Post by Sentinel on Sept 10, 2015 9:24:03 GMT -6
The unmistakable, trademark roar of a Harley-Davidson greets us as the camera kicks on, showing a quiet downtown street in the first hours of daylight. The dust in the distance gives away the direction from which it comes, growling down the near-empty street. Sentinel, naturally, is the one in front, guiding the 2014 Road King on a distinct path as, against his back, Talon leans in with her arms wrapped around his waist. The view turns, taking in the approach, the pass and the aftermath as Sentinel slows the ride briefly at the intersection before making a turn. Shifting to that side road, we watch briefly as the motorcycle is pulled to a stop. Stepping off, Sentinel takes the hand of his wife and manager as she dismounts and then puts his attention on the building in front of him.
The brick edifice is still sturdy but it had seen better days. It was in dire need of several things, not the least of which being new paint, better windows and a spanking new shingle, especially the latter since the current one has been so faded by the elements that you'd never know what the place was even there for. Setting his helmet on the handlebars along with Talon's, Sentinel runs a hand through his blue-black hair and stares at the pocked, chipping door with the near-rusted lock, a man stirred by emotion. Talon comes up beside him and looks the place over, trying unsuccessfully to peer through the dirt-caked windows as she comments offhandedly.
Talon: "I can't see a damn thing through this. You sure this is a good idea, barging in here without sending in an exterminator first or something?"
Chuckling, Sentinel fishes some keys out of his jeans pocket and casts an amused glance at his wife as he walks to the door.
Sentinel: "Afraid of a few spiders or rats?"
Talon: "More afraid you'll lead me into one or the other for a giggle."
Brushing off her cool stare, which softens after a moment anyway, Sentinel turns back to the door and tries to finagle the locked door open. After trying three or four keys, he finds the right one and the old mechanism clicks. Hand on the knob, he breathes in deeply and closes his eyes, needing a moment to center himself. Talon's hand comes to rest on his shoulder.
Talon: "Memories?"
Sentinel: "Yeah...go with that."
Pushing inward, having to put a little muscle into it, Sentinel opens the door and steps in with Talon following cautiously behind. The view switches, taking in their reactions to the state of the place: a thick layer of dust lays over everything in sight from the counter with the old-style cash register to the pictures and other items hanging from the walls. Sets of chairs and tables fill up most of the main floor though there are other bits of furniture such as sofas and beds. The place isn't overly large, so the items are placed with an eye towards economy of space. From within, we can see a few display pieces on the other side of the windows which were near invisible before.
Sentinel walks through the place quietly, each step kicking up a small cloud of dust and debris. He runs his fingertips over the backs of one of the chairs as he passes, moving toward the wall and taking down a framed picture which he rubs the grime away from with the palm of his hand. It's hard to make out the people in the picture, but the sight of them brings a sad smile to the man's face. Talon comes up to get a look from his left side, her arm going about his waist.
Talon: "That's...?"
Sentinel: "Yeah."
The Angel of Sin smiles faintly.
Talon: "You don't keep a lot of these around the house."
Sentinel: "I keep my sentimentality locked up where it belongs."
Talon: "Except when it comes to us."
He nods, putting the picture back on the wall and turning to her.
Sentinel: "I don't like focusing too much on the past."
Folding her arms, Talon gazes at her husband curiously.
Talon: "So why are you here now, then?"
Sentinel: "Because..."
The big man trails off a bit, looking toward the double-doors leading into the back area. He starts walking in that direction with Talon hurrying to keep up, not continuing his thought until he's through those doors. What we see now is a large, well-equipped workshop with many an old-school woodworking tool set about. Despite time doing its duty on the gear, none of it really looks the worse for wear. Every tool is in its proper place, just as it was left the last time those doors were locked. Sentinel, his hands in his pockets, sighs openly.
Sentinel: "...I need to start considering the future."
Talon: "And this does that how?"
His tone becomes firmer, yet slightly quieter. Knowing the seriousness of his thoughts and the words they invoke, Sentinel wants no question as to his intentions.
Sentinel: "I can't wrestle forever, Ren. Don't misunderstand me, because I know I have at least another decade in me if the Fates are kind. But shit happens in that ring when you're dealing with the kinds of people we deal with regularly..."
He turns just enough to look over his shoulder at Talon.
Sentinel: "...and I don't want to wonder where the money for the bills is coming from or if our daughter is going to have the life she deserves because I find myself unable to work for whatever reason. That..."
His attention returns to the layout before him.
Sentinel: "...plus my family's memory deserves better."
The redhead walks forward now, sliding her arms around one of his and resting her head on his shoulder. The words were touching yet foreboding at the same time, and seeking to turn the tone toward something a little more pleasant, she queries.
Talon: "Do you still know how to work this stuff?"
Sentinel: "It hasn't been as long between pieces as it has been since this place was last opened. Remember, I did a lot of our furniture at the workshop at home. Just couldn't bring myself to do it here."
Talon: "So what happens first?"
Sliding his arm free, the Destroyer puts it and its mate around Talon, holding her against him chest to chest.
Sentinel: "First, this place gets a good cleaning. I've got some people on the horn who can check the wiring and plumbing and all that. One of my father's old employees still lives around here too and he can help me with getting the machinery here up to snuff and probably help run the place a little. It just needs time and attention at this point."
She smiles, but shoots him a reproving look.
Talon: "Time which you don't presently have, considering your title defense coming up. That was part of my asking 'why', baby."
Sentinel: "If I didn't know you were saying that out of love, I'd be insulted."
