Post by Dominator / Mortimer on Jun 3, 2019 22:33:38 GMT -5
“It's being here now that's important. There's no past and there's no future. Time is a very misleading thing. All there is ever, is the now. We can gain experience from the past, but we can't relive it; and we can hope for the future, but we don't know if there is one.”
― George Harrison
Tuesday 2nd June 1992
Location: Residence of ???, Newton Tony, Wiltshire, England, United Kingdom
Children of his age would be more suitably stimulated by watching the television or playing in the woods. Not this child, though. He is quite content sitting in front of a grandfather clock, watching the pendulum swing from side to side with a tick and a tock as every second passes as if the clock were a hypnotist.
Sat on an armchair situated to the immediate left of an unlit gas fire, a seventy-something man is in the midst of reading a newspaper. He pays no attention to the boy, satisfied that he is obtaining suitable enjoyment from this activity that crosses the threshold of ‘unusual’ and delves deep towards the borderline of insanity. This treatment could be considered cruel to eyes looking in from the outside. The truth of the matter is; this is what the boy is stimulated by; fascinated by.
The passage of time; watching the world go by, is a greater show than anything that any filmmaker or television producer could envisage.
Their moment of peace is brought to abrupt stop. The sound of two car doors slamming catches their attention. The boy immediately turns his head towards his guardian like a distressed owl. The older of the two immediately motions towards the window, using his thumb and forefinger to create a narrow opening in the horizontal metal blinds to see what is transpiring.
The day that they had both feared had finally come to light.
Three individuals, whose genders are hidden underneath hooded black robes, are briskly examining the property from the outside. The more centrally positioned of the trio points and gestures to his cohorts, who begin to flank either side of the home.
“So, the time has come,” the old man solemnly exhales. The young boy scrambles to his feet and runs to his grandfather, huddling him in search of sanctuary from the looming threat. The grandfather holds him close before lowering himself onto one knee and clasping his grandson by the shoulders, staring firmly into his eyes. “You know what to do, Horacio?” the man assertively says. The boy trembles like an autumnal leaf, tears stream down his reddened face.
“I don’t want to go, Grandad,” Horacio weeps. “I’ll never see you again.”
“Look at me!” his grandfather snaps in hushed tones. Young Horacio immediately returns his grandfather’s stare. “You are such an intelligent and brave little man,” he reassuringly says, a tear beginning to form in his own eye which he is quick to stifle. “You are the one who will lead The Chronological Order back into relevance. Perhaps you will be a better leader than I ever was. Whatever happens, it is imperative that you do not engage in such matters publicly until you are suitably matured.”
“How will I know when I’m ready?” the boy cowers.
“Take this,” Grandad instructs, handing him a small locket-like timepiece. “Carry this wherever you go and you will never lose yourself to time.” He places it softly in Horacio’s outstretched hand. He tightly clutches it, slipping it into his coat pocket, but this doesn’t appease him in the slightest. “My boy,” Grandad tries to diffuse the fear with encouragement, “you have your whole life ahead of you. You have all the time in the world. These old bones won’t last much longer. If I am to succumb to The Hand, I will at least do it on my terms. So go, young one. Run. Run as far away as you can. And do not let them see you.” With that, the grandfather shoves the juvenile backwards, forcing him to take his leave. The young Horacio stares at the man who has protected him so fiercely for the last five years of his life.
“I love you, Grandad,” Horacio sobs. His grandfather nods appreciatively.
“I love you too, Horacio,” he returns the sentiment. Without looking back, the youngster must make good his escape. He peers nervously around corners, ensuring that he could slip past the intruders undetected, if indeed they had already granted themselves entry into the house. With the coast clear, Horacio darts toward his bedroom to retrieve his essentials.
Back in the lounge, Horacio’s grandfather has accepted his fate. Clearing his throat to rid himself of his sorrow, he lowers himself back into the comfort of his armchair. He twists the tap-like handle of the gas canister, opening the valve in preparation to light the fire. He reaches for his cigar carton, sliding the wooden box open to source a lighter. Though he would not show such weakness in front of his grandson, the elderly man tries to hold back overflowing tears by squinting, which only pressurises them out of their homes and down the length of the man’s cheeks. Before he has the opportunity to produce a cigar, the three invaders slowly step into the room. They lock eyes with Grandad, staring at him intently. Grandad makes no effort to them off. As noted earlier; he had accepted his fate.
One of the hooded men steps forward; the ‘leader’ it would seem. He had been the one directing traffic outside. Grandad’s suspicions are one hundred percent realised upon noticing the single black gloves that each of the men wear over one hand.
“Zachary Mortimer,” the intruder declares, not expecting any sort of dissuasion that he could be anybody else. “It’s been a while, has it not?”
