Post by Sentinel on Jun 12, 2015 15:55:47 GMT -6
The first few images are far too idyllic and charming to have anything to do with the subject in question. Summer is slowly getting underway (depending on who you ask) and already folks are making use of the warmer, longer days and shorter nights. Our first view is that of a lake, specifically Lake D'Arbonne in northern Louisiana. There's a canoe or two out on the lake, one bearing a couple and another a small family, rowing about under the early afternoon sun. Along the fishing pier, a couple anglers of varying ages and experience levels try their hand at plucking something cold and scaly from the depths. A six-year-old, for example, seems to be having quite a bit of luck drawing in a full-sized bass with help from dad while a grandfatherly-looking sort turns from his line to watch with undisguised amusement. The sight must draw memories from years ago for the old fellow.
There's a few lodges off in the distance for those who don't care to pitch a tent and commune with nature. More and more these days, the comforts of home are too good to do without for even a weekend, but there are a brave few who are more content outside with the elements. And in the midst of all this, a demon...a Crimson Demon to be exact. On one of the quieter sides of the lake, in view of the quiet revelry all about him but definitely not taking part, is Sentinel.
Much like we saw him when he first addressed matters days ago, he's sitting on the ground next to his '14 Road King, turning from it to a small tool case as the moments pass. His thick, dark hair is wrapped into a tight braid that reaches past the middle of his back, a black-and-paisley bandanna worn over the top of his head. His sunglasses are perched atop his head, requiring him to squint a bit beneath the still-rising sun as he applies ratchet to bolt, the signature clicking sound a constant guest.
Considering how pristine this bike always looks, one could construe that is just the new champion killing time and putting his mind toward pursuits that keep his attention while he waits for war. He's tightening a bolt back into place when a ringing sound comes from within his bag sitting nearby. Taking another moment to tighten the bolt to his liking, Sentinel is in no rush to pick up the phone, which he answers without checking the caller's identity.
Sentinel: "Yeah?"
An unidentified voice answers, heavily accented but speaking English more properly and clearly than most natives.
?: "It has been a long time, guerriero."
Sentinel's expression had relayed, if nothing else, a cold calm before he picked up the phone. Upon hearing the Italian-tilted voice on the other end, he actually cracks something resembling a genuine smile. From amusement? From actual pleasure?
Sentinel: "Almost two years. Which begs the question..."
Placing the ratchet back in the case with his free hand, Sentinel's smile disappears like a blow-dried snowflake.
Sentinel: "...what do you want?"
?: "Is not the better question pertaining to what you want?"
Sentinel: "I don't have time for this, Alessandro. I don't know if your big boss has been keeping up with the papers, but my plate just got filled up."
There's a pause on the other end and though it sounds distant, there's rapid chatter flowing on Alessandro's end of the phone in full-fledged Italian. Presently, the original caller returns.
Alessandro: "The entire council is aware. Our Revered One ever keeps his fingertips on the pulse of the commercio wrestling."
Sentinel: "And?"
Alessandro: "He has acquired a few other expatriates with eyes on an alliance."
Sentinel's teeth audibly grate as he snaps the tool case shut with his free hand and reaches for a nearby cooler, flipping the lid open and rooting about inside as his impatience with the caller increases.
Sentinel: "Get to the damn point."
Alessandro: "The POINT is that HE wants a WORD."
Finally coming upon something within the pool of iced water, Sentinel pulls out a Mountain Dew and spins off the cap, taking a sip of it. He chuckles lowly, shaking his head a little.
Sentinel: "So, what, no showing up at all hours in your cavalcade of black SUVs? No middle-of-the-night quasi-abduction? What's the change there, Alessandro?"
Alessandro: "You arrogant bestia! Do not forget from whom your previous opportunities at oro sprung-"
Sentinel: "No, you listen to ME you monolithic bastard!"
He keeps his volume low so as not to draw attention, but Sentinel's ire has been activated.
