Post by Lochlyn Cade on Aug 18, 2021 11:10:44 GMT
The AW is my Valhalla.
XIII
Another guy in a mask playing the antagonist.
It’s Michael Myers.
It’s Reo Raijin.
It’s November 13th.
The proverbial unluckiest day in superstition. The most feared man in slasher cinema.
It all began with a Norse myth and a story of Valhalla and an uninvited guest. Sound familiar? If not you’re not paying much attention. Not to mythology and not to the current state of Action Wrestling. Reo Raijin is the unwelcome guest and he’s ruining the party of the cruiserweight elites.
Raijin, more Loki than Thor, yet just as psychotic in his impulses as Michael Myers when it comes to competition within the squared circle. The American Luchador isn’t wielding a knife but an inexplicably fixation on the men and women of CruiserClash; and those in his way of becoming the sovereign monarch of the cruiserweights.
The unlucky 13 may suggest a superstitious catalytic event but Raijin isn’t superstitious and unlike millions of people he doesn’t have a paralyzing response for the most feared day in history. The unanswered question being does the Solider of Fortune? Soldado Fortuna. The history of men and the egotistical nuances of narcissist says that he wouldn’t admit if he did. Most in this industry wouldn’t. It’s touche.
Raijin laughs as he holds out a copy of the Cambridge English dictionary towards the camera situated in front of him. “Soldado Fortuna. I bought you a present. Perhaps you’ll be able to comprehend both my promo and your inability to triumph over The San FranPyscho come this Friday at XIII.”
“Fifteen hundred”
That’s the capacity of the Jackie Gleason Theater.
“I get it. You don’t have the time to verbally complete and well…. It looks like maybe you spent some time on youtube learning your move set.”
Raijin drops the dictionary onto a smoldering fire. A small billow of smoke envelopes the book.
“I’m sorry. I forgot. Daddies money bought your moves. The wrestler that became mediocre from the ashes of those sacrificed by drug money, was it?”
Raijin begins rubbing his chin and then his forehead.
“Then again perhaps you just appeared out of thin air.”
“This feels like continuity error. Halloween III anybody?”
“Soldado for Chicken of the Sea. I’m sorry. I had a Jessica Simpson moment there. For tuna salad?”
The dictionary begins to slowly burn causing a fog in front of the camera.
“This is embarrassing. I can never remember my opponents names. Maybe the competition in the cruiserweights is lacking at this rung of the ladder. It’s a rung by rung climb however. I’m reaching for that rung labeled Jonathan Cade Keeton. Sure. However, there’s added prestige and fortune with each rung thrust under my climb.”
The camera pans out to real reveal a ladder. Raijin climbs up a step. Then another and again another.
“Each rung upon which I heave myself is one more step climbed towards the elite of Adub. Towards the Cruiserweight Championship. Towards my absolution.
“I’ve mocked my opponent. I’ve ridiculed his supposed origins. Yeah, I’ve even made comedic miss pronunciations about his name. I’ve made every attempt to embarrassingly humiliate his name and his ability. It’s a verbal bashing of my adversary. With each passing day I get closer to making that a physical humiliation as well. Will he be more of an opponent than I suggest? Perhaps. Maybe this man will show some gumption and prove to be a more physically resourceful man than I expect. That’s a judgment to make for another day. The W or L at the end of the night will be a revealing narrative of the true story we’ll tell inside of the Adub’s center stage.”
The camera pans to the book within the fire now engulfed by the flames.
Perhaps it’s a metaphor of what’s to come. Perhaps, it’s simply a fist full of smoldering ash and fog grasping at that which can never actually be obtained. The fortune of the prodigious and legendary men are told on nights such as this. In the moment it’s a rung of a ladder. A mythological ambition.
I’m The American Luchador. The AW is my Valhalla.