Doesn't Matter if it's Called Regicide or Deicide

Triss Merigold wrote:

Cheers immediately fill the building as the one, the only, Cole Savage’s music blesses the collective’s ear drums.

However, the cheers quickly die down at an alarming rate when Savage himself steps out onto the stage.

Or rather gingerly walking onto the stage, aided by a walking cane.

He’s also dressed in rags, his pants are in tatters--stained and torn-- one lens from his glasses is missing, his big toe is poking through an unsightly hole in his shoe--and his Schmidty shirt has clearly seen better days--one sleeve missing and the color long faded.

This isn’t the Cole Savage we’ve come to know and love.

As this incredibly sad scene unfolds before them, the people can’t help but watch.

“He got me,” Savage yells in an uncharacteristically weak voice. “He took everything!” He shouts again as he holds his back with his free hand, each step down the ramp taking great effort.

FInally he makes it down to the ringside area and to watch him climb up the steel stairs and enter the ring has to go down in CMV history as one of the most painful things to ever be broadcast on this show.

He gets to the middle of the ring, looks down at himself and shakes his head.

When he looks up again, a devilish smirk is on his face.

“You woulda thought!” He shouts as he throws the cane to the side. “Kurasuke!!”

A portal opens up in the middle of the ring that Savage steps through. A few seconds later he’s out again, and there’s the Cole Savage we’ve grown accustomed to seeing. He’s dressed to the nines, his wardrobe impeccable, his style envy inducing. The cheers are loud as the happy crowd collectively wipes a bead of sweat from above their brows. Savage is A-OK.

They watch as he takes on seat on the chair and confidently crosses his legs. He waits for the noise to die down a little before he begins to speak.


You ever notice how the more frightened Schmidty is, the more he talks?


The crowd boos at the mere mention of his name, the hatred, annoyance and disdain for the man a palpable concoction.


Then again,  I’m also not one to be shown up.


A mischievous glint flashes in his eye.


It’s like watching a lawyer try to filibuster on the senate floor or, more relevant to the situation we have here, a child trying to talk himself out of an ass whooping the moment papa kicks the bedroom door open.

Schmidty is that scared child.


He points in the direction of the skybox without shifting his position in the chair or looking at it..


That’s why he’s up there. Because last week--after months of people telling him what he wanted to hear, and singing his praises for things as simple as tying his boots properly--I came out here and I called him out on his nonsense, and he didn’t like that. And now he’s off with his tail tucked between his legs and a scepter up his ass, flanked by tweedledee and tweedledum thinking that he’s safe. Like a child, he knows he’s done something real bad and is running real fast from the consequences.

That’s why he can’t be out here in what I thought was his ring, because he can’t muster up the courage to face you all after I exposed him. He lost the war of words. Let’s get that out of the way and make it clear. He brought out his dictionary and thesaurus, googled some metaphors and similes he hoped would give him that satisfying “gotcha” moment, stayed up all night practicing his delivery, hell he probably recited his speech to Laura and made her wear a Cole Savage mask to pretend it was me.


Savage tugs at his cheeks to illustrate his point.


Pretend. The magic word that perfectly encapsulates what will become of Schmidty’s legacy. The reality of his shortcomings have always been too much for him to bear, which forces him to pretend to be something that he’s not. Last week he was a god, this week he is a king, tomorrow he’ll be whatever character starred in the bedtime story Laura reads to him, and after Ascendance he’ll be a memory. He pretends to be the greatest wrestler to ever do it. He pretends to be omnipotent, when he’s just as gullible as the emperor showing off his new clothes. He pretends to have tangible power on this show, but the most important match of the year: Paul Divine and Chris Andrews for a title Schmidty’s never won, was made behind Schmidty’s back.


At the reminder of that blockbuster main event, the crowd pops loudly, some even breaking out into a chant of Chris Andrews’ name.


However, most offensively of all: He pretends to be my equal despite being confined to my shadow since the very first time we crossed paths. I’m pretty sure Schmidty’s biggest regret in this tragic life of his is that he’ll never be me. He’s been in my skybox so much, I should be charging rent. He tried his damnedest to verbally spar with somebody who makes it look effortless.  Did you all see him break a sweat racking his brain for a comeback as he lunged for the last word?

And even after he got the final word, he knew that that wasn’t enough. He knew that he could never, ever risk the embarrassment of trying to go toe to toe, word for word with “Ice” Cole Savage again. And then he realized that he couldn’t start a fight with me lest he risk the dissipation of his narrative that I’m not his superior in this ring. So he had to resort to his back up to his back up. He had to resort to theatrics to try to prove a point. What point? I couldn’t tell you. All I gleaned from his monologue is that his insecurity is pushing him closer and closer to his breaking point. He’s trying to distract you all with his throne and skulls and laughable proclamations.

Like clockwork, tonight is his overcompensation born of an overreaction in a bid to save face and massage his ego a little bit. Almost a month ago, Travis King showed that he was the future of this show. King had the belt and he was THE man, making Schmidty’s empty boasts and outrageous claims to be a great wrestler even more barren. So Schmidty had to do whatever he could to slither into the spotlight. Last week I skewered him, and this is how he tries to fight back.


Savage busts out a laughably poor Schmidty impersonation.


“I’m still cool everybody! Look, I have a fancy chair and a nice hat!”


He pulls off his shades and leans a little forward in his chair.


Maybe if he can make you all believe that he has some kind of upperhand, it may somehow prove to be true. Still he knows what he’s doing up there isn’t enough to knock me down a peg, and so he’s made a match to have his men take on mine. A weak attempt at coming at me sideways, because he’s afraid of charging at me head on. What is this match supposed to prove? That you’re better because your dad can beat up mine? It’s this kind of childlike thinking that makes me feel like this isn’t even fair. Where’s the challenge? When I was hearing all the rumblings of the guy who had Fusion by the balls, I was expecting a lot more than this.

That match is merely another backup to his backup. You know, for someone who claims to have so much power and control and never fails at anything he does, you sure do have to rely on backup plans a lot. Just think of all the work you put into your display tonight, only to leave superficial wounds.


He chuckles softly.


No wonder your empire is crumbling.


Savage stands up and begins pacing.


But I can see why you’re trying, and I’ve gotta respect the effort. In fact, I’m so flattered that you’ve gone through all of this trouble. You’ve backed yourself into a corner, and all you can do is throw out a few preemptive Hail Mary's before I floor you with the haymaker at Ascendance. I can understand that with the weight of your fate steadily growing unbearably heavy, you’ve got to do what you can to lessen the sting. I get it. When you’re on the back staring up at the lights listening to my music playing, you can then, at the very least, close your eyes and smile at the memory of what you’ve done tonight. That’ll be the last semblance of peace or happiness you’ll have in a long time.

Starting wars is common a tactic employed by leaders who see that their people’s faith in them is dwindling. The forced conflict is a last-ditch effort relied on to generate enough xenophobia and patriotism to distract the people from the leader’s shortcomings and flaws. Winning the war possibly shows the leader in the new light. Maybe the people think that he’s strong and a force to be reckoned with, so they respect  him a little more than they did before...at least for a little while...at least until the next war. You’d be surprised how often it works.


Savage turns and looks directly into the camera.


Maybe it would have worked out for you too, Schmidty.

Your mistake was starting that war with me.


As his theme hits, Savage exits the ring and picks up the cane where it landed when he threw it out of the ring. Savage rests the cane on his shoulder, and walks with a purpose up the ramp before disappearing through the curtain.