Post by Matt Slater on Jun 9, 2014 11:41:52 GMT -6
Beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, but no one could deny that when it came to Matt Slater's victory against Alexander Oliver, wisdom overcame youth, in every sense of the word.
Opinions could certainly differ on Oliver's supermodel looks and his chiselled physique. However, a universal agreement could be made that Oliver's excessive boasting and posturing cost him dearly, especially when Slater was at his weakest point. Resisting submissions, countering holds; Oliver should have succeeded despite his lack of experience. Unfortunately, the senseless need to share his inflated confidence ruined what could have been a momentous occasion for the Portuguese artist, and Slater took the conflict into his own hands.
One Shockwave later, Oliver's glamorous image shattered into a thousand pieces, as did his seemingly indestructible ego, now humbled by the tactics of a veteran that knew when to seal the deal.
Such was the penalty for celebrating a victory not yet won, becoming one with the temptations of fantasy and completely ignoring the facts. Oliver judged poorly, assuming that the golden milestone he envisioned was already in his grasp. How quickly the glorious road he journeyed upon disintegrated into nothingness, all thanks to the orchestration of his arrogant mistakes.
Not that Oliver relied heavily on his body language to infuriate Slater and cause an upset - his endurance was certainly surprising, and his athletic skills made people think that he could defeat the Silver Knight with cat-like reflexes and accurate strikes. Even Slater was taken aback at points, not expecting Oliver to be as resilient as he appeared. But that was what garnered success, and Oliver had blown his chance to stand tall above a man some people considered to be the best pure wrestler in the world.
The future seemed bright for the young man, but the loss did tell Oliver that major adjustments were required. Sadly, he failed to drastically change them before the next Breakthrough, resulting in another loss against the spiritually-challenged Reya Serra.
Yet as Oliver basked in the burning embers of defeat, Slater approached a new venture - one that could bring upon further success and the regeneration of honor in his tortured soul.
That is, of course, if everything went according to plan...
"Yer gonna shag her, aren't ya?"
Falcon's sexually-strong question caused Slater to flinch awkwardly, a reaction that knocked his golf ball off-course. After days of endless exercise, it seemed that a day of rest was in order for the masked knight. Unfortunately, Falcon had persuaded Slater to go to the enormous Mall of America with him, and after hours of signing autographs and taking pictures with the public as Falcon shopped for an assortment of stylish clothes, the incomparable duo decided to play a round or two of Moose Mountain Adventure Golf. Furthermore, Falcon had continuously bothered Slater with questions pertaining to Dawn's mysterious proposition, but Slater was not willing to spread any light on the situation.
This, Slater annoyingly learned, had merely driven Falcon to the depths of the obscene, and with several holes already played with more to follow, Slater was gradually losing his patience with a man that could not let the subject end in peace.
'The truth's gonna come out, mate...' Falcon theorized, knowing he was pushing Slater to the brink of exposing his secret. "I've got a better chance knowin' what's gonna happen than you have of pottin' that bloody ball into the hole from there!"
Falcon aimed his golf club towards the edge of the incline that Slater's ball needed to traverse, now settled nearby the structurally-curved hill at a difficult angle. Remaining silent, Slater ignored Falcon and readied his shot, keeping his eyes focused on the cratered ball as he prepared to salvage an escape from slipping under par and forfeiting the hole.
'Silence is tellin', isn't it?' Falcon said, smiling proudly with the presumed knowledge that he had Slater on the ropes. 'You are gonna shag her!'
'Do you know what happens when you assume?' Slater replied gruffly, re-positioning his club and his foot placement in the process.
'You make an arse out of you and me?'
Without responding, Slater lightly swung the club and struck the bottom section of the golf ball, making it roll up the hill to a certain point until gravity interfered and pulled the ball back to the open stretch of carpeted green. A belated sigh travelled through Slater's mask, now shining brightly under the dozens of fluorescent lights overhead.
'Heh ... I guess it does...' Falcon said, having seen the disastrous result of Slater's complicated shot. 'So if I assume that you're not gonna miss your next shot...'
