Post by Sentinel on Jun 9, 2015 9:11:19 GMT -6
It's barely an hour after the finish of Spring Slaughter, and as the view outside of the arena shows, some fans are still fighting traffic to get on the road towards home. Excitement still hangs thick in the air like a fog, the hoots and shouts of cars backed with beshirted UWA fans are louder than any multicolored sign. A couple even splurged on some of the honest-to-goodness replicas of title belts, putting themselves back a couple hundred dollars just to establish their utter, unwavering fandom. Of course, there are those that linger in hopes of running into one of their favorite wrestlers and just enjoying the buzz that comes with a big pay-per-view like this one.
One person they're not going to encounter, however, is the new UWA World Heavyweight Champion. Come to think of it, not many would want to run into him after the past several weeks. Sentinel himself wouldn't want to run into Sentinel. Not on a city street, not in a dark alley or any alley at all for that matter. The feed cuts back to the final moments of his match against Bethany Kenyon, a bout that saw the now-former champion throw every weapon in her arsenal against the Crimson Demon, escaping his Black Sunset twice en route to the end. The Destroyer of Dreams, however, would not be denied and his third attempt was successful, bringing the former tag team champion crashing down hard for the one-two-three.
But the new champion was hardly in a celebratory mood. He snatched the title and held it up once for the fans to see, seeming to revel in the negative energy washing over him, directed his way by the packed house. His attention turned for a moment toward Bethany and his expression become stony. Not angry, not sorry...just flat and impassive. He stared for a moment or two, then left the ring with the belt slung almost haphazardly over his shoulder. Into the backstage area, down the hall and to the locker room. Just enough time for a steaming-hot shower before he threw on jeans, boots, a white tank and a black button-down that he left open. Then he packed up, hopped on his '14 Road King and sped off into the night.
That brings us back to the present and, more specifically, to Frankie's Sports Bar and Grill on West 3rd Street. The place had been running the broadcast of Spring Slaughter but, for the late-arriving fans, they were also running the replay. The big screens were showing the goings-on of just a little while ago in living color and, thanks to such excitement, even the monstrous Sentinel was easily overlooked. And that's exactly how he wanted it. He had placed his bag on the stool next to him, not about to leave it on the bike, and settled in a little ways off from the televisions. It wasn't a moment before a bartender came over, wiping the counter a bit and setting down a coaster.
Bartender: "What're ya havin'?
On reflex, Sentinel ordered a double-shot of Crown and coke. Yet when the drink came, he found himself staring at it for several seconds before he bothered to even pick it up. When he did, his attention shifted to the side, to his bag. The faint outline of the title belt pressed against the material was easily seen but for some reason it didn't comfort him. The dream was realized, the goal accomplished: he was the new UWA World Heavyweight Champion.
He took a sip of the drink...
Sentinel: "...damn it..."
...and the 'fruits of victory' turned to ash on his tongue. Setting the glass down, he gestured to the bartender again, setting down a ten from his pocket for the drink.
Sentinel: "Fill up another one with just coke. Apparently I'm not supposed to drink tonight."
The tender starts to give him a look, perhaps say something funny. Then he gets a glimpse of Sentinel's red eyes and thinks better of it. The iced soda is at least palatable to the big man, who sips it slowly while the liquor is cleared away. He gives the television a glance just in time to see the momentus return of one Fraser Freeman. Snorting in a thoroughly unimpressed fashion, Sentinel sarcastically lifts his glass of 'bubbly' toward the screen before downing another gulp.
Sentinel: "Yet another dickless punk who thinks he's going to change shit around here. Right. People that naïve never realize how fucked they are till it's too late."
The Crimson Demon chuckles dryly to himself as the seat next to him is scraped away from its resting place before being scooted back in. Immediately, Sentinel's glass is set down, his right arm flexing. He turns to his right and, instead of seeing his bag on the seat, he sees a young man of Japanese extract, no more than seventeen if he's a day. Sentinel's expression hardens but his tension evaporates. He turns back to his drink without a word. Even when the teen starts staring right at him, Sentinel doesn't acknowledge his presence. It isn't until he breaks the silence that the Destroyer of Dreams realizes he isn't going to go away.
Junichi: "You're being a dick."
Sentinel: "What do you want?"
He speaks as he lifts his glass, his tone kept down while his eyes scan the immediate area. Sentinel seems a little on the nervous side.
Junichi: "Doesn't matter what I want anymore. I got a better question for you, Dee: what the hell am I still doing here?"
