Post by Karl Storm on Aug 1, 2009 20:59:13 GMT -5
Storm shakes his head as Seifer Blacke walks down the hall after giving his advice and mutters to himself.
Condescending little prick.
He turns away from the retreating Blacke and sighs as he comes face to face with Jeremy Borash, microphone in hand, camera in tow and expectant look on his face. Storm flashes him the shadow of a smile and cocks his head to one side.
Are you my designated interviewer now, Borash? Or is there just nobody else they can spare for a loser?
I've got nothing to say, whatever the case. Now get out of my way.
Storm pushes past Borash and trudges wearily down the hallway and around the next corner.
I lay on the same coarse wooden bench, in the same dingy little room, trying to ignore the same muted sounds of production. The only thing that's different now is the dull pain in my jaw and the constant throbbing in my bloodied and battered hand. That reminds me, memo to self, next time just punch Blacke or Borash, don't wait to express your frustration on a wall and a series of metal lockers. It's playing over and over in my mind, a continuous loop. Me standing, imploring the referee to just end this thing before it even begins. Him arguing about it being more than his job is worth. The explosion of lights behind my eyes as Robin's boot connects with the side of my jaw. The way it feels as though my legs have vanished from under me as I collapse to the ground. The sound of the referee's hand coming down on the mat once, twice, my body not my own as I will my shoulder to raise and get nothing until just after, three. And then I'm beaten. Just like that.
Again and again and again and again it plays. I want to scream but I can't find the energy for an action like that, so instead I just lay here and keep asking myself the same question over and over.
Karl Storm?
The voice of Jeremy Borash cuts through me and I bite my lip to suppress a barked curse. Instead I just turn my head and open one eye to look at Borash and his ever present companion with the camera.
Did I not make myself clear before? I have nothing to say to you.
He almost looks sheepish, any other time and I'd probably find the expression and the way he toes at the ground to be simply hilarious. Right now though the comedy doesn't quite have the lustre it might usually.
You did, but I've been told we have to get some comments from you. So we have to be here.
I sigh and run my undamaged hand through my hair and close my eye once again. Silence hangs in the air for a moment before I haul myself into a sitting position, gazing down at the floor.
Fine, what do you want?
Your winning streak here in the FCW is at an end, how do you feel about that?
A fair question, one I haven't really given much thought actually. I've been so busy replaying events, so busy asking a different question that I never thought to check within myself to see how this whole thing was making me really feel. I was frustrated at first, certainly. Even surprised by what happened. However, what are my real feelings about the whole thing?
A wry smile twitches at my lips and I give a little shrug.
I don't know. Next?
OK--well how do you feel about Robin's actions?
Another fair question. I suppose the natural reaction would be to froth and foam at the mouth, to scream and rage at how he screwed me---but would I really have done anything different in his place? Well actually, of course I would, I'd have buried myself under a mountain of pain killers, crawled into a motel room and not come out again for a month. However I don't know that I begrudge him for taking a shot when an opportunity is presented, not really.
Another shrug and I wave my hand airily, regretting it instantly as the bruises and cuts object fiercely to the movement and make me wince as I answer.
Also don't know. Next?
What about the things that Seifer Blacke had to say to you backstage earlier. What are your thou-
Not interested. Next and last?
Not interested, or not capable of answering right now? Either way that little conversation is a bit of a sore spot, I don't intend to go around discussing it until I'd had plenty of time to consider it properly.
Will you be looking for revenge over this loss?
I can hear the slight irritation at my dismissive answers in his voice and I allow myself a little smile. It shouldn't feel so good to irritate people, but it always does. However this question? This question I can and will answer "properly".
Revenge is a waste of time, Borash. Think about it. You have to sit around and plot out the details. You have to bide your time and wait for the perfect moment to strike. One slight miscalculation and your entire plan is blown, all that time wasted. Don't you think I have better things to be doing than worrying about revenge?
That was rhetoric, do not answer me.
