The Storm... [In-Ring Promo]

[Punkology]

The show returned from commercial right before the supposed main event of the evening. It was the Legacies right after WrestleMania, marking it as the second biggest night of the month; though, it seemed much more lackluster than previous post-WrestleMania shows. No matter, the fans were ecstatic and eager to see the main event of the night.

Though as they waited, time seemed to drag on and on. Then, suddenly, the lights all shut off in the arena. A moment of silence passed. A single moment, holding everyone in suspense. A moment that brought a chill to everyone's spine, as the temperature itself seemed to drop gradually. Perhaps it was the anticipation of what may come, perhaps it was the fear of darkness, or perhaps the air conditioning had just been triggered. Whatever it was...

... It cued the sound of a lone guitar, quietly strumming through the air. A sound that was all too familiar to every WWF:G fan, as it began to meld with the sound of falling rain. The eerie notes hung in the air, an omen for all.

The Storm was coming.

Short Change Hero - The Heavy

The titantron flickered on to display an image of storm clouds surging with electricity, filling the skies with their ominous light. The faint sound of war drums echoed through the air as the guitar continue to hum its lullaby. As the drum beat on, the fans were already roaring with approval into the darkness, excited the man that marched to the same beat.

But eventually, the titantron began to dim, and the guitar played its last note. The arena was left in silence once more; if one were to disregard the roaring fans, chomping at the bit to see what may follow. Their cheers wouldn't go unheard, and their answer would soon come with a single sound...

BOOM!!!

Another shockwave of thunder erupted through the air, but this one brought its mate with it: lightning. The bolt of energy struck the stage as the thunder boomed above. Dark blue lights flashed on, illuminating the arena and attempting to penetrate the thick layers of fog that had descended upon the stage, ramp, and ring-side area. The familiar music began to play again, as the camera zoomed in on the source of the fog: an opening at the center of the stage, with thick amounts of the haze billowing outward.

I can't see where you comin' from,
But I know just what you runnin' from.
And what matters ain't the "who's baddest" but,
The ones who stop you fallin' from your ladder, baby...

As the verse continued to hum over the sound of the thundering storm, a silhouette began to rise up from the center of the stage. The fans were still on their feet, screaming for the man who they assumed was hidden behind the thick veil of fog; but would they be correct? That's the question that truly needed answering.

And you feel like you're feelin' now,
Doin' things just to please your crowd.
But I love you like the way I love you,
And I suffer, but I ain't gonna cut you 'cause...

A spotlight flashed on and focused on the center of the stage, as the figure fully rose out of the fog. In a tattered hooded trenchcoat stood the man, the myth, the legend: The Storm. The hood hid the Hall of Famer's eyes from view, but his facial features gave him away; along with the weapon he had in his right hand. Tight in his grasp was the wooden handle to his legendary weapon, "The Punk-ville Slugger." It had indeed been reforged, now complete with a thick metal plate around the center of it. If it wasn't an intimidating weapon before, perhaps the addition of cold metal to it would change that.

As the chorus to his theme song began to play, Matt Shanahan slowly began to descend down the ramp, practically gliding his way through the thick haze.

This ain't no place for no hero.
This ain't no place for no better man.
This ain't no place for no hero to call "home."

This ain't no place for no hero.
This ain't no place for no better man.
This ain't no place for no hero to call "home."

On the last two lines of the chorus, a flash of lightning ripped across the roof of the arena, causing the dark-blue lighting to go out once more. The Storm didn't remotely pause in his wake tonight though. A loud bell chimed through the arena, sending chills through the air as the entrance seemed to only become more ominous.

Every time I close my eyes, I think,
I think about you inside.
And your mother, givin' up on askin' why -
Why you lie, and you cheat, and you try to make
A fool outta she...

Three more bells chimed as the bridge was sang through-out the arena. Each time, there was a quick flash of light to give the fans a split-second view of what was happening; Matt was still making his way to the ring. With each flash, he was closer. It was almost haunting to see the black-clad figure suddenly moving positions through the rain and darkness.

I can't see where you comin' from...

The drumbeat kicked back in on queue, the dark-blue lighting throughout the arena returning with it. Matt had shifted to stand at the steel steps, ascending up the platforms the moment the lights phased back in. He carried himself on the apron and stopped midway to step through the ropes, his trenchcoat dragging behind him. Once Shanahan was in the ring, the music stopped abruptly. The lights flickered back to their standard, colorless hue. He kept his hood on, keeping the majority of his face hidden on the shadow of it. His eyes danced around the arena, looking over every fan that he could see; he saw the curiosity in their eyes. Why was he out here? Why was The Storm on a post-WrestleMania show, after his first ever loss at WrestleMania, no less?

The Storm lifted his bat up into the air and slid it over his shoulder, sealing it into the custom holster he had crafted onto his trenchcoat, making the weapon appear more like a sword than a baseball bat. His right hand slid into the inside of his trenchcoat and revealed a microphone, which he quickly flicked on with his thumb. The Storm would speak...

