Title: Trash Can
Featuring: Silas Artoria
Date: 20/10/19
Location: Toronto - Canada
Show: Evolution 68



Within disused attic spade at the Artoria Compound, a seemingly insignificant box sits alone under a dust sheet. The box was new, having been ordered by the homeowner shortly before the PJ Blake match.

As predicted, the match ruled in favour of Silas, especially after giving some leeway to a special something, but the way the Passenger rattles with the mind is enough to drive the weak-willed and immature minds to insanity. It lingers for some time, and the consequences of them coming to the surface manifests itself with uncomfortable black bile that would have to be spat out.

It had been some time since the Passenger even appeared in the smallest capacities, but the effects was, in some ways, greater and less than the after effects of before. The amount of time allowed Silas to build up a strong will against it’s influence, no part thanks to Ito’s guidance, but the wall had to break at some point, and it can be presumed that the sickness would be devastating.

In some ways, the upcoming Bubba Love match was a blessing in disguise. The man was at the bottom of the table, picking up losses against Blake and JC through a tag match, making him easy prey. The series of matches Silas had were hard hitting, prolonged affairs with little time to rest. But Bubba gave him the chance to have a light break, considering the minnesotan’s win loss record; a time to recharge his batteries for the final stretch.

Four more matches left, one being a breeze.

In the meantime, the Passenger’s presence still loomed, and the Canadian opted for something novel as a way to completely shut himself off from the outside world. No light, no sound, no feeling.

Silas uncovered the dust sheet, to the slight surprise of Ito.

HIDETAKA ITO: A sensory deprivation tank!?

SILAS ARTORIA: Mhm.

Ito let out a light smirk.

HIDETAKA ITO: [[A bit extreme.]]

SILAS ARTORIA: [[Worth a try.]]

A short pause followed, until Silas started to take off his robe and opened the tank. The bottom had about half a foot of salt water in it already, and Ito took a moment to look at his reflection in the small puddle.

HIDETAKA ITO: Being alone with that thing might not be healthy for you.

SILAS ARTORIA: After your endorsement?

Ito chuckled.

HIDETAKA ITO: There is something within you that’s beneficial, but there’s a delicate balance that needs to be met. I don’t want you going insane.

Silas climbed inside and laid down, allowing salt water to wash over the back end of his whole body. Deep breath out.

SILAS ARTORIA: On the other hand, I can use the extra sensory space to keep it tamed. To keep it happy until it needs to come out for it’s occasional vent.

HIDETAKA ITO: I don’t want it to come out occasionally.

A surprised Silas looked up at Ito; the Japanese legend having one hand gripped onto the door. Whilst Silas is confused, Ito lets out a smile that didn’t emanate comfort, nor love, but opportunity.

HIDETAKA ITO: I want it to come out regularly.

Ito shuts the door, leaving Silas completely alone with what lingered within.

Nice to see we are in agreement.


Lesson number six: prepare for the long run.

Silas was completely exhausted by the whole tournament. The last match completely eliminated him from the whole tournament, but it wasn’t like winning was a realistic prospect. It was now only about gaining the awareness and respect of the JWA locker room, regardless if they liked it or not.

It could start with Shinji Ringo, a complete joke with a relatively similar record to Silas, albeit with one upset win against one of the top contenders of the tournament. It might be a nice, quick victory for Silas.

However, there was a distinct difference between the two, their bodies and their experience within the tournament. Silas had participated in matches that sometimes went on for a while, and had never participated in the Crescendo tournament before. In contrast, Shinji had been in three tournaments before, but his matches were normally quick and relied on dirty tactics.

The match didn’t last long. Silas’ body ached and was completely bruised from head to toe. It hurt to even move, whilst the energetic Ringo was able to toy with him for a few minutes before Silas faced the lights via a roll up.

A goddamn roll up.

How embarrassing.


The frame turns on to the steel frame of an abandoned warehouse. Rusted metal everywhere, and sat in a deck chair at the middle was Silas Artoria. Unimpressed, and wearing one glove as his arms were folded.

SILAS ARTORIA: Bubba Love…

Beat.

SILAS ARTORIA: ...just mentioning your name is a mockery for the industry.

There is a strong disgust in his voice, almost as if he was being served fast food in a five star restaurant. He doesn’t look at the from, as his eyes are fixated to the left of the frame. He closes his eyes and nods negatively softly.

SILAS ARTORIA: Why did they let a trashcan into the tournament, over prospects that had a chance?

He turns his head towards the frame, his face covered in complete disdain and disgust. One, lone finger is held up.

SILAS ARTORIA: One minute...that’s all you’ll get.

One finger turns to five.

SILAS ARTORIA: I wager five dollars on it.

He lowers his hand.

SILAS ARTORIA: And if I win…?

Beat. A smirk appears.

SILAS ARTORIA: Well...it’s not like you have anything of worth.

A pause, and a dark chuckle escapes his lungs.

SILAS ARTORIA: Goodnight, and bring your release papers.

His finger snaps. The address ends.
 



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