eron
New member
A simple dark room in a simple dark building. These sort of environments are easily constructed and serve a purpose in their simplicity. They make who is inside those rooms the central focus point. Used improperly, anyone who is inside these rooms can be forgotten in the shadows. Used correctly, and they become a voice to all their own. They set the mood, the emotion and the fire. They make you remember this room for who came in. Inside this room is Eron the Relentless, a television… and a revolver.
Funny how something like this can pan out. It has only just begun, and gasoline has already been dropped into the fire. Tempers are flaring, men have already bared their very hearts and souls, and we still have a walk to go until we get to the Gold Rush. I have seen high cards played, I have seen emotions worn on sleeves, I’ve seen living legends already prepared to drop their heart on the cutting block, and see whose knife can cut through.
Taking a few steps forward, Eron looks down at the gun placed atop of the television. His fingers begin to caress the chamber of the revolver, as the shadows creep to the back of the room. Wearing a red bandanna on his head, Eron’s red hair flows from behind his shoulders in dredlocks. Wearing a long, blue velvet jacket and a white t-shirt that reads, “Guru the Damaja”, his tongue begins to lick the top left corner of his lip, continuing to eye the gun.
My temper has flared. My vision decayed right in front of me, and it made me sick. I thought I seen the sights of a dominant champion, and all I truly seen was a scared child. I seen a man, supposedly retired, come out and even though his purpose was to stop that scared child, he also set his sights on dragging me into the ground. At first, it disgusted me. I know him. I know Eli Flair. I know Eli Flair, and even though I acted like I didn’t give a **** about what he said, I now realize how important it was. Before he came in, aside from Xias, no-one knew much about me. They had heard of me, they sure as hell knew my name, but that’s all they knew. Just about every mention of me by anyone was a mockery of my name, because that is all the material they had. But then, Eli Flair showed up.
Grinning more, Eron begins to look straight up, beginning to enjoy wear he was taking his soliloquy.
He began to speak about me, and again, at first emotions, I didn’t give a ****. I know who Eli Flair is, and it seems from the day I met him up to this day, he is still just a subservient, subordinate rat-packer who can’t make decisions on his own because he needs someone to help him find the pulse. Whether it is Poison Ivy or the crew he rides with, it seems he can’t make a decision until someone points him in the right direction. That’s Eli Flair. But hey, I can’t blame him; it seems success comes to him when someone else is holding his hand to take him to the golden road. Yet even though he can’t find a pulse, he did strike a vein. You see… Eli Flair… told the truth.
The smile slowly began to disappear, the shadows seeming to cover his face as he rocked on his heels. The Relentless One’s fingers still tapped the revolver, but the pace began to get faster.
I have spent my time jumping from promotion to promotion. I never went anywhere with the momentum I had. I can make excuses, but I won’t, and maybe someday, Xias will learn that. The majority of my career has never been a long lasting path. It has always been just small, focused explosions. He was also right that I would have completely ignored him if I didn’t care. Eli Flair spoke a lot of truth. And that’s what takes me… to this gun.
The shadows once again slid away from the light, as Eron walked forward and finally put the entire revolver in his hand. Taking a step back, Eron held the gun up, rubbing his thumb against the barrel.
You see, all of us wrestlers in this competition? Each and every one of us has a gun. And the words we say, the words we speak before the Gold Rush is our bullets. There are two sorts of ammo we can choose from in this competition. Some of us feel our own careers, our own achievements, is all we need. We’ve continually won these gun fights in the ring, we’ve made names for ourselves, and we’ve done what people only wish to do. However, our career… is one shot. We only get one bullet in the cylinder for our careers, and we get it every night. One misfire, one stray shot… and we can be back to our local neighbourhood rings. One shot may be enough for some, but not for most. Sometimes, you need that shot to make it to the big league, but if your shot misses, you never get it back. You need more ammo.
Dropping the gun to his waist, Eron began to pull from out of his jacket pocket a handful of bullets, before dropping them onto the television set. Each bullet was made out of copper, and even with the absence of major light, they seemed to shine on their own.
The other sort of ammo, is what you know of your opponent. This is the ammo of choice for most gun fights. You can place as many bullets as you need to into the chamber and more if you got somewhere to carry and load. Of course, the only way to obtain this ammo is to know your opponent. It seems to me, that everyone has to only target the CSWA Unified Champion, or another member in the CSWA, because they really don’t know me. They only know of what they’ve heard, or the bullets others have made. I’m tired of hearing the stupid insults people try to create with my name (Eron began to tap the revolver against his white t-shirt, reading, “Guru the Damaja) because that won’t win you any duels. You want ammo? Here is your ammo.
