighty bare chest and her soft hand creeps up slowly from his abdomen. Her soft hands acted almost like a sedative, carressing relaxation and calmless into his system. Physically, she’s tired, but something nags at her mind, keeping her awake. She may know her man inside-out, and may know everything about their relationship, her memory securely storing every precious moment they shared together. However, the one thing about their relationship she did not have a full knowledge of was it’s future.
The most precarious subject when speaking in the context of a relationship is always the future. One can never cast doubts about the future of a relationship as it may inadvertedly and abruptly end it then and there. To bring it up is a gamble, not being sure that the person you hold in yours arms is the one you wish to spend the rest of your life with is a rumination best kept to yourself until you are certain of the answer.
That was not her concern though. She knew in her heart, mind, body and soul that he was the one she loved…and would never want to part. But she did have her doubts about how he felt. Especially recently, being so occupied by Victor Laureano and his partner, Alicia Kitsune, that he rarely spared her any moment or thought. He was becoming obsessed. His hatred was outweighing his love. She didn’t fear that this obsession would harm her though…he would never raise his hand to her.
Mentally, she was shaking the dice, uncertainty weighing heavy on her mind. She rolls, closing her eyes and hoping for the best, taking the risk.
”Jack.”
Her soft, feminine voice warrants his attention. He grunts, indicating that he was just about dropping off to sleep, slowly sinking into the sea of dreams before being reeled back to the surface. It is not a grunt of discontent or anger, as usually exemplified by Torak. He could never feel that way towards her. He listens intently.
”Will we be together forever?”
Her concerned tone is quite cute and brings a coy smile to his face.
Forever is such a loose word. If, assuming, there is no afterlife or reincarnation, and life continues on in our absence then the answer is no. Individual life is so short and negligible that it has no right to be considered forever, or even close to it. It is, in comparison, what a speck of dust is to the earth.
On the other hand…if life is only what we, ourselves, perceive…then our life is forever and anything prior to or following our life is, to us, non-existent. How do we know that the life that preceded us actually happened? Assming our memory is our existence then only that we can really be sure of. Memories can not be handed down to us. Not in their full glory anyway. Only by word of others and we know how unreliable that can be. If that is the case, then he hopes the answer is Yes. However, he himself can not be so sure of the future.
He brings a reassuring hand up to her head, slowling stroking her hair to comfort her, bringing a smile to her face. However, he does not convey his thoughts of the future. Maybe he has doubts about it.Future: The one part of existence that memory does not have access to. Torak, despite the clichéd nature of the thought, does indeed wonder what the future holds. It turned out that Torak and Cordelia would not be together forever but he has only himself to blame for that. He, as she suspected, became obsessed with victory over Latino to a point that once he failed to achieve that victory, it sparked memories of previous failures, allowing his obsession to engulf him and influencing him to lose what was really important. He did not want to be influenced by such feelings any more. He was in control, just like Cordelia once was. He feels part of her now, maybe it was the memory of her that resuscitated that feeling. He places the photo frame down on to the surface of a desk in-front of him. He places it just a few inches from another photo frame. He picks it up and examines it, adopting a much different glare than the one he aimed at the picture of Cordelia. The picture contains an image of Wyvern. It is a shot taken by an opportunistic photographer at last year’s Fallen Heroes battle royale just as Wyvern was announced as the winner. The pose conveys feelings of joy, relief and pride. Torak’s eyes display a number of emotions: Curiosity : How does a victory like that make one feel? Jealousy : How did he achieve such a feat? Belief : I can achieve that too. Determination : I will achieve that too. You expect the picture frame to be sent on a collision course with any one of the concrete walls that surround Torak. However, the mere presence of Cordelia’s image is enough to soothe him and he slowly places the picture, face-down, on the table alongside Cordelia. Torak returns his glance to the picture of Cordelia momentarily, before slowly aiming his gaze out in-front of him at nothing in particular as the thoughts accumulate in his head. He looks forward to Fallen Heroes. He aims to accomplish what very few have done. He intends to add more positive memories to his subconscious. Namely, 29 bodies being hurled out of the ring and to the floor outside.
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