Post by Valquist on Aug 14, 2016 17:41:00 GMT -6
_________________________________________
When you live standing opposite a sword, there's a day when we all fall and feel the sharp slice rip through flesh. We all die in its image.
Death though was only the beginning. A long road of penance and perseverance waits, without the guarantee of rebirth. In defining moments remembered or forgotten when we are tested to our absolute limit, eventually toppling and conceding under the weight of our actions, the trueness of man unveils.
What must be asked is what you see beyond the veil of our buried horizon. The mantle was born to honour the actions of the valiant past, and ultimately, to eclipse and prosper. To see the good in all men, to stay rooted in the right light. Reclamation of the Infinite vision.
A new Valquist rises, and there is only one requirement. No half measures.
_________________________________________
The Mantle…
We could stand on the ceremony of the past, and the engraved perceptions that he changed that place even one bit, but we’d rest our heads at night as liars. The greatest change in Val’s life was that he could breathe again, despite the crumbling weight of dirt blocking the sun’s rays, denying the old champion of life as he knows it. The mantle is simple. Life is beautiful. Life is grand and impervious. Life is resolute and unwinding. Above all else, life can be something more than the mundane and the average, it can be something special. At least, that was the ambition. The true myth of any such ambition was the innate desire to change man, without changing one’s self. Living and dying as a prophet rather than a god, and for his message to be carried out amongst the chosen disciples. Standing forth as a leader, and saying that the world they inhabit could be better, only if his message would be heard, and not trampled on.
What grinds at bone and memory is the reflection that any such legacy left behind was a mere refraction. That any legacy truly fought for wasn’t understood or appreciated. Plugged ears and an arrogance to unveil an institutional vulnerability would come to rule the kingdom, its owners unafraid, and perhaps unaware, of any better path of life. Even in death, the dying message before the inevitable burial was choose me, or choose wrong. Choose a life defending the good and the different, or stay steadied and back the old wise head, indifferent and bad. He was right, you know. Sometimes life does just end, and the darkest message is that history has a way of rearing its ugly head again and again, each time more deformed and cruel as the last.
There is no mantle to assume if you sit on the perch and change the message, becoming as twisted as those carrying the burden of words and promise. For once there is gladness that man and myth can be separated. That identity doesn’t matter, but the message and the direction does. Ability trumps hype and mystique. Victory is dependent on talent alone, and not the winding politics that drive men crazy. Any path of enlightenment will be guided on righteous, moral principles that doesn’t built to destroy, but envisions to illuminate and elevate.
Professional wrestling is a wicked curse, Chris. It’s a broken path that suckers you back into its existence again and again until you are but dust and thought. That’s why you’re here, imploring the notion of resurrecting the dead, and living your actions through the mirage of a time old relic.
What lies next is just one question, a slender thought for your sanity. You either seek crucifixion, or are desperate in his long absence. Is it worth the emulation, and are they deserving of your time?
Though you never asked, I much prefer the isolation, and any such aura of finality. You chose to end the crusade and put me on your shelf. We watched my brother buried without care and just when I have found peace in my heart, you have begun tugging at its rusted strings. It is an act of courage and grace, an act of youthful stupidity and recklessness, but a measure I will not ignore. Your value will soon be tested, and when it does, only then may you haunt my existence with the face of The Valquist.
ID.
_________________________________________
Brooklyn, New York
World Release: “Time of Enlightenment” by Chris McCarthy
Friday 11th March 2016
“Brotherhood had broken. Men, myths amongst their own city, stood occupying the same ring for the very last time. The chiming of the bell had already rung, turning both men already defeated to their cause. A path of enlightenment, already enraged with flames. One had turned cruel in light of reality, and the other lost faith in his preaching tone of enlightenment. In truth, I struggled imaging a shared reality between Valquist and Isis Derrida in which they would prosper. Every stone slab and concrete step would eventually crumble beneath the feet of the two titans. But it was only ever Val’s face in the mud, scratching and clawing in a bid of furious redemption, and too free himself from the filth.
My canvas of the pair will never be complete, nor will it ever to be the naked eye. Swirling gold, decorated mirages of brief championship success, is currently awash with black and grey undertones, shadowing the great collapse of two men who for very different reasons had earned my true, honest affection.
