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| KingCast: Cold, Harsh Reality | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Feb 1 2010, 12:08 AM (136 Views) | |
| Jarvis King | Feb 1 2010, 12:08 AM Post #1 |
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The Hall of Fame Hallmark
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Beep. Beep. Beep. The stilted, staccato chiming of a hospital heart meter was the only noise to be heard in room 335 of the Victoria General Hospital. This was Ian King’s room. The week had been hard on the younger of the King brothers. The doctors weren’t quite sure what to do with him. The fire that had burned the King family home to the ground had done a number on Ian’s lungs and left him in critical condition. The prognosis wasn’t good – certainly with the smoke inhalation and lack of oxygen, Ian would never be the same again. The thing that had the doctors perplexed, however, was the unusual amount of brain activity that Ian was displaying. His mental disabilities aside, Ian had, as the doctor put it, severely damaged his brain in the blaze. Any progress was exceeding expectations, but this was beyond anything that anyone, autistic or not, had ever seen. Jarvis, keeping a silent vigil at his brother’s side, had been having a much easier week. Old man Cain had proven himself more of a challenge than Jarvis had been honestly expecting, and the sixty minute Iron Man match had taken quite a toll on King’s body. That, however, was fleeting. The simple fact of it was that all of his months of success and hard work had finally paid off – Jarvis had finally been rewarded and acknowledged as what he knew he was from day one: the best. The usual indulgencies after a huge title win didn’t escape the new CWF World Champion. There had been parties, congratulatory phone calls, toasts and plenty of photo ops. Jarvis was living the high life, the very existence that he so often spoke of. His career was at its peak, and he was only 25 years old. The world was his oyster, and he had cracked the shell. Yet somehow, something kept on bringing him back to Earth. Beep. Beep. Beep. In reality, Jarvis knew that the party was going to stop early and that business would be back, in full force, in its stead. Clearly he still had his job to think about; Angel was not a push-over, not outside of the bedroom anyhow, and the match on that week’s Massacre wouldn’t be any sort of walk in the park. Jubilation aside, Jarvis knew it was soon time to get back to work. Beep. Nancy had called not too long later. Ian was in intensive care. You aught to visit him. He might not pull through. “I’m the CWF champion, Nancy. Didn’t you watch Genesis? I’m the goddamn champ, I’ve got work to do to make sure that I’m at the top of my game.” “Jarvis,” she replied, “you stand to lose everything if you don’t show remorse for this. I’m not even talking about your inheritance…your father will sue your ass, and he’ll probably win. How would the CWF brass like that? You and Rishel may have history, but do you honestly think he’ll keep you around if there’re criminal negligence charges levied against you?” As usual, Nancy’s legal advice was solid – Ernie King was showing signs of improvement in terms of his own brain function and it was suspected that he may wake up any day now. Jarvis knew that his old man would look to grasp onto any reason to keep his eldest son’s inheritance from him. Jarvis hated the old bastard; in fact, he always suspected that Ernie King wasn’t his real father. The fact remained that the memory of his late mother meant the world to him, and he wouldn’t let Ernie win. So, he sat with Ian every single day. Every day, listening to that damn beeping. That damn beeping reminding him of the sacrifices that he had to make over and over again. Over and over again being duped and taken advantage of for finally having a weakness. A weakness with an affinity for those unfriendly with Jarvis. An affinity for the most asinine television shows, the most irritating music and the oddest taste in pizza toppings; honestly, who actually ate anchovies on pizza? “So,” said Nancy from the doorway, startling Jarvis. “Any improvement in his condition?” Jarvis’s hair was tied back that day in a messy ponytail. He took the elastic out and ran his fingers through his hair before breathing out a slow, steady sigh. “Same old same. Lights are on, nobody’s home. At least there’s no Taylor Swift this way.” Nancy shot him a look of pure disapproval. How could she find this man attractive? Certainly, she could see the obvious physical reasons…on a very mechanical level he was an attractive young man. He had the muscular, strong body that came with the dedication of a champion in the ring. His biceps ever so slightly stretched out the arms of his plain, black t-shirt, and his long hair and untidy scruff provided what was obviously a