Talon: "But you DO know."
Sentinel: "Yeah, I do, just like I know I have my championship back and, once again, Jones ate defeat on Mayhem. My hand is still banged up..."
He lifts and flexes his fingers a bit beneath the wrapping and brace, smirking.
Sentinel: "...but it was solid enough to light him and his punk friends up while Bethany beat her sister like she's been deserving for months. I held on to my end of the bargain, leaving the arena with the title over my shoulder where it has belonged since the UWA opened its doors. Vince, for all his lip, just ended up kissing my boot yet again."
While Talon is giving him another serious look, he melts it right off her face with a heated kiss. Upon breaking she mutters something about 'not fighting fair' but is still wearing a smile when she puts her head against his chest. His wrapped hand rests on the back of her head and for all intents and purposes she feels naught but calm from him. Yet over her head, his eyes are staring fiercely across the way, his jaw set and his expression tight.
Sentinel: "Don't worry, baby. I got this."
The scene fades, turning back to Sentinel a bit later on in the morning. Talon is not part of the moment this time, the champion alone on his Harley and roaring up the SoCo Trail, a winding two-lane road running along the side of a mountain between Cherokee and the more populated areas of western North Carolina. Fog still hangs low over the forests in the valleys below but above the sky is already a bright blue with the sun peeking through puffy clouds. It's obviously going to be a beautiful day. And even lovelier days are coming, as there are fewer more stunning sights than the Blue Ridge Parkway in the midst of fall when the colored leaves make the already-vibrant forest look like it's on fire in the only pleasing way possible.
But Sentinel's thoughts are far from the majesty of nature all around him. Nearly alone on the curve-laden road, the camera follows his path for a while as his voice speaks over the scenery.
Sentinel, via voice-over: "It's both scary and sad how far some people will go to avoid admitting they're wrong. Lying, cheating, stealing...sometimes going so far as to hurt or kill those in their way just for the sake of their rose-colored, wrong-headed version of the truth. It's a level of desperation which is far too prevalent in the world these days. I've experienced both ends and, sadly, that makes me a little too qualified to go off on tangents about such things."
He laughs quietly while on the road he lifts his hand in greeting to another biker and his passenger who pass him on the path.
Sentinel, via voice-over: "It can take a powerful wake-up call to snap people out of a state like this. Sometimes, it never happens. Not even the death of someone important can raise them from the deluded torpor they've wrapped themselves in. Years and years of forced ignorance and deluded perception have dug the trench between truth and falsehood so deep that there's no way in hell they can climb their way out again. And that's a damn sad state to be in. People wonder what went wrong. They muse on unused potential and missed opportunities. They use those to try and talk these people out of their self-destruction.
But it's never that easy. It almost never works. Even staring down the barrel of a loaded gun can't break their asshole zen. You know all about that, don't you, Vince?"
The number one contender's name is spoken with black vitriol. It may as well have been an old-world curse for as darkly as Sentinel spat the single syllable. On screen he disappears into one of the Parkway's many tunnels, coming out the other end half a minute later.
Sentinel, via voice-over: "You've been at the business of violence, in multiple forms no doubt, for how long? Ten years? Fifteen? Fighting in back alleys, octagons and rings anywhere you could sign on and see the cash flowing? That sounds about right. You're a prize fighter, Jones, and ordinarily there'd be no shame in that. It's all about the war within whatever confines are chosen for the night. It's about beating the hell out of another man and walking out with the winner's share of the purse. Fuck the other guy if he has to be carried out. He didn't want it enough, or he wasn't willing to go the same lengths as you...or maybe he was just some kid who didn't know what he was getting into.
Story of your career, ain't it? Even if I'm wrong, I probably ain't far off the mark. You wear the mark of a birth-to-death, fight-or-die warrior on your flesh like a badge of honor. And if you weren't such an arrogant whoreson, I might respect you for it. You'd actually remind me a lot of my brother and partner Zachariah..."
The clouds above are gathering a bit more now, darkening just a touch. The road widens a little as Sentinel rides onto the parkway, his delivery gaining in intensity.
Sentinel, via voice-over: "...except you ain't nowhere near his level. You're the whole other side of the coin. Zachariah is a hateful, sadomasochistic sonofabitch on his best day, but he respects the art of war. Whether it was for the money or to prove a point, he walked in and out of those arenas, usually on the winning end, and he did it earning respect from every man whose blood he wore on his hands. You? You didn't get that respect, did you? You settled on its redheaded stepchild: fear.
Fear, Vince. That was your greatest weapon for the first part of your career in the UWA. Opponents took one look at your giant ass and it was born in them. And you did your part; you beat the hell out of almost everyone and put in a standard-making reign as North American Champion. But that time's over now, ain't it? You're finding out, no matter how hard you'll refuse to admit it, that the fear's gone. Even worse?"
Paused by a stop sign, the big man puts boot to pavement for a moment and glances skyward. The low rumble of thunder sounds off in the distance. His jaw sets slightly and he puts his eyes forward before tearing off a moment later, the camera remaining stationary as the scene goes to black.
Sentinel, via voice-over: "It would never have worked on me in the first place."
Cut to a few hours later with Sentinel pulling down a dirt road at the foot of a mountain. He rides up about half a mile before turning off into a more evenly-graveled driveway and stopping in front of a wide, two-car garage. He unstraps his skullcap-style helmet and removes his shades after shutting off the bike, sitting back for a second or two with a contemplative look on his face. The front door of the white, ranch-style house opens and a familiar face steps out onto the covered porch. The ponytailed man in the white tee and old jeans over black work boots turns his nearly-black eyes on Sentinel and cracks a small smile which the Destroyer returns.
