Post by Donnie Harris on May 9, 2024 23:59:24 GMT -5
-Donnie Harris was once again at the gym, enacting his usual routine: warmup cardio with low resistance on the stationary bike; further work on the elliptical; maintenance cardio with high resistance back on the bike; as it was leg day, 300+ lbs on the leg press; leg curls, squats; etc. As Donnie moved through his exercises, though, something started to irk him, bother him, and wear down his otherwise stoic exterior.
The man was usually extremely good at ignoring the niggling in his mind, the wriggling of the worm in his thoughts that tried to tell him of all kinds of nasty, intrusive things. Donnie actually slowed himself down, even as he did his hip flexors on the machine. Normally he spent 15 seconds, at the most, between sets, especially with his legs, as he knew that his legs had the power behind them; he was confident that he never needed more than 10 seconds at any given time unless he felt that muscular slack, which was often remedied with the extra five seconds. However, this time, there was no slack, no weakness; there was only the distraction that consumed his conscious state. As it began to work its way deeper into him, the sensation of concentration that Donnie was trying to maintain was being circumvented by a different feeling, and it was one that he did not enjoy one iota.
All he started feeling was anger. His heart was being overwhelmed and consumed by an increasingly disturbing amount of fire and rage.
Donnie just changed the weight on the machine to reflect a higher number, a greater resistance, a bigger strain, in order to counter what he perceived to be nothing more than an adrenaline rush. However, it felt like he was walking to the ring, the throbbing riffs and drumbeats of "Cryin' Like a Bitch" echoing in his head. He ripped himself off the machine, long before completing his sets as intended; it was enough that his change of personality alarmed a couple of the regulars, since he took it upon himself to go back home and use the hometown gym.
Always the MMA standout, Donnie gloved up and got to the heavy bag. Earbuds in, it didn't matter; it was as if all he heard was that song by Godsmack, and it was relentless and brutal and, most importantly, driving every single punch and kick. His legs wobbling slightly from the earlier exertion, Donnie could feel that he would need to emphasize his punching, losing some power due to being unable to get much of his torque with his hips.
All Donnie could feel was anger, impotence in his training and efforts; it was as if his mind was screaming out all those doubts that Clyde Newton and that bastard Alexander Davenport had tried to force him to accept, as if he was in denial.
Of course he accepted his failings. For fuck's sake, one of his best matches was a loss: BRADDOCK vs. Donnie Harris for the OCW Blue world heavyweight championship. Sure, Donnie lost, but it felt like when he faced SYNN only the Danger before the last one.
Donnie could feel his hands start to ache, his wrists begin to get sore and put pressure against the tightly wound Velcro that held the boxing gloves on his hands. His legs felt more and more like putty, and the song began to quiet in his mind, and his breathing finally evened itself out, sweat bathing his body in a fine sheen; of all the times Alice Knight could be with him, she would actively seek out the towel rack this time. What's more, it wouldn't be so weird.
It was in a daze that Donnie dropped his gloves and, without even processing what in the blue hell he was doing, grabbed hold of an empty 45-lb bar: just a standard bar for bench press or squatting. He wheeled back and swung that bar as hard as he could at the bag, as if swinging a kendo stick let alone an actual baseball bat. Of course the bag took the impact.
However, Donnie's mind began to scream again. It was like this new Eliminator persona was starting to take a life of its own. Was this what Juniper dealt with SYNN: a demon hiding in plain sight that could take control at any point of weakness?
With a roar, Donnie threw down the bar and started punching the bag again, bare knuckle boxing with the shadow that he projected onto the apparatus. What Donnie saw, it was like the traditional idea of a demon, closer to Tim Curry's Prince of Darkness from Legend than any other portrayal of Satan in the media. All Harris could do was swing and punch and land blow after blow, reacting as if he was being punched as well, because that's what he saw in his mind happening. It was like Donnie had placed himself in the Matrix and this fight was his Morpheus vs. Neo scene.
But, to his credit, even against the simulation in his mind, Donnie wasn't letting up. Donnie wasn't quitting in any sense, even as his body began to turn against him, his heart beating like a rolling snare drum or a double-pedal bass drum in a drum kit, playing some hard rock song. His ears rang, even after his earbuds fell out of his head, his body reacting to a 1-2 combination that caused him to recoil and whip his head around.
Donnie had no idea of the crowd that gathered around him, as they waited for a moment to step in, to get him to relax and to calm down, but there was a man in there who stopped all attempts to get the former Anarchy champion to even slow down. He just watched, picking Donnie's game apart, which was actually a greater challenge that the older man had anticipated, but he still waited, knowing that the moment would eventually come: a moment where the young fighter would collapse under the weight of his own burden.
An hour later, Donnie was visibly slower. Even as he moved, leaving droplets of sweat all over the gym floor, Donnie wasn't letting up, even as the bag didn't so much as budge when it used to swing in response to the Eliminator's power punches. Donnie's eyes close as he swings once more, feeling not the hardened canvas of a suspended heavy punching bag but the flesh of an open hand, the hand closing around his fist and catching his weakened body. Donnie was barely aware of anything around him. He felt like he was floating, even as he was forced to sit down in a chair. He felt only heat, staring through the people around him and at the punching bag, hearing the deep infernal laughter of the demon that was already gone. Donnie was done for the day, to say the least: slack jawed, numb, trembling. It wasn't as bad as when he fainted in the gym, which he barely remembered. Was it the same thing that caused him to faint? A vision of a great evil force that he fought with to the point of exhaustion?