desirable frame. But, then again, he was selfish. Maybe that’s what being a champion was – a pure dedication to a singular goal. If that was the case, Jarvis had his sights set squarely on his career. He had won the CWF title, and now he had the arduous task of taking on all comers. Did that mean that he’d become more self interested; more self centered? Was that determination a bad thing? Was she really so different? She had managed to maneuver her way into partnership in her firm faster than anyone ever had before. Hell, she managed to politic her way to getting into the firm’s name. Beep. She snapped back to the hospital room. Jarvis had been clutching onto the CWF title the entire time as he leaned on the bed adjacent to Ian’s. She shook her head, collecting herself. “Uhm, Dr. Brooks would like to see you, Jarvis.” King shrugged, left his little brother’s side and followed Nancy out of the room. Dr. Phil Brooks, and no, not that Phil Brooks, had been something of an ass to Jarvis all along his brother’s recovery. Jarvis hadn’t set the damn fire; hell, it wasn’t even really his negligence that had caused it. The fire marshal had ruled it entirely accidental. Faulty wiring in the garage, most likely frayed by rodents, had finally given out and started to spark. Ernie’s old collection of automotive parts was easy fuel for the fire, their oily exteriors providing plenty of flammable material. The fire then moved on from the garage to the main house, catching the many pizza boxes and related garbage ablaze. Ian was still fast asleep when it happened, and the carbon monoxide had simply knocked him out, dragging him into an even deeper sleep. It was thanks to a concerned neighbor that Ian was rescued in the first place. Too bad, Jarvis had thought. Nancy led Jarvis through the labyrinth that was the hospital. Even though it was in a familiar setting, the Halifax hospital gave Jarvis the same creeps that any hospital had. Set aside his resentment towards his brother – hospitals were plain creepy. The smells, the noises, the constant reminders of that summer years earlier, watching his mother slowly pass away. “Ah, Jarvis. Glad you could make it.” They had reached the office of Dr. Phil Brooks. Dr. Brooks, while a bit abrasive towards Jarvis, was the best autism specialist on the east coast of Canada. He wore a bit of a smile on his face, a look that Jarvis took for sarcastic high-and-mightiness. Brooks had been the first to accuse Jarvis of being negligent, asking the CWF champ why his brother had been eating nothing but pizza and candy over the weeks that he had been under Jarvis’s care. King didn’t like Brooks, but he was clearly a necessary evil; poisonous but also useful in small enough doses. Dr. Brooks was essentially botox in Jarvis’s mind. “Jarvis, I want to talk to you about Ian’s increased brain activity.” He turned off the lights and shut the door, placing a couple of x-ray images onto the illuminated viewing board. Both were images of Ian’s brain, likely from a CAT scan; one from above, the other a cross-section. “Alright. This,” he said, pointing to the image on the left, “is a scan of your brother’s brain from about six months ago. Usual brain patterns,” he pointed to the multi-colored portions of the brain, “of someone with your brother’s variety of autism responding to stimuli.” Jarvis made a face, clearly confused. “Basically, it’s what Ian’s brain looks like when he’s engaging in conversation,” explained Nancy. Jarvis shot her a somewhat surprised look. “What? My undergrad was in biology.” Dr. Brooks smiled, drawing the smoldering ire of Jarvis. “Right she is. We were asking Ian very basic questions about his life, his routine, his family,” he said, giving Jarvis a somewhat sour look. “In any case, analyzing this sample was pretty simple: Ian has limited ability to process information, and can communicate ideas with some difficulty. Compare those results with these…” He replaced the two images with a pair of similar but unsubtly different images. These once again showed Ian’s brain from the top and from the side. The key variation was in the colors; where there had been subtle hues of blue, red, green and yellow on the last image were now intensely saturated colorations. “Now, I doubt it takes a medical degree to get what this means,” said Brooks with a subtle smirk on his face. “Okay,” said Jarvis, “so his brain’s acting differently. So what?” “It’s not that it’s different, Jarvis. It’s that his brain is, for some unexplainable reason, performing well beyond his projected potential.” “So, what…is he smart or something?” “Well,” Dr. Brooks said with a smile, “not exactly. What this means is that we have a unique scientific opportunity to understand how the brain works. What I’d like you to do is sign some papers that would give the hospital permission to donate his brain to study in one of the local medical