'Don't push your luck...' Slater interrupted. Irritation seeped through his voice, and upon hearing his disgruntled tone, Falcon mischievously smirked away from his entrusted companion.
'I ain't pushin' mine. Yours on the other hand? It ended up hittin' two massive floatation devices!'
'And once again, your juvenile innuendos fail to impress me...'
Chuckling with brewing immaturity, Falcon danced his way to his coloured golf ball and lined up his shot. After a few moments of soothing silence, Falcon bore his teeth with a wretched smile.
'Bet her milk jugs impressed ya...'
Stifling laughter, Falcon keeled over from a strengthening thought.
'The milkman cometh, ready to pump them titties dry!'
'What ... is your problem...?' Slater asked sternly, becoming increasingly agitated with Falcon's childish behaviour.
'Why're ya bein' so serious?' Falcon responded with his own question. 'It's like that's all ya can be, serious and bland. Liven up, mate! God forbid ya get struck by personality disease and develop one...'
Returning to his shot, Falcon hammered the ball with too much power. The weighted ball soared across the hill, managing to scrape part of the layered carpeting and bouncing off the course.
'Oh sod off...' Falcon reacted sourly, visualizing his ball with an expression of fury. Fortunately, the ball had gone over the mandatory hill, saving Falcon from the mundane task of going back and trying again. 'I wonder who invented Golf...?'
'I'm not sure...' Slater mumbled, unable to remember the person that was responsible for its inception.
'Probably some geezer that wanted to become the most borin' person in the world,' Falcon guessed, doing so as he watched Slater intricately line up his next shot. 'He didn't take one thing into account though...'
'What would that be?'
'You bein' born...'
Shrugging his shoulders disapprovingly, Slater once again struck the ball - harder this time, but the strike still failed to resist the laws of gravity. Upon watching his ball fail to travel across the hill for a second time, Slater adjusted his mask and contemplated his next move.
'You're being rather theoretical today...' Slater said.
'I always am, mate,' Falcon admitted. 'But don't confuse me for one of them philosophical nobheads that sit around in wine bars all the time, talkin' about life, the universe and everythin' with a group of sad gits that wonder why their wives keep actin' weird as soon as they get home.'
'Was that a theory on why adulteration rates are increasing...?'
'... No?' Falcon denied. 'That was just me sayin', "Listen, you bunch of bell-ends! There's a woman at home that needs some action tonight, but she ain't gonna get any if you keep discussin' the reason why David Cameron is such an unlikeable prick with Bob the unemployed Builder from down the road!" I mean he is a nob jockey but Jesus, think about your own nob for a change!'
'That is not what philosophers discuss and analyse...' Slater said, attempting to correct Falcon's false judgement.
'Then what do they do then? Wonder why JFK was assassinated? Wonder if global warmin' is true? Wonder why England suck absolute cock at takin' Penalties?!'
Embroiled by sudden anger at that last suggestion, Falcon shook his head and cursed under his breath, knowing the World Cup in Brazil was fast approaching and that more heartache would likely ensue for England in the Tournament. Instead of consoling him, Slater simply looked around, absorbing the sights of the Mall and the thousands of people that were exploring its vast array of stores and attractions.
'They usually evaluate social phenomena and commentaries...' Slater explained smartly. 'Why certain developments appease our culture, why economical changes affect our livelihood ... those are the sort of things they discuss.'
'In that case, you should join them!' Falcon suggested. 'I can imagine the meetin' now. "Hello, I'm Matt Slater, and I am incurably, mind-numbingly boring. I also look like Vega from Street Fighter, but that's a story for another time. Can I join your club, because you guys are so disinterestin' that I need to look a little bit fascinatin' in comparison!"
'Your insults are stagnating too...' Slater casually replied, becoming immune to Falcon's recurring jokes aimed at his personality. 'Perhaps new material would suffice?'
'I'll get new material when you get a new attitude...' Falcon negotiated, bargaining for a compromise that would suit both parties. 'Anyway, that Casanova English guy is a philosopher.'
Slater bowed his head in annoyance. 'So I've learned...'