Sentinel: "I don't do this cloak-and-dagger bullshit anymore! You claim your boss has had his 'finger on the pulse'? Then he should damn well know that it's a different time and this is a different beast that you're speaking to! He wants a word? I damn sure ain't hard to find. Tell him to come to Monroe this coming Monday night. Tell him to bring the whole damned family if he wants..."
Getting to his feet with a hand briefly bracing him on the cooler, the Destroyer of Dreams only briefly pauses his retort.
Sentinel: "...and then, only then, will there be talking. But that's as far as it goes, y'hear? Talk. I'm not making promises to you or anyone else that something's gonna come of it. You got that?"
Alessandro: "...very well."
Calming but still on the edge of anger, Sentinel ends the call without another word and sets the device on the seat of the bike.
Sentinel: "Fucking bloodsucking zealots..."
He downs another gulp of the green soda, looking less than pleased with the taste yet still remembering that lately the taste of alcohol alone doesn't set well with him for some reason. A few breaths later he's packing the tool case back into one of the bike's saddlebags and lifting the cooler up onto the Harley's rack to strap it down. The phone starts to vibrate as he finishes up, not with a call but with a notification.
Picking it up curiously, Sentinel checks and finds something that makes him smirk. A few taps and swipes later, he's on the UWA Website. About a moment after that, he's fishing in his pocket for the earbuds to the damn thing because, well, the lesser Kenyon isn't one for checking her mouth. Getting things situated, Sentinel leans back against his ride and continues watching the screen with that look of amusement having returned all over again.
We, however, don't have to sit through it all. There's a brief time lapse before Sentinel calmly removes the earbuds, pockets them and the phone and folds his thick arms across that massive chest. It starts with a snerk, a little shake of his head...and then outright, boisterous laughter that startles the birds in the trees and probably the fish in the lake, too. It keeps up for damn near half a minute before, with a last toss of his head, Sentinel remarks...
Sentinel: "Idiotic bitch..."
...and mounts the Harley, starting it up and gunning the engine a few times before heading off down the gravel path towards the highway. It'd be a short ride to town to find a decent hotel and check out the arena for Mayhem. And chances are the monster would still be laughing all the damn way there.
Cut to black and then back to the present moment where, indeed, the Crimson Demon is parking his bike in the private lot of the Monroe Civic Center. It's still quiet in this late-afternoon hour, allowing Sentinel to dismount and enter the place without being accosted by fans. Making his way inside, he heads down the hallway toward the dressing rooms and comes across a door with his name on it.
The perks of being the champion.
Sentinel: "Hm."
The door's unlocked and he lets himself in, setting his bag on table near the door before taking a brief look around. It looked like the lounge of a high-class hotel room and while that wasn't really his style, there was nothing wrong with indulgence now and then. Turning, he opens the bag and takes out the World Heavyweight Championship and his trusty portable digital camera. Slinging the strap of the former over his left shoulder, Sentinel takes another look around the accommodations when his eyes fall upon a folded card set on the coffee table.
He walks over and picks up the embossed, black card and opens it, perusing the writing within before his expression twitches slightly. He puts it back where he founded and looks around again, though this time it's as if he's expecting someone to be lurking there awaiting his guard to be down. When nothing happens, he turns on his heel and heads for the door. Shutting it behind him, the scene goes to black again before returning with us getting a look at Sentinel on the set-up stage for Mayhem. He walks down to the ring and ascends the steps, entering between the ropes and just...savoring the moment.
He fiddles with the camera a bit and our view changes from what had been to the handheld pointed toward the Destroyer himself, giving a perfect view of him and the polished gold over his shoulder.
Sentinel: "Take a good look, Ashley. Except for an ocean of rednecks with hot sauce chanting and hollering enough to shake the foundations, this...is where it's going down."
Turning the camera from himself, Sentinel pans the arena and all the empty seats along with the banners and ads for the UWA. Even without the screaming masses it's an imposing sight. Sentinel then turns the camera so that it's pointing directly upward, towards the lights.
Sentinel: "But this is the view I want you to get familiar with. Get real fuckin' comfortable with this vantage point, Ash, cause you're gonna spend a long time lookin' at the world from it."