No, it was dehydration; the doctor said so. Even though Donnie was alone and weak in that moment, he was not weak now. He was strong; after all, he warded off a malevolent being that he couldn't explain.
After a dousing of cold water and an ice cold compress across his neck, Donnie began to wake up, blinking a few times and seeing the crowd surrounding him. He didn't get up, but he looked around and laughed a bit.-
)Donnie Harris(
Did I miss something, everyone? Or was I finally recognized?
-A man stands upon a platform, his back to the camera, as two other men take measurements: inseam, arm length, waist, chest, etc. The man on the platform is dressed in all black, other than his shirt, in a rough example template of the three-piece suit that was being prepared for him. Otherwise, he wore a pair of polished black shoes and black socks with the ensemble draped over the rest of his clothes.
The camera moves forward as the tailor’s assistants leave the frame, walking past the camera, and the man standing, looking into the mirror, is none other than Donnie Harris, being fitted for an all black three-piece suit. He continues to stare into the mirror as the tailor, in a very thick Italian accent, addresses him.-
(Tailor)
Is this for a formal event or a social affair?
)Donnie Harris(
Formal.
(Tailor)
And is this for day or for evening?
)Donnie Harris(
I’ll need one for day and one for night.
(Tailor)
In what style?
)Donnie Harris(
Italian.
(Tailor)
How many buttons?
)Donnie Harris(
Day with two; night with three.
(Tailor)
Trousers?
)Donnie Harris(
Tapered.
(Tailor)
How about the lining?
)Donnie Harris(
Weighted and breathable.
-The tailor, confused by the lining selection, lifts his head, his mouth opening to say something, but he then lowers his head and walks away, talking to his assistants in Italian as Donnie is the only one in the scene.-
)Donnie Harris(
When in Rome, one must dress the part of a Roman emperor, and, as togas are out of fashion, I might as well dress in the best to impress, especially when it comes to the attendance of the coming funerals, and there are the only two people that I know will be dying very soon.
-Donnie adjusts his sleeve, as he fixes the placement of an Omega De Ville Trésor watch on his left wrist, priced at over $11,000 on the brand’s website.-
)Donnie Harris(
Even something as simple as this watch can hold the elegance of a steep price tag, but, with the amount of work I’ve put in, no matter what anyone can say or do, I can afford a few extra creature comforts wherever I go. But, back to this whole funeral idea, as, in a few days’ time, the death knell will ring on Clyde Newton’s title reign and SYNN’s title hopes. Back when SYNN had her title stripped last year, the first thing I did was, in my hubris, offer her the first shot when I beat BRADDOCK and claim the vacant title. Well, in this case, I’ll be leaving her intentions dead and buried when that main event rolls around.
-The tailor’s assistants come back, retaking measurements, and Donnie moves as beckoned to ensure utmost accuracy. They speak amongst themselves in Italian as they collect the measurements as desired.-
)Donnie Harris(
Of course, Clyde, I won’t be forgetting you. You want to be the new thorn in my side. You want to be the new LEGO brick underfoot. You want to be the next stepping stone. Well, congratulations; that’s exactly what you’ve become. You think you’re brave, just cutting into the dance and expecting everyone to let you take center stage, hm? That’s funny, because you’re cutting in on a dance floor I’ve been laying the foundation of since OCW Blue’s inception and EPW’s re-invention.
-The measurements collected, the assistants leave the frame and talk to each other, discussing their day and whatever else they consider important. Donnie carefully tugs on the suit coat template, just so it sits more evenly on his shoulders.-
)Donnie Harris(
Calling Easton Alexander out for his main event push coming to an end when you faced him: that was cute of you, but Easton Alexander, given the amount of work I had put him through, is just another pawn that you had the good fortune to tear through. Britlyn is just desperate now, trying to pull a new Justin York out of her ass considering the hole the child put in her heart and the empty cavernous maw that is her vagina. Well, it’s Justin York, so I’m sure there wasn’t too much expected for him to fill, whether it were to be shoes or... yeah, moving on. Britlyn, you should have pulled some vagina dentata shenanigans.
-Donnie hears the tailor and he turns to look over his shoulder. The tailor approaches Donnie.-
(Tailor)
Will this be a rush order for you, sir?
)Donnie Harris(
Please. If it can be done before I depart, all the better.
(Tailor)
Shouldn’t be a problem.
)Donnie Harris(
Grazie.
-Donnie hands the tailor a €100 bill as a tip, as he is helped out of the template clothing, wearing a white collared shirt underneath, the black pants he wore held fastly to his waist with a leather belt with a brushed steel locking buckle.-
)Donnie Harris(
You are the epitome of putting lipstick on a pig, Newton. You think you were brought in to carry this business? You think you are the one responsible for bringing EPW into the fold, to make it stand out as the representative champion? Listen, and listen closely: I don’t need to be working for other companies to prove my elite standing. You probably spread yourself so thin that you can only sustain yourself with handouts like the one you got to become world champ. At least I fought someone who deserves to be champion in the form of BRADDOCK, and, if he wasn’t stripped of his title by Britlyn, I would be the one holding the title over my head, not you. NEVER you. I would be the true gatekeeper in EPW, Newton. I would be the one in charge of shutting dreams down. I would be the Godfather of EPW, while you flounder and flop and fail at earning a single dime at the gate. You would need to face facts, just like SYNN and Alex Davenport and Ally Calaway will, that I am the one who has been chosen to take EPW to the next level. And, as for you...