Eric Donavan: "Glad you could make it. Sounded pretty serious on the phone."
Sentinel: "Yeah, got some heavy shit on my mind. Figured, considering the content, that you were the man to talk to. You sure this ain't an imposition?"
Eric Donavan: "Hell no. Don't even think that. Come on in."
Unstrapping the bag from the back of the bike, Sentinel heads into Eric's home, shutting the door behind him. Down the short front hall they go, past the living room and toward the kitchen...except that the Destroyer stops halfway as his attention is grabbed by a glass-walled trophy case against the south wall. No less than six or seven championship belts rest in that case along with a few trophies, multiple pictures and a few framed magazine covers. His expression is difficult to read as he stares silently, not realizing he's doing so until the Irish Dragon's voice snaps him out of it.
Eric Donavan: "Earth to Dorian."
Sentinel: "Huh?"
Blinking, Sentinel turns back to the smirking Eric, chuckling at himself.
Sentinel: "Sorry, man. Just admiring."
Eric Donavan: "Admiring? What, that?"
The irishman gestures to the trophy case, shrugging a little.
Eric Donavan: "Practically a lifetime ago."
Sentinel: "Doesn't make it any less impressive."
Eric Donavan: "Don't take this the wrong way, man, but you almost sound jealous."
Sentinel: "Why wouldn't I be? You did most of that by the time you were the age I am now. Packed a decade's worth of accolades into a couple years, all told."
Eric's typically-impassive expression manifests as his eyes wander over the contents of the case. As with Sentinel a few moments ago, its hard to discern where his thoughts are going. There's no chance to ask, either, as Lyra chooses that moment to come walk into the room from the main hall. A black gypsy skirt swishes about her legs while a champange-colored silk blouse hugs to her ample upper curves. Her black hair is swept up beautifully with a few tendrils left hanging to frame her angelic face. She looks between the serious men with a bright smile, walking over to Eric and getting up on her toes to kiss his cheek, somehow managing not to leave a red lip print there.
Lyra LeVeux-Donavan: "Showin' off, are we?"
Eric Donavan: "Man talk, gorgeous."
Lyra simply grins in response, giving Sentinel a nod of greeting which he returns with a brief smile. She turns back to Eric presently.
Eric Donavan: "Heading in early today?"
Lyra LeVeux-Donavan: "Have a few interviews t'handle, mi amor. Papa wants us ready early for holiday business. Speakin' of, you still thinkin' o' makin' time down dere too?"
Eric Donavan: "Yeah. Tell dad I'll call him tomorrow about it."
Lyra LeVeux-Donavan: "He'll be happy t'hear dat. But I'd better get movin'. You two have fun."
Sentinel: "Drive carefully."
She nods to them both before taking her leave. Sentinel casts the trophy case another look before finally following Eric into the kitchen. Taking a seat at the dining room table with his bag set on the floor, Sentinel stares at his hands as Eric grabs a couple Fat Tires out of the fridge and puts one before his guest before sitting down himself.
Eric Donavan: "So...what's this serious business you wanted to discuss?"
Sentinel: "The future."
Twisting the top off his brew, Eric takes a long sip, wiping the spare drop from his lips with his thumb.
Eric Donavan: "Getting towards that time?"
Sentinel: "Might be..."
Opening his bottle, Sentinel takes a slow sip as well while Eric stares at him searchingly. The scene cuts to black in such a moment and returns to the present. Might be later that day or it might be another day entirely. What's certain is that Sentinel is back on the parkway, pulled over at one of the many overlooks. The view is stunning with houses and towns visible within the trees as well as Mount Mitchell, the tallest mountain east of the Mississippi River, visible in the distance. Sentinel is leaning against the side of his bike, half-sitting, with the World Heavyweight Champion draped around the handlebars in plain sight. His long hair is wrapped into a tight braid, blacker than the studded-and-strapped leather jacket he's wearing over a black tank. The view starts at his right and comes around slowly to show his cold expression and those thick, body-wrenching arms folded across his broad chest.
Sentinel: "That's the difference between you and me, Jones..."
This must have been the scene of the voice-over from earlier, a pause taken for the sake of thought before we arrive at the continuation.
Sentinel: "...a difference shared by, let's say, Josef Stalin and Theodore Roosevelt. Stalin wanted nothing more than the respect of the Soviet people but the methods he used only brought fear. And there's a fine line between fear and anger. You push someone enough and they stop being afraid of you and start being ready to rip you a new one instead. Roosevelt? He commanded respect not through brutal methods or heavy-handedness, but through action and guts. You're talking about a man who delivered a speech with a bleeding bullet wound in his chest. An associate of the man said, and I quote, that 'Death had to take him sleeping, because if Teddy had been awake there would have been a fight'.
Think on that for a second. That, Vince, is respect. No one says that about people like Stalin because the only thing respectable about him was his mustache."
The champion smirks slightly, sliding his shades up to the top of his head and turning to face the camera viewing him at a stationary angle.
Sentinel: "I command that kind of respect. You? You don't even come close. And that's a shame because considering how dangerous you are in the ring and how you defined that North American Championship before Ashley whipped your ass and took it from you, you should be respected. But you're too much of a jackass to let that happen. Too hung up on talking smack that you can't back up, treating even your confidants and your woman like shit and too much other crap to list.
