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[Opponent: Whoever]
Here, lays an empty chair. At first glance it seems ordinary just a normal wooden chair. Hard oak, shined up very well and elegantly designed. But at second glance, someone would be bound to notice the gray straps, dangling from the large arms of the chair, promising to suffocate whoever fell into their embrace. Once would surely notice the headpiece dangling above the back, connected to some sort of gray device behind the strange piece of furniture. One would surely notice the switch located directly to the chair's left, metallic chrome with a large lightning bolt right above it.
Other than that, it was a simple brown chair. Yet, one's attention could be drawn now to the floor where un-wiped water lay spilled. Is that all they would see? Maybe; at first glance. Yet if one would look closer, they could notice the strange crimson liquid that stains the floor. Mayhap fine wine spilled from the fine man who sits upon this intricate piece? Doubtful, nay, it’s the lifeline of those who have sat inside the torture device. This manifestation derived straight from the mind of psychotic men. Yes, the strange diamond shaped patterns, decorated and filled with the colors of rainbows dancing about the floors were stained with blood. Oh how one could admire such eloquent beauty.
What is the point of this strange showing? The view of perception. You see, nothing is as it is first looked upon. One must dive deeper into the depths of examination to find what truly lies beneath. This could include your own house, your town, your lover, even your family. Nothing is as it seems at first. You see the mind as a nice little mechanism to miss many important aspects of something it sees. These details are practically invisible due to this mixed perception. Why would ones own mind play this sort of unrighteous trickery?
Survival. It wants if your worthy of making it work. One, who simply glares at the first page of a book, reads a few words, and then closes it is ignorant and doesn't deserve to breathe. This is close mindedness at its finest and won't be tolerated. Your mind has a strange way of knowing what is best for you. Yes, I'm making this sound like you don't control your own mind, and in reality you do not. You simply listen to it. You can doubt me if you wish but think of this.
Do you want to have fears? Do you control the strange impulse to jump every time you see a needle? Do you want to cry out in terror every time you stare at a spider? Of course not. You try and overcome this adversity or you are destroyed by it. It's all a test...it's all up to you to see if you pass or not. Do I have you thinking yet or should I say; is your mind at work yet? Good, it should be.
Suddenly that sensual sound of heavy leather against tile, perhaps fine combat boots pounding against that slippery surface, makes itself present. Louder and louder they sound, until the shadow of an unknown figure gently appears against the dimly lighted backdrop of the chair. Showing no indication of its maker, the shadow slowly grows and grows before the footsteps make a surprising crescendo and then simply stop. A cough and then a heavy sigh.
I guess all is in order...
That velvety voice accompanied by the clicking of a lighter. One can see the pinch of orange light caress the darkness of the room for just that second and then it is gone. A deep breath, then a thick cloud of gray smoke obscures the vision of the chair. A couple more footsteps and then the figure slowly steps into the vision of the viewers, putting his back to them. The figure is obviously a man, shown by the tone of his body. He holds the smoking cancer stick in his right hand, using his left to scratch his face. His right hand then rises up, hiding itself behind the man's head... He violently inhales the toxic vapors the cigarette emits, before blowing it out ever so casually. He taps the bottom of his boot against the floor once before speaking again.
And this is where she sits...this is where fortune sits staring idly into my eyes. This is where destiny ponders the rest of my life...
The man sighs lightly and taps his foot on the floor.
It's funny; I’ve been in this situation before. The contender matches that mean nothing and the opponents that don't deserve half of the respect they get. It's the story of my life, you know? It's as if life has a hole in the record and it just keeps skipping. Honestly, it's getting quite old.
The man's voice had turned from an intelligent, wondrous tone to that of an angry worker. The fisherman who demanded bigger pay before he went on strike. He rocked in limbo, trying to decide between honor and pay. His eyes narrowed and closed, smoke rolled through the air like tumbleweed in the west. He was in a showdown with himself.
I'm going after the same belt I was forced to abandon. Nightmare's selfish actions helped Dan keep his championship. Thanks to that idiot I was not able to achieve the task I had set out to do. Now we're back where we began. This week, we face off with three other men to see who gets to fight the new champion. Why am I not impressed?
The man takes a drag of his cigarette and then throws it to the side. As it hits the floor, orange embers bounce into the air and float around before dying out.
I don't think you understand the extreme pressure I’ve been put under. See, this week I have to face four men who do not hold a candle to my abilities. Four men who do not have the heart, passion, or honor towards this business. I gave up everything for this...what did Itachi give? What did Karl give? Nothing, they gave absolutely nothing for this business or their life. They live in complete and utter peace of mind knowing that they are just here wasting space. Wasting the air that people like me need. I was born to this. I will not fail.
A moment of silent passes. Steady breathing suddenly overcomes it and gives the essence of a troubled soul.
This time, I will not be defeated. Nothing can stop me from reaching my goal. Not Itachi, not Ronin, not Talbot. I will be champion, mark my fucking words.
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