-Donnie steps down off the platform and turns to face the camera. He takes his time, unbuttoning his sleeves and rolling them up, nice and slow and easy, taking a deep breath as he does so.-
)Donnie Harris(
You’re going to be eliminated.
-Being around SYNN must be driving Donnie insane. Now in Rome, given time to reflect on that moment he had in the gym, seeing a random demon, literally ripped out of the movie Legend, and attacking the heavy bag like he did, Donnie questioned whether or not he was truly sane at this point. Sure, chasing the world title the way he is could cause a touch of the crazy, but his attraction to the woman who was once Juniper didn't help his already susceptible and sensitive mind.
Forget Clyde. Even though he was the one holding the world title, Donnie couldn't take his mind off of SYNN. It was bordering on obsession at this point, and the man, who decided to bend to the will of the fans and take the moniker "The Eliminator", knew that he was in trouble as a result. His single-mindedness regarding SYNN was going to get him in trouble, especially when facing someone of Clyde Newton's caliber. However, moving through this town, its roots reaching into ancient times, a blend of modern and antique in every foundation, Donnie Harris needed to do as the Romans do.
What that was, Donnie had no idea, but it was interesting to think about.
Donnie liked to maintain an anonymity that most other wrestlers didn't, and it usually involved wearing a medical mask and a pair of aviator sunglasses, music playing via a pair of headphones or earbuds. It allowed him to avoid two things: interaction with people and interaction with his own thoughts; the thoughts were worse.
If it wasn't for the time in therapy he had spent, Donnie would be nowhere near his level of success, and the help that SYNN and Brooke had provided in the face of BRADDOCK's once allies: it was a mess, and Asylum's lack of appearance since the inception of EPW troubled Donnie. They had a way of appearing when least expected and least desired, but he had no issue putting Zephyr Draven down like a sick dog, and he was ready to do the same thing in this match, to both Clyde and to SYNN.
Again, his thoughts whipped back to the match. It was as if he wasn't allowed to think for himself. All he could do was think of promoting the match, boosting himself, but he was taking advantage of the small vacation between shows, given that he would need to be on a plane in the next 48 hours; by then, his suit would be ready. He would be boarding the plane, ready to kill, and he would be dressed for the part too.
Donnie sat in front of the Colosseum, staring at it intensely. His career was basically the job title of Gladiator: fighting to the tooth in a duel of wills against an opponent, where there can be only one winner. Whether it was while he was fighting in MMA or now as he waits to go back to Detroit for Shockwave, Donnie's weapons were his hands and his feet, and there were very few that handled the brutality he provided.
Yet, with every win, he felt the loss. Every time he caused someone to tap or every time his knee smashed into his opponent's face in his Shining Wizard variant, it was like he was doing to himself. Donnie had no ill will against anyone, because it would be blown off after the match was over. However, what was it about the world title that made it so much more stressful?
He sat on the bench, leaning forward, elbows digging lightly into his legs as he folded his hands together, twining his fingers together with his thumbs laid side by side. Donnie's mind was a cloud at this point, a flurry of relentless thoughts like flakes in a blizzard. He shook with the intensity as he tried to focus his mind on a single thought, trying to let the Italian environment sink in, trying to enjoy the warmer weather, trying to experience the foreign surroundings. It was extremely difficult, as the fog started to open up memories of failures and losses.
Damian Calaway's lucky win; his losses to BRADDOCK; losing the Anarchy title to Easton Alexander: it was as if his mind was trying to convince him that he was already going to lose.-
)Donnie Harris(
Just stop. I'm smarter than that. I'm stronger than that.
-Donnie was quick to wipe the tears away, just as the rain started to fall. It was almost ironic, as Donnie started to dwell on his losses, when Shockwave could be the biggest win of his career. He needed to focus, while, at the same time, opening his mind. He quickly got to his feet and entered an open doorway to get out of the rain, just before the rain started to pick up. But then, Donnie had a thought.
With all the pain and suffering he had put himself through, with all the anguish he let his family deal with alone, with all the sadness that he grew up with, Donnie needed to just let go.
Donnie smiled and walked back into the rain. He was almost immediately drenched, but he did nothing to cover himself. He just walked in the direction of his hotel, no music but the pitter patter of the raindrops on the cobblestones. Tears in the rain, he thought to himself; he did eventually get back to his hotel, whose staff were quick to offer a towel. Donnie thanked them and dried himself off, removing his shirt to dry himself off some more.-
)Donnie Harris(
Um, I will probably order a small laundry service to at least dry these out in time for my departure.
(Hotel Staff Member)
That is no problem, sir. You just go warm yourself.
-Donnie kicks his shoes and socks off, wiping his bare feet off with the doormat, before stepping onto the cold marble floor.-
)Donnie Harris(
Grazie.
-Donnie pulls out his wallet, handing the one who gave him a towel a €5 note; it was a little wet but they laughed about it as Donnie patted it drier with his towel. Perhaps a nap while in such a pleasant mood was warranted.
If it weren't for finding his ordered suits, neatly packed, in their carrying bags hanging on his doorknob: looks like Shockwave is going to be a bit more of a dapper affair.-
-24 hours to go until the show was on, and Donnie was back in the United States, in his hotel room in Detroit, Michigan. His breathing was heavy and he was pacing frantically. The pressure of what was coming compressed him into the hotel room like it was a cage. His gear was ready, his suit was set out to be put on to enter the Little Caesars Arena on the 12th of May; as he paced, he was talking to himself, his hands running through his hair, his words gibberish and his hands, once drawn from his scalp, shook violently.
