Post by Sentinel on Jun 26, 2015 18:08:48 GMT -6
The curtain serving as the last barrier between Gorilla and the slowly-dispersing mass of humanity out in the arena proper is thrown back, allowing a still-seething Sentinel to storm through with the World Heavyweight Championship slung haphazardly over one broad shoulder. For those who tuned into the latest Mayhem, his posture and attitude should come as no surprise. For the second time in way too short a period for the Crimson Demon's liking, one of the vaunted Kenyon sisters had handed him a one-on-one loss. This time it was Ashley, the current North American Champion. That should have taken some of the sting away, honestly. After all, if a champion has to be beaten in the game of professional wrestling, there's worse ways to go down than to be defeated by a fellow champion.
Key word there: should.
Sentinel: "Lippy little cunt..."
The words are just a note short of being a growl instead of something understandable. Sentinel stops in his tracks, his hand going to the back of his head first, then coming around to his chin. He adjusted it slightly, his right thumb running across a stubble-coated cheek on that side of his face. Expression contorting, the big man looks for all the world like he's about to snatch the first warm body and twist it into a shape not intended by nature. But instead...there comes laughter. Harsh, violent laughter. Sentinel lowers his hand and spits on the concrete floor before him before putting the toe of his boot on the miniscule puddle and grinding it down.
Sentinel: "Easier than I thought to get that taste out of my mouth. Bitch doesn't kick half as hard as she thinks she does."
Turning his head sharply to one side, drawing a few relieving pops with the effort, Sentinel arranges the title a little more neatly on his shoulder and continues heading back toward his locker room. Make no mistake: the rage lingers within this beast of a man. It has simply been put to sleep temporarily. His burning red eyes tell that tale with due clarity. He turns the bend without a breath of acknowledgement to anyone he passes...that is until Thumper stumbles into his path.
The two nearly collide but Sentinel checks his step just in time. Thumper, however, is still put off-balance by nearly smacking into someone and whirls around with acid on his tongue and sharp words to follow. He gets about half his sentence out...
Thumper: "Damn it, can't you morons look where the hell-"
...before he fully makes his turn and sees who he's talking to. The blood drains from his face while Sentinel just glowers at him. You can practically hear the 'Jaws' theme playing in the background before Sentinel cuts in.
Sentinel: "Don't stop on my account. What were you about to say?"
Thumper: "Look, I wasn't watching where I was going...my bad...seriously..."
It's hard to tell now if Sentinel is amused or just trying to make Thumper hose his drawers. He raises both brows and gestures with his hand, an almost comical look of feigned interest in his face as he tries to urge Thumper to finish his thought.
Thumper: "...I don't want any trouble."
Sentinel: "No trouble, huh? Not even going to bother me with questions, sport? Don't want to ask how it feels to know that the Kenyons now both have a victory over me to their credit? Don't want to ask why that walking stereotype Vince Jones stuck his giant nose in my goddamn business? No, wait, I know..."
The champion feigns a mirthful smile.
Sentinel: "...you wanna know what it was like having my wife show up and slap me so hard that I tasted blood. That's it, right?"
He drapes a heavy arm around Thumper's shoulders, pulling the guy in close and friendly-like while the interviewer is getting more uncomfortable by the moment. If he could have melted into a puddle of slime and slopped his way under the nearest door, he would have. Anything to spare him what he knew was about to happen.
Thumper: "Well...I guess..."
Sentinel: "See? Then there's something to be salvaged from the situation after all! So in order, allow me to answer those questions:
The hand on Thumper's other shoulder squeezed with uncomfortable tightness and the corded muscles in the champion's arm seemed to be crushing Thumper against Sentinel's torso. It was damn near a headlock. Damn near was too close for comfort by about six football fields.
Sentinel: "I don't, because he's half-retarded and it fucking sucked."
Sentinel turns fluidly and unwraps his arm from around Thumper while keeping enough of a hold of him to not let him scamper away. Instead, he straightens the man's lapels and claps that hand roughly on his shoulder again, staring him in the eye.
Sentinel: "Apology accepted."
Turning away from the interviewer, Sentinel starts walking down the hallway as in the background Thumper breathes a HUGE sigh of relief. The interlude did nothing for the Destroyer's mood, though. He hitches up the title on his shoulder a bit and as he looks up from that he sees Oliver Georgio himself approaching...not necessarily toward Sentinel but just from the opposite direction.
Of course, when the owner of the company sees his World Champion fresh off a loss, well...words just beg to be exchanged, don't they? Sentinel isn't looking to have any of that, walking past Olivier even when the gentleman stops and makes eye contact. It takes him actually addressing the champion for Olivier to get him to stop.
Olivier Georgio: "What happened out there, Sentinel? I don't mind telling you that it looks off-kilter when our top champion falls short fresh off winning the title."
The resounding slapping sound you hear at that point is the simultaneous facepalming of every viewer, rattling many a window and causing many an animal to look up in sudden wonder like dogs spotting squirrels.
Sentinel: "Excuse me?"
Sentinel's attention is on the owner over his shoulder, watching him as Olivier walks around to face the champion. There's no reservation in this guy and with good reason.
Olivier Georgio: "It didn't surprise me that you defeated Bethany Kenyon at the pay-per-view. However, tonight is another story. Is there a reason why you were defeated by Ashley out there? Is it the pressure of being champion? Did you not recover enough between Spring Slaughter and now? Or was it something else?"
Looking the unflinching owner in the eye, not so much trying to intimidate him as to understand the thrust of his questions, Sentinel inhales deeply and lets go before answering.
Sentinel: "What, exactly, are you trying to say, Olivier? Better yet, what are you trying to get me to say?"
At first, the owner's expression is neutral. By the time Sentinel poses his own question, however, a small smile has formed on Georgio's face.
Sentinel: "What?"
Olivier Georgio: "Pleasantly surprised, that's all. I expected you to lay out excuses for tonight, tossing blame at everyone but yourself."
The champion's expression twitches slightly.
Sentinel: "Losses happen. Ashley took advantage of my distraction and got the duke. Bully for her. I'm still the World Heavyweight Champion and her reign still has an asterisk next to it the size of a six-foot-tall teddy bear."
The allusion isn't lost on Olivier, who chuckles quietly at that...not so much out of enjoyment of Sentinel's acerbic humor but more the champion's candor.
