The haves and the have-nots: a battle for the ages. By this I mean a struggle that has persisted through the ages, and if you’ve been watching long enough, you’ll notice it is a recurring theme that has gone from mildly interesting, to boring and unbecoming, to a chore to sit through, let alone participate in.
In one corner stand the haves: accomplished, learned men– the aristocracy, the noble gentry of the realm, so to speak, who lead charmed lives and raise offspring to bear their family crests proudly in their stead. Men who can quantify their contributions simply by looking back o’er the years and accounting for all they have built. Men who have because they built, for he who builds nothing owns nothing. Those who have laid not so much as a square inch of foundation in these hallowed soils shall own no part of them. They are the haves because of all they have accomplished; they are the haves because through some means or another they have etched their indelible mark upon the surface of this world.
In the other corner stand the have-nots: the unaccomplished, the unlearned, stepping forth from the unwashed masses, crying "autocracy." Peasant farmers lingering beyond the gates of the realm in their peripheral shanty towns, fists clenched and teeth gritted; looking in voyeuristically, looking incensed, looking upon the splendid marvels of the builders with bitterness. Looking everywhere except inward. FINISH HIM. “What an unfair, wicked world of ours,” KAN – even I, as the narrator, must concede the sentiment. The have–not has laid nothing save his grievances upon the floor, expecting you, the onlooker, to behold them as though these cast–off aspersions were seeds to be sown let alone a legitimate lot to be granted within these hallowed halls.
And to the untrained eye, the have–not ought to be rewarded for his gumption, for even bothering to arrive at the ordeal, much less arise to the occasion. THEREFORE, to that same untrained eye, any claim he makes of stolen valor, or any bold proclamation he hurls toward his betters, will certainly catch the ears of his contemporaries. With luck, or perhaps delusion, they may even catch the ears of the superiors he envies. This is, of course, if he is not already fortunate enough to be granted, on any given evening, the platform from which to step forth and confront his betters directly.
For all intents and purposes, Road to Redemption and, to a lesser extent, Friday Night Dynasty upon the morrow’s eve appears as though it will be a battle for the ages. I suppose it is a matter of perspective; personally, this is far from anything new. Nor are the castigations hurled at my feet by a glorified supporting act – forming opinions from the dredges of his lower caste – accusing me of casting an untimely shadow o'er my legacy, as though he has accrued the cachet, as though his observations were of salience or pertinence, as though these were the insights of a scholar, a fellow traveler, a nobleman remarking upon the Overman. As though his words carried weight or gravitas. It nearly behooves me to play along. To pantomime as though his accusations were “cutting barbs”. If only to indulge the notion of humoring this mosquito, this pest, this uninvited bugman, this bottom–dwelling parasite, simply to see what may fester.
Truth be told, I am not all that inclined to entertain the musings of lesser vessels – David Gideon included – and, contrary to some of his claims, this is indeed a quality that has faded with the years. Because I'm keenly aware of what lies behind them. In the dichotomy between the man who has done it all and the men who have done little–to–nothing throughout his tenure, a cross word is just as likely to be spoken with ill intent as it is to be spoken in pursuit of opportunity.
I have been in enough marquee bouts, with enough inferiors, in enough seasons, to spot an opportunist when I see one.
Consider his claims whilst I paraphrase: “You are doing a disservice to your legacy.” “You are clinging to the laurels of your past.” “You are no longer the titan you believe yourself to be.”
THEREFORE,
“Someone (namely me) ought to do something about it!”
And this is the part where you goad me into a match, the biggest match of your career, conveniently timed after your “A for Effort” against Monaghan at House of Glass. A match which, up to that point, was also the biggest match of your career. And thus the recurring theme continues: a cretin from the black lagoon attempting to validate his own existence by using greater men than himself as a vector.
The most charitable interpretation one can offer is that, to him, greater men are stepping stones (if not outright shortcuts) on his winding, delusional path to eminence. Pay attention. The haves and the have-nots are distinct not only in what they have accomplished, but in what they are capable of accomplishing. Verily, the rift between the Untermensch and the Overman is a line that shifts depending on the observer and the subject–situational, perspectival, rooted in vantage point, with an objective referent lying behind as a kind of control.