I say that knowing that the dirty end of the stick can be pointed right back at me, too, because my hands ain't clean either. But I recognized my mistakes before it got too late. I realized how wrong I was and started trying to right myself. Being back home with my family and having your bullshit snap me out of what would have been a bad decision helped put things in perspective. But if you're expecting thanks for that...well, fuck you. You're not getting anything from me outside of an ass-beating the likes of which you probably didn't get when it would have counted."
That smile disappears quickly.
Sentinel: "I'm going to do the world a favor at Raising Hell, Vince, by shutting you up for a while. A LONG while if I have my way. But beating you won't do that. I could drop you on your head and pin you for the one-two-three or crease your spine across my shoulders but that...that just wouldn't shut the mighty Vince Jones up, would it? No, that'll take extreme measures..."
Unfolding his arms, Sentinel flexes his left arm a few times, bending his elbow and extending the arm, clenching and releasing his fist, staring at the moving limb. The leather of his sleeve and the glove upon his hand creaks softly with each motion.
Sentinel: "...like laying you out with Dead End after Dead End...over and over until they have to drag your carcass to the hospital and wire your jaw shut. When I get done with you, I want you sucking three meals a day through a straw. I want Reno and the rest spared from your jive talk and bullshit. I want the world to take one look at what's left of your face and know that that's what happens when you disrespect the UWA World Heavyweight Champion.
I'll be the first to say that that's not the kind of talk that should be given from a man who's trying to straighten up and do right, but even my enemies have to admit that you have it coming. Hell, you've had it coming for months for stealing my title. Common sense says that after you've already tasted defeat at someone's hands, you come correct after that. You recognize that they got the better of you and could damn well do it again. But if that's not good enough in terms of perspective, let's try something simpler."
Arms fold again after Sentinel takes the title off the handlebars of the bike and drapes it over his broad shoulder. The view swings around a bit, taking in the champ from the front.
Sentinel: "While you were handed an opportunity at this..."
He pats the title firmly.
Sentinel: "...I worked for my shot, earned it in Georgio's tournament by tearing through every opponent set before me. Including you. Fresh off the injured reserve and a crushing match with Joshua McBride and I still laid you out. Oh, you brought the pain...I'll give you that much. But think for a second: that wasn't me at my best. That wasn't World Heavyweight Champion-level me. The only person to stall me in that sweep was Bethany Kenyon, who built on that to win this title. A title I took from her in her inaugural defense in brutal fashion.
What do you bring to this other than a sense of entitlement and utter disrespect for the championship itself? You wanted it handed to you because fuck earning your accolades, right? You deserve it because you're Vince Fucking Jones, right?"
With every passing word, the champion becomes more agitated until he's speaking through gritted teeth, his gray eyes glaring hard at the camera. On the edge of an explosion, though, he reins it in and just stare coldly into the recorder, scoffing.
Sentinel: "I'll go into a goddamn grave before I let you defile this belt again."
Those words are left to hang for a few moments before Sentinel speaks again.
Sentinel: "Bethany, for the short time she held this title, held it with class and honor. That goes for Jeszika Gautier, too. Even Aerynn Donnelly, who I hate with a purple-fucking-passion, earned some respect for fighting her ass off and having a defining reign with this. That's a standard which I mean not to live up to, but surpass. To you it's a trinket, like one of your gold chains. Something to show off like a fashion accessory. Fucking bling."
The disgust overtakes all else again.
Sentinel: "That's why I won't let you get within breathing distance of this belt again, Vince. Because of the respect I have for it and the champions who came before me. Because in my several years in this business, I've always held championships in the utmost regard as symbols of personal excellence, holding myself up as a standard-bearer with them over my shoulder or around my waist. The IWA Universal Championship, the IWA World Tag Team Championship with my gorgeous wife..."
There's a giggle from off-camera. Five bucks to anyone who can guess who it is.
Sentinel: "...the APW World Tag Team Championships with Zachariah...and now this."
Again he slaps his large palm against the belt.
Sentinel: "Mark these words: this belt is staying with me for as long as I damn well want it to. The only way this championship will ever belong to someone else is because I allowed it. That's pretty big talk, don't you think? Are you laughing yet, maybe elbowing one your boys and pointing at the funny fucker talking noise on the TV?"
A grin sneaks onto his face under cold eyes.
Sentinel: "Get your yuks in while you can, laughing boy. It won't be funny no more when I smear you across that ring. And that's your problem right there, Vince, behind all the wrongness, the constant jabbering and everything else...you forgot somewhere along the way how to be a fucking man. You were at one time a dominant North American Champion. A year ago, people trembled when they heard your music hit or listened to you detailing what you were gonna do with them in that ring. When your matches were on, people stood up and took notice. It wasn't about you winning after a fashion, but wondering if anyone could beat you since wins seemed to be foregone conclusions.
But that was then.
In the here and now, all you can do is talk a good game. How many matches have you won lately? When's the last time people got on their feet because you were in the ring or spent more than a minute talking about your matches after the show? When's the last time, Vince, that you were in the main event on your own merits and not because you were sharing the ring with someone like me? There's not a lick of pride left in you because you spent what was left stealing my title."
Smacking the gold and leather draped over his broad shoulder a few times as if psyching himself up, Sentinel briefly gazes upon the belt emblazoned with his name before averting his glare back to the camera. Any semblance of a smile is long gone. There's only the Demon in his eyes.
