Post by dylanblack on Aug 5, 2023 14:29:21 GMT -6
October 7th, 2019
The Compound, Bethesda
So it’s official, Legion are on top of the world. Hyperion is leading this motley crew on a rampage through the AWF, his followers answering his beck and call at a moments notice. He needs only to run another tirade of nonsense and they all come running. Then you have Kuroi and Nats, two lost sheep. I don’t mind Natasha, wouldn’t mind actually giving her the bang if she washed now and then but Kuroi, big pain in my fuckin’ ass. Ugly as a bull and twice a thick. Gah…
I’m surrounded by idiots and morons... and that’s coming from me.
The smoke is still rising from the ashes, as Hype’s been calling it, the ‘sacrificial braziers’. The smell, the sight of burning… meat. I couldn't stomach it. Threw my damn lunch up, what a waste of good Bacardi. This whole place is gone to shit, we’re living in squalor following the guidance of a fucking lunatic, and nobody but me seems to get that. I had hoped things might slow down and cool off after Fired Up, but that maniac took the damn belt home. And now everything is fucked up beyond repair.
I don’t belong here. I never did. This isn’t my home. This isn’t my place. Cooking up smack for a bunch of rednecks, watching people get carted off to the nuthouse, or worse. Hype, man… stood there and watched his assistant turn blue and cold before him, poor Nyx. Nice gal, didn’t deserve to go out like that at Hype’s hands… my hands. My fucking doing…
I don’t belong here anymore. This isn’t where this Crow roosts.
October 16th, 2019
The Compound, Bethesda
I digested the idea for long enough, and now it’s time for me to spit it out. This bird is flying. Two damn title shots ahead of me and I’m stuck here dealing with dumb shit. I’ve got bigger fish to fry, and my first stop is my homeland of Ireland. A quick slap across the head to Johnny Sniper and I’ll be home with my gold once more. United States Champion, the StormCrow. But that isn’t what’s bringing me back, bringing me home. This Legion has been a fucking nightmare but where I really belong, I always did… is another Legion. And the final stand for my most coveted prize.
The XHF European Championship.
A piece of fucking history that, been held by too many people to list and too many people to waste my breath on. And now look who has it, some fucking goofball. Swann, that chameleon piece of shit. Dudes come and gone as much as the hookers down in SoHo. He slid in during my absence and dethroned the Demon, something that was supposed to be my right. My responsibility. But now I get to win it back, and have just two obstacles in my way… the Demon himself, and the living legend with a passion for contouring. Dreadvan is going to get his, I’ve faced the beast once before. Big, powerful, slow as a wet Monday. And Scorpion, good old lovable Scorps. Arnold’s on/ off love interest. Two fuckers… it's going to be a bloodbath.
This little community Hype has built for himself is cute and all, but he's obsessed with loyalty. He’ll never let anyone go, so I’m deciding to duck out in the middle of the night and be a sneaky little bastard, with my gear bag strapped to me and my backpack loaded I don’t leave anything behi-
“StormCrow.”
...fuck. Nabbed.
“Heya Hype, er, what’s up?” I stumble on my own words, because let’s face it… he’s a fucking terror. He marches across the Compound towards me, his golden belt strapped to his waist and a spicy looking trident in his hand. How do I get out of this one…
“Are you taking your leave somewhere?” he asks, his voice stern but not threatening. Yet.
“Yeah man… airport. Going to, umm…” What the fuck do I say? I’m jetting off to get away from you and all your fucking cronies? I’m flying to London to smash in some fucking fanny? I’m running away from your cult and never coming back?
“You are without words. It is understandable to be nervous when faced with such a daring task, one which will be essential for our Family’s growth.” Our family… this was never my place. These were never my people. He doesn’t see that, and never will. “You voyage to Europe to fight for our name, to honor me and Legion in a monumental challenge. To return with gold around your waist and stand alongside me, Brothers in Arms. Be sure to return to us what rightfully belongs here.”
“You can be sure of that man, I’ve actually been dreaming of- “
“The Champion of America.”