 

[Punkology]

... but as he lifted the microphone up to his lips, he paused. His lips began to part, but no words came out. Something was holding him back.

What was on his mind? Was it his loss at WrestleMania? It was the first time he had ever taken the fall on the grandest stage of them all, and to a man named Omega. A man who's named literally means "the end." Perhaps that night sealed the fate of The Storm's career. Perhaps Shanahan always knew it would end like that; perhaps he choked. It was far from his best performance. It wasn't a legendary match; some couldn't even believe he lost. Matt had managed to beat some of the best: Mike Landry, Kelly King, and Cartwright. Three men that surpassed him in legend, and he conquered them. With his body mangled and torn, he even beat the young upstart LEGACY, a match that he knew he shouldn't have wrestled; a match that shortened his lifespan significantly, he was sure. However, he couldn't beat Omega. He couldn't beat "the end."

Perhaps he lost because he was old, or maybe he was just tired. Hell, maybe he wasn't as good as people thought. Maybe Shanahan lost because he deserved to lose; he wasn't a wrestler after all, he never had been. He was a fighter, with the ability do the rare wrestling maneuver here or there. Maybe he lost because he was outplayed by Omega. Whatever it was...

... Matt didn't seem to plan on addressing it. He lowered the microphone from his lips and backed up into the ropes, leaning against them for a brief moment in silence. It was as if the world was weighing him down, and he needed the support of the ropes to simply keep him upright. What weighed on the man? Was it his loss, or was it something more? Was it the fact that his streak was the last in a long list of accomplishments to be ripped away? Was it the fact that he never achieved that 10-0 streak he had aimed for? Or, perhaps WrestleMania had nothing do with it.

What if The Storm's thoughts were clouded with his past tonight? Thoughts of Kelly King, Christina Parks, Nuke Fusion and The Outcasts, Saint Joey and The Angered Alliance could be swelling within him; his past, every bridge burnt or lost along the way.

His former best friend, Kelly King, hated him to the core. Kelly King and his family, the kids that Shanahan once thought of as a niece and nephews, wanted him dead. He knew they hated him, and they had every right to; after all, he had haunted them for months on end just a few years ago, all for a single match against the head of the King family.

Then there was the friends he had met and cherished along the way, mainly Christina Parks and Nuke Fusion. The two of them helped make up The Outcasts, one of Shanahan's shining moments in WWF:G. They were the best of friends back then, and they were practically unstoppable. But somewhere along the way, he left them behind. They went their separate ways, and Matt never tried to make contact again. Then again, why would they want to? Surely they had heard of the monster he had become. The Storm. The man who ripped the King family apart, the man who conquered Cartwright's legendary reign as Legacy champion, the man who survived death itself at the hands of LEGACY. Why would they want to be around a man like that?

There was the man who Shanahan thought of every day, that was the most likely to be weighing on his mind. Saint Joey, the other half of the Angered Alliance. The two were best friends during their run together, and remained such until they clashed in EWA. It was in that company that Shanahan practically spit in Saint Joey's face, then no-showed their match in the most obscene show of disrespect. Matt didn't know that shortly after that night, Saint Joey would take his own life. They parted on bad terms, and Matt never seemed to forgive himself for it. Every time someone insulted Joey, mocked his legacy, or dared slander the man, The Storm was sent into a fit of rage. He raged because he did the exact same thing once, and he would never be forgiven for it. No one ever mentions that when they talk about The Angered Alliance, no one mentions the time Shanahan no-showed on his best friend; hell, all they talk about from that time is Freakshow vs Saint Joey and how it was a classic. Perhaps it's for the best that no one mentions why Matt never really let of Saint Joey's death.

Perhaps it all weighed down on him. Every burnt bridge, every broken friendship, every failure along the way. Or, perhaps it didn't. After those few passing moments, Matt pushed off of the ropes and returned to the middle of the ring. He threw his hood back with his left hand, revealing his clean shaved features and the slicked back, jet-black locks that had been hiding away. His eyes were a raging storm, filled with anger and sorrow, haunting anyone who dared look into them for a second too long. He was the embodiment of a storm, and as he lifted the microphone to his lips once more...

... he paused again. His lips parted, but not a sound came out; not even a breath. What plagued him? Was his own rage so crippling that it held back his words? Was his sorrow so thick that he couldn't speak, lest he break into tears? Or was it a simple loss of words? What could he even talk about? His loss at WrestleMania, his failure of achieving that fabled "Grand Slam" that so few others had accomplished, and he was a mere step away from? Maybe he'd talk about how he'd move on from it, how his streak was not his only legacy and how it was a mere footnote on his list of achievements? Perhaps he'd challenge Hiro Shin-Mozas for the Legacy Championship, and put an end to this "God of Will." Perhaps he'd call out Kelly King for one more match, to send him off properly. Perhaps he'd demand a rematch against Omega, desiring that "Grand Slam" achievement more than anything else?

