matt young productions; i'd rather be hated for who i am, than loved for what i'm not. [part 2]

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"Misery; she fuckin’ loves me..."

These were the cold and demoralising words of the newest arrival to the Insurgency Wrestling Federation roster as he was pictured in the darkest corner of an abandoned industrial warehouse sitting on an old and dusty ceremonial throne. With his back towards the camera as it crept ever so slowly towards him and a hanging light swaying back and forth above his head, the shadowy figure would continue on from what he was saying.

"... but I love her more."

Suddenly after a glimmer of light, the camera would abruptly switch to the front of the throne where the unknown wrestler would stare straight down at the cold concrete floor with his face largely covered by the black hood from a zipped hooded top he wore over a memorable murky greyed out Union Jack t-shirt. The mysterious white male, with his arms resting on the sides of the ceremonial throne while holding a cigarette in one hand and a piece of unfolded paper in the other, would inhale a mouthful of unhealthy smoke into his lungs before addressing the audience.

"Don't look at me as if you didn't know the name of "The Media Attraction’’. For I am the man you people are too thick enough to understand yet you still insist on sticking a camera in front of my face and
demand for more. For I am the one that preys on the weak and vulnerable
people who weren't given a fair chance in life by those that are above them,people who are treated like dirt and are looked upon by others with such disgust. For these people, they will all fall down to me because I am the faith beyond misfortune and we will seek wretchedness on those that deprived us from our hopes and dreams. "In this depressed world we live in, some of us are luckier than others while the rest are all held back to drown in the sea of hate. They say equal opportunity is a term in which people are not excluded from the activities in society. However, when I looked into the history of this business all I find is that equal opportunity is nothing but a myth. Never fear, though, as that is one of the main signs of weakness and we must absorb this misery we’re surrounded in. Take this crappy match I have against Steel Angel, I have been handpicked to be up against the new-blood champion, with is championship on the line? To you, I may sound hypocritical and you may think I’m taking this for granted but no. Do you honestly think I want to be booked in a match against Steel Angel? I simply have no choice however, so ladies and
gentlemen on Sunday I shall be your new-blood champion.’’

Suddenly, there is a strange cold breeze which distracts Young long enough to look around to see what it was. However, after eerie moment of silence, the mysterious wrestler shrugs it off and carries on with what he’s saying.

I would much rather be up against the world heavyweight champion himself, Corey Casey than be booked for a ridiculous match against Steel Angel. Angel, you’re going to be the first victim of many my friend. This is the new regime of matt young, a brand new slate, a brand new Matt Young. The fact of the matter is this - it doesn’t matter whether you’re insurgency wrestling federation or pee see mother fuckin’ double you. None of you will be able to defeat something that you don’t understand! For I am "The media attraction’’ and this curse of misery has only just begun."

Who fought that Frenchman grim with guile;
For nigh an hour they milled like mad,
And mauled the mat in rare old style.
Then up and launched like catapults,
And tangled, twisted, clinched and clung,
Then tossed in savage somersaults,
And hacked and hammered, ducked and swung;
And groaned and grunted, sighed and cried,
Now knotted tight, now springing free;
To bend each other's bones they tried,
Their faces crisped in agony. . . .

Then as a rage rose, with tiger-bound,
They clashed and smashed, and flailed and flung,
And tripped and slipped, with hammer-pound,
And streamin sweat and straining lung,
The mighty mob roared out their joy,
And wild I heard a wench near-by
Shriek to the Frenchman: "Atta Boy!
Go to it, Jo-jo - kill the guy."

The boy from Rome was straight and slim,
And swift and springy as a bow;
The man from Metz was gaunt and grim,
But all the tricks he seemed to know.
'Twixt knee and calf with scissors-lock,
He gripped the lad's arm like a vice;
The prisoned hand went white as chalk,
And limp as death and cold as ice.
And then he tried to break the wrist,
And kidney-pounded with his knee,
But with a cry and lightning twist
The Roman youth had wrested free. . . .

Then like mad bulls they hooked and mauled,
And blindly butted, bone on bone;
Spread-eagled on the mat they sprawled,
And writhed and rocked with bitter moan.
Then faltered to their feet and hung
Upon the ropes with eyes of woe;
And then the Frenchman stooped and flung
The wop among the mob below,
Who helped to hoist him back again,
With cheers and jeers and course cat-calls,
To where the Gaul with might and main
Hung poised to kick his genitals
And drop him senseless in the ring. . . .
And then an old man cried: "My son!"
The maddened mob began to fling
Their chairs about - the fight was done.

Soft silver sandals tapped the sea;
Palms listened to the lack of sound;
The lucioles were lilting free,
The peace was precious and profound.
Oh had it been an evil dream? . . .
A chapel of the Saints I sought,
And thee before the alter gleam
I clasped my hands and thought and thought.

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