Sentinel: "I'm done giving you credit for your accomplishments and praising your skill, same as I'm done listening to you flap your gums. So get it all out of your system now while you still can, while it still means something to someone even if that someone is a member of your posse who's paid to give a fuck about you. Once you're laid out for the one-two-three, staring up at the lights as I hold that belt high, nothing you say is going to matter to anyone.
Ever.
Again."
Turning pointedly back to the view before him, Sentinel falls silent. The scene cuts out after a moment with the focus on the championship and the champion's hard expression.
Fade to black.
The brick edifice is still sturdy but it had seen better days. It was in dire need of several things, not the least of which being new paint, better windows and a spanking new shingle, especially the latter since the current one has been so faded by the elements that you'd never know what the place was even there for. Setting his helmet on the handlebars along with Talon's, Sentinel runs a hand through his blue-black hair and stares at the pocked, chipping door with the near-rusted lock, a man stirred by emotion. Talon comes up beside him and looks the place over, trying unsuccessfully to peer through the dirt-caked windows as she comments offhandedly.
Talon: "I can't see a damn thing through this. You sure this is a good idea, barging in here without sending in an exterminator first or something?"
Chuckling, Sentinel fishes some keys out of his jeans pocket and casts an amused glance at his wife as he walks to the door.
Sentinel: "Afraid of a few spiders or rats?"
Talon: "More afraid you'll lead me into one or the other for a giggle."
Brushing off her cool stare, which softens after a moment anyway, Sentinel turns back to the door and tries to finagle the locked door open. After trying three or four keys, he finds the right one and the old mechanism clicks. Hand on the knob, he breathes in deeply and closes his eyes, needing a moment to center himself. Talon's hand comes to rest on his shoulder.
Talon: "Memories?"
Sentinel: "Yeah...go with that."
Pushing inward, having to put a little muscle into it, Sentinel opens the door and steps in with Talon following cautiously behind. The view switches, taking in their reactions to the state of the place: a thick layer of dust lays over everything in sight from the counter with the old-style cash register to the pictures and other items hanging from the walls. Sets of chairs and tables fill up most of the main floor though there are other bits of furniture such as sofas and beds. The place isn't overly large, so the items are placed with an eye towards economy of space. From within, we can see a few display pieces on the other side of the windows which were near invisible before.
Sentinel walks through the place quietly, each step kicking up a small cloud of dust and debris. He runs his fingertips over the backs of one of the chairs as he passes, moving toward the wall and taking down a framed picture which he rubs the grime away from with the palm of his hand. It's hard to make out the people in the picture, but the sight of them brings a sad smile to the man's face. Talon comes up to get a look from his left side, her arm going about his waist.
Talon: "That's...?"
Sentinel: "Yeah."
The Angel of Sin smiles faintly.
Talon: "You don't keep a lot of these around the house."
Sentinel: "I keep my sentimentality locked up where it belongs."
Talon: "Except when it comes to us."
He nods, putting the picture back on the wall and turning to her.
Sentinel: "I don't like focusing too much on the past."
Folding her arms, Talon gazes at her husband curiously.
Talon: "So why are you here now, then?"
Sentinel: "Because..."
The big man trails off a bit, looking toward the double-doors leading into the back area. He starts walking in that direction with Talon hurrying to keep up, not continuing his thought until he's through those doors. What we see now is a large, well-equipped workshop with many an old-school woodworking tool set about. Despite time doing its duty on the gear, none of it really looks the worse for wear. Every tool is in its proper place, just as it was left the last time those doors were locked. Sentinel, his hands in his pockets, sighs openly.
Sentinel: "...I need to start considering the future."
Talon: "And this does that how?"
His tone becomes firmer, yet slightly quieter. Knowing the seriousness of his thoughts and the words they invoke, Sentinel wants no question as to his intentions.
Sentinel: "I can't wrestle forever, Ren. Don't misunderstand me, because I know I have at least another decade in me if the Fates are kind. But shit happens in that ring when you're dealing with the kinds of people we deal with regularly..."
He turns just enough to look over his shoulder at Talon.
Sentinel: "...and I don't want to wonder where the money for the bills is coming from or if our daughter is going to have the life she deserves because I find myself unable to work for whatever reason. That..."
His attention returns to the layout before him.
Sentinel: "...plus my family's memory deserves better."
The redhead walks forward now, sliding her arms around one of his and resting her head on his shoulder. The words were touching yet foreboding at the same time, and seeking to turn the tone toward something a little more pleasant, she queries.
Talon: "Do you still know how to work this stuff?"
Sentinel: "It hasn't been as long between pieces as it has been since this place was last opened. Remember, I did a lot of our furniture at the workshop at home. Just couldn't bring myself to do it here."
Talon: "So what happens first?"
Sliding his arm free, the Destroyer puts it and its mate around Talon, holding her against him chest to chest.
Sentinel: "First, this place gets a good cleaning. I've got some people on the horn who can check the wiring and plumbing and all that. One of my father's old employees still lives around here too and he can help me with getting the machinery here up to snuff and probably help run the place a little. It just needs time and attention at this point."
She smiles, but shoots him a reproving look.
Talon: "Time which you don't presently have, considering your title defense coming up. That was part of my asking 'why', baby."
Sentinel: "If I didn't know you were saying that out of love, I'd be insulted."
Talon: "But you DO know."
Sentinel: "Yeah, I do, just like I know I have my championship back and, once again, Jones ate defeat on Mayhem. My hand is still banged up..."
He lifts and flexes his fingers a bit beneath the wrapping and brace, smirking.
