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Focusing Anger’s Flame; vs. DIsturbed, 11/04/12
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Topic Started: Oct 26 2012, 01:27 AM (165 Views)
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Eric Donavan
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Oct 26 2012, 01:27 AM
Post #1
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- Posts:
- 346
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- July 24, 2012
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"The world needs anger. The world often continues to allow evil because it isn't angry enough." – Bede Jarrett
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 23, 2012, 4:38PM HIASHI SHINSUMA’S GYM AND TRAINING CENTER FAIRVIEW, NORTH CAROLINA
We’ve been here before. Deep down in our hearts and minds we know this even if we can’t exactly recall where or when. The ambiance isn’t special on its own; a mostly dark room lit only in the most minimal ways by an old light bulb securely screwed into a gently-swinging wire, a tiny pull-chain clinking against it with each sway. There’s a rickety table and chair, both of which look incapable of safely supporting a 75-pound child much less an adult. It seems to be there for form’s sake and little else. It takes more studious observation, moving one’s eyes with the shifting light, for realization to dawn and for that lost memory to click into place. The web-like cracks all over the concrete walls, the smears of dark fluid in the center of these craters…those are big ones.
Then comes the gravelly whispers, like rants meant for the very person speaking them, along the rhythmic thumps of something heavy striking something hard. Each impact kicks up another small cloud of dust and causes a rasping breath to emit from the source. And sometimes those strikes bring about dark laughter. Laughter begets whispers which bring forth strikes and the cycle starts anew…over and over again.
”Embrace the fear…”
A growl emits from the shadow against the darkness, its form lurching forward as another fierce impact is heard followed by the soft patter of debris pattering on the hard floor.
”Dishonored the family…”
Two more blows in rapid succession and we would swear that the metallic fragrance of blood has touched our senses…
”Not your time…”
Growls turn to a roar of undiluted rage and the timbre of the blows changes to a heavier, less-focused sound.
”Make them suffer…”
That whisper in particular seems to bring the masked violence to a close. Then we hear the visceral laughter of a predator who has found fresh prey and, once again, the measured impacts start again, this time with purpose instead of blind expression. Our view of the room changes slightly and off to the side we see some manner of object sitting in the corner upon three spindly legs held stock-straight. The blinking red light tells us all we need to know about its nature and purpose.
A change of location occurs and in a familiar-looking office sits two people with different expressions watching a small television, more like a monitor, upon which they are seeing what we have just experienced. The tall, thickly-built Japanese gentleman in workout attire sitting behind the desk stars impassively at the screen with heavy hands clasped on the surface before him. The woman sitting on the desk, or rather leaning against it with her hands upon the edge, betrays emotion with how she views the interlude. Her brows are furrowed, shown clearly thanks to her fire-colored hair being drawn back into a French braid. Her pearl-white silk blouse is buttoned up all the way save for the top two, showing a cat’s claw charm on a thin chain hanging around her neck. Designer jeans hold closely to her athletic legs and the toe of one leather boot is tapping impatiently on the linoleum floor. Eventually her troubled state prompts the man behind the desk to address her.
Hiashi Shinsuma “If it bothers you so much, go to him.”
Aurelei turns to the man who trained both her and Eric for their respective wrestling careers and raises an auburn brow at the suggestion, as if it were the most ludicrous thing she’d ever heard.
Aurelei Donavan “Say that again, sensei, but first say ‘I know this sounds crazy, but…’”
A thin smile upturns the Japanese veteran’s lips, the sounds of exercise and in-ring training outside the office powerful but not enough to overtake neither conversation nor the impacts sounded off through the small television.
Hiashi Shinsuma “It does sound that way, doesn’t it? But you’re his manager and, more importantly, his wife. You have a duty to tend to him when he needs it, whether he knows he needs it or not.”
Scoffing quietly, Aurelei turns back to the television and forces her expression to become more neutral by force of will. It isn’t fooling Hiashi, though.
Hiashi Shinsuma “You think he might take this out on you?”
Aurelei Donavan “Never.”
The word is spoken, firmly, before Hiashi’s words have even left the air. Forced stoicism becomes determination on the young woman’s face as she turns back to her trainer again.
Aurelei Donavan “But I can tell when he needs to exorcise and when he’s waiting on a reason to stop. This is the former. I’ll let him have as long as he needs and then do what a wife should when her husband needs her attention.”
She returns her attention to Hiashi and gently puts her hand upon his, managing a smile.
