~~~~~~~~~~Some Time Ago~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~Sinclair Residence~~~~~~~~~~
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Jackson Sinclair stared at his own reflection in the mirror. His expression was blank, and murky brown eyes stared holes through the face that stared back at him. Water clung to his face, dripping down his nose. His hair, normally trimmed and well-kept, hung in wet scraggly strands, stopping just above his eyebrows. Sinclair reaches for the bottle of pills near the sink. He throws two of them down his throat, closing his eyes. He slowly steps back, grunting as his knee pops loudly.
"Jack? Are you okay?"
Sofia's voice carries up the stairs into the bathroom. Sinclair takes a deep breath, and smiles.
"Everything's alright, darlin. Don't you worry."
He walks downstairs to see his wife, laying across the sofa, watching television. Jack leans over the back of the couch, kissing her lightly on top of her head.
"You're going to be late."
"The boss is never late."
Sofia smiles.
"Well, it wouldn't be right to keep your clients waiting, would it?"
"That it wouldn't. Alright, you have yourself a good day, sweetheart. I'll see you tonight."
Sofia kisses him, and he grabs his suit jacket, sliding it on before heading out the door. As soon as the door closes behind him, he pulls out his cell phone, dialing in a number.
*Ring*
*Ring*
*Ring*
"Hello?"
"Mr. Slade? Jackson Sinclair."
"How did you-"
"Get your number? It wasn't hard, son. And I need to be in contact with my employees, don't I?"
"What do you want?"
"Aww, now Mr. Slade, if we're gonna work together, we should try and be on good terms, don't you think? You'll never get anywhere with that attitude."
"Just tell me what you want."
"Can't say I didn't try, right? It's simple, really. I got myself a client who finds himself in a rather...difficult situation, we'll say. Now, I've tried to pull a few strings like I did with you, but the judge ain't havin' it this time."
"You're having me break someone out of prison?"
"Not quite. Rather, I'm just havin' you give him a window of opportunity, we'll say. What I need you to do is go back to the Penitentiary. You're gonna help a client of mine break outta jail."
Slade breathes heavily at the other end. Finally, he speaks.
"Fine."
Sinclair smiles.
"Atta boy, son. Now, when you get to the prison, give me a call. I'll tell you what you need to do."
~~~~~~~~~~Later That Day~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~Nevada State Penitentiary~~~~~~~~~~
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"I'm here to see Silas Cohen."
"...Yeah, I thought you might. This way."
I walk down the hallway, following the guard to the phone booths set up in a line.
"Wait here, they'll get him."
The guard walks off, leaving me alone in the room. I take out my phone, dialing in the number I was told to call.
"So you're in the prison, I take it? Good, you're doin' real good, son."
"Yeah, I'm in. What next?"
"Well, if everything is going to plan, the guard just left to fetch Cohen from his cell. Now, Silas Cohen is a bit, ah...we'll say he's a couple steer short of a herd, if you catch my drift. Nonetheless, he is a valuable asset, and he has a certain skill set that I find extremely useful."
"So what do I need to do?"
"Simple. Behind you, there should be a row of chairs."
I turn around. Sure enough, there are the chairs, lined up against the wall.
"Alright."
"Now, count off and check under the seat of the third chair from the left. There should be a small card."
I kneel down in front of the designated chair, and reach under the seat. Sure enough, I feel my fingers run over a small plastic card, taped to the bottom of the seat.
"Go and take a seat at window number four. They'll automatically bring him there. You'll notice that there's a small crack at the bottom of the window. All I need you to do is slip the card through that there crack, and make sure that Cohen gets it. He'll take it from there."
"And then I'm free to go?"
"Boy, I busted you out of jail and gave you your life back. No, our fun ain't over quite yet...but for the time being? Yeah, that's all I need from you. That ain't so bad, is it?"
I frown. Something seemed fishy, but I couldn't quite decide what. Regardless, I hang up the phone and take a seat at window four, as ordered. Sure enough, I spotted the crack, barely visible, at the base of the glass. The guard enters, dragging a man in an orange jumpsuit behind him. The man is shaved almost completely bald. His hands are tattooed almost completely with tribal ink. A long scar runs down the right side of his face, through his eye, which is completely white. His face seems to be nothing but scars, in fact. They crisscross all over his face, carved into his skin. His ear is shredded, with chunks taken out and splits that leave his ear forked in places. He takes a seat, staring at me. He picks up his phone.