Sentinel: "...but it was solid enough to light him and his punk friends up while Bethany beat her sister like she's been deserving for months. I held on to my end of the bargain, leaving the arena with the title over my shoulder where it has belonged since the UWA opened its doors. Vince, for all his lip, just ended up kissing my boot yet again."
While Talon is giving him another serious look, he melts it right off her face with a heated kiss. Upon breaking she mutters something about 'not fighting fair' but is still wearing a smile when she puts her head against his chest. His wrapped hand rests on the back of her head and for all intents and purposes she feels naught but calm from him. Yet over her head, his eyes are staring fiercely across the way, his jaw set and his expression tight.
Sentinel: "Don't worry, baby. I got this."
The scene fades, turning back to Sentinel a bit later on in the morning. Talon is not part of the moment this time, the champion alone on his Harley and roaring up the SoCo Trail, a winding two-lane road running along the side of a mountain between Cherokee and the more populated areas of western North Carolina. Fog still hangs low over the forests in the valleys below but above the sky is already a bright blue with the sun peeking through puffy clouds. It's obviously going to be a beautiful day. And even lovelier days are coming, as there are fewer more stunning sights than the Blue Ridge Parkway in the midst of fall when the colored leaves make the already-vibrant forest look like it's on fire in the only pleasing way possible.
But Sentinel's thoughts are far from the majesty of nature all around him. Nearly alone on the curve-laden road, the camera follows his path for a while as his voice speaks over the scenery.
Sentinel, via voice-over: "It's both scary and sad how far some people will go to avoid admitting they're wrong. Lying, cheating, stealing...sometimes going so far as to hurt or kill those in their way just for the sake of their rose-colored, wrong-headed version of the truth. It's a level of desperation which is far too prevalent in the world these days. I've experienced both ends and, sadly, that makes me a little too qualified to go off on tangents about such things."
He laughs quietly while on the road he lifts his hand in greeting to another biker and his passenger who pass him on the path.
Sentinel, via voice-over: "It can take a powerful wake-up call to snap people out of a state like this. Sometimes, it never happens. Not even the death of someone important can raise them from the deluded torpor they've wrapped themselves in. Years and years of forced ignorance and deluded perception have dug the trench between truth and falsehood so deep that there's no way in hell they can climb their way out again. And that's a damn sad state to be in. People wonder what went wrong. They muse on unused potential and missed opportunities. They use those to try and talk these people out of their self-destruction.
But it's never that easy. It almost never works. Even staring down the barrel of a loaded gun can't break their asshole zen. You know all about that, don't you, Vince?"
The number one contender's name is spoken with black vitriol. It may as well have been an old-world curse for as darkly as Sentinel spat the single syllable. On screen he disappears into one of the Parkway's many tunnels, coming out the other end half a minute later.
Sentinel, via voice-over: "You've been at the business of violence, in multiple forms no doubt, for how long? Ten years? Fifteen? Fighting in back alleys, octagons and rings anywhere you could sign on and see the cash flowing? That sounds about right. You're a prize fighter, Jones, and ordinarily there'd be no shame in that. It's all about the war within whatever confines are chosen for the night. It's about beating the hell out of another man and walking out with the winner's share of the purse. Fuck the other guy if he has to be carried out. He didn't want it enough, or he wasn't willing to go the same lengths as you...or maybe he was just some kid who didn't know what he was getting into.
Story of your career, ain't it? Even if I'm wrong, I probably ain't far off the mark. You wear the mark of a birth-to-death, fight-or-die warrior on your flesh like a badge of honor. And if you weren't such an arrogant whoreson, I might respect you for it. You'd actually remind me a lot of my brother and partner Zachariah..."
The clouds above are gathering a bit more now, darkening just a touch. The road widens a little as Sentinel rides onto the parkway, his delivery gaining in intensity.
Sentinel, via voice-over: "...except you ain't nowhere near his level. You're the whole other side of the coin. Zachariah is a hateful, sadomasochistic sonofabitch on his best day, but he respects the art of war. Whether it was for the money or to prove a point, he walked in and out of those arenas, usually on the winning end, and he did it earning respect from every man whose blood he wore on his hands. You? You didn't get that respect, did you? You settled on its redheaded stepchild: fear.
Fear, Vince. That was your greatest weapon for the first part of your career in the UWA. Opponents took one look at your giant ass and it was born in them. And you did your part; you beat the hell out of almost everyone and put in a standard-making reign as North American Champion. But that time's over now, ain't it? You're finding out, no matter how hard you'll refuse to admit it, that the fear's gone. Even worse?"
Paused by a stop sign, the big man puts boot to pavement for a moment and glances skyward. The low rumble of thunder sounds off in the distance. His jaw sets slightly and he puts his eyes forward before tearing off a moment later, the camera remaining stationary as the scene goes to black.
Sentinel, via voice-over: "It would never have worked on me in the first place."
Cut to a few hours later with Sentinel pulling down a dirt road at the foot of a mountain. He rides up about half a mile before turning off into a more evenly-graveled driveway and stopping in front of a wide, two-car garage. He unstraps his skullcap-style helmet and removes his shades after shutting off the bike, sitting back for a second or two with a contemplative look on his face. The front door of the white, ranch-style house opens and a familiar face steps out onto the covered porch. The ponytailed man in the white tee and old jeans over black work boots turns his nearly-black eyes on Sentinel and cracks a small smile which the Destroyer returns.
Eric Donavan: "Glad you could make it. Sounded pretty serious on the phone."
Sentinel: "Yeah, got some heavy shit on my mind. Figured, considering the content, that you were the man to talk to. You sure this ain't an imposition?"