Sentinel: "The little witch lit a fire under my ass whether she knows it or not. But I'm not the one who will get burned by it. That pleasure's reserved for her AND Jones."
Olivier Georgio: "Funny you should mention him. I've decided that you get an opportunity at him next week as you team with the Cornbread Mafia versus him and the tag team champions. I realize that you were looking forward to a little time to sort things out..."
He leaves the implications behind that comment hanging in the air for a moment before continuing.
Olivier Georgio: "...but I believe this is an opportunity that you will relish and that will allow for a little, shall we say, damage control?"
Yet another implication, and a most unpleasant one. Sentinel stares a hole through Olivier as his free hand clenches into a tight fist. He chances a glance past the owner then and in that same moment his fist loosens. Leaning against the wall further down, presumably next to his locker room door, is Talon. She's not looking in Sentinel's direction, lost in thought perhaps, but something about her presence puts a cap on the monster's bottle.
Olivier sees the champion's line of sight and turns as well, though he turns swiftly back to Sentinel. Much like Thumper earlier, some of the color has drained from the big man's face but only enough to render him normal-looking. For him, anyway.
Sentinel: "Yeah, you're probably right."
The champion finally gives the boss his attention again and Olivier seems to note the change as well as the reason why. Before he can comment on either, Sentinel cuts him off.
Sentinel: "Make sure when you deliver the news to the rest, especially to my opponents, you give them your condolences."
One of Olivier's brows elevates, but Sentinel is already moving past him and down the hall toward his locker room. Making a 'hmph' sound, Georgio continues on his way at which point the focus re-centers on Sentinel. He's a few paces away when Talon looks his way, having had her eyes closed as she did her thinking but knowing the weight and cadence of her husband's steps. The moment isn't as tense as it was at the top of the show a couple hours ago, but there's still heavy uncertainty in the air.
The two stare at one another for several moments before Sentinel turns and opens the door, holding it open for Talon to enter. One can see some of the weight coming off the woman's shoulders as she makes her way in, followed by Sentinel.
Sentinel: "You could have waited inside, you know."
Talon: "Didn't know I had that kind of permission anymore."
Closing the door behind him, Sentinel's expression registers his distaste with her tone.
Sentinel: "Don't be that way."
The Angel of Sin ignores that comment as she lowers herself carefully onto the sofa, an arm draped over the back as she looks up at her husband.
Talon: "So what happened out there tonight?"
He hadn't even had a chance to set the title on the table before she came out with that one. Sentinel stares at her with a look of 'are you fucking serious?' before sighing and sitting at the other end of the sofa. He rubs his face and eyes with his hands, laughing dryly behind them.
Sentinel: "You too, huh? Think maybe I should invite everyone else in here, form an orderly line and all that shit so they can ask me the same damn thing? Thumper would have if I gave him the chance and Olivier already grilled me on it, so I guess I'm not surprised that you're throwing it in my face, too."
Talon: "You should have beaten her sorry ass down. She's not on your level. Few people here are."
He snorts quietly.
Talon: "Am I wrong?"
She tilts her head just so, eyes a bit wider than usual as if she's daring him to respond in contrary to her thoughts. Sentinel turns her way and stares hard into those acid-green eyes of Talon's, his jaw tightening.
Sentinel: "She beat me, all right? The fuck do you want me to say otherwise?
Talon: "I want you to tell me why she beat you."
Sentinel: "Because of Vince Jones getting my attention, maybe? Or because she's a cheap shot artist? The sun was in my eyes! The safety was on! My horoscope lied! Goddammit, Ren, what the fuck are you expecting to hear here?!"
He gets to his feet with such fervor that he upsets the table, sending the title clattering to the floor. Despite herself, Talon flinches slightly. Sentinel is looming just by standing there...not over her, but close enough that his shadow falls on her a bit. But she holds her ground and doesn't change her position, daring to look right into his red eyes with a half-sneer on her face.
Talon: "I want you to tell me that the little twat beat you like a fucking drum, that for all the shit you talked about not caring about anyone or anything you were just blowing steam out of your giant ass!"
She's not up as sprightly as Sentinel, but Talon is still up and in his face, perhaps the only woman on the planet who could come close to that without him leaning down a bit. She hammers her painted fingertip into the middle of his chest hard.
Talon: "You beat the hell out of that little tramp and she still got one over on you?! Because you couldn't keep your eye on the ball? Correct me if I'm wrong, but haven't you already stomped Jones' ass before?! YES, you HAVE, because I remember being at ringside to fucking see it!"
Sentinel: "You'd better back the hell off, Ren...!"
Talon: "Or what?! Can you not handle the truth? That's what gets me most about this, the fact that that bitch is right and you know it but are too goddamn stubborn to admit it! Using our family and your bullshit as an excuse for the asshole that you're being isn't gonna fly with me! You're better than that, or I THOUGHT you were!"
She stops when Sentinel grabs the hand connected to the heavily-poking finger. She wheels back with her other hand but he catches that one mid-swing. Talon wrenches back but isn't breaking out of his grip. In fact, she's pulled forward until they're literally nose to nose, staring into one another's eyes.
It's a tense yet hopeful moment. But rather than giving in to a desire that there's no denying existed with him at that moment, Sentinel instead lets go and takes a step back. He reaches down to gather up his championship, taking it over to the counter and setting it next to his bag. Talon stares after him, caught between fury and disappointment. She takes a step foward but he snaps when she does.
Sentinel: "No."
Talon: "No what?!"
Putting the belt in his bag, Sentinel turns back to her, not looking angry so much as defeated. Not in terms of his match though that was obviously part of it, but just...like he had nothing left.
Sentinel: "Go home, Ren."
Talon: "That shit again?! Now who's pushing who away?!"
Sentinel slides the strap of the bag over his shoulder. He wasn't even going to bother changing or showering before he left.
Sentinel: "You want to know why I lost tonight?"
Talon: "What?!"
It isn't the question, but the way he asks it that has Talon pausing in confusion. His voice is quiet, almost gentle in its notes. It's a voice that seems odd coming from someone like him. It has his bass to be sure, but still.
Sentinel: "Do you want to know why I lost tonight?"
Talon folds her arms across her chest.
Talon: "Yeah, why?"
