Post by Matt Slater on Jun 16, 2014 17:31:33 GMT -6
'You should have done better than that. Far better.'
Matt Slater did not reply. He just kept walking, concentrating on his bitter thoughts. To suffer a loss of that magnitude, to collapse at the last hurdle when meaningful victory was in reach, it was a deflating feeling. So deflating, in fact, that Slater did not feel normal. He felt like a worthless apparition, conceived only to relive the moment when his purpose died.
'Are you listening to me?' Dawn continued, pressuring Slater to communicate. 'That was not how I envisioned our inception as a unit. It was ... egregious. You could have taken a risk or two, instead of preferring to be cautious, which I believe ultimately led to your downfall.'
Reaching the locker room, Slater barged through the door. Dawn took this as a sign of frustration, yet she failed to relent.
'What became of the universally-revered "best wrestler in the world"? Where was the desire? Where was the determination?'
No longer able to absorb Dawn's scolding analysis of his performance without comment, Slater uncharacteristically punched a nearby locker, partially denting the metal. His violent reaction stunned Dawn momentarily, yet her stern expression remained, unwavering.
'Is that all you're going to do? Are you just going to stand there berating me for losing?'
'Well maybe if you responded with absolute dignity...'
'What dignity?!' Slater snapped. His voice was gruff behind his mask. 'A dignified man would accept that kind of defeat. A proud individual would nonchalantly move on to the next challenge. But here I stand ... angry ... unwilling to forgive myself ... unwilling to acquiesce and accept that failure will occur. I was this close ... this close ... and the darkness ripped it from my grasp. And here you are ... the living embodiment of my subconscious ... unable to help soothe the wounds.'
After crossing her arms underneath her large bosomed chest, Dawn thoughtlessly caressed her arm with a soft hand. 'Bluntness generates better results than fabricated points...'
'Even if you did speak nothing but lies ... I wouldn't believe you...'
Had that been the case, how could Slater naively abide by her deceptive evaluations? He knew his performance could have been better. He knew he was not as focused as he had been in previous contests. Casanova English was partly the cause of Slater's weakened delivery, resulting in a monumental victory for the lethal philosopher.
The major catalyst had been Slater's own psyche, having overlooked his opponent to worry about the state of a future not yet written instead of concentrating on the advocate of that brutal future and preventing it from happening. But that was not his only flaw.
The burning would not cease; not momentarily, not entirely. Seth Iser remained on his mind, a poisonous memory that was systematically decaying his core from within.
Too ashamed to look Dawn in the eyes, Slater turned his back on his newly-acquired manager and pressed his hands against the locker he had recently violated with an act of spontaneous abuse. 'I didn't just lose a match. I lost ... the importance of morality.'
'You can recover...' Dawn wisely responded, finally easing up and ending her annoyed lecture. 'You will recover...'
'So that's what you were hidin'!'
Slater should have known that their post-match argument would be interrupted. And predictably, it was Falcon that entered the fray, flustered from pure irritation and brewing madness.
'You ... made her ... your manager?' Falcon questioned rhetorically, shaking with utter contempt at the supposedly ludicrous sight.
'He merely accepted my proposition...' Dawn answered bluntly, yet she was on the verge of losing her temper.
'I wasn't talkin' to you! I was talkin' to him!'
'But your question concerns me, you insolent moron...'
'What do you have to offer Matt as a manager, huh? Oh wait, I get it. Ya just want to get closer to Matt so you can stuff your tits in his face every chance ya get! And if that ain't enough, you'll soften him up with your seductive comments and double entendres about suckin' his nob!'
'How obnoxiously juvenile...' Dawn replied with a sinister glare. 'Maybe if you weren't such an imbecilic, unforgivable, pathetic waste of life, then Matthew would have greater patience and understanding, patience and understanding that he has ridiculously spent looking after you so that you become better than someone who amounts to being nothing more than a disgracefully-inept child.'
Offended by Dawn's insults, Falcon rolled up his shirt sleeve as a confrontational gesture. 'You don't deserve someone like him! He's better off without the likes of you!'
'And Matthew is far better off without the likes of you polluting his personal life...'
'Shut up! Just shut up!'
Unable to take any more of Dawn and Falcon's heated disagreement, Slater focused on the two and released his fiery temperament, one that had been growing gradually for months. Falcon looked towards Slater anxiously, and Dawn just studied her newest client silently, wanting to listen to what was going through his mind.
