Post by Drakz on Feb 16, 2016 14:43:55 GMT -5
Sleeping with the Enemies
(A.K.A. One Freaky, Freaky Orgy)
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Why Drakz why?
Why Isaac why?
You were OUR champion. You were a hero of the people. A shining beacon of honour in a world darkened by vulgarity and self obsession.
What many seem to omit from their own version of events though is that I never tried to be anything but vulgar and self obsessed. No where along this path have I considered my actions a betrayal of character. From dark, to light and back to dark seems like such a well trodden path to me, and I never intended on following in the wake of others. No. There has never been a light or a dark, merely a constant dusk. I am a perpetual moment in which one can not determine the time of day. A mystery. An unpredictable quantity. At a moment’s notice the sun could rise, but equally as possible is a plunge into a Mariana like blackness.
I never swore an allegiance to ‘the people’ and yet my perceived change of heart was enough for them to rally to my cause. Admittedly coining a monicker as on the nose as “THE GOOD GUY” may now seem like an attempt to pull earthward on the proverbial wool, but convincing myself was always going to be the hardest part. Perhaps if I repeat a name enough times it will prop up my own crumbling sense of belief? Or perhaps I’m simply dancing away from the absolute truth once again?
I suppose what I’m trying to say, in an admittedly convoluted fashion, is I haven’t changed. I haven’t turned my back on the protagonist in me because I had never disowned the antagonist in the first place. I merely sought to walk the line for a while to see where it took me.
And where did it lead?
The longest championship reign in WFWF history.
The first double Grand Slam in WFWF history.
The retirement of Phillip Schneider.
Boredom.
I am the WFWF’s resident over-achiever. I have done too much and in effect have shot myself in the foot. What else is left for me? What more can I do now except have fun in the waining moments of a career well spent?
It’s time for me to stop caring about accolades and prizes. It’s time for me to stop chasing grandeur and world records. It’s time for me to worry about me. Not the sporting personality, or the image of a legend that many perceive, but the inner man. It’s time for me to satisfy the cravings and needs of my true self. For too long now have I been measuring my happiness in days elapsed as WFWF World Heavyweight Champion. That was never going to bring me anything but disappointment.
999 days is 1 short of a nice and round letter K.
504 days is 1 short of a palindrome.
In my hunger a sense of satisfaction would always slip through my fingers, never quite reaching the ultimate. So how do I feel now it’s been snatched away? How does it sit with me that everything I had worked so hard for over the last 16 months has now ended in such a way that I can take nothing away from it?
While my word at this stage may mean very little to most of you I would like to assure you that I was sincere in my quest for a worthy replacement. I truly wanted, and still want, a competitor capable of carrying this mantle in my absence, but instead of being relieved of it I find the burden merely adjusted on my back. I continue to carry the weight of a champion but no longer have 504 days behind me. Instead I have started a fresh.
Heavyweight Championship numéro trois.
The worst part about what happened in Las Vegas? Joshua Dean now has the right to call himself a former champion, although if I was him I would scratch that from my resumé as quickly as it appeared there. A reign of less than 5 minutes is merely an embarrassment, not a reason to write an acceptance speech. Once again I have done what I do best and placed Joshua Dean in the corner of the classroom, dunce hat firmly atop his head. No matter how great of a performance he showcases in that ring it will be a long time before the world forgets how much of a lie his trophy cabinet is.
Calling yourself a former World Heavyweight Champion once upon a time meant something to people. Over the years that ideal has been marred into a joke though because of the likes of Dex and Shawn Malakai, and it is because of them that I have put in the ground work to re-establish the championship as something to be revered. But now, now those 504 days have been gelded, I am able to look beyond such honourable actions. Now I can dedicate my time to self gratifying behaviour, safe in the knowledge that the title does not make the man, the man makes the title.
I suppose I should thank you really Josh, because your ability to grasp the situational advantage at Show Time has allowed me room to breathe. More fool you my friend. More fool you. Now you find yourself in a position of much confusion. The very man who snatched away your ‘moment in the sun’ is still your tag team partner. A partner you can’t run away from because you are bound by championship gold. For a time I was incensed by the notion that I had to say anything but “I am the Tag Team Champions” but now I know how much it must irk you I couldn’t be happier.