"You're Sinclair's new rat, eh?"
His voice is slimy. That's the only way to put it. There's an air of disgust to his words, as if he's not impressed at all to see me. He has a thick accent, a strange amalgamation of Scottish and British.
"He's losin' his touch, he is. Really scrapin' the bo'om of the barrel."
"You're Mr. Cohen, I take it."
Cohen remains silent for a moment.
"Yea."
I nod slowly. I glance at the guard behind Cohen quickly, making sure he can't see me. I push the card through the crack, towards Cohen. He smirks when he sees it, one side of his mouth perking up, exposing another scar beneath his lip.
"Good man."
He fiddles with the card for a second, bending it back and forth. The card breaks, and Silas pulls a portion of a razor from the plastic. He winks at me, slipping it into his palm.
"See you on the outside, kid."
He smiles, and hangs up the phone. I slowly push myself away from the window, retreating towards the door. The guard steps forward to take Cohen away. In one motion, Cohen wraps the chains on his wrist around the guard's neck. The guard reaches for his gun, but Cohen grabs his hand, using it to take aim at the guard that bursts into the room to back him up. Cohen points the guard's gun with one hand, holding the razor to the guard's throat with the other. He fires once, hitting the guard square between the eyes. He slashes his hostage's throat, letting him fall, sputtering, to the floor. Silas looks at me through the glass and gives a small salute before running off down the hall. I quickly pass through the doors, trying my best to get out of the prison complex as fast as I can.
~~~~~~~~~~Meanwhile~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~Sinclair Holdings Building~~~~~~~~~~
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Sinclair smiles as he watches TV.
"In a shocking plan that was carried out with frightening efficiency, Silas Cohen, charged in August on twenty-one counts of first-degree murder, escaped from Nevada State Penitentiary, where he was being held. Police have no leads as to Cohen's location, and security at the prison is completely baffled, claiming they have no idea how Cohen managed to escape."
Sinclair nods slowly. As if on cue, his phone rings from his desk. He picks it up.
"Jackson Sinclair, how can I help ya?"
"It's Reaver."
Sinclair smirks, propping his feet up on his desk.
"How ya feelin', son?"
"Don't ye be givin' me tha' son bullshet. Left me t'die, ya did."
"I got you out, didn't I?"
"I know ya, Sinclair. I know yer game, boyo. Ya don't help anyone unless ya want som'thin."
"Well, of course. You're an investment, Reaver, and a valuable one at that. I can't have you rotting away in a jail cell. You don't do me a whole lot of good there."
"Who's the target?"
Sinclair laughs.
"Eager to start workin' again? I always did like that about you, Cohen."
He hears a growl from Cohen's end of the line.
"I'm sendin' you to Detroit. There's some real estate there that I'd like you to secure for me."
"I expect my usual fee."
"Already wired into your account, don't you worry."
"And who am I looking for in Detroit?"
Sinclair looks at the photograph on the desk in front of him.
"Tell me, Mr. Cohen...what do you know about Tony Salvaggio?"
~~~~~~~~~~PRESENT DAY~~~~~~~~~~
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The location is a ratty looking house on the outskirts of Las Vegas. There is no foliage here, only the sand of the desert, hardened ground, dust, and the occasional patch of brown grass. It's raining heavily, and lightning flashes frequently. In the backyard, Pariah sits cross-legged on a workbench. A wire hangs from the lighting fixture above, and the camera spots a frayed cord resting in a coil on the floor. Every so often, a raindrop hits it, sending a nasty spark, and causing the light above to flicker. The camera flips back to Pariah.
"Two down, two to go."
He lies across the table, resting his head against the cover of the circular saw.
"It's funny to think that I'm a short couple of weeks away from winning a championship here in the IWF. I have a chance to mark my name in history."
He smiles.
"History...you know, that's a funny thing, isn't it? Ironic, if you think about it. Pariah, a name that will be forever marked in the record books. A man who is, exactly as his name implies, an outcast. Nobody knows me. Nobody cares who I am. But in a couple of weeks, people will know exactly who I am. People in the Underground, people on the main roster, the IWF fans...that will be the name on everyone's lips. Pariah."