That doesn't mean I'm done with Robin. Not by a long shot. However my motivations aren't as tawdry as mere "vengeance". What drives me isn't something as petulant as "pay back", oh no most certainly not.
I want the challenge which that horrific parody of a contest robbed me of, and I intend to get it.
It's a decent enough answer I suppose, but how true it is I honestly couldn't say. How important is the truth though, really? It's more important just to get some peace and quiet for myself, and maybe before that I can get an answer to my own question, tit for tat and all that.
I open my eyes and incline my head back towards Borash and the camera, smiling ever so faintly.
Let me as you a question, Borash. Did I do the right thing?
He stares blankly back at me, blinking a few times and licking his lips slowly. I suppose he's not used to really being asked questions by people like me. However new experiences can be good for a man, so I keep him fixed with my gaze until he manages an answer, unsurprisingly it's not exactly one I wanted.
I'm not sure I know what you mean.
I sigh and close my eyes again, waving my hand to signify that he should leave now as I lean my head back against the wooden bench. He stands there silently for a moment before slowly shuffling out of the room and taking the intrusive camera with him. I listen to the footsteps retreat and exhale slowly, I'm not really certain how much better is to be alone right now.
It doesn't take too long before I hear footsteps again, I wait for them to pass by but they don't, the owner of the feet instead clearly stopping in the doorway. I pretend not to have noticed for a minute, to see if they will just walk away, instead all I get is a sharp clearing of the throat that causes me to turn my face towards them, I don't bother to open my eyes though, the lights are starting to irritate me and why should eye contact be so important to people anyway?
If it helps any, you did do the right thing.
The sound of something hitting the ground by the bench makes me start, I open my eyes to find out that I'm alone again, apart from the newly deposited bag of ice that sits on the floor nearby. I reach down and grope for the ice, retrieving it and placing it gingerly against my hand the shock of cold on my injured knuckles causes me to hiss sharply and I close my eyes again.
Did I really do the right thing? And, perhaps as importantly, were my motivations as noble as the attempted action made them seem?
End scene.
Condescending little prick.
He turns away from the retreating Blacke and sighs as he comes face to face with Jeremy Borash, microphone in hand, camera in tow and expectant look on his face. Storm flashes him the shadow of a smile and cocks his head to one side.
Are you my designated interviewer now, Borash? Or is there just nobody else they can spare for a loser?
I've got nothing to say, whatever the case. Now get out of my way.
Storm pushes past Borash and trudges wearily down the hallway and around the next corner.
I lay on the same coarse wooden bench, in the same dingy little room, trying to ignore the same muted sounds of production. The only thing that's different now is the dull pain in my jaw and the constant throbbing in my bloodied and battered hand. That reminds me, memo to self, next time just punch Blacke or Borash, don't wait to express your frustration on a wall and a series of metal lockers. It's playing over and over in my mind, a continuous loop. Me standing, imploring the referee to just end this thing before it even begins. Him arguing about it being more than his job is worth. The explosion of lights behind my eyes as Robin's boot connects with the side of my jaw. The way it feels as though my legs have vanished from under me as I collapse to the ground. The sound of the referee's hand coming down on the mat once, twice, my body not my own as I will my shoulder to raise and get nothing until just after, three. And then I'm beaten. Just like that.
Again and again and again and again it plays. I want to scream but I can't find the energy for an action like that, so instead I just lay here and keep asking myself the same question over and over.
Karl Storm?
The voice of Jeremy Borash cuts through me and I bite my lip to suppress a barked curse. Instead I just turn my head and open one eye to look at Borash and his ever present companion with the camera.
Did I not make myself clear before? I have nothing to say to you.
He almost looks sheepish, any other time and I'd probably find the expression and the way he toes at the ground to be simply hilarious. Right now though the comedy doesn't quite have the lustre it might usually.
You did, but I've been told we have to get some comments from you. So we have to be here.