Eric Donavan: "Hell no. Don't even think that. Come on in."
Unstrapping the bag from the back of the bike, Sentinel heads into Eric's home, shutting the door behind him. Down the short front hall they go, past the living room and toward the kitchen...except that the Destroyer stops halfway as his attention is grabbed by a glass-walled trophy case against the south wall. No less than six or seven championship belts rest in that case along with a few trophies, multiple pictures and a few framed magazine covers. His expression is difficult to read as he stares silently, not realizing he's doing so until the Irish Dragon's voice snaps him out of it.
Eric Donavan: "Earth to Dorian."
Sentinel: "Huh?"
Blinking, Sentinel turns back to the smirking Eric, chuckling at himself.
Sentinel: "Sorry, man. Just admiring."
Eric Donavan: "Admiring? What, that?"
The irishman gestures to the trophy case, shrugging a little.
Eric Donavan: "Practically a lifetime ago."
Sentinel: "Doesn't make it any less impressive."
Eric Donavan: "Don't take this the wrong way, man, but you almost sound jealous."
Sentinel: "Why wouldn't I be? You did most of that by the time you were the age I am now. Packed a decade's worth of accolades into a couple years, all told."
Eric's typically-impassive expression manifests as his eyes wander over the contents of the case. As with Sentinel a few moments ago, its hard to discern where his thoughts are going. There's no chance to ask, either, as Lyra chooses that moment to come walk into the room from the main hall. A black gypsy skirt swishes about her legs while a champange-colored silk blouse hugs to her ample upper curves. Her black hair is swept up beautifully with a few tendrils left hanging to frame her angelic face. She looks between the serious men with a bright smile, walking over to Eric and getting up on her toes to kiss his cheek, somehow managing not to leave a red lip print there.
Lyra LeVeux-Donavan: "Showin' off, are we?"
Eric Donavan: "Man talk, gorgeous."
Lyra simply grins in response, giving Sentinel a nod of greeting which he returns with a brief smile. She turns back to Eric presently.
Eric Donavan: "Heading in early today?"
Lyra LeVeux-Donavan: "Have a few interviews t'handle, mi amor. Papa wants us ready early for holiday business. Speakin' of, you still thinkin' o' makin' time down dere too?"
Eric Donavan: "Yeah. Tell dad I'll call him tomorrow about it."
Lyra LeVeux-Donavan: "He'll be happy t'hear dat. But I'd better get movin'. You two have fun."
Sentinel: "Drive carefully."
She nods to them both before taking her leave. Sentinel casts the trophy case another look before finally following Eric into the kitchen. Taking a seat at the dining room table with his bag set on the floor, Sentinel stares at his hands as Eric grabs a couple Fat Tires out of the fridge and puts one before his guest before sitting down himself.
Eric Donavan: "So...what's this serious business you wanted to discuss?"
Sentinel: "The future."
Twisting the top off his brew, Eric takes a long sip, wiping the spare drop from his lips with his thumb.
Eric Donavan: "Getting towards that time?"
Sentinel: "Might be..."
Opening his bottle, Sentinel takes a slow sip as well while Eric stares at him searchingly. The scene cuts to black in such a moment and returns to the present. Might be later that day or it might be another day entirely. What's certain is that Sentinel is back on the parkway, pulled over at one of the many overlooks. The view is stunning with houses and towns visible within the trees as well as Mount Mitchell, the tallest mountain east of the Mississippi River, visible in the distance. Sentinel is leaning against the side of his bike, half-sitting, with the World Heavyweight Champion draped around the handlebars in plain sight. His long hair is wrapped into a tight braid, blacker than the studded-and-strapped leather jacket he's wearing over a black tank. The view starts at his right and comes around slowly to show his cold expression and those thick, body-wrenching arms folded across his broad chest.
Sentinel: "That's the difference between you and me, Jones..."
This must have been the scene of the voice-over from earlier, a pause taken for the sake of thought before we arrive at the continuation.
Sentinel: "...a difference shared by, let's say, Josef Stalin and Theodore Roosevelt. Stalin wanted nothing more than the respect of the Soviet people but the methods he used only brought fear. And there's a fine line between fear and anger. You push someone enough and they stop being afraid of you and start being ready to rip you a new one instead. Roosevelt? He commanded respect not through brutal methods or heavy-handedness, but through action and guts. You're talking about a man who delivered a speech with a bleeding bullet wound in his chest. An associate of the man said, and I quote, that 'Death had to take him sleeping, because if Teddy had been awake there would have been a fight'.
Think on that for a second. That, Vince, is respect. No one says that about people like Stalin because the only thing respectable about him was his mustache."
The champion smirks slightly, sliding his shades up to the top of his head and turning to face the camera viewing him at a stationary angle.
Sentinel: "I command that kind of respect. You? You don't even come close. And that's a shame because considering how dangerous you are in the ring and how you defined that North American Championship before Ashley whipped your ass and took it from you, you should be respected. But you're too much of a jackass to let that happen. Too hung up on talking smack that you can't back up, treating even your confidants and your woman like shit and too much other crap to list.
I say that knowing that the dirty end of the stick can be pointed right back at me, too, because my hands ain't clean either. But I recognized my mistakes before it got too late. I realized how wrong I was and started trying to right myself. Being back home with my family and having your bullshit snap me out of what would have been a bad decision helped put things in perspective. But if you're expecting thanks for that...well, fuck you. You're not getting anything from me outside of an ass-beating the likes of which you probably didn't get when it would have counted."