The champion walks to her, then next to her as if to pass her, stopping at just that point.
Sentinel: "Because you weren't there."
The red-haired woman outright snarls, turning to stare at her husband.
Talon: "Blaming it on me?!"
He shakes his head slowly.
Sentinel: "No. But I think you see now the full effect of what the last few months have done to me. While you were trying to 'figure things out' in the background, everyone else got what they were screaming for. And I can't see the way back, Ren. All I see is red-tinged darkness."
She winces just slightly at that comment, Sentinel not even looking her way.
Sentinel: "Even the title doesn't feel right in my hands. Because it was supposed to be ours, not mine. Remember? Remember how we talked about how it was gonna be when I won the belt, how you'd be at my side and how we'd rip the town a new one and close every bar we could before taking it home with us?"
Sentinel sighs with a shake of his head.
Sentinel: "God, that feels like forever ago."
Talon: "Dorian..."
But he's already on his way out the door. Talon looks after him, a little too dumbstruck by that moment of revelation and remembrance to try and chase after him. Her phone rings at that point and she takes it from her pocket to answer it, but we don't hear who she's talking to before the scene fades to black.
The feed returns and Sentinel is right before us, looking sobered for lack of a better term. Post-match the adrenaline is still running and the fire is burning white-hot. It's easy to lash out verbally and even physically to an extent. But that isn't where the Destroyer of Dreams is right at this moment. The rush of battle has long since ebbed, the relative chill of the night air has surrounded him and reality has struck with all the subtlety of a glass baseball bat.
He's sitting in a room that's mostly bare, reclining on a battered sofa that's seen better days, one steel-toed boot propped up on a scuffed, pockmarked coffee table where a cell phone sits. There's a brown bottle in his hand, the letters 'I.B.C.' visible in the low light as he takes a long swig from it. No sooner is the vessel lowered than does the phone start buzzing insistently. Leaning forward as the sofa creaks in protest under his frame, Sentinel picks up the phone.
Sentinel: "Yeah?"
Alessandro: "Ever the rude one, bestia."
Sentinel: "Fuck you, Alessandro. Your boss is the one who didn't show Monday night."
There's silence for a moment on the other end, then...
Alessandro: "He was...instructed...to refrain from making an appearance. This time, however, he will be in Jackson. Word has reached him that an adversary has been making the rounds, so to speak."
Sentinel: "Grigori has been busy, I see."
Alessandro: "Mm. You will expect him, then?"
Sentinel: "Yeah..."
That was literally all the man needed to hear. The call is ended from Alessandro's side and Sentinel tosses his phone back on the table, leaning into the sofa once again. He knows all of this is being taken in and prepared for broadcast, but the champion is well beyond giving a fuck at this point. When he lifts the bottle again, finishing off the contents, we spot the title sitting on the cushion next to him. It's the cleanest thing in the room at this point, up to and including the man who owns it for the time being.
Sentinel tosses the bottle to the floor uncaringly, sucking down a lungful of the stale air before he starts talking to no one in particular but about several directly.
Sentinel: "So around this point I'm guessing Ashley Kenyon feels pretty good about herself and she has a right to. She pinned the World Heavyweight Champion and showed up her sister and several other people in the process. Who the hell knew it was such a big deal to beat me, huh? I mean, maybe, for all the smack she's talking after the fact, I should just go hand her this championship and admit that she was the better fighter that night. That'd be the honorable thing to do, wouldn't it?"
He turns to look at the title, lifting it carefully in one hand as one might a priceless, fragile piece of art. Still staring at the belt, he continues his thought.
Sentinel: "Extenuating circumstances be damned, Ashley is only the second person to ever defeat me one-on-one in the UWA. But before she goes lording it over her sister, she should remember that Bethany didn't need King Kong lumbering around ringside throwing bananas and trying to get my attention to find her opening. And as for beating Vince Jones? Yeah, been there already. Took every shot that bastard could throw my way and still came this close to separating his head from his shoulders before the one-two-three.
Losses don't bother me. At first, yeah, I was fucking pissed. But then I let everything fall into perspective and realized that Ashley didn't do anything that special. There's a big difference in beating a champion in a non-title encounter and coming at them with intent to take their prize from them. Same goes for the reverse. If a title is being chased you can expect a more ferocious fight depending on just how much the other guy covets what you're lugging around. Getting the point yet?"
Draping the belt over his shoulder, the Destroyer leans back again, head tilted back and his eyes closed.
Sentinel: "When something is on the line, you find out what a motherfucker is capable of, for better or worse. Sometimes you don't got no clue that you're wagering somethin' until the fight's already started. Shit gets serious quick, fast and in a hurry."
For about a minute he's quiet. Idly does his hand, more specifically his fingertips, caress the gold belt over his shoulder. When his eyes snap open, it's out of the blue as though he were waking suddenly from a nightmare. But there's no tension to be seen. Perhaps the gesture is for effect as he pushes up, sitting forward and staring at the stationary camera hard.
Sentinel: "And you probably didn't know it till just now, monkey-boy, but you just make this little situation about a whole fuckin' lot."
No real question who he's talking about there: Vince Jones. The man whose distraction could rightfully be considered the opening that Ashley needed to get her win over this man days prior.
Sentinel: "I'll get to wrestling's answer to Beavis & Butt-Head in a moment. For now, 'Jonesy', you got my full fuckin' attention."
As if to emphasize that point, Sentinel points the appropriate two fingers at his red eyes, then back at the camera.
Sentinel: "You think I disrespected you? You want to make something out of nothing because your pride couldn't handle someone not stepping aside for your entitled ass? Old man, just for breathing my air I could have put you through that concrete wall and not a one of your punk-ass lackeys could've stopped me. Or did you forget about me nearly putting you through the ring when I was fresh off the injured reserve months ago? I'd want to forget about it too considering all the shit you talked leading up to that fight.
But that's about your speed, ain't it? You stroll out with your posse and puke ebonics all over a goddamn microphone and when it comes to results...you don't come close to backing up all the flapping of your big-ass lips. Yeah, you've been champion before. But more people remember a little girl making you tap out than that reign. Part of that is her not shutting up about it, but the point stands. You're a walking stereotype, the prototypical assclown from the projects with enough scratch for some cheap rims to put on his Pinto and a couple throwback jerseys and maybe a bargain-bin Ice Cube CD. And you think that makes you hard. What it makes you is a joke, just like a lot of what you say."