Er, you what mate? Not what I was thinking. Sure that’s in the bag, need to knock some skulls together, but that won’t keep me up at night. “I’m actually more focused on the European title right now, y’know. The belt that started my career in the XHF, put me in the record books, the title that was so important to building my brand- “
“Nonsense. Why waste your time nor breath on a failed title. The ‘Champion of Europe’ does nothing to bolster our name here, what we need is for you to reacquire the American Championship. That will spur these folks, these local and native followers. Forget your pledge for the European title, that chapter of your life has passed. Let those sleeping dogs lay.”
This fucking guy. This self-concerned piece of shit.
“Yeah, but see that belt means so much to me dude. It pushed me along so quickly in AXW, it's why I came back from retirement- “ He puts his hand on my shoulder, and I quickly feel the weight of his damn bear paws. Massive, powerful. A threat.
“Crow… fly to Europe, but do not occupy yourself with that title. We only have eyes on the US prize, and that shall be your only focus. Reacquire that title, bring it home and let these people wash over you with awe and admiration. That is my blessing to you my Brother… “
He releases his hand from my shoulder to wave at someone behind me, clearly my ride has arrived.
“Your chariot, fierce warrior. Venture forth, and bring us back that golden belt. Thomas Kelly, the Crow Champion of America!” He laughs, low and soft but bellowing. He would like nothing more than for me to come back here, bloodied and battered after Ireland and stand on his fucking altar waving at his {Mongo Edit: Nah we don't say that anymore} followers, cooking them up mind altering drugs and giving him the goo-goo ga-ga eyes.
Fuck. That.
I turn and find my ride has arrived, a beat up shitbox of a pick-up truck. My driver, some rough looking dirtbag, expects a payment of Ambrosia when we arrive. Told him I’ve got a big batch of it ready to go. All these fuckers are hooked on the stuff, and the other that took it… well, that's why we had the fires.
“Fare thee well StormCrow, we shall meet soon at the End of Days. Legion will put its mark on this world, and soon the power will all be ours!” He raises a clenched fist, a sign of power. I give him one back and turn to leave, let that fucking dweeb stand there with his hand in the air. I chuck my bags into the bed behind and hop into the passenger seat of the truck.
“Get me the fuck out of here. Pittsburgh International, and step on it.” These damn followers are all the same, degenerates and wash-outs in life that don’t have a fucking clue what they are doing or where their destiny will take them. A lot like me actually, except I know what lies in store for me over the next two weeks.
Pints of bitter and lots of fucking slaps.
We near the tail-end of our journey, almost arriving at the airport. I quickly check my pockets to make sure I’ve not forgotten anything- passport, smokes, broken iPhone and a couple rubbers. Everything a man needs before heading to London. Only this time… I’m not going back. Hyperion was good to me at first, brought me in and gave me a home, made sure I was cared for and respected. But in reality it was all a fucking farse. I should have never left London, I should have never left the AXW.
Anonymous Underground… yeah, I don’t forget things too easily. I was there when they opened their doors for the first night, must have been maybe a hundred eager faces rolling into the Legion to watch guys smash each other up. And there was me, strung out and starved. A shell of a fucking man. Boozed up night to day and drugged up the rest, I was piss weak. Maybe six stone in weight and about as tough as a tight sock. They put me up against Kevin Cross, nice young lad for what it’s worth but it didn’t mean shit. I was there to hurt him, break him.
I was there to win.
Fucking European Championship match on the line, I had no choice but to wreck that lad. I’ll never forget it, the crowd popped when they heard my music but then I walked out. Like a fucking Trocaire victim, measly and shitty. Had been sleeping on a park bench for weeks at that stage, and drank half the mini-bar backstage beforehand too. But I did it, however I managed it I did it. And so I progressed along from the 13th Ring to Critical Error where I had to really put on a show. StormCrow versus Rob Arnold.
Fuck.