Long since his last appearance, I am only now grasping the significance of his departure. It is only now, standing before you today, that my chest tightens and my mouth begins to quiver. I too had lost faith in the polygamy of professional wrestling, becoming vastly installed with hatred and dissolution as part of my identity and upbringing would treat its heroes so unjustly. The tenure of Valquist in his last federation, the Visionaries of Wrestling, would forever corrupt, for the ties that bind are ever unbending. My only blame was constituted towards the lack of empathy his employers showed, but not towards the true demon of demise. Shadowed, his clothes never rung from the cold. The harbinger of a vanquished end.
“I am nothing more than the reaper he demanded, the end of his suffering,” Isis once said to me, his hands crackling with remorse beneath the harsh light of the ring.
When a chasm opened between the bonded brothers, with the valiant Valquist dragged into its oblivion, only upon return did Isis realise that he saw more of himself in a supposed mantle of honour, than he did in the man that stood opposite. The man fighting for the continued existence of the un-turning road. Empathy drove Derrida’s twisting knife into The Valquist, and it was Derrida’s actions alone that saw the toppling of each carefully constructed pillar. The Mantle of Full Measures became the black of any portrait. Isis and Val, now lost amongst its darkest hour. Life can sometimes just end. Life towards any goals and any dreams, can just end. This world, they would tell me, was perversely cruel. That my fantasy of success, and its reality, was like a lost voice without a set of ears to hear its beautiful melody. That against the nature of human understanding, and a philosophical desire to better your fellow man and woman, we are all fundamentally broken. Do I believe them? Is there a Mantle to be obtained?
Even when buried alive, and seemingly gone forever, the eventual calling card will never leave the table. Such as nature has a cycle of life and death, I am a firm believer in expressive justice, and there is no greater belief in my heart, as an admirer turned friend, that life will be rebirthed into The Valquist and his damned Derrida.
When their worth and value is tested, there is nothing, no odds that will overcome them. No greater value that will topple them. No force strong enough to dethrone them. No gods who can contain them.
Ultimately, not even an Infinity could save them.”
_________________________________________
Paradise City Wrestling (PCW)
“A Pay-Per-View Spectacular, Sunshine State Showdown”
Adventura Arena, Paradise City, The Infinity Initiative
Saturday 2nd July 2016
The grimacing night of stagnating heat was blockaded by the encased dome of the Adventura Arena in the outskirts of Paradise. The cooled climate didn’t match the fever of the crowd of thousands, and that of the two engaging wrestlers, tussling as if their very lives were at stake. A bright spotlight cascaded across a white ring mat with supporting green ring-ropes. The night itself was ageing, but climatic with anticipation. The television cameras at this mid-sized wrestling promotion were focusing on the antics of one particular wrestler in question. A masked figure fighting under the guise of Pain.
Stocked with a scarlet red, science-fiction themed combat mask, with supporting sewed in black hood, the entire body of this six-foot-tall middleweight fighter was covered in the said scarlet red and black mix. A stripe of red down either side of a black centre piece featured an emblem of a faded skull atop the black bodysuit. A heavy underdog for a fight against the company’s returning Paradise patriot, real-life army hero, James Glover, the anonymous Pain was on the cusp of making history within the promotion.
Paradise State Champion.
Perched on the top rope, looking down his fallen opponent, Pain leapt and spun in the air, his knees crashing with fury and rapid speed into the abdomen of Glover. Picking up the writhing body of Glover with absolute ease, Pain detached the six-foot-five, silver leotard wearing favourite, from the canvas, twisting his neck and body into the canvas via way of a bone-breaking DDT. Pain’s envy was far from finished, picking up Glover one last time to his halted knees the colour of Pain’s mask and body altered completely to black to the shock of the live audience and Glover. In tandem motion the studio lights briefly flickered, and upon return Pain stood behind Glover. With force and without any remorse, Pain brutally kicked the left side of Glover’s face, with the fallen face and jaw shuddering on live television in dramatic fashion, and was subsequently pinned with ease.
Pain’s regular departure was too fade his completely blackened armour fade amongst the dying of the light, and this was to be the case. As the lights dimmed completely, and Pain casually walked up the entrance ramp, there was one question on his mind.
“Is he still here? Have you found him?” an altered voice questions into an earpiece installed into the mask.
“I’m afraid not, he’s already gone,” the reply states. “Even if he was, there’s no way of knowing. I can’t pick the real faces from the altered ones with much ease. He could very well be hiding in plain sight. He is lost in an instant.”
“This has been happening for far too long, I know it’s Derrida, I know it’s his hands fighting first.”