'Why must every choice I make ... be called into question? The work I do ... the goals I try to achieve ... everything seems to have a negative. Why can't people ... just accept that the responsibility falls on my shoulders ... and leave it at that?!'
Looking between Dawn and Falcon, Slater waited for one of them to speak. Neither of them did.
'You...' Slater directed the word towards Falcon. 'For months ... for years ... I have done everything to make sure you stayed out of trouble. I looked after you when you were beaten into a coma. I went to save you after you were tortured by Seth Iser. I have given you travel expenses, accommodation expenses, everything to keep you on the straight and narrow. But instead of using those benefits to do something useful, you exploited them. You took them for granted...'
'Look mate, I was j...'
'Shut. Up.'
An awkward feeling dominated the room, perpetuated by Slater's suppressed rage escaping the ruptured cracks of his honourable resistance.
'What act of common decency have you completed lately? You ridicule me ... you laugh in my face ... and like a fool, I just stand there and take it. I was kind enough to give you a starting path so that you could pave your own way without trouble ... but instead ... you've done nothing but waste numerous opportunities with your constant partying and attitude problems! If I wasn't there in Georgia that day a few years ago, you would still be on the streets begging for change ... which you would likely use to drink yourself into a merry stupor before journeying off to a brothel to sort out your sexual frustrations!'
As Falcon looked aghast, Dawn humorously smirked. However, Slater was not in a comical mood.
'Do you find that funny?'
Slater focused on Dawn with complete seriousness. Usually Dawn would have maintained her expression, but this time, her joyous smirk faded away into an uncomfortable pout.
'Do you know what I find funny? The fact you have your vast wealth ... yet you fail to do anything meaningful with it. Instead, you increase your own luxuries and stick your nose up at the impoverished and unfortunate people that dream of affording what you can!'
'That was money I earned...'
'That was money you were handed from a family inheritance!' Slater angrily answered, bringing up a loathsome truth that Dawn could not conceal. 'Sure, you've earned more on top of that since then, but you wouldn't be as wealthy as you are now without that special fortune. And because of that fortune, you act all high and mighty, having developed a superiority complex from an unavoidable tragedy! And to think ... I accepted your proposition to give you a sense of purpose ... a sense of purpose that doesn't involve using your intelligence to cut others down, and using your body and fake seduction to get whatever you desire.'
Dawn lowered her eyes briefly, choosing to remain silent as Slater released his infuriation.
'But do you want to hear the worst thing of all? It's the fact ... that I'm not as fortunate as you two are. I wish I could sleep easy, knowing I'm protected by someone else's finances. I wish I could walk around without a care, pretending other people don't matter, pretending that their problems don't exist and shouldn't bother me. I wish I could live without any regrets or burdens ... but there I am, giving to charity, treating everyone equally ... and what do I get in return? I get headaches, I get vilified and criticized, I get targeted and abused ... and people just fucking stand there and expect me to do all the work to make sure their security and the comfortable life I'm giving them remains intact! And for someone who pleaded with me to be my manager after being unceremoniously fired ... for someone who has done nothing but remain unemployed and sponge off my generosity like a parasite ... to blame me for the mistakes I'm already blaming myself for ... after what I've done ... just...'
Seemingly unable to conclude his speech, Slater shook his head and choked on pure emotion. However, after releasing a shaky breath, Slater finally finished his thought.
'Just ... fuck off...'
After slumping down onto the bench behind him, Slater hung his head and closed his eyes. On the other hand, Falcon sourly frowned.
'I guess ... I'll just go back to Chicago then, shall I...?'
Without waiting for any kind of confirmation or denial, Falcon turned on his polished shoes and strolled out the door, forcing an unsuspecting porter into the wall as a consequence of his irritation. The porter looked stunned by the aggressive push, which in turn increased his curiosity. He looked into the locker room warily, but as soon as he witnessed Slater's hunched posture and Dawn's cold glare, he hastily continued his planned duties without a word, not wanting to become the subject of a sudden attack that was conceived to relieve the defeated Silver Knight or his surprisingly-terrifying manager of stress.
Once Falcon was gone, Dawn's lips quivered.
'You don't think ... I have any regrets...?' Dawn emotionally questioned, knowing Slater was not aware of the skeletons in her closet. 'If only you feckin' knew. If only you could feckin' learn ... instead of being so self-righteous with your "honor" and your "fight for justice". Those were your choices. You should have been responsible.'