He indicates the belt where necessary in the process of making his point, but it's secondary to the scathing diatribe. Still, it's front and center, held with all the pride this monster can muster.
Sentinel: "People tell me that since I've broken my silence I haven't been the same. To which I say look at what's draped over my shoulder right now. You're goddamn right I'm not the same. I'm the only man in this company to have ever held it. If I get my way, it'll stay like that. I'll be the LAST damn person to hold it because NO ONE will ever take it off me. That ain't realistic thinking but that's my mindset. That's the attitude I carry with me every damn show because anything less ain't doing this title justice. It might as well be my life.
I know the target's on my back. Everyone's looking for a piece of my hide and this past Mayhem hammered it home. But you jumped on the wrong wolf, asshole. I may not run with a pack anymore and I'm damn sure more than a little roughed-up and scarred, but I'm still the motherfuckin' Alpha in this place. And until you beat me straight up, Jonesy, you're nothin' but a whelp feeding off my scraps. Come this Monday night, I'm going to put you in your place: under my boot and flat on your black ass."
Sentinel gets to his feet and gestures to the camera, which moves to follow him. Someone was behind it, apparently, but there's no telling who. We get another brief fade before the promo starts up again, this time outside. For all we know it could be the same campground-type place that Sentinel was at pre-Mayhem in Monroe. There's no streetlights or really any lights at all aside from the moon and stars. Out here away from the glare of the city, there's more stars in the sky than you could ever believe.
Sentinel is at the edge of the water, the surface still for the most part which makes it a mirror for the sky above. Were there not so many damn trees nearby, one might have trouble telling sky from land. There Sentinel stands, leather jacket over the black tank he'd been wearing inside, the chains hanging from his jeans catching the moonlight nicely. But the title's what really gets the gleam, held reverently in his powerful hand.
Sentinel: "But here's the thing: I'm not waiting for the main event to get my hands on you, Vinnie Jay. The very fucking moment that Mayhem goes on the air, I'm going to that ring and I'm calling you out. And either you show up and take the beating you have coming like the man you claim you are, or I pull your bitch card. That means I go backstage, wrap this chain around your watermelon-sized neck and drag your ass to the ring to give you the beating you got coming.
Choice is yours. Make the right one."
He turns enough to give one glare to the camera, emphasizing the seriousness of his point, before turning back to the water with a snort.
Sentinel: "Which, I suppose, means I'd better get to the other two-thirds of the match. Starting with my partners."
A small bit of laughter escapes the Crimson Demon...and for once it doesn't sound evil.
Sentinel: "Know what? I'm-a keep this short, Worleys: you're my kind of people. Sang Réal and whoever else can talk all the shit they want, but you two? You know what you are and you own that shit. You make it yours and wear it with pride, no matter what anyone else things. And I like that. I'm not calling us the same kind of people because that's not true. But we think the same, get what I mean?"
He brings his free hand up, tapping his index finger to his temple.
Sentinel: "This is the point where people are expecting threats along the lines of you two being told to keep your hands off Jones or to stay out of my way or some shit...and that's not happening. I may be an asshole, but I'm not a fucking asshole. See, I've already stomped more holes in Sang Réal than I can count and you two owe them a lickin'. I got no problem smacking them around a little more, of course, because just looking at them makes me want to choke them into a torpor...but I'm happy to share the wealth. And if you two get the chance to drill Jones a bit? More power to you. I'll enjoy the show, know what I'm saying?"
Yeah, Dorian had a little redneck in him. Born and raised on the Tennessee/North Carolina line? Better believe that shit. It just doesn't come out much. But like a European of any sort having spent many a year in America and coming across someone from back home, the accent and attitude are quick to return. Didn't take him long to get serious again, though.
Sentinel: "Just bear in mind that I'm not having another loss on my record. Monday night, we go out there and send a message. First with a win, then with an ass-beating beyond the bell if we see fit. Long as we see eye-to-eye on that, the good times can keep on rollin'."
He turns now, facing the camera and adjusting the title just so. His arms are folded across his chest as he gives the camera a level stare, unable to hinder the twitch of his lips, threatening to smirk.
Sentinel: "Sang Réal again, huh? You assholes just can't catch a break. And before you go plastering your faces all over the television again with another cut-and-paste diatribe, get your noses out of my ass. I recognized that you were two of the few who believed I was innocent back before Spring Slaughter. Funny how that didn't stop me from almost taking your heads off. Funnier how reminding me isn't gonna stop me this time, either.
Except that I'm literally out of things to say where you two are concerned. How many different metaphors and euphemisms can be used to tell you how badly I'm going to kick your asses from one side of the arena to the other? You could do the same, maybe act like you realize that you're in a match with a demon from the gates of hell, but instead you're too worried about your reputations and reminding Cornbread Mafia, a team who has consistently had your number over several fights, of what you think of them. No one gives a damn what you think. Olivier keeps you around because it's good fun for the people in the stands to see you get slapped down physically and, in the case of the new boy, verbally.
The fact that you're champions? It impresses no one. And this may hurt my partners' feelings, but no one would care if they were champions either. Don't know if you noticed, but there isn't much of a tag division in this place. Bene Elhoim are too busy being lapdogs for some chick in a mask and a possessed Teddy Ruxpin. Cornbread are looking for a good time and winning when they have to work. Bob and Lacey could probably be something if the photo bug could get his face out of her crotch for four seconds. Amy Zing could team with just about anyone and do well for herself. Hell, if I had half a mind I could call Zachariah..."
He realizes where his thoughts are going and cuts himself off, getting back to the point before he dug himself into a deeper hole than he wanted.
Sentinel: "Point is, you're the best of the rest. The cream of the crap. Can I make it any clearer? When there's no machine to rage against, someone will eventually luck into glory and that's what you two have done. Bred for success my ass."
That smirk finally makes it out.
Sentinel: "Here's how this goes: you saunter down to the ring to a tune WAY too cool for you, you waggle your title belts around and throw out some trite catchphrases...and then me and the Worleys knock your teeth so far down your silver spoon throats that you're crapping pearls for a week. And if Jones tries to step in, I'll beat him like the mongrel he is."