science labs.” There was a pregnant pause lasting several moments before Jarvis drew a deep breath. “What are you insinuating, Doc?” “Well, Jarvis…Ian’s in rough shape. You’d be providing the scientific community, no, society at large, an exorbitant amount of research and knowledge. We may, by studying your brother’s brain, be able to ensure that people with autism get better care, and perhaps even lead lives similar to yours and mine. I just need one little signature from you.” Another awkward silence followed. Could Jarvis really do that? Ian wasn’t guaranteed to make it through the night, let alone survive for years to come. Jarvis looked down at the forms that Dr. Brooks had slid him, and then at Nancy. “I have to go to work.” *** The Wired feed cuts from the hospital to the familiar glitz and glam of KingCast. Jarvis is lying down in the centre of a dimly lit wrestling ring in the middle of a gym. The CWF title strapped around his waist gleams as brightly as his cocky smile; its golden plates contrasting with his jet black ring gear. Subtly at first, but increasing in volume, come the four-part harmonic sounds made famous in the barbershop quartet genre. The four men join the shot, standing around Jarvis and humming a vaguely familiar tune. They stop, and begin to sing. “God save our gracious King, Long live our noble King, God save the King: Send him victorious, Happy and glorious, Long to reign over us: God save the King.” Jarvis smiles even more widely and simply says “All hail. This is KingCast.” With that, “Edge of Seventeen” kicks in, and the Jarvis King highlights package starts up. Obviously featured is King’s huge win on pay per view. Shots of King’s enormous Straightjacket Suplex and Swissplex are prominently featured before showing Cain, defeated and tired watching as the referee places the CWF title around King’s waist. King’s million dollar smile as he realized that he won is the last thing in the package before the feed cuts into the main KingCast studio. Inside said studio, the raucous applause of the KingCast “audience” is already in intense force. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” says the announcer, “the star of KingCast! He is the Squire of Sex Appeal, your undisputed, undefeated in 2010, unrequited love, the International Icon. Ladies and Gentlemen, accept no imitations, the CWF Champion himself, Jarvis King!” The applause, predictably, crescendos at the mention of King’s name and gets even louder as King walks onto the KingCast stage. The International Icon’s Gucci suit is complimented once again by the CWF title; this week, however, the nameplate reads Jarvis King. The youngest CWF champion since the reboot smiles as he takes a seat and places the CWF title across his desk, displaying it for all to see. “That’s right, that’s right. It’s once again time to be entertained. I am the reigning, defending, unending CWF World Champion, the Entertaining Enigma, the International Icon, the holder of the world record for most ring nicknames, edging out Mick Foley I might add, Jarvis Jay King…and let me be the first to welcome you to the era of Jarvis King taking his rightful place atop the CWF’s proverbial ladder.” “That’s right, I did exactly what I predicted I would do: I won on pay per view. I came, I saw and then I won the CWF title. I fulfilled my destiny, I went the distance, I made history and beat Alex Cain in a World title match. The CWF is my house now, and I’ve finally been handed the key.” There’s a spattering of applause, but Jarvis doesn’t allow his technician to turn it into another round of intense adulation. “But, there’s absolutely no rest when you’re at the top, unfortunately. This week, I’ll be wrestling wearing latex, because I’ve got Angel. As usual, I’ll provide you with all of the analysis that’s necessary, I’ll address the ‘Cloud Nine’, ahem…’broadcast’ and do it all with a flair unmatched by any man, robot, or sentient robot, curious about its own existence. Before all of that though, I have to welcome my guest this week. He is the latest to join the winning team, he recognizes greatness when he sees it and simply goes after it when he gets the chance. Ladies and gents, but mostly the ladies, I give you the Entourage’s own, Mark Carlton!” The Fearless Atlantic Gentleman simply floats onto the soundstage, with “Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy” by classic rock giants Queen guiding him on. Carlton takes his seat on the couch next to Jarvis’s desk and smiles as the music cuts out. “Evening, Jarvis.” “Mark Carlton, the Fearless Atlantic Gentleman. How’s London anyhow?” Mark smiles, “Well, we got a centimeter of snow last week. City’s to its knees. Otherwise, lovely. Congratulations, once again. Look forward to adding the tag titles to the Entourage’s fold, eh wot?” “What the hell does that mean?” “What?” Jarvis shakes his head and reaches