Just like before, Slater failed to respond.
'This is not you. You're becoming ... something else. You're not the man I...'
Stopping abruptly, Dawn clenched her teeth.
'You're not like Vanessa. You're not like Reya. But you are ... changing.'
With an analytical glance, Dawn believed she knew the answer.
'I think ... your ice is melting...'
Following this metaphorical statement, Dawn also departed the locker room, but she travelled in the opposite direction of Falcon. No one was unfortunate to cross her path, but people would have kept their distance as soon as they witnessed her upset expression.
As soon as Dawn left, Slater pushed himself away from the bench, rushed to the door and slammed it shut with a frightening crack. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to be free of intrusion and interrogation. But it was clear that his armour was beginning to break. The flames were starting to spread, melting Slater's wise, composed exterior into dripping water; all because of the unacceptable failures, all because of the burning.
All because of the Red Mist; mind-altering, rage-inducing, affecting the victim until nothing was left.
With his back turned to the locked door, Slater carefully removed his mask and stared at the supposedly-symbolic accessory. His face might have been protected from harm thus far, but now his closest friends and associates had been driven away by the harshest of truths. If the fire continued to rage inside him, there would be none left; no acquaintances, no friends, no supporters.
He would be a lone martyr without a beneficial mission, a lone knight without anyone to loyally fight for.
The mask was what everyone saw of him now, but as he looked at the mask's exquisite design, he could not even begin to work out what it represented.
'Logan Rourke Keegan ... I want you to listen to me very carefully...'
There were no lights on in Slater's hotel room. Only the laptop that was currently recording Slater's latest broadcast generated any form of light in the entire vicinity, casting an ominous glow across Slater's mask that hid the blue lenses in shadow.
'You may have accumulated several defeats in professional wrestling thus far ... but the extent of your losses will be nothing compared to what I will unleash on you at Breakthrough 5. You came into this business as a fighter, trained to end any contest with a perfect combination of strikes ... maybe even one punch. But if I were you ... I would start to think about how to avoid being stretched, suplexed and out-wrestled by yours truly instead of thinking about how you will punch me into oblivion. There is no doubt ... that you have the superior brawling acumen ... but when someone like you enters that ring ... they are entering my domain.'
Slater momentarily checked the clock. It was just gone midnight. After that, he just stopped talking. For approximately two minutes. To anyone watching, this was not the Slater they had grown accustomed to. He was not composed, hardly focused on the task at hand. He sounded unsure of himself; not so much removing his long-time principle of never underestimating his opponents, but removing his own estimations and the strength of his abilities.
'But maybe you'll get lucky. Maybe you'll ... get that crucial shot in that will end everything. Maybe you'll hold on long enough to bash my brains in and put me into a vegetative state ... because for some reason ... it seems that whatever I do lately ... it's not enough. It's never enough.'
'This may be ... the equivalent of the Irish Republic turning the tide against the British and bringing on a ceasefire that led to Ireland's independence. I'm sure you're familiar with that legendary war ... and the civil war that bred from it. The Irish handled the conflict with successful assassinations and timed bombs ... and the way I feel now ... I'm either walking into a fatal headshot ... or a minefield.'
Slater released a sigh, gradually lowering his head with uncertainty.
'The wind that shakes the barely ... what an appropriate phrase. You could be that offensive wind that sheds the resources I need to survive. And I'm sure you will profit from this Main Event contest in some shape or form ... maybe with a bonus payment ... maybe with a sponsorship deal. The world will be your oyster if you can manage to defeat me ... and as the mist has so far told me ... that may be closer to the truth than my own survival.'
No one would have gotten this self-referential comment of the carnelian mist that clouded Slater's motives and aspirations, but Slater did not care to explain it. He continued on without information, putting his hands together and clenching the fingers to form a ball.
'But I will do what I can to avoid the minefield ... to dodge that fatal headshot ... even without support. I may be the soldier that amends the history for the British ... getting one over on the Irish ... getting one over on the nation that has celebrated the consumption of alcohol and Christianity with unrelenting passion and an infectious, loveable spirit. So far, you have failed to conquer the Americans. We'll find out if an Englishman can conquer you too.'
Slater looked towards the ceiling in contemplation, residing on his chair like a man that was about to make an important risk.
'I can't afford to lose. Not anymore.'
Pausing briefly, Slater concluded his speech with a sombre statement before ending the recording, looking towards the camera of his laptop in the process.