On a nearby table, which he constantly looked to, was a pair of needle nose pliers. Donnie was beside himself, pacing between the foot of the bed and a chair set at the table, the pliers ominously left open, as if Donnie had placed them there as such, fighting something deep inside him.
And it was bad. One of Donnie's most brutal punishments, as meted out by his father, was having a fingernail ripped out of the nail bed, with nothing more than a cloth to bite down on and an ice pack to deal with the pain. Whenever Donnie would second-guess himself, or if Donnie lost a fight that was perceived to be "easy", one sharp tug with a very similar pair of pliers and out came the nail, usually his pinky or ring finger on his left hand. The digit would then be quickly wrapped, ice was applied and Donnie's pained scream would be muffled by the cloth he was forced to bite down on. In his peak moment of helplessness, his father wouldn't bother, dropping the nail on the table and forcing him to look at it: a token of a loser. Donnie had repressed these memories.
However, in this moment of weakness and contempt, the memories were flooding back, and he was fighting with himself quite fiercely. Donnie was only in a pair of shorts, as it was getting late and he was essentially ready to crash, to prepare himself for a quiet day of rest and mild warmup before the biggest match of his career since BRADDOCK and he fought for the vacant world title. The pressure wasn't as bad then, either. Donnie's eyes were red and swollen from the tears that ran down his cheeks; he didn't even remember going to the Dollar Tree to get the pliers, and it's not like he carried them with him from Italy.
Donnie practically threw the chair away from the table, leaning into the table and trying to catch his breath as he tried to think of better things and better times. After all, of all those in EPW, Donnie Harris was a shining example of brand loyalty. Guys like Justin York had since fucked off, preaching greener pastures; Clyde Newton was brought in as a replacement last minute, literally the door held open for him. Britlyn clearly didn't appreciate the blood, sweat and tears that Donnie shed in the name of OCW Blue, now EPW, other than a shot at the Anarchy title, which Donnie capitalized on by beating Ally Calaway for it. Now it was up to Khloe Cox to properly carry into the coming months, as Easton Alexander seemed to almost drop the ball.
And Donnie was feeling the dissatisfaction of holding the same belt for so long, especially when he was still the man designated as number one contender for the world heavyweight championship, only to be substituted by Clyde Newton. Donnie took hold of the pliers as this thought crossed his mind, hand shaking as he extended his middle finger; he didn't grip the nail yet, forcing his hand away with a grunt of harsh resistance, trying to force himself to see reason and logic, especially with there not being enough time to get over the pain.
Pain: how novel a concept, but, when it came to his match against BRADDOCK, even as a losing effort, it was fun. It was worthy of Match of the Year. It was worthy of five stars. It wasn't a fight. It wasn't a brawl, as the pay-per-view's name would suggest.
It was a war.
And now he got another chance to fight another war. Donnie was receiving a second chance to go into combat and win that world title. Unburdened and unbridled without the Anarchy championship to hold him back, the PWA Streaming Service Championship still his after a match with an otherwise absent Easton Alexander, Donnie dropped the pliers and moved away from the table, replacing the chair, only to throw himself into the chair, picking the pliers back up and, again with hand shaking, extending that middle finger on his left hand.
No, Donnie needed to stop himself. He needed to calm down and focus his mind to something else, something better. The cool breeze coming from an open window, even though it was still Detroit air, was what he started to shift his mind onto, letting the soft wind wash over him. It was a little nippy, but it was enough to calm himself in this moment.
SYNN seemed to become an obsession, unhealthy enough that he attacked a damn heavy bag with a weight bar, thankfully without any weight on it. He then proceeded to beat the thing relentlessly, visualizing a demon that was clearly not there, as if he was trying to make it look or feel like he was possessed similarly to Juniper, but, as hindsight is 20/20, he felt like the biggest fucking idiot, enough of one to buy a new heavy bag for the Seattle gym. It was why he flew his ass to Rome, Italy; ironic that he was in a hotel within a stone's throw of Vatican City, he enjoyed the time there, the Colosseum allowing a form of renaissance in his mind, but apparently, it wasn't enough; nothing was enough.
Again with the pliers, the same loop played in his head, but, this time, it was about his foolish obsession with the woman or women that held the OCW Blue world title first, until Britlyn decided to strip it off of her, no pomp and only circumstance. It was what gave Donnie the chance to win the title, the opportunity to fight BRADDOCK; the experience of one of his greatest matches. If it wasn't for SYNN, Donnie would probably still riding the midcard. And SYNN gave him some classics to open OCW Blue right. He was once the man to beat, with the best record in the organization.
Donnie was sweating as if he ran for miles, his heart racing for the same distance as both hands shook. His arms and legs ached as he found a way, finally, to slow his breathing, to focus on something else. He needed to sleep and prepare. A war was coming. He looked out of the window, to a setting sun that glowed red in the sky; there was blood spilled somewhere, but it wasn't here; it wasn't time yet. It was a forecast of things to come.