That smile disappears quickly.
Sentinel: "I'm going to do the world a favor at Raising Hell, Vince, by shutting you up for a while. A LONG while if I have my way. But beating you won't do that. I could drop you on your head and pin you for the one-two-three or crease your spine across my shoulders but that...that just wouldn't shut the mighty Vince Jones up, would it? No, that'll take extreme measures..."
Unfolding his arms, Sentinel flexes his left arm a few times, bending his elbow and extending the arm, clenching and releasing his fist, staring at the moving limb. The leather of his sleeve and the glove upon his hand creaks softly with each motion.
Sentinel: "...like laying you out with Dead End after Dead End...over and over until they have to drag your carcass to the hospital and wire your jaw shut. When I get done with you, I want you sucking three meals a day through a straw. I want Reno and the rest spared from your jive talk and bullshit. I want the world to take one look at what's left of your face and know that that's what happens when you disrespect the UWA World Heavyweight Champion.
I'll be the first to say that that's not the kind of talk that should be given from a man who's trying to straighten up and do right, but even my enemies have to admit that you have it coming. Hell, you've had it coming for months for stealing my title. Common sense says that after you've already tasted defeat at someone's hands, you come correct after that. You recognize that they got the better of you and could damn well do it again. But if that's not good enough in terms of perspective, let's try something simpler."
Arms fold again after Sentinel takes the title off the handlebars of the bike and drapes it over his broad shoulder. The view swings around a bit, taking in the champ from the front.
Sentinel: "While you were handed an opportunity at this..."
He pats the title firmly.
Sentinel: "...I worked for my shot, earned it in Georgio's tournament by tearing through every opponent set before me. Including you. Fresh off the injured reserve and a crushing match with Joshua McBride and I still laid you out. Oh, you brought the pain...I'll give you that much. But think for a second: that wasn't me at my best. That wasn't World Heavyweight Champion-level me. The only person to stall me in that sweep was Bethany Kenyon, who built on that to win this title. A title I took from her in her inaugural defense in brutal fashion.
What do you bring to this other than a sense of entitlement and utter disrespect for the championship itself? You wanted it handed to you because fuck earning your accolades, right? You deserve it because you're Vince Fucking Jones, right?"
With every passing word, the champion becomes more agitated until he's speaking through gritted teeth, his gray eyes glaring hard at the camera. On the edge of an explosion, though, he reins it in and just stare coldly into the recorder, scoffing.
Sentinel: "I'll go into a goddamn grave before I let you defile this belt again."
Those words are left to hang for a few moments before Sentinel speaks again.
Sentinel: "Bethany, for the short time she held this title, held it with class and honor. That goes for Jeszika Gautier, too. Even Aerynn Donnelly, who I hate with a purple-fucking-passion, earned some respect for fighting her ass off and having a defining reign with this. That's a standard which I mean not to live up to, but surpass. To you it's a trinket, like one of your gold chains. Something to show off like a fashion accessory. Fucking bling."
The disgust overtakes all else again.
Sentinel: "That's why I won't let you get within breathing distance of this belt again, Vince. Because of the respect I have for it and the champions who came before me. Because in my several years in this business, I've always held championships in the utmost regard as symbols of personal excellence, holding myself up as a standard-bearer with them over my shoulder or around my waist. The IWA Universal Championship, the IWA World Tag Team Championship with my gorgeous wife..."
There's a giggle from off-camera. Five bucks to anyone who can guess who it is.
Sentinel: "...the APW World Tag Team Championships with Zachariah...and now this."
Again he slaps his large palm against the belt.
Sentinel: "Mark these words: this belt is staying with me for as long as I damn well want it to. The only way this championship will ever belong to someone else is because I allowed it. That's pretty big talk, don't you think? Are you laughing yet, maybe elbowing one your boys and pointing at the funny fucker talking noise on the TV?"
A grin sneaks onto his face under cold eyes.
Sentinel: "Get your yuks in while you can, laughing boy. It won't be funny no more when I smear you across that ring. And that's your problem right there, Vince, behind all the wrongness, the constant jabbering and everything else...you forgot somewhere along the way how to be a fucking man. You were at one time a dominant North American Champion. A year ago, people trembled when they heard your music hit or listened to you detailing what you were gonna do with them in that ring. When your matches were on, people stood up and took notice. It wasn't about you winning after a fashion, but wondering if anyone could beat you since wins seemed to be foregone conclusions.
But that was then.
In the here and now, all you can do is talk a good game. How many matches have you won lately? When's the last time people got on their feet because you were in the ring or spent more than a minute talking about your matches after the show? When's the last time, Vince, that you were in the main event on your own merits and not because you were sharing the ring with someone like me? There's not a lick of pride left in you because you spent what was left stealing my title."
Smacking the gold and leather draped over his broad shoulder a few times as if psyching himself up, Sentinel briefly gazes upon the belt emblazoned with his name before averting his glare back to the camera. Any semblance of a smile is long gone. There's only the Demon in his eyes.
Sentinel: "I'm done giving you credit for your accomplishments and praising your skill, same as I'm done listening to you flap your gums. So get it all out of your system now while you still can, while it still means something to someone even if that someone is a member of your posse who's paid to give a fuck about you. Once you're laid out for the one-two-three, staring up at the lights as I hold that belt high, nothing you say is going to matter to anyone.
Ever.
Again."
Turning pointedly back to the view before him, Sentinel falls silent. The scene cuts out after a moment with the focus on the championship and the champion's hard expression.
Fade to black.