Arnold... need I say more? The man is a wrecking ball, he’s tore through AXW, he ransacked the upper echelon of the XHF. He’s toppled Hype, Barratt, Diamond, all the biggest names there is. And I fucking beat him. In a shitty nightclub in London, with about two hundred gap toothed slags watching us, I did it. I beat that cunt bloody and walked out with a title belt around my waist. I did it man, I came back from the dead and walked out a Champion. I’ll never forget that moment, I’ll never forget the cheers from the crowd or the announcement with my name on the speakers, the feeling of getting back to my room and collapsing in tears.
I. Was. Back. The StormCrow was a Champion once more!
Yeah, those days were different. XHF Presents ‘Anonymous Underground’. Fucking nice lads, even that weirdo V was a bit of a giggle now and then. But of course, with a growing name comes growing pains. Scorpion decided it wasn’t enough to give up his almost-defunct belt, it wasn’t enough to come by and honor the new Champion, the winner of his fucking ‘Classic’. He came back to pull my spotlight away. Even when I held two belts, THE ONLY two belts. I walked around like the fucking Don, and Scorpion versus Arnold is all the people talked about.
‘Put all the lights on Scorpion, he’s back and he’s so much better. He’s sooo cool.’ Suck my fuckin arse pal.
I get it, you helped build a name for this place, you put your stamp on the title and you and Arnold had your little fling. But what did you do in MY time? What have you achieved? Sweet fuck all Bud. Show me something to respect and I’ll do it.
Look over to Dreadvan though, the young lad with a terrible eating affliction comes in and powers through everyone in front of him. I admire the cunt a lot, he showed no sign of slowing and kept pushing. Then he got his chance to face the title holder, the reigning champion, the record-breaking StormCrow. Only… he didn’t.
He fought against a fucking loser, a waster.
I was at the deep end of a bottle day and night, I was drowning myself in pills and I had just put my best friend into a coma. I didn’t bring my A-game. I didn’t even bring my D-game. I fucking sucked. And that man didn’t deserve that performance from me. He came up to challenge the Boss, and I slunked away and had a cry. Like a pussy. I forfeited my belt and went on lone journey towards rock bottom.The StormCrow… dead and buried to the world. Dreadvan was the new meta, and so he should have been.
I owe Dreadvan a war. And that is what he’s going to get next week. StormCrow is coming at him, tears pouring and dick swinging. I don’t give a fuck, he’s getting my all, he’s getting the fight he should have had a year ago.
Then you have Swann… that absolute madman. He's like wrestling's Madeleine McCann, spotted here and there but nobody has tracked him down him yet. Was he in space? Does he own a federation still? Is he even a wrestler? Fuck, somehow, he managed to get the better of the Demon and take the strap. Swann, the one-eyed cowboy now holds the title of European Champion. What the fuck has AXW let happen.
Can’t be any worse than Caffrey as World Champ I guess. M.A.N.A.G.E.M.E.N.T. lost a star when the StormCrow walked out. Now it’s time for him to come home, and put the final nail in that coffin. StormCrow, final European Champion of AXW.
Anonymous Underground for life!
Pittsburgh International
“OK we’re here, Terminal 2”. Nice guy that Paul. Or was it Phil? I don’t know, these dumb ass followers are all the same. He got me to the airport, least he did something right in his life. I hop out and grab my bags from the flat bed before strolling towards the doors.
“Hey, what about my Ambrosia!”
“I couldn’t bring it with me of course, we’re at the airport. Go home and find Natasha, tell her I stashed it in her big box. She’ll know what that means.” He gives me a nod, a thumbs up and off he goes. Poor guy, Nats will take his eyeball for that. Won’t hurt his looks any further I suppose.
“Ahh… London, here I come. Tommy is coming home. Anonymous Underground and the StormCrow fly again… let’s fuckin’ do this.” The air is crisp, smells of hot tarmac and I’m surrounded by Pittsburg shitheads but who gives a fuck. This StormCrow is about to soar, and I have some asses to kick. First stop- United States Championship. Next stop, European Championship. After that… who knows.
Might get a bit pissed!
I have a long flight ahead of me, a lot of thinking and pondering to do. Stay tuned for Chapter Two where I discuss Scorpion’s sordid sex life, Swann’s glass eye and Dreadvan’s gluten-allergy.