Neglecting his next shot, Falcon observed Slater's body language. 'Sounds like he's got you proper wound up.'
Falcon was hardly far from the truth. After listening to Casanova English's comments about Slater being a disfigured hero with insecurity problems and debilitating wounds, Slater could only sit in silence, contemplating the effects their match would have in Mankato. It was true that Slater was wounded - physically and mentally - but he was not completely empty. That was proven against Alexander Oliver; although it was not his strongest performance, it was enough to highlight the pedigree Slater had conserved after sustaining his injuries against Seth Iser. Casanova should have known that underestimation was a catastrophic endeavour. Or did he already know?
Casanova English was no Alexander Oliver; that much was true. He possessed the right characteristics that would propel him to the top of the mountain. He had a level of experience that Oliver did not have. But the deadliest attribute in Casanova's arsenal was not his intelligence. It was the messages he sent, messages that could turn one individual against another, messages that could bring upon riots for a selfish cause that Casanova meticulously constructed.
How many people had he tampered with? How many subjects had he employed and controlled at a whim? How many people had he wickedly transformed with his prophecies? Slater did not know - then again, no one did - but there was one thing he did know. Whereas Seth Iser simply belittled the public for their contradictions and discriminatory atrocities - failing to admit the fact he too had fallen victim to hypocrisy and prejudice - Casanova wanted to guide them with promises of prosperity and good fortune that hid dark, unsettling truths.
Not that this could be proven, but Slater detected it beneath the surface. He felt that very aura oozing from Casanova's pores, one that could not be ignored. He wanted ultimate control, and he would use anyone he could manipulate to get it.
Anyone.
But Slater could not let his emotions interfere. After watching what Casanova did to Bobby Backdoor before Brett Carson came into play, it seemed pretty clear that Casanova could detect a weakness and change his tactics quickly. Casanova knew the mask Slater wore was a huge target, and he had even promised to rip it from Slater's face and bludgeon him with the protective accessory. However, he also knew what existed within. He knew Slater could be driven beyond his limits, and once that occurred, the match was Casanova's to lose.
Sadly, being defensive and working Casanova into a false sense of security was not the only obstacle Slater had to fend with. If Casanova's following increased, so too would his social status, and with that status came unbelievable power that would cause major problems for VOW and the wrestling business in general. His messages were enough to alter the tides of democracy. Once that tide became a rampaging tsunami, not even the strongest barricade could hold back the force that his voice created.
Slater needed to win; more than anything. He was suffering with his injuries, but he needed to hold on. He needed to prove to the people that he could still be a beneficial hero, an influential figure that the masses could appreciate and emulate.
Or maybe that was his biggest weakness?
'Hello, Earth to Matthew!'
Disrupting Slater's train of thought, Falcon whacked Slater over the head with his metallic golf club. Slater shuddered and felt his head, caressing his scalp to prevent the bruise from swelling.
'I thought I lost ya for a second there.'
Focusing entirely on Falcon, Slater heavily exhaled. 'Do not mention loss...'
'Well yer gonna lose if ya keep goin' into your own world! It's your go!'
Finally acknowledging the current course they were on, Slater noticed that Falcon had potted his golf ball. Then he saw where his ball was, but he did not immediately prepare to take his fourth shot.
'What's the matter, mate? Headache? Indigestion? Dawn bein' naked?'
'No...'
'Damn ... so much for that fantasy...'
'I was thinking about what Casanova said,' Slater continued. 'His confidence, his arrogance ... they remind me of Oliver's, but on an entirely different scale. He could potentially fall the same way Oliver did. But...'
Falcon blinked in anticipation. After a few seconds, he lost patience. 'But what?'
Instinctively, Slater touched his mask. The smooth texture of the material rubbed against his fingers, but all he could think about was the burning sensation; his skin eroding, his flesh deteriorating. The mist continued to linger, but its red shade had darkened with dread; with pessimism.
'Am I ... losing my touch...?' Slater cryptically asked. Falcon was taken aback.
'Yer still wrestlin' great, if that's what ya mean...'