Sentinel's expession twitches, his low volume hiding little of his irritation.
Sentinel: "Better than drinking alone, I guess. Maybe Bethany got a few licks in harder than I realized."
Raising an eyebrow, Junichi then rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath.
Junichi: "You ain't fuckin' funny. This ain't right, man. The deal was that you settle shit and everything's cool. Benny's dead, my old man's chilled out a little and things back home are copacetic. So, y'know, what the fuck?"
Sentinel apparently doesn't have an answer for that. Junichi leans in a little, peering at the big man and nodding his head a little when he sees the wound on Sentinel's throat. He then looks around for a moment and nods again, as though the pieces are falling into place.
Junichi: "Great. Hoped to never live to see the day you'd turn back into this motherfucker..."
Sentinel: "Technically, you didn't."
It might have been funny at one point. Junichi, however, looks less than amused.
Junichi: "You think that's cute?"
Sentinel: "The hell do you want with me? Do you got any idea what I've been through?"
It's hard to keep his voice down now, to the point that he's drawing looks from some other patrons. He maintains his silence as the bartender refills his beverage, not giving Junichi the time of day.
Junichi: "At least you're alive."
Sentinel: "Small comfort."
Nothing the teen can do but shrug at that statement, musing to himself.
Junichi: "It ain't all bad. But that doesn't mean I'm pining to see you join me. And if this shit keeps up?"
The young man fades out of sight, leaving Sentinel's bag as the only thing on the chair.
Junichi: "You'll be here sooner than you think."
The champion's entire body tenses as those words strike him with the force of a triple-superkick to the chin. He hesitates before unzipping the bag and seeing the gold of the championship there. Running his fingertips over the engraved medallion, he faintly picks up on the buzzing of his phone directly beneath it. Pushing the belt aside, he stares at the phone's screen, seeing the image of Talon upon it. The Crimson Demon's hand trembles just a bit but then he moves the title back over the phone, letting it go to voicemail.
A roar goes up elsewhere in the bar, getting his attention as he zips the duffel shut. Looks like his match is about to start. Before he even makes it to the ring on the screen, Sentinel is on his feet and out the door, bag over his shoulder and another ten left on the bar for the drinks. One of the patrons does a double-take, thinking perhaps they saw someone that looked like the Destroyer of Dreams, but now seeing only an empty stool. Sentinel is already roaring down the street before their brain decides that it was just their mind playing tricks on them.
Cut to the next day, early morning. There's still fog wafting across the surface of the Mississippi River as Sentinel stares across it, toward Louisiana on the other side while seated on the gravel near his bike. He's in the same clothes from the night before, his bag strapped to the rear portion of the Road King. The title, however, rests over his shoulder as he, looking trapped between bouts of rage in a false state of contentment, continues to stare. Aware at least that the camera is recording, Sentinel turns his red eyes to the belt and strokes the plaque bearing his name.
Sentinel: "All the doubters and accusers as of, oh, about eight hours ago? They can go straight to fucking hell. And if you're watching this right now still doubting, still fingering me as guilty? You can go to fucking hell, too."
More grimace than smile, Sentinel leans back slightly against the frame of the bike, patting the title firmly.
Sentinel: "Because this is vindication. This is a leather-mounted, gold-engraved 'fuck you' to everyone who told me I would never make it or dared to think that I wouldn't. If you turned on the television or computer this morning thinking that you were going to see a man overjoyed at his accomplishment, that this title would become some kind of healing salve to soothe the wounds that run deep beneath my flesh...you were only fooling yourselves.
Oh, I take a great deal of pride in the fact that I'm the champion. I'm the first male in UWA history to hold this title. Hell, I'm the only sorry sonofabitch in this company man enough to hold it. Who else would have been capable of beating a game Bethany Kenyon? What say we go down the list?"
He casts his eyes skyward as he mentally runs down the roster.
Sentinel: "Kyle Travis, maybe? No, he'd trip over his own big damn mouth and fall into my boot, knocking himself the fuck out without giving me the pleasure. Silver Baron? Last I checked he almost got his head taken off by a walking racial stereotype a few minutes before I laid Bethany out. Next."
The Destroyer of Dreams counts his extended fingers, muttering to himself as he goes.
Sentinel: "Then of course, there's Jones himself who has him a freshly-minted bitch to fetch him his Colt 45 and chitlins for the next month or so. Five bucks says his mouthy old lady gets on his case for paying more attention to Baron than her. Freeman just came back so he won't dare get in my way. He doesn't want to go right back on the shelf, after all.