“Why are you concerned by his interference? You are not scared of a fleeting ghost of old.”
“He’s reminding me of the dead.”
“Of The Valquist?”
Pain was not in fact in the building, but waiting outside of it. His appearance, his gimmick, his livelihood in professional wrestling had been hijacked. For the past three months at every wrestling event, Pain has been attacked and removed from the ring against his will, with the latter carnation of Pain, darker and foully ruthless, enacting the same ritual. The duplicate Pain would stand behind a fallen opponent, kick them in the head from behind, and score a pin-fall victory, all whilst the real Pain finds himself thrown out the back entrance.
“He’s not getting away, not today of all days. I’m being blacklisted by the wrestling community; one by one he’s stripping me of opportunity. This won’t be the third promotion that he sets fire to my ambition.”
Hovering around an exit of the Adventura Arena, Pain’s wrestling armour dissolved, fading into the night, not an actual attire, but the mirage of one instead. All that remained was a slender silver metallic band around the male’s wrist, and a black singlet, covering brown skin and a small bushed afro that due to fifteen minutes of effort inside a professional wrestling ring, had begun to frizz. Turning behind him, a muscular male with perfect brown wavy hair, wearing a black suit with an unbuttoned white formal shirt approached.
“Chris, you know what he wants. He knows it’s what you want also.”
“That part of my life is over. The book has been written, it has its final chapter. A sad, tragic ending for sure, but at ending nonetheless. I’ve moved on, and accepted a close departure from my life, but this book has obviously enthralled his mind into action.”
“Isis’s brother vanished, he is desperate for them to be reunited.”
“It is not my bond to break, and why does he still have the Copycat Tech anyway? Why has he always had it? It’s making it impossible to make contact.”
“He’ll only see you in one form, we both know that, and yes you both have the means to achieve it. Not once do I regret my actions. Isis and Valquist upheld Infinity’s name in its most dour moments. They are not your enemies; nor will they ever be.”
“Then why am I so afraid of the path that is to follow? Why am I scared that history has a cruel way to favour the Derrida name?”
“You may be Chris McCarthy by name, and Pain by game, but there is little doubting the road ahead. You either resurrect Val’s name as a means of good, or as Derrida keeps proving night after night, he’ll resurrect the name for the worse. We can’t allow Isis that passage, even if you don’t think you’re ready to be enriched with a new name. Your exile continues, Chris. Derrida must believe that it’s time for a reinvention.”
_________________________________________
Prologue: Purpose
by Chris McCarthy
Should these words ever reach the public eye, then all will be revealed of who I once was, and the man I became. Gifted an opportunity to travel the world with a World Champion, The Valquist, my very existence changed. A rapid rise and a quick demise saw one Valquist eventually buried alive by the wrestling federation that had grown fond to his heart, but it would not be the end for the famed name. Val and his brother Isis, they both kept diaries detailing their lives in professional wrestling, and I will be no different. This is a story of finding purpose and continuing a great legacy, and adorning the principles of Full Measures. These words once belonged just to me, but now they belong to all of you.
Page 1
The dead, when admired and loved, never stay buried. Even in memory, legacy and longevity live on. Even if the original image is desecrated and destroyed, it never stops the effort of emulation. Nothing stops the momentum of good minded people trying to live vicariously through an icon or a loved one. The symbol that humanity often creates is one of grasping the message of your principles, and becoming something greater than yourself. Me, personally, I’m the kind of guy that wished the original was never touched. The dead should remain buried, and only abominations can be created through rebirth. For a long time, and to this day, those closest know not of my new path. My family are oblivious to the cuts, bruises and strains that slowly cripple my body. Wrestling is a cruel, twisted world where we chase the infinite dream of stardom, taking a tender body and blends its bones and blood to ripe pulp.
Page 2
The two lucky souls that know of my wrestling acumen, they have kindly provided the tools to conceal every ache, pain, and visible deformity that a bump in the wrestling ring provides. My life after The Valquist lost his career in the Visionaries of Wrestling in November 2015 became a public spectacle of interest. My Brooklyn home was seized by vultures of the press every morning, some travelling as far and wide as the famed Infinity City, just to ask if I knew where Val had disappeared to. I was convinced the fanfare would die down and I would return to my normal life, one that in the months following defeat I was eager to see, but just like his absence, there was an uncomfortable silence that filled the day. Chris McCarthy was just a wrestling reporter, given an exceptional opportunity to travel the world with Valquist as his wrestling career skyrocketed to the heights of World Champion, and then just as rapidly imploded into a state of nothingness.