'No...' Slater denied. 'My touch ... with the people. What if my words are not registering like they used to? What if ... I cannot communicate with the new generation? Am I ... becoming distant?'
'What's brought this on all of a sudden?' Falcon asked sincerely.
Slater shook his head. 'Heroes ... eventually disappear.'
Falcon raised a sceptical eyebrow. 'Okay, now yer confusin' me.'
Looking down at his golf ball again, Slater leant down and picked up the spherical object. He studied the numerous craters embedded into its surfaces. He studied the accumulated scratches. And then he look ahead to the circular hole that the golf ball was supposed to fall into, all the while coming up with something in his head.
'Casanova said that in time, all heroes fall. All heroes suffer the fate of extinction, never being remembered again ... no matter the documents that contain their name and amicable deeds. But sometimes, what we create can live on. No matter how battered, no matter how aged, some things will last ... as long as the people continue to remember. And that is what Casanova will know in Mankato. He will know ... that I aim to keep the spirit of wrestling alive ... and I hope, that even after I am gone, that spirit will last.'
'A selfless deed if there ever was one,' Falcon nodded. 'Thing is, all I got from him was that he was a total nutcase.'
'How did you come to that conclusion?'
'Well ... ya can't really rip the mask off Darth Vader, know what I mean?'
Having walked into another insult from his companion, Slater clenched his club and advanced towards Falcon.
'Hey hey, a joke's a joke!'
'I'm fully aware...' Slater replied ominously, only to drop his golf ball onto the turf and line up his shot again. 'But on Breakthrough, facing Casanova will be no laughing matter.'
Alexander Oliver's arrogance might have caused his eventual downfall, but Casanova English would be far more difficult to bring down. However, with the correct strategy, and with enough stamina to last, Slater's goals would continue on a positive streak that would serve to benefit the wrestling business rather than poison it.
Casanova was a festering disease; Slater was the aged but effectively wise antidote.
'So you are gonna shag Dawn, right?'
As Slater swung his club, his shot carried through and struck Falcon directly in the genital region. Falcon groaned and slumped onto the floor, writhing in agony as Slater shook his head.
'You know what happens when you assume...'
Opinions could certainly differ on Oliver's supermodel looks and his chiselled physique. However, a universal agreement could be made that Oliver's excessive boasting and posturing cost him dearly, especially when Slater was at his weakest point. Resisting submissions, countering holds; Oliver should have succeeded despite his lack of experience. Unfortunately, the senseless need to share his inflated confidence ruined what could have been a momentous occasion for the Portuguese artist, and Slater took the conflict into his own hands.
One Shockwave later, Oliver's glamorous image shattered into a thousand pieces, as did his seemingly indestructible ego, now humbled by the tactics of a veteran that knew when to seal the deal.
Such was the penalty for celebrating a victory not yet won, becoming one with the temptations of fantasy and completely ignoring the facts. Oliver judged poorly, assuming that the golden milestone he envisioned was already in his grasp. How quickly the glorious road he journeyed upon disintegrated into nothingness, all thanks to the orchestration of his arrogant mistakes.
Not that Oliver relied heavily on his body language to infuriate Slater and cause an upset - his endurance was certainly surprising, and his athletic skills made people think that he could defeat the Silver Knight with cat-like reflexes and accurate strikes. Even Slater was taken aback at points, not expecting Oliver to be as resilient as he appeared. But that was what garnered success, and Oliver had blown his chance to stand tall above a man some people considered to be the best pure wrestler in the world.
The future seemed bright for the young man, but the loss did tell Oliver that major adjustments were required. Sadly, he failed to drastically change them before the next Breakthrough, resulting in another loss against the spiritually-challenged Reya Serra.
Yet as Oliver basked in the burning embers of defeat, Slater approached a new venture - one that could bring upon further success and the regeneration of honor in his tortured soul.
That is, of course, if everything went according to plan...
"Yer gonna shag her, aren't ya?"