Laying his forehead against the table, the former MMA fighter and current EPW World Title contender inhaled deeply and slowly, the pliers falling out of his right hand with a gentle bang as the metal hit the wooden table. Donnie was wobbly as he stood up, but he stabilized himself and drank from a bottle of water he took from the bar fridge before sitting on the bed. He sets the bottle down, plugs his phone in and sets an alarm for 0900: 9 AM for the lay folk. He turns on the bedside lamp and turns off the lights in the room, leaving only the lamp on. He tucks himself in and sighs again, closing his eyes.-
The man was usually extremely good at ignoring the niggling in his mind, the wriggling of the worm in his thoughts that tried to tell him of all kinds of nasty, intrusive things. Donnie actually slowed himself down, even as he did his hip flexors on the machine. Normally he spent 15 seconds, at the most, between sets, especially with his legs, as he knew that his legs had the power behind them; he was confident that he never needed more than 10 seconds at any given time unless he felt that muscular slack, which was often remedied with the extra five seconds. However, this time, there was no slack, no weakness; there was only the distraction that consumed his conscious state. As it began to work its way deeper into him, the sensation of concentration that Donnie was trying to maintain was being circumvented by a different feeling, and it was one that he did not enjoy one iota.
All he started feeling was anger. His heart was being overwhelmed and consumed by an increasingly disturbing amount of fire and rage.
Donnie just changed the weight on the machine to reflect a higher number, a greater resistance, a bigger strain, in order to counter what he perceived to be nothing more than an adrenaline rush. However, it felt like he was walking to the ring, the throbbing riffs and drumbeats of "Cryin' Like a Bitch" echoing in his head. He ripped himself off the machine, long before completing his sets as intended; it was enough that his change of personality alarmed a couple of the regulars, since he took it upon himself to go back home and use the hometown gym.
Always the MMA standout, Donnie gloved up and got to the heavy bag. Earbuds in, it didn't matter; it was as if all he heard was that song by Godsmack, and it was relentless and brutal and, most importantly, driving every single punch and kick. His legs wobbling slightly from the earlier exertion, Donnie could feel that he would need to emphasize his punching, losing some power due to being unable to get much of his torque with his hips.
All Donnie could feel was anger, impotence in his training and efforts; it was as if his mind was screaming out all those doubts that Clyde Newton and that bastard Alexander Davenport had tried to force him to accept, as if he was in denial.
Of course he accepted his failings. For fuck's sake, one of his best matches was a loss: BRADDOCK vs. Donnie Harris for the OCW Blue world heavyweight championship. Sure, Donnie lost, but it felt like when he faced SYNN only the Danger before the last one.
Donnie could feel his hands start to ache, his wrists begin to get sore and put pressure against the tightly wound Velcro that held the boxing gloves on his hands. His legs felt more and more like putty, and the song began to quiet in his mind, and his breathing finally evened itself out, sweat bathing his body in a fine sheen; of all the times Alice Knight could be with him, she would actively seek out the towel rack this time. What's more, it wouldn't be so weird.
It was in a daze that Donnie dropped his gloves and, without even processing what in the blue hell he was doing, grabbed hold of an empty 45-lb bar: just a standard bar for bench press or squatting. He wheeled back and swung that bar as hard as he could at the bag, as if swinging a kendo stick let alone an actual baseball bat. Of course the bag took the impact.
However, Donnie's mind began to scream again. It was like this new Eliminator persona was starting to take a life of its own. Was this what Juniper dealt with SYNN: a demon hiding in plain sight that could take control at any point of weakness?
With a roar, Donnie threw down the bar and started punching the bag again, bare knuckle boxing with the shadow that he projected onto the apparatus. What Donnie saw, it was like the traditional idea of a demon, closer to Tim Curry's Prince of Darkness from Legend than any other portrayal of Satan in the media. All Harris could do was swing and punch and land blow after blow, reacting as if he was being punched as well, because that's what he saw in his mind happening. It was like Donnie had placed himself in the Matrix and this fight was his Morpheus vs. Neo scene.
But, to his credit, even against the simulation in his mind, Donnie wasn't letting up. Donnie wasn't quitting in any sense, even as his body began to turn against him, his heart beating like a rolling snare drum or a double-pedal bass drum in a drum kit, playing some hard rock song. His ears rang, even after his earbuds fell out of his head, his body reacting to a 1-2 combination that caused him to recoil and whip his head around.
Donnie had no idea of the crowd that gathered around him, as they waited for a moment to step in, to get him to relax and to calm down, but there was a man in there who stopped all attempts to get the former Anarchy champion to even slow down. He just watched, picking Donnie's game apart, which was actually a greater challenge that the older man had anticipated, but he still waited, knowing that the moment would eventually come: a moment where the young fighter would collapse under the weight of his own burden.
An hour later, Donnie was visibly slower. Even as he moved, leaving droplets of sweat all over the gym floor, Donnie wasn't letting up, even as the bag didn't so much as budge when it used to swing in response to the Eliminator's power punches. Donnie's eyes close as he swings once more, feeling not the hardened canvas of a suspended heavy punching bag but the flesh of an open hand, the hand closing around his fist and catching his weakened body. Donnie was barely aware of anything around him. He felt like he was floating, even as he was forced to sit down in a chair. He felt only heat, staring through the people around him and at the punching bag, hearing the deep infernal laughter of the demon that was already gone. Donnie was done for the day, to say the least: slack jawed, numb, trembling. It wasn't as bad as when he fainted in the gym, which he barely remembered. Was it the same thing that caused him to faint? A vision of a great evil force that he fought with to the point of exhaustion?
No, it was dehydration; the doctor said so. Even though Donnie was alone and weak in that moment, he was not weak now. He was strong; after all, he warded off a malevolent being that he couldn't explain.