Maybe Cole Hunter..."
Sentinel stops himself, then laughs again. There's nothing resembling humor this time, though. It sounds about as pleasant as a knife tearing through dead flesh.
Sentinel: "...no, because anyone who stalks women and needs five men to carry them off wouldn't have the balls to get in my face. And if you're watching, Hunter, I have some advice for you from the King of the Fucking Mountain."
His attention snaps to the camera, red eyes almost glowing with anger as he stares into the recording lens.
Sentinel: "I WILL get my hands on you in due time. And you WILL go to the hospital."
Back on business, Sentinel stares across the river again. After a few breaths, he starts up again in a calmer voice.
Sentinel: "So I guess that settles that. It took a real man to end the testoserone drought and dry up the estrogen ocean that was the upper crust of the roster. Of course, women still hold the North American, Television and Tag Team Championships, but you can't win them all."
A low chuckle emits.
Sentinel: "And that brings me to the sister of the fallen, Ashley Kenyon. The easy part, if some idiot wants to seriously call it that, is over and now with this ten pounds of gold on my shoulder I have to start proving that my victory wasn't some damn fluke. Right off the bat I'd say fuck that because the only person I have to prove anything to is myself, but that's not how it works in wrestling. You know what I'm talking about don't you, Ash? After all, you've spent the last several weeks distancing yourself from your family same as I have, the difference being that you've done it by choice.
I don't know what the problem is between you and the rest, but I don't need to. It's right there in your eyes and in everything you do. This forced emancipation from K.I.S.S. is your way of proving that you're self-sufficient, that you don't need anyone holding your hand and cleaning up your messes. Matter of fact, you've got a title over your shoulder that proves how capable you are, right? Well, you're sharing it with someone, so I guess you just trade possession of it every couple of weeks..."
Stroking his chin, Sentinel looks thoughtful...but it's just a front. He's taking a few pokes at the meaner Kenyon and isn't doing much to hide it.
Sentinel: "The point is that whether you like it or not, you don't measure up to Bethany. Not in intelligence or ring skills. Come into my house with that piss-poor attitude and I'm going to send your teeth into the cheap seats. I haven't forgotten you kicking me in the face along with dear sister and that ditch-witch Jeszika. There's a receipt coming for that. But that isn't even the bad news."
Any semblance evaproates like the fog slowly thinning out under the glow of the morning sun.
Sentinel: "The bad news is that I'm holding you to the same standard as Bethany, Ash. I have no choice in the matter. There's a loss on my record with her name on it and I'll be damned if I'm repeating that again. See, that scratching you hear right now on the edge of your senses? That's the hounds scratching at the door, barking and baying under a full blood moon. They're snarling and snapping, waiting to lay their animalistic eyes on me and this championship. They'd love nothing more than to rip me apart with fangs and claws, dragging this prize off as their own.
And you're one of them.
Even way back when, in the early days of the UWA, I always had the mentality that it was me versus the world. Alliances were temporary, friendships only existed when it was convenient for them to. There can only be one World Heavyweight Champion, after all, and when this is on the line you find out the true colors of those that you roll with. And I found, much to my displeasure, that I couldn't even trust family. Now, you might rant and rail at this, but you ruined a damn good thing distancing yourself from your sister, Ash. She had your back from the get. I've watched. I know."
There's a certain...well, sadness is a strong word. Sentinel just looks a touch forlorn as he stares at the title.
Sentinel: "All the stupid ideas you have in your head of her trying to be something she's not or holding you back or some similar bullshit...you're only fucking yourself. My family distanced themselves from me and because of that, I had to find the strength to win this championship on my own. I dug deep into a part of myself that I kept buried for many years, embracing the solitude and the suffering. And for what it's worth, that gambit succeeded. You, however, are estranging yourself by choice.
And it's a fucking stupid one. You need your sister. Hell, you need Jeszika, too, but she's probably strapped to a table in Cole Hunter's basement right now, so that's not possible. You'll have to scare up someone else along with Bethany try and kick me down."
He laughs again, this time a little more openly but no less viciously.
Sentinel: "You're just an angry, scared little girl. All alone and looking for answers to questions that shouldn't have been asked in the first place. Your paranoia got the better of you and the whisperings within your nightmares led you astray. Now you're all alone without support against a monster who's looking to tear apart anyone in his way.
Take it from someone who knows, Ash: you're in a bad way, and I'm not going to be the helping hand that pulls you up. I'm going to be the fist that crushes you into the dirt. You'll scream for your sister before I put you out of your misery. And when she doesn't answer, you'll have only yourself to blame."