Didn't take long for the smirk to go away. Replaced with a snarl, Sentinel glares at the camera.
Sentinel: "The time for talk is over. The next time you lay eyes on me, you'll be two seconds away from a fist colliding with your teeth. And mark my fucking words: it's ALL downhill from there."
Turning and walking out of frame, we get a last look at the lovely view before the feed cuts out.
Key word there: should.
Sentinel: "Lippy little cunt..."
The words are just a note short of being a growl instead of something understandable. Sentinel stops in his tracks, his hand going to the back of his head first, then coming around to his chin. He adjusted it slightly, his right thumb running across a stubble-coated cheek on that side of his face. Expression contorting, the big man looks for all the world like he's about to snatch the first warm body and twist it into a shape not intended by nature. But instead...there comes laughter. Harsh, violent laughter. Sentinel lowers his hand and spits on the concrete floor before him before putting the toe of his boot on the miniscule puddle and grinding it down.
Sentinel: "Easier than I thought to get that taste out of my mouth. Bitch doesn't kick half as hard as she thinks she does."
Turning his head sharply to one side, drawing a few relieving pops with the effort, Sentinel arranges the title a little more neatly on his shoulder and continues heading back toward his locker room. Make no mistake: the rage lingers within this beast of a man. It has simply been put to sleep temporarily. His burning red eyes tell that tale with due clarity. He turns the bend without a breath of acknowledgement to anyone he passes...that is until Thumper stumbles into his path.
The two nearly collide but Sentinel checks his step just in time. Thumper, however, is still put off-balance by nearly smacking into someone and whirls around with acid on his tongue and sharp words to follow. He gets about half his sentence out...
Thumper: "Damn it, can't you morons look where the hell-"
...before he fully makes his turn and sees who he's talking to. The blood drains from his face while Sentinel just glowers at him. You can practically hear the 'Jaws' theme playing in the background before Sentinel cuts in.
Sentinel: "Don't stop on my account. What were you about to say?"
Thumper: "Look, I wasn't watching where I was going...my bad...seriously..."
It's hard to tell now if Sentinel is amused or just trying to make Thumper hose his drawers. He raises both brows and gestures with his hand, an almost comical look of feigned interest in his face as he tries to urge Thumper to finish his thought.
Thumper: "...I don't want any trouble."
Sentinel: "No trouble, huh? Not even going to bother me with questions, sport? Don't want to ask how it feels to know that the Kenyons now both have a victory over me to their credit? Don't want to ask why that walking stereotype Vince Jones stuck his giant nose in my goddamn business? No, wait, I know..."
The champion feigns a mirthful smile.
Sentinel: "...you wanna know what it was like having my wife show up and slap me so hard that I tasted blood. That's it, right?"
He drapes a heavy arm around Thumper's shoulders, pulling the guy in close and friendly-like while the interviewer is getting more uncomfortable by the moment. If he could have melted into a puddle of slime and slopped his way under the nearest door, he would have. Anything to spare him what he knew was about to happen.
Thumper: "Well...I guess..."
Sentinel: "See? Then there's something to be salvaged from the situation after all! So in order, allow me to answer those questions:
The hand on Thumper's other shoulder squeezed with uncomfortable tightness and the corded muscles in the champion's arm seemed to be crushing Thumper against Sentinel's torso. It was damn near a headlock. Damn near was too close for comfort by about six football fields.
Sentinel: "I don't, because he's half-retarded and it fucking sucked."
Sentinel turns fluidly and unwraps his arm from around Thumper while keeping enough of a hold of him to not let him scamper away. Instead, he straightens the man's lapels and claps that hand roughly on his shoulder again, staring him in the eye.
Sentinel: "Apology accepted."
Turning away from the interviewer, Sentinel starts walking down the hallway as in the background Thumper breathes a HUGE sigh of relief. The interlude did nothing for the Destroyer's mood, though. He hitches up the title on his shoulder a bit and as he looks up from that he sees Oliver Georgio himself approaching...not necessarily toward Sentinel but just from the opposite direction.
Of course, when the owner of the company sees his World Champion fresh off a loss, well...words just beg to be exchanged, don't they? Sentinel isn't looking to have any of that, walking past Olivier even when the gentleman stops and makes eye contact. It takes him actually addressing the champion for Olivier to get him to stop.
Olivier Georgio: "What happened out there, Sentinel? I don't mind telling you that it looks off-kilter when our top champion falls short fresh off winning the title."
The resounding slapping sound you hear at that point is the simultaneous facepalming of every viewer, rattling many a window and causing many an animal to look up in sudden wonder like dogs spotting squirrels.
Sentinel: "Excuse me?"
Sentinel's attention is on the owner over his shoulder, watching him as Olivier walks around to face the champion. There's no reservation in this guy and with good reason.
Olivier Georgio: "It didn't surprise me that you defeated Bethany Kenyon at the pay-per-view. However, tonight is another story. Is there a reason why you were defeated by Ashley out there? Is it the pressure of being champion? Did you not recover enough between Spring Slaughter and now? Or was it something else?"
Looking the unflinching owner in the eye, not so much trying to intimidate him as to understand the thrust of his questions, Sentinel inhales deeply and lets go before answering.
Sentinel: "What, exactly, are you trying to say, Olivier? Better yet, what are you trying to get me to say?"
At first, the owner's expression is neutral. By the time Sentinel poses his own question, however, a small smile has formed on Georgio's face.
Sentinel: "What?"
Olivier Georgio: "Pleasantly surprised, that's all. I expected you to lay out excuses for tonight, tossing blame at everyone but yourself."
The champion's expression twitches slightly.
Sentinel: "Losses happen. Ashley took advantage of my distraction and got the duke. Bully for her. I'm still the World Heavyweight Champion and her reign still has an asterisk next to it the size of a six-foot-tall teddy bear."
The allusion isn't lost on Olivier, who chuckles quietly at that...not so much out of enjoyment of Sentinel's acerbic humor but more the champion's candor.
Sentinel: "The little witch lit a fire under my ass whether she knows it or not. But I'm not the one who will get burned by it. That pleasure's reserved for her AND Jones."
Olivier Georgio: "Funny you should mention him. I've decided that you get an opportunity at him next week as you team with the Cornbread Mafia versus him and the tag team champions. I realize that you were looking forward to a little time to sort things out..."