After a dousing of cold water and an ice cold compress across his neck, Donnie began to wake up, blinking a few times and seeing the crowd surrounding him. He didn't get up, but he looked around and laughed a bit.-
)Donnie Harris(
Did I miss something, everyone? Or was I finally recognized?
-A man stands upon a platform, his back to the camera, as two other men take measurements: inseam, arm length, waist, chest, etc. The man on the platform is dressed in all black, other than his shirt, in a rough example template of the three-piece suit that was being prepared for him. Otherwise, he wore a pair of polished black shoes and black socks with the ensemble draped over the rest of his clothes.
The camera moves forward as the tailor’s assistants leave the frame, walking past the camera, and the man standing, looking into the mirror, is none other than Donnie Harris, being fitted for an all black three-piece suit. He continues to stare into the mirror as the tailor, in a very thick Italian accent, addresses him.-
(Tailor)
Is this for a formal event or a social affair?
)Donnie Harris(
Formal.
(Tailor)
And is this for day or for evening?
)Donnie Harris(
I’ll need one for day and one for night.
(Tailor)
In what style?
)Donnie Harris(
Italian.
(Tailor)
How many buttons?
)Donnie Harris(
Day with two; night with three.
(Tailor)
Trousers?
)Donnie Harris(
Tapered.
(Tailor)
How about the lining?
)Donnie Harris(
Weighted and breathable.
-The tailor, confused by the lining selection, lifts his head, his mouth opening to say something, but he then lowers his head and walks away, talking to his assistants in Italian as Donnie is the only one in the scene.-
)Donnie Harris(
When in Rome, one must dress the part of a Roman emperor, and, as togas are out of fashion, I might as well dress in the best to impress, especially when it comes to the attendance of the coming funerals, and there are the only two people that I know will be dying very soon.
-Donnie adjusts his sleeve, as he fixes the placement of an Omega De Ville Trésor watch on his left wrist, priced at over $11,000 on the brand’s website.-
)Donnie Harris(
Even something as simple as this watch can hold the elegance of a steep price tag, but, with the amount of work I’ve put in, no matter what anyone can say or do, I can afford a few extra creature comforts wherever I go. But, back to this whole funeral idea, as, in a few days’ time, the death knell will ring on Clyde Newton’s title reign and SYNN’s title hopes. Back when SYNN had her title stripped last year, the first thing I did was, in my hubris, offer her the first shot when I beat BRADDOCK and claim the vacant title. Well, in this case, I’ll be leaving her intentions dead and buried when that main event rolls around.
-The tailor’s assistants come back, retaking measurements, and Donnie moves as beckoned to ensure utmost accuracy. They speak amongst themselves in Italian as they collect the measurements as desired.-
)Donnie Harris(
Of course, Clyde, I won’t be forgetting you. You want to be the new thorn in my side. You want to be the new LEGO brick underfoot. You want to be the next stepping stone. Well, congratulations; that’s exactly what you’ve become. You think you’re brave, just cutting into the dance and expecting everyone to let you take center stage, hm? That’s funny, because you’re cutting in on a dance floor I’ve been laying the foundation of since OCW Blue’s inception and EPW’s re-invention.
-The measurements collected, the assistants leave the frame and talk to each other, discussing their day and whatever else they consider important. Donnie carefully tugs on the suit coat template, just so it sits more evenly on his shoulders.-
)Donnie Harris(
Calling Easton Alexander out for his main event push coming to an end when you faced him: that was cute of you, but Easton Alexander, given the amount of work I had put him through, is just another pawn that you had the good fortune to tear through. Britlyn is just desperate now, trying to pull a new Justin York out of her ass considering the hole the child put in her heart and the empty cavernous maw that is her vagina. Well, it’s Justin York, so I’m sure there wasn’t too much expected for him to fill, whether it were to be shoes or... yeah, moving on. Britlyn, you should have pulled some vagina dentata shenanigans.
-Donnie hears the tailor and he turns to look over his shoulder. The tailor approaches Donnie.-
(Tailor)
Will this be a rush order for you, sir?
)Donnie Harris(
Please. If it can be done before I depart, all the better.
(Tailor)
Shouldn’t be a problem.
)Donnie Harris(
Grazie.
-Donnie hands the tailor a €100 bill as a tip, as he is helped out of the template clothing, wearing a white collared shirt underneath, the black pants he wore held fastly to his waist with a leather belt with a brushed steel locking buckle.-
)Donnie Harris(
You are the epitome of putting lipstick on a pig, Newton. You think you were brought in to carry this business? You think you are the one responsible for bringing EPW into the fold, to make it stand out as the representative champion? Listen, and listen closely: I don’t need to be working for other companies to prove my elite standing. You probably spread yourself so thin that you can only sustain yourself with handouts like the one you got to become world champ. At least I fought someone who deserves to be champion in the form of BRADDOCK, and, if he wasn’t stripped of his title by Britlyn, I would be the one holding the title over my head, not you. NEVER you. I would be the true gatekeeper in EPW, Newton. I would be the one in charge of shutting dreams down. I would be the Godfather of EPW, while you flounder and flop and fail at earning a single dime at the gate. You would need to face facts, just like SYNN and Alex Davenport and Ally Calaway will, that I am the one who has been chosen to take EPW to the next level. And, as for you...
-Donnie steps down off the platform and turns to face the camera. He takes his time, unbuttoning his sleeves and rolling them up, nice and slow and easy, taking a deep breath as he does so.-
)Donnie Harris(
You’re going to be eliminated.