Eron began to pick up each bullet, one by one, and began to talk about each:
That is seven bullets. Add your career and you can fill this revolver’s eight chambers. If you want to take eight shots at me at the Gold Rush, you got eight chances to put me down. So why would I give you these seven shots?
Eron finally opened his eyes, and as they did, his lips began to curl and break into an evil grin of pure avarice.
In the Wrestling ring, in this duel of pistols, you can have as many shots as you want… but you can only fill it with limited gunpowder. The more shots you have, the less powder for every bullet. Soon, you don’t have enough to kill. You only have enough to injure. Add more, and you’re firing blanks. As well, the more shots you make, the weaker your hammer gets. As I look at all of the men who are filling their chambers to shoot at the CSWA Unified Championship, and I see the CSWA Unified Champion firing several rounds at everyone who dare comes near him, I can tell the hammer of all your guns are getting tired.
Eron then began to raise the gun right to the side of his head, his eyes fuelled in fire.
So play with those bullets. Continue to fire. Continue to tire that hammer and spread that gunpowder. You see, I’m holding my energy. I’m waiting for the Gold Rush. Listen to the words of Eli Flair. I never constantly pulled the trigger until I was at the top, until like Eli Flair, I became too exhausted to pull the trigger at all and tried to retire. My career has been built on focused explosions, short lasting but memorable in effect. My career is built on the shots that people remember for the rest of their careers. And even in a place foreign to me… my trigger finger is rested. My hammer is awake. My gunpowder is direct. All I need is a place… to aim…
Dropping his wrist slowly, the gun began to point directly in front of Eron. Viewing from a behind shot of Eron, inside this room of contained emotion and fire is the frozen image on a television screen of Troy Windham in New York, close up to his CSWA Unified Championship.
…a place to rest my bullet.
Funny how something like this can pan out. It has only just begun, and gasoline has already been dropped into the fire. Tempers are flaring, men have already bared their very hearts and souls, and we still have a walk to go until we get to the Gold Rush. I have seen high cards played, I have seen emotions worn on sleeves, I’ve seen living legends already prepared to drop their heart on the cutting block, and see whose knife can cut through.
Taking a few steps forward, Eron looks down at the gun placed atop of the television. His fingers begin to caress the chamber of the revolver, as the shadows creep to the back of the room. Wearing a red bandanna on his head, Eron’s red hair flows from behind his shoulders in dredlocks. Wearing a long, blue velvet jacket and a white t-shirt that reads, “Guru the Damaja”, his tongue begins to lick the top left corner of his lip, continuing to eye the gun.
My temper has flared. My vision decayed right in front of me, and it made me sick. I thought I seen the sights of a dominant champion, and all I truly seen was a scared child. I seen a man, supposedly retired, come out and even though his purpose was to stop that scared child, he also set his sights on dragging me into the ground. At first, it disgusted me. I know him. I know Eli Flair. I know Eli Flair, and even though I acted like I didn’t give a **** about what he said, I now realize how important it was. Before he came in, aside from Xias, no-one knew much about me. They had heard of me, they sure as hell knew my name, but that’s all they knew. Just about every mention of me by anyone was a mockery of my name, because that is all the material they had. But then, Eli Flair showed up.
Grinning more, Eron begins to look straight up, beginning to enjoy wear he was taking his soliloquy.
He began to speak about me, and again, at first emotions, I didn’t give a ****. I know who Eli Flair is, and it seems from the day I met him up to this day, he is still just a subservient, subordinate rat-packer who can’t make decisions on his own because he needs someone to help him find the pulse. Whether it is Poison Ivy or the crew he rides with, it seems he can’t make a decision until someone points him in the right direction. That’s Eli Flair. But hey, I can’t blame him; it seems success comes to him when someone else is holding his hand to take him to the golden road. Yet even though he can’t find a pulse, he did strike a vein. You see… Eli Flair… told the truth.
The smile slowly began to disappear, the shadows seeming to cover his face as he rocked on his heels. The Relentless One’s fingers still tapped the revolver, but the pace began to get faster.
I have spent my time jumping from promotion to promotion. I never went anywhere with the momentum I had. I can make excuses, but I won’t, and maybe someday, Xias will learn that. The majority of my career has never been a long lasting path. It has always been just small, focused explosions. He was also right that I would have completely ignored him if I didn’t care. Eli Flair spoke a lot of truth. And that’s what takes me… to this gun.
The shadows once again slid away from the light, as Eron walked forward and finally put the entire revolver in his hand. Taking a step back, Eron held the gun up, rubbing his thumb against the barrel.