Bringing the camera his way again, Sentinel half-grins at it and one person in particular who he knows will be watching.
Sentinel: "Did I miss something? Who the fuck made you Queen of all the Lord's Imperial of the motherfuckin' Hellfire Club or some shit? Did you even think before you got in front of the camera, or were you still riding the wave of courage brought on by two or three lines of 'booger sugar'? Here's the thing with bringing up ancient history, Ash: before you start playing armchair historian with what went down, you should probably make sure you know what the fuck you're talking about. Now, if you want, I can give you the kind of head trauma that the Children gave me so you have a little experience and less chance of making yourself look like an idiot.
Really, it'd be no trouble. And please don't think of that as a threat, doll-face. It's just a friendly offer."
He's still amused, obviously, but his tone is a serious one behind the half-grin.
Sentinel: "But all that? It doesn't make a difference. Because, see, for it to carry any weight with me, I'd have to give a fuck about what you're saying. I don't have to defend myself to you, Olivier, anyone else backstage or anyone in the arena. I answer to no one, Ashley, so for you to try and throw the past in my face is a waste of breath. I was there and experienced it live and in living color while you and your kin put on the white hat and tried, and failed, to play at being heroes. There's a good damn reason why McBride isn't around anymore and you're fucking staring at it. No man, or woman, is ever the same after they stare into the eyes of this red-eyed bastard and what I did to that derelict was give him a one-way ticket to hell. Something none of you could manage before me. As for me personally, right now there's one thing and one thing only that matters in this world to me and you're looking at it draped over my shoulder."
He lifts the title a little, making sure it's seen clearly...the medallion and the band with his name engraved on it.
Sentinel: "Call me a pussy, a traitor, someone who abandoned everyone and everything that was important to him...and then pardon me while I laugh my giant ass off at your incredulous bullshit. While you're looking for places to stick needles in me like some metaphorical voodoo doll, probably because your own life has gone to such shit that you can't help but displace to try and lighten the mental load, I'm going to stand here as the best damn wrestler in the UWA. I've got the record and the title to prove it.
What you're doing is what insecure people do, Ash. You're looking for weaknesses, trying to bring me down with your version of the truth and get inside my head. Deep down behind your bad bitch attitude, you're a scared child who knows you're stepping into the ring with the monster your dead momma always warned you about. Yeah, I fucking went there. You're praying that you can make this personal enough that you'll get some kind of unchained (see what I did there?) outburst from me that'll let you sneak out a win like your sister did back before Tragic Engagement. Trying to take me off my game in other words.
Sorry to say, though, that you're wasting your time. And mine. No, scratch that. I'm not sorry about anything."
The title back at rest, Sentinel moves around the ring slowly just to be in motion, his free hand going up to lift his sunglasses so that those red eyes can stare into the camera.
Sentinel: "There's no need to magnify how wrong you are by detailing what's gone down with me for the last few months. If you've got functioning senses, you already know. That's what makes this whole diatribe of yours so fucking ricockulous. You saw what everyone else saw, know what everyone else knows..."
Tilting his head back, he shows off the scar given by Benimaru's tanto before Sentinel put nine or so bullets in his face. Lowering his gaze back to the camera, the peculiar half-smile finally disappears.
Sentinel: "...so congratulations on wasting half an hour proving just how full of shit you are. You want some reality go with that? You're in fucking luck. Look at the roster of this company. Go down the entire list of names. You know what they all have in common? If they've set foot in that ring with me one on one, they've left a loser. Your sister, Jeszika, Vince Jones, Silver Baron...the list goes on. It's a list you're about to join. History is on my side, Ash, and so is the truth.
Thing is, though, I ain't mad. It's about what I expected from someone like you. There's no need to get pissed off or threaten to put you on the shelf or something like that, because even if I did you wouldn't shut up and your mind wouldn't change. And that's not what I'm out for anyway. With this title over my shoulder, the pressure is on...more than it ever was when I chased it. When it comes to the other wrestlers in this company, I don't have to like them to recognize that at least some of them have the potential to take this belt off me. Your sister could take it back if she had the chance, for example, and it's for that reason that despite all that went down, I have a modicum of respect for her. That goes for a couple of others, too.