-Being around SYNN must be driving Donnie insane. Now in Rome, given time to reflect on that moment he had in the gym, seeing a random demon, literally ripped out of the movie Legend, and attacking the heavy bag like he did, Donnie questioned whether or not he was truly sane at this point. Sure, chasing the world title the way he is could cause a touch of the crazy, but his attraction to the woman who was once Juniper didn't help his already susceptible and sensitive mind.
Forget Clyde. Even though he was the one holding the world title, Donnie couldn't take his mind off of SYNN. It was bordering on obsession at this point, and the man, who decided to bend to the will of the fans and take the moniker "The Eliminator", knew that he was in trouble as a result. His single-mindedness regarding SYNN was going to get him in trouble, especially when facing someone of Clyde Newton's caliber. However, moving through this town, its roots reaching into ancient times, a blend of modern and antique in every foundation, Donnie Harris needed to do as the Romans do.
What that was, Donnie had no idea, but it was interesting to think about.
Donnie liked to maintain an anonymity that most other wrestlers didn't, and it usually involved wearing a medical mask and a pair of aviator sunglasses, music playing via a pair of headphones or earbuds. It allowed him to avoid two things: interaction with people and interaction with his own thoughts; the thoughts were worse.
If it wasn't for the time in therapy he had spent, Donnie would be nowhere near his level of success, and the help that SYNN and Brooke had provided in the face of BRADDOCK's once allies: it was a mess, and Asylum's lack of appearance since the inception of EPW troubled Donnie. They had a way of appearing when least expected and least desired, but he had no issue putting Zephyr Draven down like a sick dog, and he was ready to do the same thing in this match, to both Clyde and to SYNN.
Again, his thoughts whipped back to the match. It was as if he wasn't allowed to think for himself. All he could do was think of promoting the match, boosting himself, but he was taking advantage of the small vacation between shows, given that he would need to be on a plane in the next 48 hours; by then, his suit would be ready. He would be boarding the plane, ready to kill, and he would be dressed for the part too.
Donnie sat in front of the Colosseum, staring at it intensely. His career was basically the job title of Gladiator: fighting to the tooth in a duel of wills against an opponent, where there can be only one winner. Whether it was while he was fighting in MMA or now as he waits to go back to Detroit for Shockwave, Donnie's weapons were his hands and his feet, and there were very few that handled the brutality he provided.
Yet, with every win, he felt the loss. Every time he caused someone to tap or every time his knee smashed into his opponent's face in his Shining Wizard variant, it was like he was doing to himself. Donnie had no ill will against anyone, because it would be blown off after the match was over. However, what was it about the world title that made it so much more stressful?
He sat on the bench, leaning forward, elbows digging lightly into his legs as he folded his hands together, twining his fingers together with his thumbs laid side by side. Donnie's mind was a cloud at this point, a flurry of relentless thoughts like flakes in a blizzard. He shook with the intensity as he tried to focus his mind on a single thought, trying to let the Italian environment sink in, trying to enjoy the warmer weather, trying to experience the foreign surroundings. It was extremely difficult, as the fog started to open up memories of failures and losses.
Damian Calaway's lucky win; his losses to BRADDOCK; losing the Anarchy title to Easton Alexander: it was as if his mind was trying to convince him that he was already going to lose.-
)Donnie Harris(
Just stop. I'm smarter than that. I'm stronger than that.
-Donnie was quick to wipe the tears away, just as the rain started to fall. It was almost ironic, as Donnie started to dwell on his losses, when Shockwave could be the biggest win of his career. He needed to focus, while, at the same time, opening his mind. He quickly got to his feet and entered an open doorway to get out of the rain, just before the rain started to pick up. But then, Donnie had a thought.
With all the pain and suffering he had put himself through, with all the anguish he let his family deal with alone, with all the sadness that he grew up with, Donnie needed to just let go.
Donnie smiled and walked back into the rain. He was almost immediately drenched, but he did nothing to cover himself. He just walked in the direction of his hotel, no music but the pitter patter of the raindrops on the cobblestones. Tears in the rain, he thought to himself; he did eventually get back to his hotel, whose staff were quick to offer a towel. Donnie thanked them and dried himself off, removing his shirt to dry himself off some more.-
)Donnie Harris(
Um, I will probably order a small laundry service to at least dry these out in time for my departure.
(Hotel Staff Member)
That is no problem, sir. You just go warm yourself.
-Donnie kicks his shoes and socks off, wiping his bare feet off with the doormat, before stepping onto the cold marble floor.-
)Donnie Harris(
Grazie.
-Donnie pulls out his wallet, handing the one who gave him a towel a €5 note; it was a little wet but they laughed about it as Donnie patted it drier with his towel. Perhaps a nap while in such a pleasant mood was warranted.
If it weren't for finding his ordered suits, neatly packed, in their carrying bags hanging on his doorknob: looks like Shockwave is going to be a bit more of a dapper affair.-
-24 hours to go until the show was on, and Donnie was back in the United States, in his hotel room in Detroit, Michigan. His breathing was heavy and he was pacing frantically. The pressure of what was coming compressed him into the hotel room like it was a cage. His gear was ready, his suit was set out to be put on to enter the Little Caesars Arena on the 12th of May; as he paced, he was talking to himself, his hands running through his hair, his words gibberish and his hands, once drawn from his scalp, shook violently.