'Not with what I have left...'
Matt Slater did not reply. He just kept walking, concentrating on his bitter thoughts. To suffer a loss of that magnitude, to collapse at the last hurdle when meaningful victory was in reach, it was a deflating feeling. So deflating, in fact, that Slater did not feel normal. He felt like a worthless apparition, conceived only to relive the moment when his purpose died.
'Are you listening to me?' Dawn continued, pressuring Slater to communicate. 'That was not how I envisioned our inception as a unit. It was ... egregious. You could have taken a risk or two, instead of preferring to be cautious, which I believe ultimately led to your downfall.'
Reaching the locker room, Slater barged through the door. Dawn took this as a sign of frustration, yet she failed to relent.
'What became of the universally-revered "best wrestler in the world"? Where was the desire? Where was the determination?'
No longer able to absorb Dawn's scolding analysis of his performance without comment, Slater uncharacteristically punched a nearby locker, partially denting the metal. His violent reaction stunned Dawn momentarily, yet her stern expression remained, unwavering.
'Is that all you're going to do? Are you just going to stand there berating me for losing?'
'Well maybe if you responded with absolute dignity...'
'What dignity?!' Slater snapped. His voice was gruff behind his mask. 'A dignified man would accept that kind of defeat. A proud individual would nonchalantly move on to the next challenge. But here I stand ... angry ... unwilling to forgive myself ... unwilling to acquiesce and accept that failure will occur. I was this close ... this close ... and the darkness ripped it from my grasp. And here you are ... the living embodiment of my subconscious ... unable to help soothe the wounds.'
After crossing her arms underneath her large bosomed chest, Dawn thoughtlessly caressed her arm with a soft hand. 'Bluntness generates better results than fabricated points...'
'Even if you did speak nothing but lies ... I wouldn't believe you...'
Had that been the case, how could Slater naively abide by her deceptive evaluations? He knew his performance could have been better. He knew he was not as focused as he had been in previous contests. Casanova English was partly the cause of Slater's weakened delivery, resulting in a monumental victory for the lethal philosopher.
The major catalyst had been Slater's own psyche, having overlooked his opponent to worry about the state of a future not yet written instead of concentrating on the advocate of that brutal future and preventing it from happening. But that was not his only flaw.
The burning would not cease; not momentarily, not entirely. Seth Iser remained on his mind, a poisonous memory that was systematically decaying his core from within.
Too ashamed to look Dawn in the eyes, Slater turned his back on his newly-acquired manager and pressed his hands against the locker he had recently violated with an act of spontaneous abuse. 'I didn't just lose a match. I lost ... the importance of morality.'
'You can recover...' Dawn wisely responded, finally easing up and ending her annoyed lecture. 'You will recover...'
'So that's what you were hidin'!'
Slater should have known that their post-match argument would be interrupted. And predictably, it was Falcon that entered the fray, flustered from pure irritation and brewing madness.
'You ... made her ... your manager?' Falcon questioned rhetorically, shaking with utter contempt at the supposedly ludicrous sight.
'He merely accepted my proposition...' Dawn answered bluntly, yet she was on the verge of losing her temper.
'I wasn't talkin' to you! I was talkin' to him!'
'But your question concerns me, you insolent moron...'
'What do you have to offer Matt as a manager, huh? Oh wait, I get it. Ya just want to get closer to Matt so you can stuff your tits in his face every chance ya get! And if that ain't enough, you'll soften him up with your seductive comments and double entendres about suckin' his nob!'
'How obnoxiously juvenile...' Dawn replied with a sinister glare. 'Maybe if you weren't such an imbecilic, unforgivable, pathetic waste of life, then Matthew would have greater patience and understanding, patience and understanding that he has ridiculously spent looking after you so that you become better than someone who amounts to being nothing more than a disgracefully-inept child.'
Offended by Dawn's insults, Falcon rolled up his shirt sleeve as a confrontational gesture. 'You don't deserve someone like him! He's better off without the likes of you!'
'And Matthew is far better off without the likes of you polluting his personal life...'
'Shut up! Just shut up!'
Unable to take any more of Dawn and Falcon's heated disagreement, Slater focused on the two and released his fiery temperament, one that had been growing gradually for months. Falcon looked towards Slater anxiously, and Dawn just studied her newest client silently, wanting to listen to what was going through his mind.