Falcon's sexually-strong question caused Slater to flinch awkwardly, a reaction that knocked his golf ball off-course. After days of endless exercise, it seemed that a day of rest was in order for the masked knight. Unfortunately, Falcon had persuaded Slater to go to the enormous Mall of America with him, and after hours of signing autographs and taking pictures with the public as Falcon shopped for an assortment of stylish clothes, the incomparable duo decided to play a round or two of Moose Mountain Adventure Golf. Furthermore, Falcon had continuously bothered Slater with questions pertaining to Dawn's mysterious proposition, but Slater was not willing to spread any light on the situation.
This, Slater annoyingly learned, had merely driven Falcon to the depths of the obscene, and with several holes already played with more to follow, Slater was gradually losing his patience with a man that could not let the subject end in peace.
'The truth's gonna come out, mate...' Falcon theorized, knowing he was pushing Slater to the brink of exposing his secret. "I've got a better chance knowin' what's gonna happen than you have of pottin' that bloody ball into the hole from there!"
Falcon aimed his golf club towards the edge of the incline that Slater's ball needed to traverse, now settled nearby the structurally-curved hill at a difficult angle. Remaining silent, Slater ignored Falcon and readied his shot, keeping his eyes focused on the cratered ball as he prepared to salvage an escape from slipping under par and forfeiting the hole.
'Silence is tellin', isn't it?' Falcon said, smiling proudly with the presumed knowledge that he had Slater on the ropes. 'You are gonna shag her!'
'Do you know what happens when you assume?' Slater replied gruffly, re-positioning his club and his foot placement in the process.
'You make an arse out of you and me?'
Without responding, Slater lightly swung the club and struck the bottom section of the golf ball, making it roll up the hill to a certain point until gravity interfered and pulled the ball back to the open stretch of carpeted green. A belated sigh travelled through Slater's mask, now shining brightly under the dozens of fluorescent lights overhead.
'Heh ... I guess it does...' Falcon said, having seen the disastrous result of Slater's complicated shot. 'So if I assume that you're not gonna miss your next shot...'
'Don't push your luck...' Slater interrupted. Irritation seeped through his voice, and upon hearing his disgruntled tone, Falcon mischievously smirked away from his entrusted companion.
'I ain't pushin' mine. Yours on the other hand? It ended up hittin' two massive floatation devices!'
'And once again, your juvenile innuendos fail to impress me...'
Chuckling with brewing immaturity, Falcon danced his way to his coloured golf ball and lined up his shot. After a few moments of soothing silence, Falcon bore his teeth with a wretched smile.
'Bet her milk jugs impressed ya...'
Stifling laughter, Falcon keeled over from a strengthening thought.
'The milkman cometh, ready to pump them titties dry!'
'What ... is your problem...?' Slater asked sternly, becoming increasingly agitated with Falcon's childish behaviour.
'Why're ya bein' so serious?' Falcon responded with his own question. 'It's like that's all ya can be, serious and bland. Liven up, mate! God forbid ya get struck by personality disease and develop one...'
Returning to his shot, Falcon hammered the ball with too much power. The weighted ball soared across the hill, managing to scrape part of the layered carpeting and bouncing off the course.
'Oh sod off...' Falcon reacted sourly, visualizing his ball with an expression of fury. Fortunately, the ball had gone over the mandatory hill, saving Falcon from the mundane task of going back and trying again. 'I wonder who invented Golf...?'
'I'm not sure...' Slater mumbled, unable to remember the person that was responsible for its inception.
'Probably some geezer that wanted to become the most borin' person in the world,' Falcon guessed, doing so as he watched Slater intricately line up his next shot. 'He didn't take one thing into account though...'
'What would that be?'
'You bein' born...'
Shrugging his shoulders disapprovingly, Slater once again struck the ball - harder this time, but the strike still failed to resist the laws of gravity. Upon watching his ball fail to travel across the hill for a second time, Slater adjusted his mask and contemplated his next move.
'You're being rather theoretical today...' Slater said.
'I always am, mate,' Falcon admitted. 'But don't confuse me for one of them philosophical nobheads that sit around in wine bars all the time, talkin' about life, the universe and everythin' with a group of sad gits that wonder why their wives keep actin' weird as soon as they get home.'