Yourself not included."
He laughs again, softly, mostly under his breath.
Sentinel: "Yeah, respect. Funny thing that. What was it you asked, how you and yours ever respected me or something like that?"
The laughing gets a little louder, but nothing like his pre-viewing bout of it back at the lake. His red eyes close for a moment as he sucks in a deep breath, trying to will the rest of the mirth away.
Sentinel: "I've got a better question: why the fuck should I care whether you respect me or not? Because that word has burned me enough to last a lifetime already and I'm not even 30 yet. Benimaru said he respected me, too. I had to put half a clip in his face for killing my best friend, not to mention shooting my wife. Zachariah said he respected me, then went into business for himself and ended up in the hospital for his efforts. The Dead Men did too, then they inserted themselves into my personal business. Now they can ride without me. When that word, and the meaning behind it, passes from me to someone else it means something. When it gets thrown at me by almost anyone else? I call bullshit. So fucking forgive me if I'm not shedding a tear cause you don't like me no more.
See, my life right now? It doesn't get any better than this no matter how many people try to tell me I'm wrong. My family is tended to whether they want anything to do with me or not, I answer to no one but myself and I'm the goddamn UWA World Heavyweight Champion. Tell me, Ash, exactly why any of that is wrong? Maybe because of that throwaway insult about my being a deadbeat dad? Projecting much? I'm not allowed to see my daughter, so just throw that comment in with the rest of your inanity. Said comment, though, is coming from someone who doesn't even care to support her family and friends because she has self-esteem issues or something. Fucking spare me. Go ahead and sit your ass in front of a camera again, open that ball-washer of yours wide and try, one more time, to call me out on the carpet. Tell me why I'm wrong, tell me that I'm gonna lose this title and call me every name in the book. Nothing you say or do, Ash, will change that I'm the champion no matter how personal you try and fail to make it.
I'll just stick to what a wise man, and a hell of a wrestler himself, once said to sum this shit up: 'No matter what they do, how they do it and why, all a champion has to do to shut up the detractors is this:'"
Lifting the title off his shoulder, Sentinel holds it up high, making sure the camera gets everything in. He keeps that ten pounds of gold aloft for several long moments before putting it back over his shoulder. Speaking again, his tone growl-like.
Sentinel: "Bring it, bitch."
Shutting off the camera, Sentinel brings the message to an abrupt close.
There's a few lodges off in the distance for those who don't care to pitch a tent and commune with nature. More and more these days, the comforts of home are too good to do without for even a weekend, but there are a brave few who are more content outside with the elements. And in the midst of all this, a demon...a Crimson Demon to be exact. On one of the quieter sides of the lake, in view of the quiet revelry all about him but definitely not taking part, is Sentinel.
Much like we saw him when he first addressed matters days ago, he's sitting on the ground next to his '14 Road King, turning from it to a small tool case as the moments pass. His thick, dark hair is wrapped into a tight braid that reaches past the middle of his back, a black-and-paisley bandanna worn over the top of his head. His sunglasses are perched atop his head, requiring him to squint a bit beneath the still-rising sun as he applies ratchet to bolt, the signature clicking sound a constant guest.
Considering how pristine this bike always looks, one could construe that is just the new champion killing time and putting his mind toward pursuits that keep his attention while he waits for war. He's tightening a bolt back into place when a ringing sound comes from within his bag sitting nearby. Taking another moment to tighten the bolt to his liking, Sentinel is in no rush to pick up the phone, which he answers without checking the caller's identity.
Sentinel: "Yeah?"
An unidentified voice answers, heavily accented but speaking English more properly and clearly than most natives.
?: "It has been a long time, guerriero."
Sentinel's expression had relayed, if nothing else, a cold calm before he picked up the phone. Upon hearing the Italian-tilted voice on the other end, he actually cracks something resembling a genuine smile. From amusement? From actual pleasure?
Sentinel: "Almost two years. Which begs the question..."
Placing the ratchet back in the case with his free hand, Sentinel's smile disappears like a blow-dried snowflake.