He sighs, and sits up.
"Of course, that's getting ahead of myself. Before I can look to a title run, I must first get through Chris Cryptic."
Pariah slides off the workbench, landing in a small puddle that's begun to form on the ground as a result from the rain. He looks at his bare feet, and shrugs.
"It's funny that I speak of history, Chris, and that I speak of experience, because that appears to be the only thing you know how to talk about. You've ran a promotion, you've been competing for years, you're friends with Gordon Fury, who is a mainstay on the IWF roster, you're a suplex machine, you can slam people into the mat like no other. That's nice, and all, but surely one with as much experience in the business as you knows that this is not the only thing there is?
The problem, Chris, is that there are skills, there are assets that can be used in a ring that experience won't overcome. Look at guys like Storming Raven. Look at competitors like Jack Savage, or Damien Drake. These men have been on the IWF roster for ages, and what do they have to show for it? What accomplishments do they have? The point I'm making, Chris, is that all the experience in the world does not equate to talent. Some guys have been in the business for years, and will never get past the proverbial glass ceiling. Others will only get better as time goes on, and nobody will ever know where their peak lies.
So which one are you, Chris? Are you the one who improves, little by little, with each passing week? Or are you the glass ceiling? Are you the one who sits by and watches the world turn faster than he can run? I hate to say it, but I fear you might be in the latter category. You're content with mediocrity. You don't strive to be the best, you strive to be good enough. Of course, there's nothing wrong with that. Good enough is still good, and there's never anything wrong with being satisfied. Satisfied is happy, and if you're happy, that's all that matters.
But happiness does not win wrestling matches, Mr. Cryptic. When the bell rings, and you're looking across the battlefield at me, you're going to need to bring your best. You'll have to be on your A-Game, because I can promise you that I'm going to be on mine. Do you have what it takes to beat me, Chris? Since I arrived in IWF, I've been inching my way up the ladder, and I don't feel like I'm going to stop anytime soon. Can you say the same? I've got my eyes on the prize. I'm looking at the shiny championship belt at the end of the road, and beyond that? A spot on the Battle Grounds roster, where I intend to show the world that I can hang with the biggest and the best that the industry has to offer. What are your aspirations, Chris? Do you look past me, to Bobby O'Day or Dean Vandal? Do you see the championship that awaits? Do you see the promised land of the IWF, the main roster, where the lights shine brightest? I don't know that you do. You're talented, that's for damn sure. But do you have the drive? Do you have the desire to climb the ladder, escape the developmental territory, and achieve greatness?"
The puddle continues to grow as rain splashes on the ground.
"I think you don't. I think you're content to stay here, in the Underground, for the rest of your career. Me, though? I need to win. I need to climb the ranks, to show the world what I can do."
The puddle inches closer to the wire, which continues to spark.
"You've got the experience factor, Chris, I'll give you that. But experience does not always mean skill. I think, this week, you're going to find that out. I think you're going to realize, maybe halfway through the match, that you just don't have what it takes, that Pariah, the outcast, the reject...he's in a league of his own."
A mouse scurries across the floor, stopping in the puddle and sniffing around in the water.
"This is my first main event in IWF. The first time when the spotlight is on me, and I can show people what I can really do. I except you will give me the biggest match of my life, Cryptic. But when the dust settles, and the bell rings, one of us is going to the finals, and one of us is going to challenge for the championship. There is no doubt in my mind that you'll make me work for it. You'll take me to my absolute limit, and I'll have to go to hell and back if I want to win this match. But I think in both of our minds we know who will walk away as the eventual winner. After all..."
Pariah looks down at the mouse. He slowly steps out of the puddle, just as it comes in contact with the wire. The mouse immediately goes rigid, and falls over, dead. Pariah shrugs.
"I'm a lucky man."
![Chris Cryptic [vs] Pariah Empty](https://2img.net/i/empty.gif)
Subject: Chris Cryptic [vs] Pariah ![Chris Cryptic [vs] Pariah I_icon_minitime](https://2img.net/s/t/15/19/06/i_icon_minitime.gif){kind=icon}
Sat Jul 27, 2013 9:22 am