He leaves the implications behind that comment hanging in the air for a moment before continuing.
Olivier Georgio: "...but I believe this is an opportunity that you will relish and that will allow for a little, shall we say, damage control?"
Yet another implication, and a most unpleasant one. Sentinel stares a hole through Olivier as his free hand clenches into a tight fist. He chances a glance past the owner then and in that same moment his fist loosens. Leaning against the wall further down, presumably next to his locker room door, is Talon. She's not looking in Sentinel's direction, lost in thought perhaps, but something about her presence puts a cap on the monster's bottle.
Olivier sees the champion's line of sight and turns as well, though he turns swiftly back to Sentinel. Much like Thumper earlier, some of the color has drained from the big man's face but only enough to render him normal-looking. For him, anyway.
Sentinel: "Yeah, you're probably right."
The champion finally gives the boss his attention again and Olivier seems to note the change as well as the reason why. Before he can comment on either, Sentinel cuts him off.
Sentinel: "Make sure when you deliver the news to the rest, especially to my opponents, you give them your condolences."
One of Olivier's brows elevates, but Sentinel is already moving past him and down the hall toward his locker room. Making a 'hmph' sound, Georgio continues on his way at which point the focus re-centers on Sentinel. He's a few paces away when Talon looks his way, having had her eyes closed as she did her thinking but knowing the weight and cadence of her husband's steps. The moment isn't as tense as it was at the top of the show a couple hours ago, but there's still heavy uncertainty in the air.
The two stare at one another for several moments before Sentinel turns and opens the door, holding it open for Talon to enter. One can see some of the weight coming off the woman's shoulders as she makes her way in, followed by Sentinel.
Sentinel: "You could have waited inside, you know."
Talon: "Didn't know I had that kind of permission anymore."
Closing the door behind him, Sentinel's expression registers his distaste with her tone.
Sentinel: "Don't be that way."
The Angel of Sin ignores that comment as she lowers herself carefully onto the sofa, an arm draped over the back as she looks up at her husband.
Talon: "So what happened out there tonight?"
He hadn't even had a chance to set the title on the table before she came out with that one. Sentinel stares at her with a look of 'are you fucking serious?' before sighing and sitting at the other end of the sofa. He rubs his face and eyes with his hands, laughing dryly behind them.
Sentinel: "You too, huh? Think maybe I should invite everyone else in here, form an orderly line and all that shit so they can ask me the same damn thing? Thumper would have if I gave him the chance and Olivier already grilled me on it, so I guess I'm not surprised that you're throwing it in my face, too."
Talon: "You should have beaten her sorry ass down. She's not on your level. Few people here are."
He snorts quietly.
Talon: "Am I wrong?"
She tilts her head just so, eyes a bit wider than usual as if she's daring him to respond in contrary to her thoughts. Sentinel turns her way and stares hard into those acid-green eyes of Talon's, his jaw tightening.
Sentinel: "She beat me, all right? The fuck do you want me to say otherwise?
Talon: "I want you to tell me why she beat you."
Sentinel: "Because of Vince Jones getting my attention, maybe? Or because she's a cheap shot artist? The sun was in my eyes! The safety was on! My horoscope lied! Goddammit, Ren, what the fuck are you expecting to hear here?!"
He gets to his feet with such fervor that he upsets the table, sending the title clattering to the floor. Despite herself, Talon flinches slightly. Sentinel is looming just by standing there...not over her, but close enough that his shadow falls on her a bit. But she holds her ground and doesn't change her position, daring to look right into his red eyes with a half-sneer on her face.
Talon: "I want you to tell me that the little twat beat you like a fucking drum, that for all the shit you talked about not caring about anyone or anything you were just blowing steam out of your giant ass!"
She's not up as sprightly as Sentinel, but Talon is still up and in his face, perhaps the only woman on the planet who could come close to that without him leaning down a bit. She hammers her painted fingertip into the middle of his chest hard.
Talon: "You beat the hell out of that little tramp and she still got one over on you?! Because you couldn't keep your eye on the ball? Correct me if I'm wrong, but haven't you already stomped Jones' ass before?! YES, you HAVE, because I remember being at ringside to fucking see it!"
Sentinel: "You'd better back the hell off, Ren...!"
Talon: "Or what?! Can you not handle the truth? That's what gets me most about this, the fact that that bitch is right and you know it but are too goddamn stubborn to admit it! Using our family and your bullshit as an excuse for the asshole that you're being isn't gonna fly with me! You're better than that, or I THOUGHT you were!"
She stops when Sentinel grabs the hand connected to the heavily-poking finger. She wheels back with her other hand but he catches that one mid-swing. Talon wrenches back but isn't breaking out of his grip. In fact, she's pulled forward until they're literally nose to nose, staring into one another's eyes.
It's a tense yet hopeful moment. But rather than giving in to a desire that there's no denying existed with him at that moment, Sentinel instead lets go and takes a step back. He reaches down to gather up his championship, taking it over to the counter and setting it next to his bag. Talon stares after him, caught between fury and disappointment. She takes a step foward but he snaps when she does.
Sentinel: "No."
Talon: "No what?!"
Putting the belt in his bag, Sentinel turns back to her, not looking angry so much as defeated. Not in terms of his match though that was obviously part of it, but just...like he had nothing left.
Sentinel: "Go home, Ren."
Talon: "That shit again?! Now who's pushing who away?!"
Sentinel slides the strap of the bag over his shoulder. He wasn't even going to bother changing or showering before he left.
Sentinel: "You want to know why I lost tonight?"
Talon: "What?!"
It isn't the question, but the way he asks it that has Talon pausing in confusion. His voice is quiet, almost gentle in its notes. It's a voice that seems odd coming from someone like him. It has his bass to be sure, but still.
Sentinel: "Do you want to know why I lost tonight?"
Talon folds her arms across her chest.
Talon: "Yeah, why?"
The champion walks to her, then next to her as if to pass her, stopping at just that point.
Sentinel: "Because you weren't there."
The red-haired woman outright snarls, turning to stare at her husband.
Talon: "Blaming it on me?!"
He shakes his head slowly.
Sentinel: "No. But I think you see now the full effect of what the last few months have done to me. While you were trying to 'figure things out' in the background, everyone else got what they were screaming for. And I can't see the way back, Ren. All I see is red-tinged darkness."