Aurelei Donavan “I’m going to watch from here till he finishes, then we’ll get out of your hair. Don’t worry about us. Your students need your attention now.”
Nodding slowly, Hiashi rises to his full six feet and eight inches, resting his hand briefly on Aurelei’s shoulder as he walks past. No need to speak any further, apparently, as he exits the office and shuts the door behind him. Soon his booming, authoritative tones are bellowing toward the students while Aura turns her attention back to the television, concern etched anew upon her features. A difficult-to-place song sounds off from her jeans pocket and she reaches into it without taking her eyes off the monitor, sweeping her thumb across the screen. Eyes dart back and forth as she reads the message, then she sets it down next to her, looking between it and the monitor a few times before murmuring to herself.
Aurelei Donavan “Six-Pack Qualifying Match against Disturbed on NEW TV. Mm. I’ll tell him this evening.”
With a sigh, she returns her attention to the monitor, the only sound audible for now being the pounding of Eric’s taped fists against the concrete wall on the other side of the monitor. And from this, we briefly fade to black.
7:11PM OLIVE GARDEN ITALIAN RESTAURANT ASHEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA
A few hours really does make a lot of difference. Where he was once a shadow-cloaked beast doing his best to bring down a wall with his (almost) bare hands, Eric looks about as genial as he ever gets at this moment. A tailored black suit sans tie, his crisp white shirt undone at the collar and his family’s signet ring glistening on his right index finger. The ring finger bears his ACW Hall of Fame ring and his left hand bears his platinum wedding band. Showered and cleansed, physically and mentally, he seems very relaxed as he sips on a glass of Jameson on the rocks while staring quietly out the window over Aurelei’s bare shoulder.
The lady herself is in the standard ‘little black dress’ but considering her figure and dangerous beauty, that’s more than enough to send the eyes of most red-blooded males to staring…only briefly, though, so as not to draw the attention of the Irish Dragon across from her. Diamond earrings sparkle in the low lights of the establishment and that cat’s claw necklace shows more prominently now. As she swirls a glass of merlot cupped in her right hand, she gazes pointedly at the table while stealing glances every so often at Eric. One might think them in the midst of an argument if one didn’t know them. When she speaks to him at last, her voice is softer than usual.
Aurelei Donavan “The booker sent in the match listings for the next set of shows.”
Nearly-black eyes avert toward Aurelei and a bit of a smile appears on Eric’s freshly-shaven features. He tilts his head to the side just a little, a signal for her to continue.
Aurelei Donavan “Heading up to Canada this time around…Vancouver, British Columbia to be precise. And this time around you’re on NEW TV.”
Eric Donavan “That’s…surprising. Two losses in three matches and they put me on the top-tier show? Maybe I impressed someone.”
Aurelei lifts a brow in Eric’s direction while he sits there looking at her, glass halfway to his lips, expression unreadable. She snorts as crystalline blue eyes roll in exasperation.
Aurelei Donavan “I’m not going to sit here and listen to that, Eric. That ‘maybe’ shit stops here and now. You took Tombstone to the limit twice over three shows, forcing him to do everything in his power just to eke out a win to save his title AND his streak. On top of that you put Dunstan Montgomery on the shelf, perhaps permanently, and no one else who has stepped in the ring with you has come close to touching you. Look at this for what it is: you’re on the big show now and it’s time to…”
Her monologue stops short when she realizes that that Eric Donavan smirk is on her husband’s face, not even hidden behind a brief sip of whiskey. Setting the glass down on the table with a soft thump, he cuts in while she’s staring at him.
Eric Donavan “Sometimes, baby, you’re too easy.”
Aurelei Donavan “Go to hell.”
Her epithet is spoken with a smile, though…one that Eric matches before finishing his glass and signaling for another while addressing Aura.
Eric Donavan “So who am I up against this time around?”
Aurelei Donavan “Disturbed…in a qualifying match for the Six-Pack Challenge Match inside Hell in a Cell at the Challenger Series pay-per-view.”
Eric Donavan “Sounds like a big deal.”
The server comes over to take the empty glass and replace it with a new one, earning a thanks from Eric as Aurelei expands on the match details.
Aurelei Donavan “Oh, it’s a very big deal…big as in said match being for the World Heavyweight Championship, lover.”