'Why must every choice I make ... be called into question? The work I do ... the goals I try to achieve ... everything seems to have a negative. Why can't people ... just accept that the responsibility falls on my shoulders ... and leave it at that?!'
Looking between Dawn and Falcon, Slater waited for one of them to speak. Neither of them did.
'You...' Slater directed the word towards Falcon. 'For months ... for years ... I have done everything to make sure you stayed out of trouble. I looked after you when you were beaten into a coma. I went to save you after you were tortured by Seth Iser. I have given you travel expenses, accommodation expenses, everything to keep you on the straight and narrow. But instead of using those benefits to do something useful, you exploited them. You took them for granted...'
'Look mate, I was j...'
'Shut. Up.'
An awkward feeling dominated the room, perpetuated by Slater's suppressed rage escaping the ruptured cracks of his honourable resistance.
'What act of common decency have you completed lately? You ridicule me ... you laugh in my face ... and like a fool, I just stand there and take it. I was kind enough to give you a starting path so that you could pave your own way without trouble ... but instead ... you've done nothing but waste numerous opportunities with your constant partying and attitude problems! If I wasn't there in Georgia that day a few years ago, you would still be on the streets begging for change ... which you would likely use to drink yourself into a merry stupor before journeying off to a brothel to sort out your sexual frustrations!'
As Falcon looked aghast, Dawn humorously smirked. However, Slater was not in a comical mood.
'Do you find that funny?'
Slater focused on Dawn with complete seriousness. Usually Dawn would have maintained her expression, but this time, her joyous smirk faded away into an uncomfortable pout.
'Do you know what I find funny? The fact you have your vast wealth ... yet you fail to do anything meaningful with it. Instead, you increase your own luxuries and stick your nose up at the impoverished and unfortunate people that dream of affording what you can!'
'That was money I earned...'
'That was money you were handed from a family inheritance!' Slater angrily answered, bringing up a loathsome truth that Dawn could not conceal. 'Sure, you've earned more on top of that since then, but you wouldn't be as wealthy as you are now without that special fortune. And because of that fortune, you act all high and mighty, having developed a superiority complex from an unavoidable tragedy! And to think ... I accepted your proposition to give you a sense of purpose ... a sense of purpose that doesn't involve using your intelligence to cut others down, and using your body and fake seduction to get whatever you desire.'
Dawn lowered her eyes briefly, choosing to remain silent as Slater released his infuriation.
'But do you want to hear the worst thing of all? It's the fact ... that I'm not as fortunate as you two are. I wish I could sleep easy, knowing I'm protected by someone else's finances. I wish I could walk around without a care, pretending other people don't matter, pretending that their problems don't exist and shouldn't bother me. I wish I could live without any regrets or burdens ... but there I am, giving to charity, treating everyone equally ... and what do I get in return? I get headaches, I get vilified and criticized, I get targeted and abused ... and people just fucking stand there and expect me to do all the work to make sure their security and the comfortable life I'm giving them remains intact! And for someone who pleaded with me to be my manager after being unceremoniously fired ... for someone who has done nothing but remain unemployed and sponge off my generosity like a parasite ... to blame me for the mistakes I'm already blaming myself for ... after what I've done ... just...'
Seemingly unable to conclude his speech, Slater shook his head and choked on pure emotion. However, after releasing a shaky breath, Slater finally finished his thought.
'Just ... fuck off...'
After slumping down onto the bench behind him, Slater hung his head and closed his eyes. On the other hand, Falcon sourly frowned.
'I guess ... I'll just go back to Chicago then, shall I...?'
Without waiting for any kind of confirmation or denial, Falcon turned on his polished shoes and strolled out the door, forcing an unsuspecting porter into the wall as a consequence of his irritation. The porter looked stunned by the aggressive push, which in turn increased his curiosity. He looked into the locker room warily, but as soon as he witnessed Slater's hunched posture and Dawn's cold glare, he hastily continued his planned duties without a word, not wanting to become the subject of a sudden attack that was conceived to relieve the defeated Silver Knight or his surprisingly-terrifying manager of stress.
Once Falcon was gone, Dawn's lips quivered.
'You don't think ... I have any regrets...?' Dawn emotionally questioned, knowing Slater was not aware of the skeletons in her closet. 'If only you feckin' knew. If only you could feckin' learn ... instead of being so self-righteous with your "honor" and your "fight for justice". Those were your choices. You should have been responsible.'
Just like before, Slater failed to respond.