'Was that a theory on why adulteration rates are increasing...?'
'... No?' Falcon denied. 'That was just me sayin', "Listen, you bunch of bell-ends! There's a woman at home that needs some action tonight, but she ain't gonna get any if you keep discussin' the reason why David Cameron is such an unlikeable prick with Bob the unemployed Builder from down the road!" I mean he is a nob jockey but Jesus, think about your own nob for a change!'
'That is not what philosophers discuss and analyse...' Slater said, attempting to correct Falcon's false judgement.
'Then what do they do then? Wonder why JFK was assassinated? Wonder if global warmin' is true? Wonder why England suck absolute cock at takin' Penalties?!'
Embroiled by sudden anger at that last suggestion, Falcon shook his head and cursed under his breath, knowing the World Cup in Brazil was fast approaching and that more heartache would likely ensue for England in the Tournament. Instead of consoling him, Slater simply looked around, absorbing the sights of the Mall and the thousands of people that were exploring its vast array of stores and attractions.
'They usually evaluate social phenomena and commentaries...' Slater explained smartly. 'Why certain developments appease our culture, why economical changes affect our livelihood ... those are the sort of things they discuss.'
'In that case, you should join them!' Falcon suggested. 'I can imagine the meetin' now. "Hello, I'm Matt Slater, and I am incurably, mind-numbingly boring. I also look like Vega from Street Fighter, but that's a story for another time. Can I join your club, because you guys are so disinterestin' that I need to look a little bit fascinatin' in comparison!"
'Your insults are stagnating too...' Slater casually replied, becoming immune to Falcon's recurring jokes aimed at his personality. 'Perhaps new material would suffice?'
'I'll get new material when you get a new attitude...' Falcon negotiated, bargaining for a compromise that would suit both parties. 'Anyway, that Casanova English guy is a philosopher.'
Slater bowed his head in annoyance. 'So I've learned...'
Neglecting his next shot, Falcon observed Slater's body language. 'Sounds like he's got you proper wound up.'
Falcon was hardly far from the truth. After listening to Casanova English's comments about Slater being a disfigured hero with insecurity problems and debilitating wounds, Slater could only sit in silence, contemplating the effects their match would have in Mankato. It was true that Slater was wounded - physically and mentally - but he was not completely empty. That was proven against Alexander Oliver; although it was not his strongest performance, it was enough to highlight the pedigree Slater had conserved after sustaining his injuries against Seth Iser. Casanova should have known that underestimation was a catastrophic endeavour. Or did he already know?
Casanova English was no Alexander Oliver; that much was true. He possessed the right characteristics that would propel him to the top of the mountain. He had a level of experience that Oliver did not have. But the deadliest attribute in Casanova's arsenal was not his intelligence. It was the messages he sent, messages that could turn one individual against another, messages that could bring upon riots for a selfish cause that Casanova meticulously constructed.
How many people had he tampered with? How many subjects had he employed and controlled at a whim? How many people had he wickedly transformed with his prophecies? Slater did not know - then again, no one did - but there was one thing he did know. Whereas Seth Iser simply belittled the public for their contradictions and discriminatory atrocities - failing to admit the fact he too had fallen victim to hypocrisy and prejudice - Casanova wanted to guide them with promises of prosperity and good fortune that hid dark, unsettling truths.
Not that this could be proven, but Slater detected it beneath the surface. He felt that very aura oozing from Casanova's pores, one that could not be ignored. He wanted ultimate control, and he would use anyone he could manipulate to get it.
Anyone.
But Slater could not let his emotions interfere. After watching what Casanova did to Bobby Backdoor before Brett Carson came into play, it seemed pretty clear that Casanova could detect a weakness and change his tactics quickly. Casanova knew the mask Slater wore was a huge target, and he had even promised to rip it from Slater's face and bludgeon him with the protective accessory. However, he also knew what existed within. He knew Slater could be driven beyond his limits, and once that occurred, the match was Casanova's to lose.