Page 3
In order to provide greater clarity about the months since his disappearance, my novel Time of Enlightenment, quickly found itself a publisher in Infinity City, then found itself on the New York Best Seller’s list. My detailed look at life on the road in wrestling opened eyes about Valquist’s and Derrida’s careers, with many people surprised at how potentially damaging wrestling promotions are. In the months following the release, Isis reached out, sorrowed by my final evaluations of Valquist, secretly darkened by Val’s last words that sometimes stories can just end. The Copycat Kid, a famed individual of the Infinity Wrestling and UBW legacies, also reached out, and has since been at my side, perfecting the art of character in and out of the ring. I believe he was sent by Isis to prepare me for the eventual starring role of Valquist, a path that I once believed was poisonous, as my true affections were rooted in the reality that the original, and superior, Val, was never coming back.
Page 4
But as time has moved forward, Isis began to rear his head, assuming control of my alter-egos in wrestling, vanquishing each and every one of them, usually by conducting heinous and unprompted attacks on my opponents that forced organisations to black-list these characters from their ranks. TCK was quick to get back to the drawing board, with countless hours spent constructing guises that would all meet a fiery, cold death. In this sense of the matter, stories did just sometimes end. They all ended through wicked intervention that refused to allow me to ever get too comfortable with one name or one way of thinking. At times, my anger and frustration boiled, but our attempts to halt Isis’s relentless aggression against my in-ring career proved fruitless as we could never identity his advances. There was only ever one name he truly wanted me to represent, and in order to do that, he continually destroyed my spirit and my masked personas until he would see the haunting face of Valquist reappear.
Page 5
Worry crept in. My dearest Val had taken his vow of retirement seriously, to the point where in the months that followed, and even to this day, he has not returned. Under the guise of a wrestling angle, the wider public don’t take Val’s literal burial as anything more serious, but the burdening weight has remained. I followed the careers of Full Measures, became fluent in their charismatic, honest, and at times, creatively bizarre approach to the business. The approach to join them as a reporter, focusing on my Intro to Wrestling series, as well as promotion for their matches, was simple. Val took the plunge with me out of the blue, weirdly responding to what I thought at the job was the joke of an application to interview contracted wrestlers for VoW. From the offset, I knew of Valquist from his days in the Global Force Revolution, Infinity Wrestling, and beyond. Val came across as a well-travelled, intelligent wrestler that refused to belittle his opponents in or out of the ring.
Page 6
As the mantra of Valquist, his legacy as a professional wrestler was defined in the twilight of his career. The only championship belt with Val's name on it is the Visionaries World Championship, but the more I come to know my friend, the more I get the sense that there was more. More than one name, one character, and lots of accomplishments that had hardened him for his eventual starring role as The Valquist. His brother in arms, Isis Derrida, convinced the pair to take the plunge as a duo, but then Derrida left, just as the real Valquist has now. Val sought accomplishment on his own, and it was only when his first and last championship was achieved, that he embraced a vision of Derrida that was best described as life in twisted form. Val's manifestations of his brother were fragments of Val's deeper subconscious, but said thoughts was only a darker truth that rallied against Val's burden of being a good person as well as a good wrestler.
Page 7
Whilst Val stood for The Mantle of all things good and righteous, Isis was a drilled realist, eventually drawn to the surface through Val’s success in the federation. I believe that Valquist’s attempts at duplicating Isis’s behaviour, not only in Derrida’s image in the flesh, but in the image of Val also, drew the real Isis to the surface. Siding against his brother upon his return, Isis was adamant that Valquist stayed true to his beliefs, even as a Champion, and when Val eventually lost the belt, Isis became irate and incensed at the Visionaries management, believing that Valquist was only ever a deliberate placeholder Champion. Isis was brutal and to the point regarding their treatment of Val, and to this very day wishes for The Valquist to return, but in any other federation than the Visionaries of Wrestling. From day one Val told me that Isis didn’t trust the management structure, and that they’d do all in their power to see a man and a team such as Full Measures fail. Derrida only saw a skewed reality. No black and white.