Sentinel: "...what do you want?"
?: "Is not the better question pertaining to what you want?"
Sentinel: "I don't have time for this, Alessandro. I don't know if your big boss has been keeping up with the papers, but my plate just got filled up."
There's a pause on the other end and though it sounds distant, there's rapid chatter flowing on Alessandro's end of the phone in full-fledged Italian. Presently, the original caller returns.
Alessandro: "The entire council is aware. Our Revered One ever keeps his fingertips on the pulse of the commercio wrestling."
Sentinel: "And?"
Alessandro: "He has acquired a few other expatriates with eyes on an alliance."
Sentinel's teeth audibly grate as he snaps the tool case shut with his free hand and reaches for a nearby cooler, flipping the lid open and rooting about inside as his impatience with the caller increases.
Sentinel: "Get to the damn point."
Alessandro: "The POINT is that HE wants a WORD."
Finally coming upon something within the pool of iced water, Sentinel pulls out a Mountain Dew and spins off the cap, taking a sip of it. He chuckles lowly, shaking his head a little.
Sentinel: "So, what, no showing up at all hours in your cavalcade of black SUVs? No middle-of-the-night quasi-abduction? What's the change there, Alessandro?"
Alessandro: "You arrogant bestia! Do not forget from whom your previous opportunities at oro sprung-"
Sentinel: "No, you listen to ME you monolithic bastard!"
He keeps his volume low so as not to draw attention, but Sentinel's ire has been activated.
Sentinel: "I don't do this cloak-and-dagger bullshit anymore! You claim your boss has had his 'finger on the pulse'? Then he should damn well know that it's a different time and this is a different beast that you're speaking to! He wants a word? I damn sure ain't hard to find. Tell him to come to Monroe this coming Monday night. Tell him to bring the whole damned family if he wants..."
Getting to his feet with a hand briefly bracing him on the cooler, the Destroyer of Dreams only briefly pauses his retort.
Sentinel: "...and then, only then, will there be talking. But that's as far as it goes, y'hear? Talk. I'm not making promises to you or anyone else that something's gonna come of it. You got that?"
Alessandro: "...very well."
Calming but still on the edge of anger, Sentinel ends the call without another word and sets the device on the seat of the bike.
Sentinel: "Fucking bloodsucking zealots..."
He downs another gulp of the green soda, looking less than pleased with the taste yet still remembering that lately the taste of alcohol alone doesn't set well with him for some reason. A few breaths later he's packing the tool case back into one of the bike's saddlebags and lifting the cooler up onto the Harley's rack to strap it down. The phone starts to vibrate as he finishes up, not with a call but with a notification.
Picking it up curiously, Sentinel checks and finds something that makes him smirk. A few taps and swipes later, he's on the UWA Website. About a moment after that, he's fishing in his pocket for the earbuds to the damn thing because, well, the lesser Kenyon isn't one for checking her mouth. Getting things situated, Sentinel leans back against his ride and continues watching the screen with that look of amusement having returned all over again.
We, however, don't have to sit through it all. There's a brief time lapse before Sentinel calmly removes the earbuds, pockets them and the phone and folds his thick arms across that massive chest. It starts with a snerk, a little shake of his head...and then outright, boisterous laughter that startles the birds in the trees and probably the fish in the lake, too. It keeps up for damn near half a minute before, with a last toss of his head, Sentinel remarks...
Sentinel: "Idiotic bitch..."
...and mounts the Harley, starting it up and gunning the engine a few times before heading off down the gravel path towards the highway. It'd be a short ride to town to find a decent hotel and check out the arena for Mayhem. And chances are the monster would still be laughing all the damn way there.
Cut to black and then back to the present moment where, indeed, the Crimson Demon is parking his bike in the private lot of the Monroe Civic Center. It's still quiet in this late-afternoon hour, allowing Sentinel to dismount and enter the place without being accosted by fans. Making his way inside, he heads down the hallway toward the dressing rooms and comes across a door with his name on it.
The perks of being the champion.
Sentinel: "Hm."