His fingers had just closed around the glass to lift it but it never moved from the table. Eric’s eyes were upon it and his every intention was to take a sip of the 80-proof Irish spirits….but as soon as the words ‘World Heavyweight Championship’ left his wife’s lips the Irish Dragon went stock still. Not rigidly so, mind you, but it was a sudden and utter cessation of all motion. It took a few moments but he repeated those words back to her, his voice sounding very far away.
Eric Donavan “World Heavyweight Championship.”
Aurelei Donavan “Yes.”
Eric Donavan “…”
Eric stares into his glass for a few moments more prior to taking a drink that drains half of it. Aurelei, meanwhile, sips her merlot with a supremely-satisfied expression on her own lovely features. She’s savoring every bit of this, knowing just how rare it is that anything surprises her husband anymore about the wrestling business. Even the top-rope Graveyard Shift that kept him down for three seconds a few nights ago didn’t affect him this powerfully. It takes him a minute or two, but he finds his voice eventually.
Eric Donavan “Disturbed is going to burn and he’s going to do it screaming all the way.”
Aurelei Donavan “I love it when you talk like that, Eric. Just the kind of thing that light’s this lady’s fire. Later on I’ll show you just how much.”
The two exchange wicked smiles as the food arrives and we fade to black again.
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 24 2012, 1:56AM THE DECK OF ERIC DONAVAN’S HOME ASHEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA
The sky is cloudless and thanks to a pleasant absence of troublesome streetlights and other artificial illumination, save for the sink light barely showing through the kitchen window, more stars than one can imagine twinkle in the early morning sky. Eric stands upon the deck with his hands resting upon the railing, his attention upon the city of Asheville in the distance, the lights over that way having a similar sheen to the celestial bodies above. His dark hair hangs loose over bare shoulders, the only piece of attire on his muscled form being a pair of loose black hakama that ripples gently in the night breeze. His posture is devoid of tension and his attention, mentally at least, is focused to a sword-sharp point. One note of his voice is enough to make this clear to anyone watching.
Eric Donavan “Tombstone got one over on me again, and for that congratulations are in order. No one has ever beaten me twice in a row, Elias. Not even my erstwhile brother, Snake. And it is because of that and your tenacity in holding on to your championship reign and your undefeated streak that my respect for you is not only intact but growing. Our paths will cross again in the future, of that I have no doubt. And when that time comes we will once more steal the show just as we did at Fear Itself. For now, sir, my cap is tipped in your direction.”
Hands raise from the railing to applaud to the empty air, the sound gently echoing a time or two before fading in the distance. When they lower to the smooth rail once again, Eric’s tone takes a turn.
Eric Donavan “This time around you will have your hands quite full with The Good Doctor. You two have clashed before but the stakes are even greater this time around, at least from where I stand. I find myself in a similar situation with a character they refer to as Disturbed. Character…hmm…no, perhaps caricature is the better word. As in a caricature of a mature, talented wrestler, which based on his rambling in front of the fans prior to Fear Itself he most certainly is not...at least when referring to the nature of being mature, that is.
That’s because your actions around that time were about as mature as a five-year-old having a tantrum in Wal-Mart because mommy won’t buy them a new toy. Shoving employees around, breaking personal property, intimidating people who are just trying to do their job…yeah, that’s really how someone being considered for a shot at the biggest championship in the company should act. That’s the kind of person that the new owner and his cronies want as the flagship of NEW Era. Bravo, Disturbed. You’re nothing but an oversized, petulant child in need of either an attitude adjustment or an object lesson in how a champion is supposed to act. Luckily for you, I’m qualified, and I intend to, deliver both.”
We’ll just have to imagine the trademark, anger-inducing smirk that’s undoubtedly on the face of the Irish Dragon because his back is still to the camera. We can at least hear his laugher and see the gentle tremor of his shoulders that comes with it.
Eric Donavan “For someone so big and powerful, with so much going for them as far as in-ring ability goes, you have the tact and class of a bridge-dwelling troll. How dare you harp on about respect when in the same breath you bitch about how you would have DISrespected any orders handed down from on high as far as your attendance went. No one in NEW Era is afraid of you, Disturbed, and it’s about time you got that through your skull. This company has every right to look out for the people that work for them and your actions prior to the pay-per-view show that their decision to try and keep you from the show was dead-on. But I suppose the concept of carrying yourself like an adult dribbled out your ear when you hit that growth spurt, huh? Tell you what, gruesome: I’m asking, no, I’m begging you to bring your attitude to Vancouver for NEW TV. I’m begging you to bring it to the ring when you face me for a spot in the Six-Pack Challenge. Because there’s few things that please me more than putting an unkempt animal in its place: under my boot.”