She winces just slightly at that comment, Sentinel not even looking her way.
Sentinel: "Even the title doesn't feel right in my hands. Because it was supposed to be ours, not mine. Remember? Remember how we talked about how it was gonna be when I won the belt, how you'd be at my side and how we'd rip the town a new one and close every bar we could before taking it home with us?"
Sentinel sighs with a shake of his head.
Sentinel: "God, that feels like forever ago."
Talon: "Dorian..."
But he's already on his way out the door. Talon looks after him, a little too dumbstruck by that moment of revelation and remembrance to try and chase after him. Her phone rings at that point and she takes it from her pocket to answer it, but we don't hear who she's talking to before the scene fades to black.
The feed returns and Sentinel is right before us, looking sobered for lack of a better term. Post-match the adrenaline is still running and the fire is burning white-hot. It's easy to lash out verbally and even physically to an extent. But that isn't where the Destroyer of Dreams is right at this moment. The rush of battle has long since ebbed, the relative chill of the night air has surrounded him and reality has struck with all the subtlety of a glass baseball bat.
He's sitting in a room that's mostly bare, reclining on a battered sofa that's seen better days, one steel-toed boot propped up on a scuffed, pockmarked coffee table where a cell phone sits. There's a brown bottle in his hand, the letters 'I.B.C.' visible in the low light as he takes a long swig from it. No sooner is the vessel lowered than does the phone start buzzing insistently. Leaning forward as the sofa creaks in protest under his frame, Sentinel picks up the phone.
Sentinel: "Yeah?"
Alessandro: "Ever the rude one, bestia."
Sentinel: "Fuck you, Alessandro. Your boss is the one who didn't show Monday night."
There's silence for a moment on the other end, then...
Alessandro: "He was...instructed...to refrain from making an appearance. This time, however, he will be in Jackson. Word has reached him that an adversary has been making the rounds, so to speak."
Sentinel: "Grigori has been busy, I see."
Alessandro: "Mm. You will expect him, then?"
Sentinel: "Yeah..."
That was literally all the man needed to hear. The call is ended from Alessandro's side and Sentinel tosses his phone back on the table, leaning into the sofa once again. He knows all of this is being taken in and prepared for broadcast, but the champion is well beyond giving a fuck at this point. When he lifts the bottle again, finishing off the contents, we spot the title sitting on the cushion next to him. It's the cleanest thing in the room at this point, up to and including the man who owns it for the time being.
Sentinel tosses the bottle to the floor uncaringly, sucking down a lungful of the stale air before he starts talking to no one in particular but about several directly.
Sentinel: "So around this point I'm guessing Ashley Kenyon feels pretty good about herself and she has a right to. She pinned the World Heavyweight Champion and showed up her sister and several other people in the process. Who the hell knew it was such a big deal to beat me, huh? I mean, maybe, for all the smack she's talking after the fact, I should just go hand her this championship and admit that she was the better fighter that night. That'd be the honorable thing to do, wouldn't it?"
He turns to look at the title, lifting it carefully in one hand as one might a priceless, fragile piece of art. Still staring at the belt, he continues his thought.
Sentinel: "Extenuating circumstances be damned, Ashley is only the second person to ever defeat me one-on-one in the UWA. But before she goes lording it over her sister, she should remember that Bethany didn't need King Kong lumbering around ringside throwing bananas and trying to get my attention to find her opening. And as for beating Vince Jones? Yeah, been there already. Took every shot that bastard could throw my way and still came this close to separating his head from his shoulders before the one-two-three.
Losses don't bother me. At first, yeah, I was fucking pissed. But then I let everything fall into perspective and realized that Ashley didn't do anything that special. There's a big difference in beating a champion in a non-title encounter and coming at them with intent to take their prize from them. Same goes for the reverse. If a title is being chased you can expect a more ferocious fight depending on just how much the other guy covets what you're lugging around. Getting the point yet?"
Draping the belt over his shoulder, the Destroyer leans back again, head tilted back and his eyes closed.
Sentinel: "When something is on the line, you find out what a motherfucker is capable of, for better or worse. Sometimes you don't got no clue that you're wagering somethin' until the fight's already started. Shit gets serious quick, fast and in a hurry."
For about a minute he's quiet. Idly does his hand, more specifically his fingertips, caress the gold belt over his shoulder. When his eyes snap open, it's out of the blue as though he were waking suddenly from a nightmare. But there's no tension to be seen. Perhaps the gesture is for effect as he pushes up, sitting forward and staring at the stationary camera hard.
Sentinel: "And you probably didn't know it till just now, monkey-boy, but you just make this little situation about a whole fuckin' lot."
No real question who he's talking about there: Vince Jones. The man whose distraction could rightfully be considered the opening that Ashley needed to get her win over this man days prior.
Sentinel: "I'll get to wrestling's answer to Beavis & Butt-Head in a moment. For now, 'Jonesy', you got my full fuckin' attention."
As if to emphasize that point, Sentinel points the appropriate two fingers at his red eyes, then back at the camera.
Sentinel: "You think I disrespected you? You want to make something out of nothing because your pride couldn't handle someone not stepping aside for your entitled ass? Old man, just for breathing my air I could have put you through that concrete wall and not a one of your punk-ass lackeys could've stopped me. Or did you forget about me nearly putting you through the ring when I was fresh off the injured reserve months ago? I'd want to forget about it too considering all the shit you talked leading up to that fight.
But that's about your speed, ain't it? You stroll out with your posse and puke ebonics all over a goddamn microphone and when it comes to results...you don't come close to backing up all the flapping of your big-ass lips. Yeah, you've been champion before. But more people remember a little girl making you tap out than that reign. Part of that is her not shutting up about it, but the point stands. You're a walking stereotype, the prototypical assclown from the projects with enough scratch for some cheap rims to put on his Pinto and a couple throwback jerseys and maybe a bargain-bin Ice Cube CD. And you think that makes you hard. What it makes you is a joke, just like a lot of what you say."
He indicates the belt where necessary in the process of making his point, but it's secondary to the scathing diatribe. Still, it's front and center, held with all the pride this monster can muster.