The door's unlocked and he lets himself in, setting his bag on table near the door before taking a brief look around. It looked like the lounge of a high-class hotel room and while that wasn't really his style, there was nothing wrong with indulgence now and then. Turning, he opens the bag and takes out the World Heavyweight Championship and his trusty portable digital camera. Slinging the strap of the former over his left shoulder, Sentinel takes another look around the accommodations when his eyes fall upon a folded card set on the coffee table.
He walks over and picks up the embossed, black card and opens it, perusing the writing within before his expression twitches slightly. He puts it back where he founded and looks around again, though this time it's as if he's expecting someone to be lurking there awaiting his guard to be down. When nothing happens, he turns on his heel and heads for the door. Shutting it behind him, the scene goes to black again before returning with us getting a look at Sentinel on the set-up stage for Mayhem. He walks down to the ring and ascends the steps, entering between the ropes and just...savoring the moment.
He fiddles with the camera a bit and our view changes from what had been to the handheld pointed toward the Destroyer himself, giving a perfect view of him and the polished gold over his shoulder.
Sentinel: "Take a good look, Ashley. Except for an ocean of rednecks with hot sauce chanting and hollering enough to shake the foundations, this...is where it's going down."
Turning the camera from himself, Sentinel pans the arena and all the empty seats along with the banners and ads for the UWA. Even without the screaming masses it's an imposing sight. Sentinel then turns the camera so that it's pointing directly upward, towards the lights.
Sentinel: "But this is the view I want you to get familiar with. Get real fuckin' comfortable with this vantage point, Ash, cause you're gonna spend a long time lookin' at the world from it."
Bringing the camera his way again, Sentinel half-grins at it and one person in particular who he knows will be watching.
Sentinel: "Did I miss something? Who the fuck made you Queen of all the Lord's Imperial of the motherfuckin' Hellfire Club or some shit? Did you even think before you got in front of the camera, or were you still riding the wave of courage brought on by two or three lines of 'booger sugar'? Here's the thing with bringing up ancient history, Ash: before you start playing armchair historian with what went down, you should probably make sure you know what the fuck you're talking about. Now, if you want, I can give you the kind of head trauma that the Children gave me so you have a little experience and less chance of making yourself look like an idiot.
Really, it'd be no trouble. And please don't think of that as a threat, doll-face. It's just a friendly offer."
He's still amused, obviously, but his tone is a serious one behind the half-grin.
Sentinel: "But all that? It doesn't make a difference. Because, see, for it to carry any weight with me, I'd have to give a fuck about what you're saying. I don't have to defend myself to you, Olivier, anyone else backstage or anyone in the arena. I answer to no one, Ashley, so for you to try and throw the past in my face is a waste of breath. I was there and experienced it live and in living color while you and your kin put on the white hat and tried, and failed, to play at being heroes. There's a good damn reason why McBride isn't around anymore and you're fucking staring at it. No man, or woman, is ever the same after they stare into the eyes of this red-eyed bastard and what I did to that derelict was give him a one-way ticket to hell. Something none of you could manage before me. As for me personally, right now there's one thing and one thing only that matters in this world to me and you're looking at it draped over my shoulder."
He lifts the title a little, making sure it's seen clearly...the medallion and the band with his name engraved on it.
Sentinel: "Call me a pussy, a traitor, someone who abandoned everyone and everything that was important to him...and then pardon me while I laugh my giant ass off at your incredulous bullshit. While you're looking for places to stick needles in me like some metaphorical voodoo doll, probably because your own life has gone to such shit that you can't help but displace to try and lighten the mental load, I'm going to stand here as the best damn wrestler in the UWA. I've got the record and the title to prove it.
What you're doing is what insecure people do, Ash. You're looking for weaknesses, trying to bring me down with your version of the truth and get inside my head. Deep down behind your bad bitch attitude, you're a scared child who knows you're stepping into the ring with the monster your dead momma always warned you about. Yeah, I fucking went there. You're praying that you can make this personal enough that you'll get some kind of unchained (see what I did there?) outburst from me that'll let you sneak out a win like your sister did back before Tragic Engagement. Trying to take me off my game in other words.