Even my opponents come the morrow’s eve, David Gideon and Effy McAvoy , may be crowned by some as aristocracy, but in my sovereign sight, they are peasants scratching at hardpan soil. And my perspective stands as iron-clad and absolute as any law etched across this Land of Elite, Extreme, Merchants, and Beasts. He who “has” is he who conjures something from nothing. He who “has” sculpts the substance of madmen’s dreams into waking stone. He who “has” stirs the hearts of millions, awakening convictions that may one day fashion his own challengers. He who “has” raises institutions. Yes, even those that train the very usurpers who may crave his crown. That is capability. That is competence. Extraordinary to some and yet for me a mere prerequisite. A footnote in the scripture of true wealth. I am the incarnation of what it means for an Elitist to be truly rich. I wore that mantle before I ever graced the Directorial Board of this empire, and I wear it still, for I am stitched into the foundational weave of this vocation. And the chasm between a David Gideon and myself, the very reason he is an insect scurrying in shadow is this: the insect creates nothing. It merely feeds. It devours and leeches until its brief, brittle life expires… or is ended abruptly beneath the tread of a greater force, beneath an oppressive boot.
A have-not such as David Gideon, aligning on the morrow’s eve with yet another have-not, possesses not the spark of true creation. Thus, he defaults to accusation, affront, dishonor. He lays nothing of substance upon my altar–no offering of vision, no work of will–yet audaciously presumes himself worthy of this stage. A handful of barbs flung to provoke my ire in his hollow mind, this ought to reap a harvest. His partner, Ms. McAvoy, fares no brighter. Her prospects, in truth, are bleaker still. She enters the Extreme Elimination Chamber clutching little more than raw, unshaped potential, and even this fragile essence is steadily siphoned by a former Hall of Famer and World Champion clinging to her like a parasitic haze. He drains the color from her skin, the fire from her gaze, the marrow from her bones. Despite her fleeting brilliance in Team Dynasty’s Brand Warfare triumph, what little she harbors is bled dry by a vainglorious halfwit half a decade and five winters removed from relevance. Any gesture she makes to carve meaning for herself is undone by her own naivete. She is in desperate need indeed of better leadership, better allies, better company if she hopes to make a dent in this empire and the prospects are dim. Every exercise in futility - such as the exhibition bout to come, as I stand beside the King of Drakes – is met with the same regard as David Gideon’s. No matter what inflammatory utterances they spew, no matter what delusions of grandeur they draw from, it all comes from a place of lack.
And herein lies the distinction: I cultivate greatness.
So fully, so effortlessly, as though it were but a product of my being as though it were a function of my corpus. So much so that it matters not one bit who my partner is upon the morrow’s eve, nor how willing or unwilling they are to align with me. I operate from abundance: always, indefinitely. Whilst the Gideons of the world operate from lack. Whilst Ms. McAvoy’s fleeting exuberance, for the little it is worth, is drained to sustain the parasitic old curmudgeon hoisted upon her back. It matters not how unwitting she is, how unbecoming the disgraceful antics of her partner is, or how willing or unwilling the man at my side, being Drake, will be entering the main event upon the morrow's eve. I arrive to the grand stages of history with the certainty of a builder who knows precisely what it took to erect the very spectacles that multitudes gather to witness. And that, Mr. Gideon, is the irreducible distinction between you and I: You need me far more than I will ever need you. On my worst day, I define you–your ceiling, your compass, your imagined future–more than you could ever fathom. I am the north star of your existence; I hold more relevance to your growth as a man than you will ever hold to your own future children. Prime or a decade removed from it, I remain your primover. Confrontation may well have been inevitable, but the truth remains indelible and undeniable: you will soon understand why, even in the face of cosmic injustice, my faith is unshaken. For faith unlike mere belief is knowledge of self; it is trust in one’s own essence, lest one project desire outward and anchor hope onto another. Such supreme confidence can exist only in the mind’s eye of a Fraternal Father, Ascended Mahatma,
Overman
Overseer
Revelator
Reveling in my own glory.