Sadly, being defensive and working Casanova into a false sense of security was not the only obstacle Slater had to fend with. If Casanova's following increased, so too would his social status, and with that status came unbelievable power that would cause major problems for VOW and the wrestling business in general. His messages were enough to alter the tides of democracy. Once that tide became a rampaging tsunami, not even the strongest barricade could hold back the force that his voice created.
Slater needed to win; more than anything. He was suffering with his injuries, but he needed to hold on. He needed to prove to the people that he could still be a beneficial hero, an influential figure that the masses could appreciate and emulate.
Or maybe that was his biggest weakness?
'Hello, Earth to Matthew!'
Disrupting Slater's train of thought, Falcon whacked Slater over the head with his metallic golf club. Slater shuddered and felt his head, caressing his scalp to prevent the bruise from swelling.
'I thought I lost ya for a second there.'
Focusing entirely on Falcon, Slater heavily exhaled. 'Do not mention loss...'
'Well yer gonna lose if ya keep goin' into your own world! It's your go!'
Finally acknowledging the current course they were on, Slater noticed that Falcon had potted his golf ball. Then he saw where his ball was, but he did not immediately prepare to take his fourth shot.
'What's the matter, mate? Headache? Indigestion? Dawn bein' naked?'
'No...'
'Damn ... so much for that fantasy...'
'I was thinking about what Casanova said,' Slater continued. 'His confidence, his arrogance ... they remind me of Oliver's, but on an entirely different scale. He could potentially fall the same way Oliver did. But...'
Falcon blinked in anticipation. After a few seconds, he lost patience. 'But what?'
Instinctively, Slater touched his mask. The smooth texture of the material rubbed against his fingers, but all he could think about was the burning sensation; his skin eroding, his flesh deteriorating. The mist continued to linger, but its red shade had darkened with dread; with pessimism.
'Am I ... losing my touch...?' Slater cryptically asked. Falcon was taken aback.
'Yer still wrestlin' great, if that's what ya mean...'
'No...' Slater denied. 'My touch ... with the people. What if my words are not registering like they used to? What if ... I cannot communicate with the new generation? Am I ... becoming distant?'
'What's brought this on all of a sudden?' Falcon asked sincerely.
Slater shook his head. 'Heroes ... eventually disappear.'
Falcon raised a sceptical eyebrow. 'Okay, now yer confusin' me.'
Looking down at his golf ball again, Slater leant down and picked up the spherical object. He studied the numerous craters embedded into its surfaces. He studied the accumulated scratches. And then he look ahead to the circular hole that the golf ball was supposed to fall into, all the while coming up with something in his head.
'Casanova said that in time, all heroes fall. All heroes suffer the fate of extinction, never being remembered again ... no matter the documents that contain their name and amicable deeds. But sometimes, what we create can live on. No matter how battered, no matter how aged, some things will last ... as long as the people continue to remember. And that is what Casanova will know in Mankato. He will know ... that I aim to keep the spirit of wrestling alive ... and I hope, that even after I am gone, that spirit will last.'
'A selfless deed if there ever was one,' Falcon nodded. 'Thing is, all I got from him was that he was a total nutcase.'
'How did you come to that conclusion?'
'Well ... ya can't really rip the mask off Darth Vader, know what I mean?'
Having walked into another insult from his companion, Slater clenched his club and advanced towards Falcon.
'Hey hey, a joke's a joke!'
'I'm fully aware...' Slater replied ominously, only to drop his golf ball onto the turf and line up his shot again. 'But on Breakthrough, facing Casanova will be no laughing matter.'
Alexander Oliver's arrogance might have caused his eventual downfall, but Casanova English would be far more difficult to bring down. However, with the correct strategy, and with enough stamina to last, Slater's goals would continue on a positive streak that would serve to benefit the wrestling business rather than poison it.
Casanova was a festering disease; Slater was the aged but effectively wise antidote.
'So you are gonna shag Dawn, right?'
As Slater swung his club, his shot carried through and struck Falcon directly in the genital region. Falcon groaned and slumped onto the floor, writhing in agony as Slater shook his head.
'You know what happens when you assume...'