Page 8
Brothers, literally torn apart, all just to maintain a principle. An idea greater than themselves. Nothing tangible, purely philosophical. They both swore to me that their occasional comradery and their feuding was to balance the universe’s scales, compensating Valquist’s kind heart and in-ring maturity, with Isis’s constant brutality. In truth, it is an ideal I have come to greatly respect. What I have come to know of these principles is the basic fundamentals of a good man. Being kind, but being relentless. Being loveable, but also being the biggest critic at the same some. Adoring and loathing. Friends and enemies. Family and strangers. What they taught me was to be humble and safe inside of a wrestling ring, and most importantly, to build up the endurance needed to last the legs of wrestling’s long, insufferable journey. They’d both say to me that the everyday man, and half of the roster’s you’ll even come up against lack the basic fundamentals of being decent human beings.
Page 9
That’s why Val must have been partially drawn to my work on Intro to Wrestling. He must have seen a side in humanity in myself that resonated with the Full Measures group. It’s simple, but sometimes simple is best. Simple describes the reason why I eventually reincarnated as The Valquist, to stop a good man dead in his tracks before he lost sight of those good principles that were making him a loved man. Since that fateful day at Breakthrough 47, Val’s name has deservedly been steered into the shadows. My return has rightfully been veiled, I understand the embarrassment of a hypocritical former World Champion, refusing to lay in his grave, even when he kicks and screams in his eternal sleep. But my presence is not a luxury to be trifled, I come with a strict message, and a history lesson well versed in the realms of each Visionary.
Page 10
In his last moments, Val urged everybody around him to rise up from the filth, and the lingering mud, wipe their eyes, and see the fateful demise that waits them all. Nine months down the line, and the same Champion exists, and those around him have become perverse in their nature to climb to the summit. Ryder Blade has been broken, and the further down you go people only see a twisted emulation of how to reach the top. Good guys are gone, but there’s one man I’ve been holding out faith for. Kincaid. A worthy opponent for any man. One who has been making reparations in turning to the good side, and earning the respect of the people, having rallied for the wrong side for far too long. A personal trauma threatens to exile him to the fire that he meets every night when he closes his eyes and remembers. The only measure is to save your star from falling, Kincaid.
Page 11
My next guise, that of The Valquist, will come to honour and respect what came before. They’ll only ever see Val, and not the man controlling his actions. Kincaid and the rest need to cling faith that the man standing before them is a matter of principle, rather than a select person. I’ve lived in the wrestling world as one of the men and women you never see. The promoters, the writers, the creative energy behind which all others prosper. As a person, Chris McCarthy is best left in the shadows, as this is not his selfish story to tell. This is a simple story, one hopefully with a simple ending. Reclamation. Restoration. A linear path of enlightenment. Kincaid will meet his greatest fear in Valquist. He’ll meet a man that’ll align his perspective, and unveil Kincaid’s true humanity, and if needs be force it out by force. If he is a real and genuine, he’ll give Valquist more respect than he’s shown on Breakthrough. We won’t have another silent Kincaid, refusing to acknowledge the real danger. This ghost has found a new host.
Page 12
These words are written with a nervous twitch, but flourish with confidence. At Val’s first Heatstroke he won the Visionaries World Championship, and at the next his name will be resurrected in good taste. Kincaid will one day read these words, but not today, perhaps never. He had his chance to have me help, but now the only help he will get will be the blinding lights of a reality check when he is planted to the ground, submitted, and downed, forced to reflect and find humbleness in defeat. Forced to see what Valquist once did, as a thousand ton of dirt frees him from this world. This is professional wrestling, not a drama. Isis is right, this world is cruel, but that is not my plan. It’s not in my nature to destroy Kincaid on these pages, the only true purpose is ensuring that the simple message gets across. The Valquist rises, to eclipse and prosper, and his mission statement is clear.
A hero is more than a person; a hero is a belief. A belief that, against impossible odds, the world can be saved - and that the world is still worth saving. Heroes inspire that belief in us. They renew our faith and give us that most precious of all gifts - hope. The world needs heroes. That's why, when a true hero arrives, the world will honour him.
_________________________________________
Visionaries of Wrestling
“VoW Presents, Heatstroke!”