I sigh and run my undamaged hand through my hair and close my eye once again. Silence hangs in the air for a moment before I haul myself into a sitting position, gazing down at the floor.
Fine, what do you want?
Your winning streak here in the FCW is at an end, how do you feel about that?
A fair question, one I haven't really given much thought actually. I've been so busy replaying events, so busy asking a different question that I never thought to check within myself to see how this whole thing was making me really feel. I was frustrated at first, certainly. Even surprised by what happened. However, what are my real feelings about the whole thing?
A wry smile twitches at my lips and I give a little shrug.
I don't know. Next?
OK--well how do you feel about Robin's actions?
Another fair question. I suppose the natural reaction would be to froth and foam at the mouth, to scream and rage at how he screwed me---but would I really have done anything different in his place? Well actually, of course I would, I'd have buried myself under a mountain of pain killers, crawled into a motel room and not come out again for a month. However I don't know that I begrudge him for taking a shot when an opportunity is presented, not really.
Another shrug and I wave my hand airily, regretting it instantly as the bruises and cuts object fiercely to the movement and make me wince as I answer.
Also don't know. Next?
What about the things that Seifer Blacke had to say to you backstage earlier. What are your thou-
Not interested. Next and last?
Not interested, or not capable of answering right now? Either way that little conversation is a bit of a sore spot, I don't intend to go around discussing it until I'd had plenty of time to consider it properly.
Will you be looking for revenge over this loss?
I can hear the slight irritation at my dismissive answers in his voice and I allow myself a little smile. It shouldn't feel so good to irritate people, but it always does. However this question? This question I can and will answer "properly".
Revenge is a waste of time, Borash. Think about it. You have to sit around and plot out the details. You have to bide your time and wait for the perfect moment to strike. One slight miscalculation and your entire plan is blown, all that time wasted. Don't you think I have better things to be doing than worrying about revenge?
That was rhetoric, do not answer me.
That doesn't mean I'm done with Robin. Not by a long shot. However my motivations aren't as tawdry as mere "vengeance". What drives me isn't something as petulant as "pay back", oh no most certainly not.
I want the challenge which that horrific parody of a contest robbed me of, and I intend to get it.
It's a decent enough answer I suppose, but how true it is I honestly couldn't say. How important is the truth though, really? It's more important just to get some peace and quiet for myself, and maybe before that I can get an answer to my own question, tit for tat and all that.
I open my eyes and incline my head back towards Borash and the camera, smiling ever so faintly.
Let me as you a question, Borash. Did I do the right thing?
He stares blankly back at me, blinking a few times and licking his lips slowly. I suppose he's not used to really being asked questions by people like me. However new experiences can be good for a man, so I keep him fixed with my gaze until he manages an answer, unsurprisingly it's not exactly one I wanted.
I'm not sure I know what you mean.
I sigh and close my eyes again, waving my hand to signify that he should leave now as I lean my head back against the wooden bench. He stands there silently for a moment before slowly shuffling out of the room and taking the intrusive camera with him. I listen to the footsteps retreat and exhale slowly, I'm not really certain how much better is to be alone right now.
It doesn't take too long before I hear footsteps again, I wait for them to pass by but they don't, the owner of the feet instead clearly stopping in the doorway. I pretend not to have noticed for a minute, to see if they will just walk away, instead all I get is a sharp clearing of the throat that causes me to turn my face towards them, I don't bother to open my eyes though, the lights are starting to irritate me and why should eye contact be so important to people anyway?
If it helps any, you did do the right thing.
The sound of something hitting the ground by the bench makes me start, I open my eyes to find out that I'm alone again, apart from the newly deposited bag of ice that sits on the floor nearby. I reach down and grope for the ice, retrieving it and placing it gingerly against my hand the shock of cold on my injured knuckles causes me to hiss sharply and I close my eyes again.
Did I really do the right thing? And, perhaps as importantly, were my motivations as noble as the attempted action made them seem?
End scene.