“Forgive me,” Grandad Zachary apologetically says with a bemused look, wiping the tears from his face before they are noticed. “I can never tell any of you apart, considering you each seem to see the same seamstress.” The hooded man lets out a small chuckle, reaching up for the rim of his hood with his gloved hand, peeling it backwards to reveal his face. A noticeable scar runs from the base of his left eye all the way down to his lower jaw, which then runs in parallel to it up to his left ear. His right eye is covered with a black eye-patch. His long greying hair is tied back in a long, sleek ponytail. He lets out a wicked smirk as Zachary’s face sinks.
“You mean to say that you don’t recognise your old friend?” the scarred man grins, his one visible eye adjusting to the light, glowing a sinister shade of orange.
“Denzel,” Zachary grimaces.
“In the flesh,” the man referred to as Denzel protrudes his arms out to either side, gesticulating his very presence. “Surprised to see me? You should be.” He takes a couple of slow steps forwards. It is apparent that Denzel is a full generation behind Zachary, yet so withered is his skin and general appearance that he does not look as far away in age than he truly is. He takes a prolonged look at Zachary’s face, noticing the discoloration and moisture upon it. “Have you been crying!? he cackles callously.
“Hayfever,” Zack lies. “I would say you’ve been crying to, but I guess you could only prove that I’m half wrong.” Denzel runs his fingertips over his eye patch, his amusement morphs into disgust.
“Enough of the introductory pleasantries,” the hooded man says, malevolence growing in his voice as his face becomes far more stern. “Where is the boy?” Zachary swallows the lump that has appeared in his oesophagus.
“Boy?” Zachary plays dumb. “The last boy that stood within these walls hasn’t been seen in seventy years or more,” he says, referring to himself.
“Is that so?” the cloaked individual responds, unfazed by such a blatant lie as he waves to one of his underlings. He leaves the room, most likely to look around the remaining rooms in the residence. Fortunately, he does not notice the curious young Horacio ducked down behind a large indoor plant potted directly next to the door, eavesdropping on the conversation. “This was the house that your ancestor fled to when he formed The Temporal Vanguard, was it not?” Denzel takes a moment to admire the room. Namely; the overbearing number of timepieces in the room of all shapes and sizes, each synchronised to perfection. “You’ve spruced the place up nicely,” he remarks, referring to the décor. Have many bedrooms does this have? More than one, I assume?” He runs his gloves finger along the mantlepiece, examining just how pristine and sanitary the room is, rubbing off only a tiny speck of dust from the tip of his thumb on his black cloak. “And yet you live here all by yourself?”
“What do you want, Denzel?” Zachary snaps. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Don’t insult my intelligence, Zack,” Denzel feverishly pivots on his heel. “The Bloodline, dumbass, You know as well as I do that The Hand do not want any traces of the Temporal Vanguard’s Bloodline left anywhere outside of Hangtown. We’re bringing you in. The boy too. Dead or alive.” He produces from his pocket a dagger securely wedged into its sheath. Upon removing it, the natural light reflect from the shimmering blade. He casually tosses it up into the air. It spins erratically through the air before Denzel catches it by the handle with a feline swipe of his hand. “So, what’s it going to be, old friend?”
“I would rather die than go back there,” Zack snarls.
“Dead it is, then,” he cheerfully announces. The grunt to the left of him immediately grabs a hold of Zack’s arm and subdued him by jarring his foot into the back of Zack’s knee, forcing him downward. “Good job too! I like this house. My sweet little Dolly is growing up and this is such a quaint little neighbourhood,” Denzel adds whimsically. “Yes, I think this will be the perfect new home.”
“Aren’t you a little old to be playing with toys?” Zack snickers to himself.
“Dolly is my daughter’s name, you fucking imbecile,” Denzel shouts, unimpressed that his words would be twisted in such a way. “Dolly is my pet name for her. Her name is Dolores.”
“I’m glad you cleared that up,” Zack acerbically responds. “But as far as I’m concerned, you’re wasting your time. There’s nobody else here except for me.”
“Sir,” calls a voice from outside of the lounge, “there’s no sign of anybody else on the premises,” the hooded sentry returns through the door baring little news. “No child’s bedroom, no children’s clothes, no toys. Nothing.”
“You see?” Zach smiles with relief. “It’s just as I told you.” Suspicion is etched across Denzel’s face, yet he is drawn towards the hands of the grandfather clock.
“He wouldn’t last ten minutes out there on his own,” he chuckles. “What is he? Four?” Zachary is not going to fall for this trick so easily. He feigns a confused expression.
“You need to run. While you still can!”
It is at that moment that Horacio notices his grandfather’s stare has wavered from the trio of assassins in front of him and is now directed straight within his own line of sight. With a fear stricken look on his face, Horacio scarpers for the front door, dragging a rucksack at his side. The door gently closes behind him, but it is audible to those gathered in the lounge. Denzel’s head jerks to one side, as do those of his attentive comrades.
“There’s nobody else in the house, you say?” Denzel snarls towards Zack. “Then what the hell was that sound?”