ARISE.
In one corner stand the haves: accomplished, learned men– the aristocracy, the noble gentry of the realm, so to speak, who lead charmed lives and raise offspring to bear their family crests proudly in their stead. Men who can quantify their contributions simply by looking back o’er the years and accounting for all they have built. Men who have because they built, for he who builds nothing owns nothing. Those who have laid not so much as a square inch of foundation in these hallowed soils shall own no part of them. They are the haves because of all they have accomplished; they are the haves because through some means or another they have etched their indelible mark upon the surface of this world.
In the other corner stand the have-nots: the unaccomplished, the unlearned, stepping forth from the unwashed masses, crying "autocracy." Peasant farmers lingering beyond the gates of the realm in their peripheral shanty towns, fists clenched and teeth gritted; looking in voyeuristically, looking incensed, looking upon the splendid marvels of the builders with bitterness. Looking everywhere except inward. FINISH HIM. “What an unfair, wicked world of ours,” KAN – even I, as the narrator, must concede the sentiment. The have–not has laid nothing save his grievances upon the floor, expecting you, the onlooker, to behold them as though these cast–off aspersions were seeds to be sown let alone a legitimate lot to be granted within these hallowed halls.
And to the untrained eye, the have–not ought to be rewarded for his gumption, for even bothering to arrive at the ordeal, much less arise to the occasion. THEREFORE, to that same untrained eye, any claim he makes of stolen valor, or any bold proclamation he hurls toward his betters, will certainly catch the ears of his contemporaries. With luck, or perhaps delusion, they may even catch the ears of the superiors he envies. This is, of course, if he is not already fortunate enough to be granted, on any given evening, the platform from which to step forth and confront his betters directly.
For all intents and purposes, Road to Redemption and, to a lesser extent, Friday Night Dynasty upon the morrow’s eve appears as though it will be a battle for the ages. I suppose it is a matter of perspective; personally, this is far from anything new. Nor are the castigations hurled at my feet by a glorified supporting act – forming opinions from the dredges of his lower caste – accusing me of casting an untimely shadow o'er my legacy, as though he has accrued the cachet, as though his observations were of salience or pertinence, as though these were the insights of a scholar, a fellow traveler, a nobleman remarking upon the Overman. As though his words carried weight or gravitas. It nearly behooves me to play along. To pantomime as though his accusations were “cutting barbs”. If only to indulge the notion of humoring this mosquito, this pest, this uninvited bugman, this bottom–dwelling parasite, simply to see what may fester.
Truth be told, I am not all that inclined to entertain the musings of lesser vessels – David Gideon included – and, contrary to some of his claims, this is indeed a quality that has faded with the years. Because I'm keenly aware of what lies behind them. In the dichotomy between the man who has done it all and the men who have done little–to–nothing throughout his tenure, a cross word is just as likely to be spoken with ill intent as it is to be spoken in pursuit of opportunity.
I have been in enough marquee bouts, with enough inferiors, in enough seasons, to spot an opportunist when I see one.
Consider his claims whilst I paraphrase: “You are doing a disservice to your legacy.” “You are clinging to the laurels of your past.” “You are no longer the titan you believe yourself to be.”
THEREFORE,
“Someone (namely me) ought to do something about it!”
And this is the part where you goad me into a match, the biggest match of your career, conveniently timed after your “A for Effort” against Monaghan at House of Glass. A match which, up to that point, was also the biggest match of your career. And thus the recurring theme continues: a cretin from the black lagoon attempting to validate his own existence by using greater men than himself as a vector.
The most charitable interpretation one can offer is that, to him, greater men are stepping stones (if not outright shortcuts) on his winding, delusional path to eminence. Pay attention. The haves and the have-nots are distinct not only in what they have accomplished, but in what they are capable of accomplishing. Verily, the rift between the Untermensch and the Overman is a line that shifts depending on the observer and the subject–situational, perspectival, rooted in vantage point, with an objective referent lying behind as a kind of control.