Norfolk Scope, Norfolk, Virginia
Thursday 18th July 2016
A night of fevering passion was turning the Norfolk Scope into a cauldron of noise, tension, and for some the beginning of a brighter future. Amidst the arena in one of the private locker-room areas, a moment of tranquillity resounded from within. Chris sat back arched, in nothing more than black wrestling boots and a black nano-suit covering his body. At six feet one, with short, curled hair, smiling dark skin, and a growing physique on a once gangly frame, Chris had become toned and lean, with powerful arms and an arching back. Smiling, Chris stands, not alone in this moment. A figure once only described, The Copycat Kid, emerges. TCK was a male comprised of Hollywood good looks, real leading man material, and he dressed for the occasion well. A black suit, and open collared white shirt for this hot evening at Heatstroke was pushing the boundaries of looking good and staying cool. Not as muscular or tall as Chris, the once infamous wrestler famed for changing his artificial identity at a whim, TCK and Chris embraced with a friendly hug.
“Welcome home, Valquist.”
Chris looked over himself, smiling, and laughing slightly, refusing to believe it was real.
“Just don’t doubt yourself tonight, kid. I’ve not tailed behind you across the world for you to have the same doubt as the last namesake. Be the good guy, but he brutal, and don’t give this guy an inch on you. You’re better than that. We’re better than that.”
“Copy That!” Chris jokingly replies.
“Hey, that’s my line,” TCK says whilst laughing. The pair back away from each other for a brief second, giving TCK some time to say something sincere. “I know he’s out there somewhere, smiling down on us, but he’s no god to us, and we’re no prophets. We too are just people, and it is just a name. All I ask it that you honour the name. Become more and assume control of a better destiny. That’ll be what Derrida wants. He only wanted his family to succeed, and now you too are part of this greater union. These people won’t know the difference between the old and new versions, but you will. I just wanted to let you know that it’s not a contest. It’s not about who was better. It’s the same name and a shared identity. This is the only path, and the only way.”
“You’ve helped turn this Brooklyn weed into somebody that can actually rally behind the words he speaks. You know I’ll do you proud. Kincaid is just the start of this new yet aged path.”
“Being buried alive was never a mistake, as the seeds of a better man have emerged,” TCK confides, with honesty and humility in his voice. “I could not be more proud of the man you’ve become, and the legacy you’ve adopted as your own.”
“I take it you’ll be watching, disguised as usual?”
“Not tonight, I gave my seat up,” TCK confesses.
TCK moves away from Chris and opens the locker-room door. Turning towards the open exit, the frame that left was not of Chris, but of The Valquist. The more towering Val walked out and stood amongst the blue backstage apron was the true ghost of the story, Isis Derrida. Val and Isis embraced by simply standing opposite one another, the latter harbouring a wide and bright smile that made Chris blush beneath the guise.
“At long last, your new purpose bears a new grimace. A familiar identity, a new perversion to my eyes, but one that is long overdue.”
“Better me than you. This is not your Mantle to claim or your perversion to twist and grind into a new will of matrimony.” Chris was hesitant to take another step forward towards Derrida. “I saw what the same power did to Val.”
“All that matters now is this moment, how you’ll be defined as a man,” Isis eludes. “To me, you’re now family, bonded by our message. But this path is ultimately decided by those people paying to watch this federation, and they’re undecided until you sell them Valquist again. It may pain me to still see the Visionaries branding associated with your name, and the best road to walk is one to fix. My brother found you for a reason, you were both desperate for a new beginning. My only advice is that buried sentiment stays at that. Let them see Valquist for the man he was from day one. The absolute best professional wrestler in this company, one that very soon will take ownership of the World Championship and finally define it for something good.”
“Isis, my race is no longer with you, it’s with all of them. It’s with bettering this entire organisation, and reclaiming its sanity. I’d like for you to stand by my side, and not be the man who watches another world fall and tumble.”
“Can you recite the final words of your book to me?” Isis asks.
Derrida looks behind him, for just a brief second, to see that Val’s locker-room was now vacated. Val swivelled his head but in doing so turned back to see that Derrida was no longer there. Before having time to answer, Val was swamped by Darius Yates and the backstage team, prepping the former World Champion for his in-ring return at Heatstroke, leaving Chris to ponder on his own heavy words.
Some stories just end, but the road is never broken.
_________________________________________
Courageousness will lead us to victory. Courageous people carry integrity, respect, and humbleness, know their strengths and weaknesses, and keep to their vows. For me, the biggest attribution of courage is the ability to speak truthfully and know that all it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.
Full Measures is a measure of our own worth. When our worth and value is tested, there is nothing, no odds that will overcome us. No greater value that will topple us. No force strong enough to dethrone us. No gods who can contain us.
My is Valquist.
His name is Derrida.
Full Measures.
Be the first and last you.