down, producing this week’s bottle of bubbly. “Never mind. Time for the Cast’s newest tradition: Cheers.” He pours himself a glass, and then one for Carlton. “I understand that you’ve got the first toast this week, Mark?” “Quite right, Jarvis. To Colton Mace, who’s sense of humor and culture seems to be lost in a trashy, tax-evading sitcom featuring a failed rapper in neon baseball caps with the bill uncurled. Here’s hoping you learn something of the highlife.” He drains the glass and fills it while Jarvis chuckles to himself. “Fair enough. Toast number two goes to Angel for two different reasons. See, sweetheart, it’s a pretty big accomplishment to go in for a hysterectomy, but it’s even more impressive that the doctor couldn’t find your uterus due to the vast number of abortions that you’ve had. Secondly, I want to congratulate you on this Tuesday ahead of time. See, it’s been a long time since you’ve been on your back under a man without any risk of getting a sexually transmitted infection. Way to go.” He knocks back the drink and Carlton immediately picks up his. “I’ve got the last one. To Angel: what a marvelous bit of crumpet she is, mm?” “Bit of crumpet, Mark? Seriously?” Carlton simply shrugs, and Jarvis shakes his head before refocusing. “Alright, speaking of Angel, I guess I’d better take a few minutes to chat about…this.” Footage of Angel’s KingCast parody is shown before the feed swoops back to the original and official KingCast studio. Jarvis has something of a sour look on his face, but he powers through. “I’d imagine that you think that you’re quite hilarious, huh Angel? You think that you’re somehow different and hilarious, making fun of my bacon maker, my KingCast. Let me make something abundantly clear: you’ve just joined an elite group of people who have attempted to emulate me and failed. King Nothing, Chaolin Sahn, James Clark…ask them how it worked out for them.” “Now, I’m going to make this as simple as I can for you, Ang. You’re stepping into a cage with a wounded animal this week. I’m not going to try to pretend that I’m 100%. Know what’s interesting about a wounded animal, Angel? They’re even more dangerous. I’m not an idiot: I see the vultures circling around me already, and you’re the first one who gets to swoop in at try and take my CWF title away. Newsflash: not going to happen, honey.” “See, the CWF title…it fits me really well. It belongs to a champion, a distinction that you quite clearly don’t deserve, you proved that much well enough at Genesis. No, the simple fact of it is that if you think that you’ve got a damn shot at taking my title away…you’re flat out wrong.” “See, unlike you, I see things quite clearly. For example: I see that rather than being a part of some sort of vicious, self-defeating circle, I’m always on one path: the path to victory. You talk about how I join stables just to leave them so that I can be more successful. History tells a different story, actually…I’ve enjoyed my greatest successes with people who I can trust backing me. How’s the Insurgency treating you, Angel? How many titles have you won recently?” “Oh, that’s right. You lost to the pretender to the crown himself, King Nothing. Nothing, a man who isn’t fit to lace my boots. See, Angie, you’re stepping across the ring from the single most decorated champion in the CWF. I’m the break-out star of 2009. I’m a former Paramount and Rising Star champion. I’m on track to being a hall of famer here in the CWF, and I’m only, what…six months into my career here?” “You predicted that I’d be the shortest reigning champion in the CWF’s history. Sorry, Angel…I basically am the history books of the future…and you, well, you’re just a footnote.” Mark Carlton chortles from off screen. Jarvis raises an eyebrow and looks at him. Carlton simply smiles and says “Honestly…who does she think she is?” Jarvis sighs. “You know, that line about her being a footnote would’ve been a great place to end the show on, Mark.” “Can’t you just say it again?” “With no set-up? Honestly?” There’s a bit of an awkward pause before Jarvis looks to the camera. “Okay. You’re just a footnote, Angel. Goodnight.” With that, Stevie Nicks’s famous guitar riff kicks off, and KingCast draws to a close. *** “That was really big of you, Jarvis,” said Nancy from the door of Ian’s hospital room. Jarvis was just packing up the last of his things and getting ready to leave. “What do you mean?” he queried. “Refusing to sign those papers that would’ve essentially euthanized Ian. I was impressed with you. You technically had the legal authority to, but you opted to not sign on. I’m proud.” “Well…” “I mean it. I aught to buy you a drink.” Jarvis looks to his feet. “They’re going to name whatever techniques they discover after him.” Nancy’s face goes white, all other colors literally draining from it. Beep. Beep. Beep. |
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