Eric turns so that his side faces the camera, arms folded across his chest and that smirk still lingering, only visible thanks to the dim glow from the kitchen.
Eric Donavan “You’d better put this frustration of yours on the back burner and focus on what’s in front of you: a shot at a match with the World Heavyweight Championship as the prize. That’s where my focus is, even with a seven-foot, 350-pound obstacle in my way. Six matches into my NEW tenure and I’m in the mix for a shot at the top title in this company. Before you go lashing out with a biting retort, Disturbed, I want you to think about that for a minute. Half a dozen matches and I’ve taken the Television Champion to limits he didn’t know he had twice and put a once-considered future star on the injured reserve. What have you done lately other than talk and disappoint? For all your braying like a jackass you weren’t even a factor in the finish of the North American Championship match. You did beat Mark Saddington but I scratched that off my list several weeks ago. And before that, The Good Doctor was tearing a hole in you or what was left of you after Wildebeest stampeded all over your carcass. At least when I went up against Tombstone I backed up some of my talk. He and I got the fans on their feet, added some clips to the highlight reels and put money in NEW Era’s coffers. I ask again: what have YOU done?
You’ve done nothing but talk about how you’re some kind of star-maker, dropping names like Bombtrack and Randy Altzer and claiming that, in essence, if it weren’t for you they wouldn’t have reached the heights they now enjoy. How in the holy hell did you manage to spew that crap with a straight face? Maybe the reason Saddington moved up was because he showed some drive and dedication, a little desire to be something better than he already was. You’re content to be some wrecker who tries to destroy everyone in his path while bitching about every perceived slight. One big pile of displaced shit, Disturbed. That’s all your diatribes amount to as far as I’m concerned. Put half the effort into getting the job done between the bells that you do pissing and moaning and see if you don’t move up the card. Or don’t. Whichever road you take, you’re coming face to face with me in the Great White North and I guaran-damn-tee that I’m going to burn you down to ash and cast you to the arctic winds.”
Turning to face us now, Eric leans back against the railing in a relaxed fashion. The burning dragon wings tattooed on both sides of his chest visible even in the low light as are the letters tattooed across his fingers that spell out ‘GUARDIAN’. Nearly-black eyes stare deeply toward us, into our very souls, as he continues addressing Disturbed.
Eric Donavan “By now you’re rolling your eyes, I’ll bet. Or you’re stomping around and cursing up a storm while those veins in your head and neck bug-out. But more likely you’re curled up in the corner sucking your thumb and mumbling ‘nuh-uh!’ over and over again.”
A harsh note of laughter escapes the Irish Dragon.
Eric Donavan “Get used to the idea that your road back to the World Heavyweight Champion stops with me, Disturbed. The sooner you accept the inevitable, the sooner you can get on with your complaining about how you’re being passed over. It takes more than size, strength and being mean to succeed in this business, something you just haven’t learned yet. I’ve beaten bigger and better than you and I’m going to do it again, proving anew to NEW Era fans that the Irish Dragon is as real as it gets. While you complain about the fans being hypocrites in the same breath that you claim you don’t care about their praise anyway I’m inexorably climbing my way to the top of this company while leaving a flame-scarred path of destruction in my wake.
You know what, though? Let’s call a spade a spade. I run off at the mouth, too. I talk as much shit as the next guy and sometimes even more than that. The difference is that when it’s time to throw down I let my body and all the talent contained within do the talking. And it speaks volumes. Words are but accents to my actions, Disturbed. With you they’re just words tasting of crow and sour grapes. And maybe I should cut you some slack because we’re all going to look stupid from time to time when we’re proven wrong. No one is exempt from that. I’ve said two times now that I was going to snap Tombstone’s streak and take his title and two times I’ve failed. I know you’re dying to throw that in my face, but…tough luck, sport. I fought, I lost and now I’ve moved on. Thing is, I can admit when I’m wrong and I’m willing to take steps to improve myself in the areas in which weakness was shown. You just grab a mike, whine like a child and stomp off with your mean face on. See the difference?”
Raising and lowering his hands to resemble the balancing of a scale, Eric compounds on his point. With a little half-smile he turns and heads for the sliding glass door leading into his kitchen. We follow as he walks into the living room through said kitchen and turns on the corner lamp. We continue to hound his every step until he comes to a wall lined with pictures displaying him, Aurelei and several others, only a few of which are recognized. Snake is in a couple of them, most prominently alongside Eric, Aurelei, a stunning blonde with chilly eyes, a dark-haired gentleman with a wolfish smile and an Amazon of a woman who makes even Aurelei look a wee bit slender. Eric chuckles quietly at this one and keeps moving.