Even my opponents come the morrow’s eve, David Gideon and Effy McAvoy , may be crowned by some as aristocracy, but in my sovereign sight, they are peasants scratching at hardpan soil. And my perspective stands as iron-clad and absolute as any law etched across this Land of Elite, Extreme, Merchants, and Beasts. He who “has” is he who conjures something from nothing. He who “has” sculpts the substance of madmen’s dreams into waking stone. He who “has” stirs the hearts of millions, awakening convictions that may one day fashion his own challengers. He who “has” raises institutions. Yes, even those that train the very usurpers who may crave his crown. That is capability. That is competence. Extraordinary to some and yet for me a mere prerequisite. A footnote in the scripture of true wealth. I am the incarnation of what it means for an Elitist to be truly rich. I wore that mantle before I ever graced the Directorial Board of this empire, and I wear it still, for I am stitched into the foundational weave of this vocation. And the chasm between a David Gideon and myself, the very reason he is an insect scurrying in shadow is this: the insect creates nothing. It merely feeds. It devours and leeches until its brief, brittle life expires… or is ended abruptly beneath the tread of a greater force, beneath an oppressive boot.
A have-not such as David Gideon, aligning on the morrow’s eve with yet another have-not, possesses not the spark of true creation. Thus, he defaults to accusation, affront, dishonor. He lays nothing of substance upon my altar–no offering of vision, no work of will–yet audaciously presumes himself worthy of this stage. A handful of barbs flung to provoke my ire in his hollow mind, this ought to reap a harvest. His partner, Ms. McAvoy, fares no brighter. Her prospects, in truth, are bleaker still. She enters the Extreme Elimination Chamber clutching little more than raw, unshaped potential, and even this fragile essence is steadily siphoned by a former Hall of Famer and World Champion clinging to her like a parasitic haze. He drains the color from her skin, the fire from her gaze, the marrow from her bones. Despite her fleeting brilliance in Team Dynasty’s Brand Warfare triumph, what little she harbors is bled dry by a vainglorious halfwit half a decade and five winters removed from relevance. Any gesture she makes to carve meaning for herself is undone by her own naivete. She is in desperate need indeed of better leadership, better allies, better company if she hopes to make a dent in this empire and the prospects are dim. Every exercise in futility - such as the exhibition bout to come, as I stand beside the King of Drakes – is met with the same regard as David Gideon’s. No matter what inflammatory utterances they spew, no matter what delusions of grandeur they draw from, it all comes from a place of lack.
And herein lies the distinction: I cultivate greatness.
So fully, so effortlessly, as though it were but a product of my being as though it were a function of my corpus. So much so that it matters not one bit who my partner is upon the morrow’s eve, nor how willing or unwilling they are to align with me. I operate from abundance: always, indefinitely. Whilst the Gideons of the world operate from lack. Whilst Ms. McAvoy’s fleeting exuberance, for the little it is worth, is drained to sustain the parasitic old curmudgeon hoisted upon her back. It matters not how unwitting she is, how unbecoming the disgraceful antics of her partner is, or how willing or unwilling the man at my side, being Drake, will be entering the main event upon the morrow's eve. I arrive to the grand stages of history with the certainty of a builder who knows precisely what it took to erect the very spectacles that multitudes gather to witness. And that, Mr. Gideon, is the irreducible distinction between you and I: You need me far more than I will ever need you. On my worst day, I define you–your ceiling, your compass, your imagined future–more than you could ever fathom. I am the north star of your existence; I hold more relevance to your growth as a man than you will ever hold to your own future children. Prime or a decade removed from it, I remain your primover. Confrontation may well have been inevitable, but the truth remains indelible and undeniable: you will soon understand why, even in the face of cosmic injustice, my faith is unshaken. For faith unlike mere belief is knowledge of self; it is trust in one’s own essence, lest one project desire outward and anchor hope onto another. Such supreme confidence can exist only in the mind’s eye of a Fraternal Father, Ascended Mahatma,
Overman
Overseer
Revelator
Reveling in my own glory.
ARISE.