“This is an old house, Den,” Zachary produces his excuse on the fly, compulsively so for the sake of his grandson. “There are still a few support beams that are going to need restoring over the coming months. Not that I suppose that matters now, does it?”
“No, not really,” Denzel smirks. “It’s a shame. I always thought that you had some truly unique ideas. You’re a smart man, Zack. I don’t understand why you would risk your life running from The Hand when you could simply come back with us and spend the rest of your days in Hangtown.
“So what now?” Zack tries to return their attention in his direction. “If you’re going to kill me, why don’t you go ahead and do it, already.”
“Are you in such a rush?” Denzel cackles wickedly once again.
“What I truly want is for you to honour me my last request,” Zack grins. Denzel’s amusement only grows.
“What will it be? A three course meal? A drink? A vacation?” Denzel mocks. “Whatever you want, I’ll give you five minutes. No more.”
“Actually, all I want is one last cigar,” Zachary smirks. “Care to join me?” Even in the face of Death, Zachary remains as composed as he possibly can. He offers his cigar carton to the three members of The Black Hand. Denzel is the only one of the trio that does not oblige.
“I’ll pass,” Denzel grunts. “I loathe the smell of cigar smoke.” He instinctively sniffs. Something is amiss. “What is that!? he suddenly covers his nose and mouth as Zachary holds the cigar lighter in his hand with a triumphant grin. Only now, once everybody has stopped talking, is a very faint hiss distinguishable. It is coming from the gas heater. The tube that had once been secured into the fire itself has now been removed. Gas is leaking into the room.
“Let me offer you some last words, Denzel,” Zachary smiles. “The future is uncertain… but the end is always near.”
Those were the words that would stick in the young Horacio’s mind for decades to come.
But the image of his family home erupting into an inferno, combined with the sacrifice that his grandfather made for him that day, the end wasn’t just always near.
It was always with him.
For the tandem of Hunter and Ross to call themselves the uncrowned PCW Tag Team Champions is belly-achingly laughable. Granted, there are few compatible individuals who could pull together at a moment’s notice to be deemed as ‘a team,’ but there a glaring and shining example that neither David or Hunter alike have even realised.
The Black Hand.
Even if Pure Class Wrestling executives were to reinstate the defunct tag team titles and bestow them upon Holden Ross and David Hunter, would they truly be considered the greatest unit in the company when standing across the ring from the reigning PCW North American Champion and the new PCW World Heavyweight Champion?
If one were to entertain themselves by playing devil’s advocate even further, what if, just what if David Hunter could achieve the impossible and defeat The Zenith to reach the grand final? Rick Majors certainly had the infamy as a competitor to be David’s greatest test of his abilities since waging war on Sicko. That is, of course, up until now. To stack the odds even further in David’s favour, it was at this very hurdle where Dominator fell last year. Albeit, this was to the man who will be challenging Gerard Angelo for the World Title at Living A Legacy XI, not to mention that it was under dubious circumstances in no short thanks to the untimely return and subsequent interference of Johnny Matthews.
This question doesn’t even require deliberation. For, to put it bluntly, it just will not happen!
Forget running before you can crawl. Hunter is sinking before he can swim.
How often it is cogitated on social media that the union between Grimm and Dominator is not considered strong due to the lack of time they share in each other’s vicinity. Partners do not have an commitment to live in each other’s pockets. The mutual respect that Dominator possesses towards Grimm reaches point where he feels it is almost intrusive to meddle in Grimm’s affairs. How often has Dominator come into contact with Seromine over recent months? Not once. What interaction did Phinehas have with his former Black Hand brother Stormm during The Zenith’s pursuit of the North American Title. Minimal. If any.
Which begs the question. If David Hunter, much like Kyle Shane, has inner demons just waiting to be unleashed, why does he not just get it over with? If people have ‘secret weapons’ at their disposal, why not utilise them in their greatest hour of need. It is a baffling concept.
It was something alluded to by David more recently than Kyle, who has his own internal conflict with this ‘Hiro’ entity. Schizophrenia has been a long-running condition that seems to affect many a professional wrestler. When one delves into the mines of their own dark thoughts, it is far too easy to indulge in the fancies that hide there. But why suppress such fiends in dormancy when they can be unleashed unto the world to cause widespread destruction from the offset?
It is because these people are scared of what they might become. They might have built up a memetic legacy for themselves over the span of years and, in some cases, decades. Kyle Shane has openly admitted that, in spite of his record setting run as World Champion, he still
What one sees when they come stand toe to toe with The Temporal King is precisely that; a beast that has already been released from its cage.
Dominator has brought about the winds of change. Stormm has already professed how this will be his last tournament. Much like The Zenith had envisioned, the literal ’storm’ had petered out. By the time that The Zenith has his way with David Hunter, it will be his last tournament as well. Maybe even his last match period.
After all… the future is uncertain.
But the end is always near.