Sentinel: "People tell me that since I've broken my silence I haven't been the same. To which I say look at what's draped over my shoulder right now. You're goddamn right I'm not the same. I'm the only man in this company to have ever held it. If I get my way, it'll stay like that. I'll be the LAST damn person to hold it because NO ONE will ever take it off me. That ain't realistic thinking but that's my mindset. That's the attitude I carry with me every damn show because anything less ain't doing this title justice. It might as well be my life.
I know the target's on my back. Everyone's looking for a piece of my hide and this past Mayhem hammered it home. But you jumped on the wrong wolf, asshole. I may not run with a pack anymore and I'm damn sure more than a little roughed-up and scarred, but I'm still the motherfuckin' Alpha in this place. And until you beat me straight up, Jonesy, you're nothin' but a whelp feeding off my scraps. Come this Monday night, I'm going to put you in your place: under my boot and flat on your black ass."
Sentinel gets to his feet and gestures to the camera, which moves to follow him. Someone was behind it, apparently, but there's no telling who. We get another brief fade before the promo starts up again, this time outside. For all we know it could be the same campground-type place that Sentinel was at pre-Mayhem in Monroe. There's no streetlights or really any lights at all aside from the moon and stars. Out here away from the glare of the city, there's more stars in the sky than you could ever believe.
Sentinel is at the edge of the water, the surface still for the most part which makes it a mirror for the sky above. Were there not so many damn trees nearby, one might have trouble telling sky from land. There Sentinel stands, leather jacket over the black tank he'd been wearing inside, the chains hanging from his jeans catching the moonlight nicely. But the title's what really gets the gleam, held reverently in his powerful hand.
Sentinel: "But here's the thing: I'm not waiting for the main event to get my hands on you, Vinnie Jay. The very fucking moment that Mayhem goes on the air, I'm going to that ring and I'm calling you out. And either you show up and take the beating you have coming like the man you claim you are, or I pull your bitch card. That means I go backstage, wrap this chain around your watermelon-sized neck and drag your ass to the ring to give you the beating you got coming.
Choice is yours. Make the right one."
He turns enough to give one glare to the camera, emphasizing the seriousness of his point, before turning back to the water with a snort.
Sentinel: "Which, I suppose, means I'd better get to the other two-thirds of the match. Starting with my partners."
A small bit of laughter escapes the Crimson Demon...and for once it doesn't sound evil.
Sentinel: "Know what? I'm-a keep this short, Worleys: you're my kind of people. Sang Réal and whoever else can talk all the shit they want, but you two? You know what you are and you own that shit. You make it yours and wear it with pride, no matter what anyone else things. And I like that. I'm not calling us the same kind of people because that's not true. But we think the same, get what I mean?"
He brings his free hand up, tapping his index finger to his temple.
Sentinel: "This is the point where people are expecting threats along the lines of you two being told to keep your hands off Jones or to stay out of my way or some shit...and that's not happening. I may be an asshole, but I'm not a fucking asshole. See, I've already stomped more holes in Sang Réal than I can count and you two owe them a lickin'. I got no problem smacking them around a little more, of course, because just looking at them makes me want to choke them into a torpor...but I'm happy to share the wealth. And if you two get the chance to drill Jones a bit? More power to you. I'll enjoy the show, know what I'm saying?"
Yeah, Dorian had a little redneck in him. Born and raised on the Tennessee/North Carolina line? Better believe that shit. It just doesn't come out much. But like a European of any sort having spent many a year in America and coming across someone from back home, the accent and attitude are quick to return. Didn't take him long to get serious again, though.
Sentinel: "Just bear in mind that I'm not having another loss on my record. Monday night, we go out there and send a message. First with a win, then with an ass-beating beyond the bell if we see fit. Long as we see eye-to-eye on that, the good times can keep on rollin'."
He turns now, facing the camera and adjusting the title just so. His arms are folded across his chest as he gives the camera a level stare, unable to hinder the twitch of his lips, threatening to smirk.
Sentinel: "Sang Réal again, huh? You assholes just can't catch a break. And before you go plastering your faces all over the television again with another cut-and-paste diatribe, get your noses out of my ass. I recognized that you were two of the few who believed I was innocent back before Spring Slaughter. Funny how that didn't stop me from almost taking your heads off. Funnier how reminding me isn't gonna stop me this time, either.
Except that I'm literally out of things to say where you two are concerned. How many different metaphors and euphemisms can be used to tell you how badly I'm going to kick your asses from one side of the arena to the other? You could do the same, maybe act like you realize that you're in a match with a demon from the gates of hell, but instead you're too worried about your reputations and reminding Cornbread Mafia, a team who has consistently had your number over several fights, of what you think of them. No one gives a damn what you think. Olivier keeps you around because it's good fun for the people in the stands to see you get slapped down physically and, in the case of the new boy, verbally.
The fact that you're champions? It impresses no one. And this may hurt my partners' feelings, but no one would care if they were champions either. Don't know if you noticed, but there isn't much of a tag division in this place. Bene Elhoim are too busy being lapdogs for some chick in a mask and a possessed Teddy Ruxpin. Cornbread are looking for a good time and winning when they have to work. Bob and Lacey could probably be something if the photo bug could get his face out of her crotch for four seconds. Amy Zing could team with just about anyone and do well for herself. Hell, if I had half a mind I could call Zachariah..."
He realizes where his thoughts are going and cuts himself off, getting back to the point before he dug himself into a deeper hole than he wanted.
Sentinel: "Point is, you're the best of the rest. The cream of the crap. Can I make it any clearer? When there's no machine to rage against, someone will eventually luck into glory and that's what you two have done. Bred for success my ass."
That smirk finally makes it out.
Sentinel: "Here's how this goes: you saunter down to the ring to a tune WAY too cool for you, you waggle your title belts around and throw out some trite catchphrases...and then me and the Worleys knock your teeth so far down your silver spoon throats that you're crapping pearls for a week. And if Jones tries to step in, I'll beat him like the mongrel he is."
Didn't take long for the smirk to go away. Replaced with a snarl, Sentinel glares at the camera.
Sentinel: "The time for talk is over. The next time you lay eyes on me, you'll be two seconds away from a fist colliding with your teeth. And mark my fucking words: it's ALL downhill from there."
Turning and walking out of frame, we get a last look at the lovely view before the feed cuts out.