On a nearby table, which he constantly looked to, was a pair of needle nose pliers. Donnie was beside himself, pacing between the foot of the bed and a chair set at the table, the pliers ominously left open, as if Donnie had placed them there as such, fighting something deep inside him.
And it was bad. One of Donnie's most brutal punishments, as meted out by his father, was having a fingernail ripped out of the nail bed, with nothing more than a cloth to bite down on and an ice pack to deal with the pain. Whenever Donnie would second-guess himself, or if Donnie lost a fight that was perceived to be "easy", one sharp tug with a very similar pair of pliers and out came the nail, usually his pinky or ring finger on his left hand. The digit would then be quickly wrapped, ice was applied and Donnie's pained scream would be muffled by the cloth he was forced to bite down on. In his peak moment of helplessness, his father wouldn't bother, dropping the nail on the table and forcing him to look at it: a token of a loser. Donnie had repressed these memories.
However, in this moment of weakness and contempt, the memories were flooding back, and he was fighting with himself quite fiercely. Donnie was only in a pair of shorts, as it was getting late and he was essentially ready to crash, to prepare himself for a quiet day of rest and mild warmup before the biggest match of his career since BRADDOCK and he fought for the vacant world title. The pressure wasn't as bad then, either. Donnie's eyes were red and swollen from the tears that ran down his cheeks; he didn't even remember going to the Dollar Tree to get the pliers, and it's not like he carried them with him from Italy.
Donnie practically threw the chair away from the table, leaning into the table and trying to catch his breath as he tried to think of better things and better times. After all, of all those in EPW, Donnie Harris was a shining example of brand loyalty. Guys like Justin York had since fucked off, preaching greener pastures; Clyde Newton was brought in as a replacement last minute, literally the door held open for him. Britlyn clearly didn't appreciate the blood, sweat and tears that Donnie shed in the name of OCW Blue, now EPW, other than a shot at the Anarchy title, which Donnie capitalized on by beating Ally Calaway for it. Now it was up to Khloe Cox to properly carry into the coming months, as Easton Alexander seemed to almost drop the ball.
And Donnie was feeling the dissatisfaction of holding the same belt for so long, especially when he was still the man designated as number one contender for the world heavyweight championship, only to be substituted by Clyde Newton. Donnie took hold of the pliers as this thought crossed his mind, hand shaking as he extended his middle finger; he didn't grip the nail yet, forcing his hand away with a grunt of harsh resistance, trying to force himself to see reason and logic, especially with there not being enough time to get over the pain.
Pain: how novel a concept, but, when it came to his match against BRADDOCK, even as a losing effort, it was fun. It was worthy of Match of the Year. It was worthy of five stars. It wasn't a fight. It wasn't a brawl, as the pay-per-view's name would suggest.
It was a war.
And now he got another chance to fight another war. Donnie was receiving a second chance to go into combat and win that world title. Unburdened and unbridled without the Anarchy championship to hold him back, the PWA Streaming Service Championship still his after a match with an otherwise absent Easton Alexander, Donnie dropped the pliers and moved away from the table, replacing the chair, only to throw himself into the chair, picking the pliers back up and, again with hand shaking, extending that middle finger on his left hand.
No, Donnie needed to stop himself. He needed to calm down and focus his mind to something else, something better. The cool breeze coming from an open window, even though it was still Detroit air, was what he started to shift his mind onto, letting the soft wind wash over him. It was a little nippy, but it was enough to calm himself in this moment.
SYNN seemed to become an obsession, unhealthy enough that he attacked a damn heavy bag with a weight bar, thankfully without any weight on it. He then proceeded to beat the thing relentlessly, visualizing a demon that was clearly not there, as if he was trying to make it look or feel like he was possessed similarly to Juniper, but, as hindsight is 20/20, he felt like the biggest fucking idiot, enough of one to buy a new heavy bag for the Seattle gym. It was why he flew his ass to Rome, Italy; ironic that he was in a hotel within a stone's throw of Vatican City, he enjoyed the time there, the Colosseum allowing a form of renaissance in his mind, but apparently, it wasn't enough; nothing was enough.
Again with the pliers, the same loop played in his head, but, this time, it was about his foolish obsession with the woman or women that held the OCW Blue world title first, until Britlyn decided to strip it off of her, no pomp and only circumstance. It was what gave Donnie the chance to win the title, the opportunity to fight BRADDOCK; the experience of one of his greatest matches. If it wasn't for SYNN, Donnie would probably still riding the midcard. And SYNN gave him some classics to open OCW Blue right. He was once the man to beat, with the best record in the organization.
Donnie was sweating as if he ran for miles, his heart racing for the same distance as both hands shook. His arms and legs ached as he found a way, finally, to slow his breathing, to focus on something else. He needed to sleep and prepare. A war was coming. He looked out of the window, to a setting sun that glowed red in the sky; there was blood spilled somewhere, but it wasn't here; it wasn't time yet. It was a forecast of things to come.
Laying his forehead against the table, the former MMA fighter and current EPW World Title contender inhaled deeply and slowly, the pliers falling out of his right hand with a gentle bang as the metal hit the wooden table. Donnie was wobbly as he stood up, but he stabilized himself and drank from a bottle of water he took from the bar fridge before sitting on the bed. He sets the bottle down, plugs his phone in and sets an alarm for 0900: 9 AM for the lay folk. He turns on the bedside lamp and turns off the lights in the room, leaving only the lamp on. He tucks himself in and sighs again, closing his eyes.-