You see, all of us wrestlers in this competition? Each and every one of us has a gun. And the words we say, the words we speak before the Gold Rush is our bullets. There are two sorts of ammo we can choose from in this competition. Some of us feel our own careers, our own achievements, is all we need. We’ve continually won these gun fights in the ring, we’ve made names for ourselves, and we’ve done what people only wish to do. However, our career… is one shot. We only get one bullet in the cylinder for our careers, and we get it every night. One misfire, one stray shot… and we can be back to our local neighbourhood rings. One shot may be enough for some, but not for most. Sometimes, you need that shot to make it to the big league, but if your shot misses, you never get it back. You need more ammo.
Dropping the gun to his waist, Eron began to pull from out of his jacket pocket a handful of bullets, before dropping them onto the television set. Each bullet was made out of copper, and even with the absence of major light, they seemed to shine on their own.
The other sort of ammo, is what you know of your opponent. This is the ammo of choice for most gun fights. You can place as many bullets as you need to into the chamber and more if you got somewhere to carry and load. Of course, the only way to obtain this ammo is to know your opponent. It seems to me, that everyone has to only target the CSWA Unified Champion, or another member in the CSWA, because they really don’t know me. They only know of what they’ve heard, or the bullets others have made. I’m tired of hearing the stupid insults people try to create with my name (Eron began to tap the revolver against his white t-shirt, reading, “Guru the Damaja) because that won’t win you any duels. You want ammo? Here is your ammo.
Eron began to pick up each bullet, one by one, and began to talk about each:
- When I first started in Toronto Championship Wrestling, my first promo included me tossing a dagger into a projection screen, in hopes that it would give me attention.
- I had to debut under a mask wearing platform boots in the Fans Wrestling Organization, as it was the only way I could sneak my way into the promotion.
- The only way I could gain attention in the Fans Wrestling Organization originally, was to change my name into DarkEronand act gothic.
- My crowning achievement in the Fans Wrestling Organization was never winning a big match, but screwing up the opportunity for the Flying Frenchie to win the fWo World Championship at BodyCount. I can’t claim a big match; I can only claim a big moment. One small, focused explosion.
- When I became jOlt World Heavyweight Champion, I took it with so much pride, that when a man named LLB entered the promotion, and I could see he had enough momentum to take me off my throne, I took the ***** route, made a blubbery retirement speech at the age of only 22, and vacated the belt, because I was too afraid to face him, and lose all that I had accomplished.
- The one time I placed on the RSPWF Top 100 Wrestlers, in 2001, people simply voted for me due to my achievements in the Fans Wrestling Organization. People didn’t even realize I had been gone and went to jOlt Wrestling. Even though I hadn’t been there in over eight months, they voted me in as a member of the fWo.
- I have never held a World Championship for longer than three months, and I have never participated in a wrestling promotion for longer than two years. I have never shown staying power. I have only shown small, focused explosions.
That is seven bullets. Add your career and you can fill this revolver’s eight chambers. If you want to take eight shots at me at the Gold Rush, you got eight chances to put me down. So why would I give you these seven shots?
Eron finally opened his eyes, and as they did, his lips began to curl and break into an evil grin of pure avarice.
In the Wrestling ring, in this duel of pistols, you can have as many shots as you want… but you can only fill it with limited gunpowder. The more shots you have, the less powder for every bullet. Soon, you don’t have enough to kill. You only have enough to injure. Add more, and you’re firing blanks. As well, the more shots you make, the weaker your hammer gets. As I look at all of the men who are filling their chambers to shoot at the CSWA Unified Championship, and I see the CSWA Unified Champion firing several rounds at everyone who dare comes near him, I can tell the hammer of all your guns are getting tired.
Eron then began to raise the gun right to the side of his head, his eyes fuelled in fire.
So play with those bullets. Continue to fire. Continue to tire that hammer and spread that gunpowder. You see, I’m holding my energy. I’m waiting for the Gold Rush. Listen to the words of Eli Flair. I never constantly pulled the trigger until I was at the top, until like Eli Flair, I became too exhausted to pull the trigger at all and tried to retire. My career has been built on focused explosions, short lasting but memorable in effect. My career is built on the shots that people remember for the rest of their careers. And even in a place foreign to me… my trigger finger is rested. My hammer is awake. My gunpowder is direct. All I need is a place… to aim…
Dropping his wrist slowly, the gun began to point directly in front of Eron. Viewing from a behind shot of Eron, inside this room of contained emotion and fire is the frozen image on a television screen of Troy Windham in New York, close up to his CSWA Unified Championship.
…a place to rest my bullet.