Rising, Sentinel dusts himself off and puts the title back in his bag. Mounting the bike, he puts on his sunglasses, fires up the Road King and pulls onto the road, heading across the bridge toward Mayhem.
One person they're not going to encounter, however, is the new UWA World Heavyweight Champion. Come to think of it, not many would want to run into him after the past several weeks. Sentinel himself wouldn't want to run into Sentinel. Not on a city street, not in a dark alley or any alley at all for that matter. The feed cuts back to the final moments of his match against Bethany Kenyon, a bout that saw the now-former champion throw every weapon in her arsenal against the Crimson Demon, escaping his Black Sunset twice en route to the end. The Destroyer of Dreams, however, would not be denied and his third attempt was successful, bringing the former tag team champion crashing down hard for the one-two-three.
But the new champion was hardly in a celebratory mood. He snatched the title and held it up once for the fans to see, seeming to revel in the negative energy washing over him, directed his way by the packed house. His attention turned for a moment toward Bethany and his expression become stony. Not angry, not sorry...just flat and impassive. He stared for a moment or two, then left the ring with the belt slung almost haphazardly over his shoulder. Into the backstage area, down the hall and to the locker room. Just enough time for a steaming-hot shower before he threw on jeans, boots, a white tank and a black button-down that he left open. Then he packed up, hopped on his '14 Road King and sped off into the night.
That brings us back to the present and, more specifically, to Frankie's Sports Bar and Grill on West 3rd Street. The place had been running the broadcast of Spring Slaughter but, for the late-arriving fans, they were also running the replay. The big screens were showing the goings-on of just a little while ago in living color and, thanks to such excitement, even the monstrous Sentinel was easily overlooked. And that's exactly how he wanted it. He had placed his bag on the stool next to him, not about to leave it on the bike, and settled in a little ways off from the televisions. It wasn't a moment before a bartender came over, wiping the counter a bit and setting down a coaster.
Bartender: "What're ya havin'?
On reflex, Sentinel ordered a double-shot of Crown and coke. Yet when the drink came, he found himself staring at it for several seconds before he bothered to even pick it up. When he did, his attention shifted to the side, to his bag. The faint outline of the title belt pressed against the material was easily seen but for some reason it didn't comfort him. The dream was realized, the goal accomplished: he was the new UWA World Heavyweight Champion.
He took a sip of the drink...
Sentinel: "...damn it..."
...and the 'fruits of victory' turned to ash on his tongue. Setting the glass down, he gestured to the bartender again, setting down a ten from his pocket for the drink.
Sentinel: "Fill up another one with just coke. Apparently I'm not supposed to drink tonight."
The tender starts to give him a look, perhaps say something funny. Then he gets a glimpse of Sentinel's red eyes and thinks better of it. The iced soda is at least palatable to the big man, who sips it slowly while the liquor is cleared away. He gives the television a glance just in time to see the momentus return of one Fraser Freeman. Snorting in a thoroughly unimpressed fashion, Sentinel sarcastically lifts his glass of 'bubbly' toward the screen before downing another gulp.
Sentinel: "Yet another dickless punk who thinks he's going to change shit around here. Right. People that naïve never realize how fucked they are till it's too late."
The Crimson Demon chuckles dryly to himself as the seat next to him is scraped away from its resting place before being scooted back in. Immediately, Sentinel's glass is set down, his right arm flexing. He turns to his right and, instead of seeing his bag on the seat, he sees a young man of Japanese extract, no more than seventeen if he's a day. Sentinel's expression hardens but his tension evaporates. He turns back to his drink without a word. Even when the teen starts staring right at him, Sentinel doesn't acknowledge his presence. It isn't until he breaks the silence that the Destroyer of Dreams realizes he isn't going to go away.
Junichi: "You're being a dick."
Sentinel: "What do you want?"
He speaks as he lifts his glass, his tone kept down while his eyes scan the immediate area. Sentinel seems a little on the nervous side.
Junichi: "Doesn't matter what I want anymore. I got a better question for you, Dee: what the hell am I still doing here?"
Sentinel's expession twitches, his low volume hiding little of his irritation.
Sentinel: "Better than drinking alone, I guess. Maybe Bethany got a few licks in harder than I realized."
Raising an eyebrow, Junichi then rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath.
