The angle of the view reveals nothing but what looks like a black line running diagonally across the bottom left of the screen, and is crossed by two shorter lines. Around the black lines, nothing but white. The utter polished brightness of the white cut by the thin perfect lines is almost blinding. The view is unchanging for several minutes. Just the double crossed line.
Almost as the feeling of eternal solid transmission feed sets in, a rip of sharp static tears the audio track for almost thirty seconds before stopping, and the sound kicks in. The first sound is the rythmic rush of air, first sounding like a someone blowing air into a balloon, and then sounding like an air mattress being deflated. The sound repeats itself over and over. Finally, the monotony of the black lines and whiteness is broken when a giant bead of water falls directly in front of the camera and splatters on the floor, scattering off in entropy, spoiling the perfection of the scene.
The confusion of the scene is broken when a pair of black slip on tie ups hit the tiled floor, dispelling the sweat bead that shattered there moments before. The camera view shakes slightly as it slowly raises up from the floor, panning up a pair of black practice pants with double white stripes on the outside of each leg. A plain black T-shirt lowers into view, and finally, the face of Ichabod.
The camera pauses on his face for a moment, then continues up to the ceiling, where a canvas hangs ragged from the ceiling. The canvas is the sort seen on the springy part your average yard trampoline, but from two spots in the canvas hang long hooked springs.
The view now includes Ichabod's arm, and it seems he is placing it up high in the air, near the ceiling. Across the top of the springy canvas rus a pipe system, piping steaming hot water across the waterproof canvas and into a drainage system at the other side. Ichabod adjusts the zoom as he watches a television recording the feed. As he is adjusting, the view of the top of the canvas gets sharper, and it can be seen that the hooks at the top of the springs hook through the canvas, creating holes. It becomes apparant that the liquid from the pipes can seep through the holes and down the springs if they are pulled hard enough. As Ichabod finishes the adjustments, a label on the pipe can be seen which reads 4M H2S04.
Ichabod finally lets go of the camera and begins to remove the hooked wristlocks he is wearing, and long reddish lines mark his arms like heroine tracks. He tosses the wristlocks aside and sits down facing the camera. His left forefinger subconsciously traces one of the red lines on his right arm as he speaks.
Hardcore. What is the definition of the word? The use of weapons in a match? The ability to take pain? Avoiding queasiness when seeing blood? The will to get up and move on after taking increasing amounts of punishment match after match, minute after minute, blow after blow?
It is all of these and none of these alone. It is so much more. Hardcore defines not a skill, not a wrestling style, not even a personality. It is but a state of mind. The state of mind that will drive some men to their deaths in search of their own personal finish lines. Hardcore is buried deep inside each and everyone of us, but only some have the power to dig into that black well and release it.
Hardcore has no boundaries, for no matter how hardcore one may be, the next is more so. It is limitless and indescribable by man's words. You break it down, what does it mean? Hard-- solid, unyielding. Core-- the center, the very heart. Add cold to that, a dead solid center. An inert unyielding heart. Thats what hardcore means to me, and yet, it means much, much more.
Slaughter will bring about another chance for four men to prove what hardcore means to them. Some men will show that they have not even begun to grasp the real meaning of hardcore. They will try to prove that they are hardcore, they will try to prove that they know the full extent of hardcore. What a sad truth they will have to face when they realize that, while no man will really ever know the true meaning, this man knows far more than they will ever come to learn.
Orleans, Mr. Sensation, Misfit. These are the names listed along with mine for number one contendership for the Hardcore Championship. But these names are part of an every growing list, a list that only I keep, that only I remember in its fullest form. A list of names which mark, like notches in a belt, numerous victories I have amassed in my time as a professional wrestler. These three men, like inductees in some secret necrophiliac club, will join the names that have faded out before them. Together, they will join the evergoing dance in my head, the mugs of children who all thought they knew. And before its finished, you will learn one more thing about "hardcore," but it won't do any more good, because by the time you know what hardcore is, you will be finished, and hardcore will already have known you, wooed you, had its way with you, and left you on the side of the rode, hands bound in duct tape and underwear around your ankles.
Doubt me, go for it. I'll call your bluff, gentlemen. I'll make sure you leave the show and leave it, without a shadow of a doubt, that you have just been schooled in the art of hardcore by none other than Ichabod.
Choads.
Ichabod stands up and exits the room, slamming the door hard on its jamb. The camera feed focuses on the door and goes back to its solid transmission feed, with no changes, and static cuts the audio track. The solid focus shows one thing on the door:
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