Sorry to say, though, that you're wasting your time. And mine. No, scratch that. I'm not sorry about anything."
The title back at rest, Sentinel moves around the ring slowly just to be in motion, his free hand going up to lift his sunglasses so that those red eyes can stare into the camera.
Sentinel: "There's no need to magnify how wrong you are by detailing what's gone down with me for the last few months. If you've got functioning senses, you already know. That's what makes this whole diatribe of yours so fucking ricockulous. You saw what everyone else saw, know what everyone else knows..."
Tilting his head back, he shows off the scar given by Benimaru's tanto before Sentinel put nine or so bullets in his face. Lowering his gaze back to the camera, the peculiar half-smile finally disappears.
Sentinel: "...so congratulations on wasting half an hour proving just how full of shit you are. You want some reality go with that? You're in fucking luck. Look at the roster of this company. Go down the entire list of names. You know what they all have in common? If they've set foot in that ring with me one on one, they've left a loser. Your sister, Jeszika, Vince Jones, Silver Baron...the list goes on. It's a list you're about to join. History is on my side, Ash, and so is the truth.
Thing is, though, I ain't mad. It's about what I expected from someone like you. There's no need to get pissed off or threaten to put you on the shelf or something like that, because even if I did you wouldn't shut up and your mind wouldn't change. And that's not what I'm out for anyway. With this title over my shoulder, the pressure is on...more than it ever was when I chased it. When it comes to the other wrestlers in this company, I don't have to like them to recognize that at least some of them have the potential to take this belt off me. Your sister could take it back if she had the chance, for example, and it's for that reason that despite all that went down, I have a modicum of respect for her. That goes for a couple of others, too.
Yourself not included."
He laughs again, softly, mostly under his breath.
Sentinel: "Yeah, respect. Funny thing that. What was it you asked, how you and yours ever respected me or something like that?"
The laughing gets a little louder, but nothing like his pre-viewing bout of it back at the lake. His red eyes close for a moment as he sucks in a deep breath, trying to will the rest of the mirth away.
Sentinel: "I've got a better question: why the fuck should I care whether you respect me or not? Because that word has burned me enough to last a lifetime already and I'm not even 30 yet. Benimaru said he respected me, too. I had to put half a clip in his face for killing my best friend, not to mention shooting my wife. Zachariah said he respected me, then went into business for himself and ended up in the hospital for his efforts. The Dead Men did too, then they inserted themselves into my personal business. Now they can ride without me. When that word, and the meaning behind it, passes from me to someone else it means something. When it gets thrown at me by almost anyone else? I call bullshit. So fucking forgive me if I'm not shedding a tear cause you don't like me no more.
See, my life right now? It doesn't get any better than this no matter how many people try to tell me I'm wrong. My family is tended to whether they want anything to do with me or not, I answer to no one but myself and I'm the goddamn UWA World Heavyweight Champion. Tell me, Ash, exactly why any of that is wrong? Maybe because of that throwaway insult about my being a deadbeat dad? Projecting much? I'm not allowed to see my daughter, so just throw that comment in with the rest of your inanity. Said comment, though, is coming from someone who doesn't even care to support her family and friends because she has self-esteem issues or something. Fucking spare me. Go ahead and sit your ass in front of a camera again, open that ball-washer of yours wide and try, one more time, to call me out on the carpet. Tell me why I'm wrong, tell me that I'm gonna lose this title and call me every name in the book. Nothing you say or do, Ash, will change that I'm the champion no matter how personal you try and fail to make it.
I'll just stick to what a wise man, and a hell of a wrestler himself, once said to sum this shit up: 'No matter what they do, how they do it and why, all a champion has to do to shut up the detractors is this:'"
Lifting the title off his shoulder, Sentinel holds it up high, making sure the camera gets everything in. He keeps that ten pounds of gold aloft for several long moments before putting it back over his shoulder. Speaking again, his tone growl-like.
Sentinel: "Bring it, bitch."
Shutting off the camera, Sentinel brings the message to an abrupt close.