Junichi: "You ain't fuckin' funny. This ain't right, man. The deal was that you settle shit and everything's cool. Benny's dead, my old man's chilled out a little and things back home are copacetic. So, y'know, what the fuck?"
Sentinel apparently doesn't have an answer for that. Junichi leans in a little, peering at the big man and nodding his head a little when he sees the wound on Sentinel's throat. He then looks around for a moment and nods again, as though the pieces are falling into place.
Junichi: "Great. Hoped to never live to see the day you'd turn back into this motherfucker..."
Sentinel: "Technically, you didn't."
It might have been funny at one point. Junichi, however, looks less than amused.
Junichi: "You think that's cute?"
Sentinel: "The hell do you want with me? Do you got any idea what I've been through?"
It's hard to keep his voice down now, to the point that he's drawing looks from some other patrons. He maintains his silence as the bartender refills his beverage, not giving Junichi the time of day.
Junichi: "At least you're alive."
Sentinel: "Small comfort."
Nothing the teen can do but shrug at that statement, musing to himself.
Junichi: "It ain't all bad. But that doesn't mean I'm pining to see you join me. And if this shit keeps up?"
The young man fades out of sight, leaving Sentinel's bag as the only thing on the chair.
Junichi: "You'll be here sooner than you think."
The champion's entire body tenses as those words strike him with the force of a triple-superkick to the chin. He hesitates before unzipping the bag and seeing the gold of the championship there. Running his fingertips over the engraved medallion, he faintly picks up on the buzzing of his phone directly beneath it. Pushing the belt aside, he stares at the phone's screen, seeing the image of Talon upon it. The Crimson Demon's hand trembles just a bit but then he moves the title back over the phone, letting it go to voicemail.
A roar goes up elsewhere in the bar, getting his attention as he zips the duffel shut. Looks like his match is about to start. Before he even makes it to the ring on the screen, Sentinel is on his feet and out the door, bag over his shoulder and another ten left on the bar for the drinks. One of the patrons does a double-take, thinking perhaps they saw someone that looked like the Destroyer of Dreams, but now seeing only an empty stool. Sentinel is already roaring down the street before their brain decides that it was just their mind playing tricks on them.
Cut to the next day, early morning. There's still fog wafting across the surface of the Mississippi River as Sentinel stares across it, toward Louisiana on the other side while seated on the gravel near his bike. He's in the same clothes from the night before, his bag strapped to the rear portion of the Road King. The title, however, rests over his shoulder as he, looking trapped between bouts of rage in a false state of contentment, continues to stare. Aware at least that the camera is recording, Sentinel turns his red eyes to the belt and strokes the plaque bearing his name.
Sentinel: "All the doubters and accusers as of, oh, about eight hours ago? They can go straight to fucking hell. And if you're watching this right now still doubting, still fingering me as guilty? You can go to fucking hell, too."
More grimace than smile, Sentinel leans back slightly against the frame of the bike, patting the title firmly.
Sentinel: "Because this is vindication. This is a leather-mounted, gold-engraved 'fuck you' to everyone who told me I would never make it or dared to think that I wouldn't. If you turned on the television or computer this morning thinking that you were going to see a man overjoyed at his accomplishment, that this title would become some kind of healing salve to soothe the wounds that run deep beneath my flesh...you were only fooling yourselves.
Oh, I take a great deal of pride in the fact that I'm the champion. I'm the first male in UWA history to hold this title. Hell, I'm the only sorry sonofabitch in this company man enough to hold it. Who else would have been capable of beating a game Bethany Kenyon? What say we go down the list?"
He casts his eyes skyward as he mentally runs down the roster.
Sentinel: "Kyle Travis, maybe? No, he'd trip over his own big damn mouth and fall into my boot, knocking himself the fuck out without giving me the pleasure. Silver Baron? Last I checked he almost got his head taken off by a walking racial stereotype a few minutes before I laid Bethany out. Next."
The Destroyer of Dreams counts his extended fingers, muttering to himself as he goes.
Sentinel: "Then of course, there's Jones himself who has him a freshly-minted bitch to fetch him his Colt 45 and chitlins for the next month or so. Five bucks says his mouthy old lady gets on his case for paying more attention to Baron than her. Freeman just came back so he won't dare get in my way. He doesn't want to go right back on the shelf, after all.
Maybe Cole Hunter..."
Sentinel stops himself, then laughs again. There's nothing resembling humor this time, though. It sounds about as pleasant as a knife tearing through dead flesh.
Sentinel: "...no, because anyone who stalks women and needs five men to carry them off wouldn't have the balls to get in my face. And if you're watching, Hunter, I have some advice for you from the King of the Fucking Mountain."