Further down is a picture of Hiashi along with Eric, Aurelei and Damon Cross, the young Creole who made an appearance a few weeks back. Another shows Eric alongside fellow Irishman Declan O’Farrell, both men holding up a bottle of unnamed booze and wearing devil-may-care grins. And some pictures are of matches that Eric has been a part of, no doubt sent to him by fans who were lucky enough to be in the crowd and close enough to snap them. He looks upon these quietly for a moment or two before going on again in Disturbed’s direction.
Eric Donavan “Glory comes only to those who properly court it. Sacrifice, humility and determination are the keys to acquiring examples like Television, North American and World Heavyweight Championships, trophies as an indication of the pinnacles some of us are fortunate enough to have reached in this business. I’ve done my time both as a white-hat and a black-hearted scoundrel throughout my tenure in professional wrestling but no matter which side of the fence I was on, I never lost sight of what it took to be the best. Again, Disturbed, I’ve talked my share of shit, warranted or otherwise. But coming from me it wasn’t anger-induced denigration of my opponents. It was a calculated harangue designed to shatter their confidence and instill doubt in their minds. The proof, as they say, is in the pudding. Or in the case, the sweet scent of gold and leather. And that’s a fragrance that I will experience here in NEW Era very soon whether you or anyone else in my path likes it or not.”
He turns to look over his shoulder at us.
Eric Donavan “I highly doubt whether you have the presence of mind to be that focused anymore. You’re too busy talking about how people have wronged you and complaining that people you’ve beaten have moved past you. But the blame’s in your lap, not theirs. Maybe kicking their tails in lit a fire under their asses, one someone has yet to set under yours. Maybe, just maybe, when we roll into Vancouver? My stomping the hell out of you before kicking your teeth in with a Dragon Fang will do the trick. Then one day I’ll be talking about how my beating you gave you the boost you needed to rise to the top.
Maybe. But I doubt it.”
We find ourselves moving from the living room back to the kitchen where Eric stops at the fridge for a bottle of water. Spinning off the cap, he takes a long drink before setting it on the counter and considering his words a moment.
Eric Donavan “I doubt it, because for all your smack-talking you’ve yet to come through. This week it’s just going to be more of the same. Think you can prove me wrong? Why, because you came through on keeping Erickson from the championship? That, apparently, was more important to you than winning the championship yourself. That’s what we call fucked-up priorities, Disturbed. You come into this match with that kind of attitude, wanting to send a message more than winning a spot in the Cell for a chance at the big belt, and your defeat becomes twice as certain. I’m already going to tear you apart. The last thing you want to is give me a reason to make it hurt. That’s an invitation that I can’t, and won’t, turn down.”
Soft steps are heard in the background and Eric turns slightly as a slender hand wearing a platinum wedding band that matches his own comes to rest on his left shoulder. He smiles a little bit, lifting his hand to rest upon that one as Aurelei leans over his right shoulder, her chin upon it as she rises up on her toes.
Aurelei Donavan “I never said I was done with you, lover. How about you wrap this up? The night is still so very young.”
She places a kiss on Eric’s cheek and slinks out of frame, never once showing more than her hand or her face to us. The Irish Dragon looks after her with an appreciative smile and then turns his stare back on us.
Eric Donavan “Tell you what, sport: I’ve said more than enough to raise your hackles and get the venom bubbling in your veins. So how about you take a look at what’s in front of you, try using your brain and retort with something intelligent. Skip the getting pissy about how I’ve insulted you or the indignation over how I’ve called you on your bullshit. Talk about something that matters: like how you’re going to try, and I reiterate TRY, to get past me and into the match at Challenge Series. Something that, unlike your griping, is relevant…farfetched, but relevant nonetheless. Then I can get back to the business of burning you down mentally a piece at a time before I do so physically in front of our Canadian fans. Everything burns, Disturbed…even your useless bullshit.”
The bottle is left on the counter as Eric strides out of frame, bringing the scene to is third and final close.
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Eric Donavan's Wikia Page Twitter: @NEWIrishDragon
NEW Record: 28-11-2 All-Time Record: 73-24-6
1x NEWEra World Heavyweight Champion: 11/03/13-12/15/13
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