'This is not you. You're becoming ... something else. You're not the man I...'
Stopping abruptly, Dawn clenched her teeth.
'You're not like Vanessa. You're not like Reya. But you are ... changing.'
With an analytical glance, Dawn believed she knew the answer.
'I think ... your ice is melting...'
Following this metaphorical statement, Dawn also departed the locker room, but she travelled in the opposite direction of Falcon. No one was unfortunate to cross her path, but people would have kept their distance as soon as they witnessed her upset expression.
As soon as Dawn left, Slater pushed himself away from the bench, rushed to the door and slammed it shut with a frightening crack. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to be free of intrusion and interrogation. But it was clear that his armour was beginning to break. The flames were starting to spread, melting Slater's wise, composed exterior into dripping water; all because of the unacceptable failures, all because of the burning.
All because of the Red Mist; mind-altering, rage-inducing, affecting the victim until nothing was left.
With his back turned to the locked door, Slater carefully removed his mask and stared at the supposedly-symbolic accessory. His face might have been protected from harm thus far, but now his closest friends and associates had been driven away by the harshest of truths. If the fire continued to rage inside him, there would be none left; no acquaintances, no friends, no supporters.
He would be a lone martyr without a beneficial mission, a lone knight without anyone to loyally fight for.
The mask was what everyone saw of him now, but as he looked at the mask's exquisite design, he could not even begin to work out what it represented.
'Logan Rourke Keegan ... I want you to listen to me very carefully...'
There were no lights on in Slater's hotel room. Only the laptop that was currently recording Slater's latest broadcast generated any form of light in the entire vicinity, casting an ominous glow across Slater's mask that hid the blue lenses in shadow.
'You may have accumulated several defeats in professional wrestling thus far ... but the extent of your losses will be nothing compared to what I will unleash on you at Breakthrough 5. You came into this business as a fighter, trained to end any contest with a perfect combination of strikes ... maybe even one punch. But if I were you ... I would start to think about how to avoid being stretched, suplexed and out-wrestled by yours truly instead of thinking about how you will punch me into oblivion. There is no doubt ... that you have the superior brawling acumen ... but when someone like you enters that ring ... they are entering my domain.'
Slater momentarily checked the clock. It was just gone midnight. After that, he just stopped talking. For approximately two minutes. To anyone watching, this was not the Slater they had grown accustomed to. He was not composed, hardly focused on the task at hand. He sounded unsure of himself; not so much removing his long-time principle of never underestimating his opponents, but removing his own estimations and the strength of his abilities.
'But maybe you'll get lucky. Maybe you'll ... get that crucial shot in that will end everything. Maybe you'll hold on long enough to bash my brains in and put me into a vegetative state ... because for some reason ... it seems that whatever I do lately ... it's not enough. It's never enough.'
'This may be ... the equivalent of the Irish Republic turning the tide against the British and bringing on a ceasefire that led to Ireland's independence. I'm sure you're familiar with that legendary war ... and the civil war that bred from it. The Irish handled the conflict with successful assassinations and timed bombs ... and the way I feel now ... I'm either walking into a fatal headshot ... or a minefield.'
Slater released a sigh, gradually lowering his head with uncertainty.
'The wind that shakes the barely ... what an appropriate phrase. You could be that offensive wind that sheds the resources I need to survive. And I'm sure you will profit from this Main Event contest in some shape or form ... maybe with a bonus payment ... maybe with a sponsorship deal. The world will be your oyster if you can manage to defeat me ... and as the mist has so far told me ... that may be closer to the truth than my own survival.'
No one would have gotten this self-referential comment of the carnelian mist that clouded Slater's motives and aspirations, but Slater did not care to explain it. He continued on without information, putting his hands together and clenching the fingers to form a ball.
'But I will do what I can to avoid the minefield ... to dodge that fatal headshot ... even without support. I may be the soldier that amends the history for the British ... getting one over on the Irish ... getting one over on the nation that has celebrated the consumption of alcohol and Christianity with unrelenting passion and an infectious, loveable spirit. So far, you have failed to conquer the Americans. We'll find out if an Englishman can conquer you too.'
Slater looked towards the ceiling in contemplation, residing on his chair like a man that was about to make an important risk.
'I can't afford to lose. Not anymore.'
Pausing briefly, Slater concluded his speech with a sombre statement before ending the recording, looking towards the camera of his laptop in the process.
'Not with what I have left...'