It didn't matter. Because once again, The Storm lowered the microphone away from his lips. He didn't fall back to the ropes this time, he simply stared out at the fans. His free hand rubbed against his jaw, as his tried his best to think of the words to say to address the crowd in front of him. He wasn't sure if they were booing or cheering, or not making any sound at all; silence was the only thing he could hear tonight. The thoughts of this crowd didn't bother him one bit; or if it did, he was clearly trying to tune them out so it wouldn't affect him. He wouldn't be swayed in his words tonight. He wouldn't just give the fans what they wanted, whatever that may be.

He took a moment to glance towards the backstage area. Was he expecting someone? Was all of this attempts at a cue for someone to interrupt him? If so, they were clearly failing at this angle. Or maybe he was thinking of the people in the back? All the... well, handfuls of faces. He didn't know most of them anymore, he didn't care to know their names. They were nothing to him, for the most part; but those that he did remember, he wouldn't ever forget. Freakshow, Chrono Clepsydra, Bad Boy, Cartwright, Omega, Trent, Hiro Shin-Mozas, and the list had a few more entries to it. The majority of them being evil men who needed to be put down; stains upon the name of this company. The others were dim-witted "good guys," men that Matt had destroyed previously or had no desire to face at all; but men that deserved recognition, nonetheless. Perhaps they plagued his thoughts.

Or, perhaps it was management. It was no secret that Matt and management had never seen eye-to-eye since he signed on with them nearly a decade ago. They laughed at his angles, they gave him the shaft, and only after achieving fame elsewhere did they even consider him as someone worthy of praise. But as the mantle of "CEO" was passed around, The Storm seemed to fall further and further back into the position he was in a few years ago. He was ignored, he was forced to watch as the company imploded; and it angered him.

Suddenly, Matt turned his head to face the fans once more, the microphone shooting up to his mouth. Hate and anger seemed to spew from his eyes now, overriding any sense of sorrow that they held before. His words would be twisted and soaked with disdain; but to what? To the villains in the back, stroking their egos? To the management that he had hated for the past 9 years, no matter who held the mantle? To the man that beat him? To the fans that stupidly supported the program he had wanted dead for years?

His free arm pointed an accusing finger towards the backstage area, his mouth open to spew forth the biggest pipe-bomb since Chrono Clepsydra's last promo, and...

... silence. Nothing came forth from Shanahan's lips. The Storm was speechless again, and the fans weren't exactly enjoying it at this point. His arms lowered back to his and he hung his head down, staring at the mat. He couldn't say it. He couldn't say anything. None of the words forming in his mind could reflect his thoughts; none of them reflected the sorrow, the anger, the hatred, the disappointment. Whether it was in himself, his friends, management, or the men and women in the back, he couldn't address what he was feeling. The Storm had never been at a loss of words, but tonight... not a single syllable seemed to fit.

After another wave of passing moments went by, and Matt seemed to only be delaying the main event at this point, something clicked in his head. For the first time in years, a smile began to spread on his face. Not a sadistic or sarcastic one, not even his classic smirk. A genuine, happy smile spread across The Storm's lips, something that happened in... well, probably half a decade. He looked up from the mat and glanced around the fans, his wide smile shining brighter than the lights above the arena. A stream of chuckles echoed from his lips as he rubbed his jaw once more with his left hand. The fans were sent in a shockwave of confusion, not remotely sure of what was going on. It was insanely out of character for Shanahan to be smiling, let alone laughing. Had he gone mad?

No, he hadn't. He had just managed to find the right words to describe his emotions and thoughts. The words he now had in mind were so perfect that he was actually shocked he didn't think of them sooner. It was embarrassing for him, honestly. He gave his head a shake and stared right ahead to the nearest camera. He lifted the microphone up to his lips once more, and his smile faded away once he did. The laughing stopped. Any notion of previous joy drained out of him instantly, as he stared into the microphone and utter the words he had been looking for all night.

 

[Punkology]

With those two syllables, Matt Shanahan dropped the microphone and backed away from the camera. All night, he had been searching for those two syllables, those two words to sum everything up. His feelings towards the people in the back, management, his failures, his loss, his achievements, and everything about this industry. Everything about WWF:G, and every other company that he had competed in. Every man and woman he faced. Every match he wrestled. Every injury he dealt with. Every friend he had lost along the way, and every single thing that had happened to him since his first day in Extreme Entertainment Wrestling back in 2007.

Those two syllables summed up his every thought.

Without another word or glance to the camera, Matt turned to the ropes and climbed out of them. He jumped down to the arena floor and quickly hopped the barricade afterwards, joining the fans on the outside of the ring. Some were cheering, some were booing, he didn't care either way; he said his piece. Without much of a look or notion towards any of them, he made his way to the stairs and walked up them, continuing his path until he found the exit. A cameraman followed behind him the entire way, primarily out of curiosity as to where the Hall of Famer was planning to go from here. The Storm walked into the main hallways of the arena, walking right past every fan or crew member in sight, and every vendor that was selling food or pushing merchandise. He would walk until he found the main entrance to the arena, and without a single ounce of hesitation, he pushed the doors open and walked out into the night.

The Storm had left the building.