His attention snaps to the camera, red eyes almost glowing with anger as he stares into the recording lens.
Sentinel: "I WILL get my hands on you in due time. And you WILL go to the hospital."
Back on business, Sentinel stares across the river again. After a few breaths, he starts up again in a calmer voice.
Sentinel: "So I guess that settles that. It took a real man to end the testoserone drought and dry up the estrogen ocean that was the upper crust of the roster. Of course, women still hold the North American, Television and Tag Team Championships, but you can't win them all."
A low chuckle emits.
Sentinel: "And that brings me to the sister of the fallen, Ashley Kenyon. The easy part, if some idiot wants to seriously call it that, is over and now with this ten pounds of gold on my shoulder I have to start proving that my victory wasn't some damn fluke. Right off the bat I'd say fuck that because the only person I have to prove anything to is myself, but that's not how it works in wrestling. You know what I'm talking about don't you, Ash? After all, you've spent the last several weeks distancing yourself from your family same as I have, the difference being that you've done it by choice.
I don't know what the problem is between you and the rest, but I don't need to. It's right there in your eyes and in everything you do. This forced emancipation from K.I.S.S. is your way of proving that you're self-sufficient, that you don't need anyone holding your hand and cleaning up your messes. Matter of fact, you've got a title over your shoulder that proves how capable you are, right? Well, you're sharing it with someone, so I guess you just trade possession of it every couple of weeks..."
Stroking his chin, Sentinel looks thoughtful...but it's just a front. He's taking a few pokes at the meaner Kenyon and isn't doing much to hide it.
Sentinel: "The point is that whether you like it or not, you don't measure up to Bethany. Not in intelligence or ring skills. Come into my house with that piss-poor attitude and I'm going to send your teeth into the cheap seats. I haven't forgotten you kicking me in the face along with dear sister and that ditch-witch Jeszika. There's a receipt coming for that. But that isn't even the bad news."
Any semblance evaproates like the fog slowly thinning out under the glow of the morning sun.
Sentinel: "The bad news is that I'm holding you to the same standard as Bethany, Ash. I have no choice in the matter. There's a loss on my record with her name on it and I'll be damned if I'm repeating that again. See, that scratching you hear right now on the edge of your senses? That's the hounds scratching at the door, barking and baying under a full blood moon. They're snarling and snapping, waiting to lay their animalistic eyes on me and this championship. They'd love nothing more than to rip me apart with fangs and claws, dragging this prize off as their own.
And you're one of them.
Even way back when, in the early days of the UWA, I always had the mentality that it was me versus the world. Alliances were temporary, friendships only existed when it was convenient for them to. There can only be one World Heavyweight Champion, after all, and when this is on the line you find out the true colors of those that you roll with. And I found, much to my displeasure, that I couldn't even trust family. Now, you might rant and rail at this, but you ruined a damn good thing distancing yourself from your sister, Ash. She had your back from the get. I've watched. I know."
There's a certain...well, sadness is a strong word. Sentinel just looks a touch forlorn as he stares at the title.
Sentinel: "All the stupid ideas you have in your head of her trying to be something she's not or holding you back or some similar bullshit...you're only fucking yourself. My family distanced themselves from me and because of that, I had to find the strength to win this championship on my own. I dug deep into a part of myself that I kept buried for many years, embracing the solitude and the suffering. And for what it's worth, that gambit succeeded. You, however, are estranging yourself by choice.
And it's a fucking stupid one. You need your sister. Hell, you need Jeszika, too, but she's probably strapped to a table in Cole Hunter's basement right now, so that's not possible. You'll have to scare up someone else along with Bethany try and kick me down."
He laughs again, this time a little more openly but no less viciously.
Sentinel: "You're just an angry, scared little girl. All alone and looking for answers to questions that shouldn't have been asked in the first place. Your paranoia got the better of you and the whisperings within your nightmares led you astray. Now you're all alone without support against a monster who's looking to tear apart anyone in his way.
Take it from someone who knows, Ash: you're in a bad way, and I'm not going to be the helping hand that pulls you up. I'm going to be the fist that crushes you into the dirt. You'll scream for your sister before I put you out of your misery. And when she doesn't answer, you'll have only yourself to blame."
Rising, Sentinel dusts himself off and puts the title back in his bag. Mounting the bike, he puts on his sunglasses, fires up the Road King and pulls onto the road, heading across the bridge toward Mayhem.
