Art of Memento Mori
The scene opens with a sky view of a swamp.
The green is intermixed with the mirky bluish waters. A crescent moon hangs over the swamp land below. A man in a black hooded robe walks between the vine covered trees. His feet cannot be seen, not a single print in the mud or a moved leaf is seen.
Lowering down the camera changes view points from sky view to pan the scene around the man on the ground. The man ceases to move. His head lifts but no face can be seen, even under the luminescence of the moon.
As he speaks it is as if his voice echoes. It is a low, deep, monotonous and yet enchanting voice that comes from him.
“For the point of brevity I will say that most of those watching this know me as Sickle. Some have questioned this name and my choice of attire as if these things have some relevance. But, I will address these nonetheless. For the schmucks I will begin first by simply saying the name Sickle was not one I chose but one that came upon me when I underwent the lobotomy all those years ago. It was not given to me by any person but came into my mind.”
An owl can be heard in the distance but Sickle continues unheeded.
“I chose them in the sense that my hand picked them. But, I was to my attire like a moth to a flame. I was to my attire as a white country Texan might be to cowboy boots.”
Crickets chirping rises in volume.
“Now that these frivolous matters have been addressed perhaps we might discuss this match. I know many of you younger men like Creed and Cortes do not know who I am and have not bothered to do your research. Have you wondered why so many of the veterans of this company have been slow to mention my name?”
A spine tingling laughter slithers forth from the void of his head before he continues
“Win or lose no one leaves a match after facing me ever truly the same. I must say I am a bit disappointed that my old running mate Scott Stonewall would dismiss me so quickly by failing to even address me or perhaps he was hoping that I would not enter this little battle royal. I am not a man to be trifled with.”
A gator comes forth from the swamp and the camera man runs and hides behind Sickle. Sickle walks towards the gator and kneels with one knee beside the gator, turning to face the camera petting the gator as he keeps going as if it was but a puppy.
“It is common in this industry to receive a few sobriquet along the way. I have received many over the years like lucid nightmare or gothic icon but in my later years I received two new ones that I was rather fond of, the vile one and the wrestling ankou.”
Sickle gets off his knee and motions with his right hand for the gator to go away and it walks away from the camera man and Sickle.
“I AM Vile!” Sickle declares “I am not only unpleasant but by the morales and ethics of the average man I am nothing short of depraved if not downright evil. I make the most despicable men in this industry seem relatable by comparison. I have no morals because I never learned them. I have no conscience perhaps because I never developed it or perhaps it was drilled out in the lobotomy. Take this upcoming match, as an example, I will come in and if I can get away with it I will strangle someone with the bare wires of the uncovered ropes until children in the audience are crying and women are cringing. I will rip flesh with my nails and break bones like I am playing a recital. I am not here to be liked. I do not care if people agree with what I have done, will do or am in the process of doing. I have more titles in my years than I can even begin to remember.”
He begins to move towards the camera. The camera lowers accidentally and not a single foot print appears below him in the muddy land.
“One of you asked if my mask or my clothes should scare you. My answer is simply no. If anything you should think of my mask as a courtesy. I am letting you know upfront that I AM a monster. For the cretins that are unfamiliar with the ankou term I will gladly explain. A few years back now someone said after watching one of my matches that not only do I take the appearance of an ankou which is the British grim reaper but that in my in ring mentality I appear to be draining my opponents of their soul as each minute passes.”
Sickle begins to rise up from the ground. His voice amplifies
“While my appearance may resemble the grim reaper, I promise you that you will wish I came to end your physical existence when I am done. I know that it is not eternal torment that people truly fear. The Kabbalah teaches that before even a single thought was part of the universe there was the nothingness or ayin. It is that ayin that people truly fear. It is the darkness, the void. I come not just to introduce you to pain and suffering but more than that to introduce you to the ayin. When you are in the ring with me you will face not just me but yourself. I will lead you to the void of your own consciousness and you will face your own evil and enter the mental geheinom. I am not just despicable. I am not just vile. I am not just an ankou. I am an artist and in this battle royal I will go medieval and resurrect the memento mori. I will remind the audience and my opposition that death awaits them. I come not to entertain but horrify. I come not to inspire but to cause pause. I come not to win but to conquer. I come not to fulfill or galvanize a dream but to show a realistic nightmare for while some nightmares have no faces…”
The camera zooms on the area where Sickle’s face should be before backing out again.
As Sickle says the word ‘real’ the moon darkens and the sounds of screams and cries can be heard. As the darkness dissipates and the moonlight returns Sickle is gone and the scene fades out.
- None Found