WE are the WFWF Tag Team Champions my boy and WE will continue to defend those belts until I say otherwise. You are forced to follow the sound of the piper because your job depends on it. If you so much as refuse a tag in one of our title defences I will see to it that your 5 minutes on top of the mountain will be the closest you ever came to taking my spot.
It’s time to lace up those boots and get into the ring with me again Mr Dean.
It’s time to have some fun.
I’ve been waiting for too long already.
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After the Fact
The deed’s been done. I’m still the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion, or I’m the new WFWF World Heavyweight Champion, depending on who you ask. Regardless of hearsay though I’m the man with gold slung over both shoulders. Was it fair what we just did to Josh Dean? I’m not interested in the answer to that question. All I’m interested in is results, and the result of what we did out there? Crushing Joshua Dean’s dreams.
I pass back through the curtain leaving the baying crowds behind me with Trace Demon in tow. We’re met with complete silence. No congratulatory round of applause. No words of approval. None of the sh*t that usually comes from the back after a match like that. People would cuss us out and tell us we’ve done wrong but when you’re standing next to the man who pays their wages they tend to just look at the ground and save their ranting and ill wishes for the ride home.
P*ssies.
Trace puts a hand on my shoulder and I’m very aware that it’s resting on the World Championship’s face plate. A premeditated move I’m sure.
“You made the right decision.”
For whom I wonder? Just because I’ve aligned with Trace doesn’t mean I trust him. I know him better than that.
“I made the only decision mate.”
We both become aware of a whirling dervish coming our way from down the corridor and, with a knowing smirk on his face, Trace bids me farewell and ducks out toward the car park. It doesn’t take me long to figure out why.
“What the hell was that?! I mean……NO, I’ll just repeat it. WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!”
Lila Sleater, and clearly she’s not impressed with the way that main event just ended. I’m honestly both shocked and impressed at her public display of vitriol as she usually manages to keep things pretty well measured. Neither of these emotions are enough to warrant a reply from me though. Instead I scoff and push past her.
“Don’t you dare walk away from me! I can run you into the ground!”
Lila tends to forget from time to time that she is merely the booker of matches and at any given moment I can go straight over her head to Trace. It’s a seriously confusing hierarchy in this business. If T-Rizzle really is the sole owner of the WFWF then why doesn’t he just fire Sleater if he hates her so much? Who is on the board of directors and why can they veto anything he says? I’m not one for politics of that nature though and as such I let my gold plated d*ck do the talking for the most part.
“How does a title defence every single week between now and the end of your reign sound?!”
F*ck it, I’ll bite.
“Like a whole lot of fun.”
I turn to face my aggressor and can’t help but want to screw the frown off of her power tripping face. Victory tends to bring out the misogyny in me. I’m not proud of it.
“Just tell me why Drakz? Why, after all of our discussions over the last year, have you U turned and sided with……urgh.”
I wish those two would just get a room and 69 through their differences. It’s really exhausting always playing the middle man in this ego war.
“Why what? Why did I choose to walk out of here as the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion? Why did I leave Joshua Dean the only way he deserves to be left? Why did I get angry when one of YOUR officials wasn’t in position to do his job? Which question are you asking Lila?”
She’s in a stunned silence, although I’m not sure why? It’s hardly a surprise that I’ve displayed some audacity. Maybe it’s the fact that she can see in my eyes I’m not working under cover, vying for Trace’s affections just to undo him and his machinations? Or perhaps there’s just something unsightly on my face?
“Well?”
I’m doing my best to stay standing as, victorious or not, that match with Joshy boy has taken it out of me. My legs are shaking and my head feels somewhat……..lumpy. See? You know things are bad when the only adjective I can summon is f*cking lumpy.
“I don’t have time for these lover’s games Lila. Now if you’re done I’ve got a Dog and a hotel room to retire to.”
How that must sound…… I move to leave and she snaps out of her mute moment, the blood swelling back into her face.
“Why did you have to resort to that?!”
“Lila. Sometimes ‘resorting’ to the lowest of means is the only way to get your message across. Believe it or not I sent a message to the entire Dean family tonight and it was heard loud and clear. Did you hear it? Did you hear what words I used? Tonight I proved to Joshua that no matter how hard he tries, no matter how hard he works and no matter how opportunistic he becomes he can NEVER take this title from me. I showed him that there’s more to being champion than just blood, sweat and tears. Sure that’s what most would have the world believe makes a true champion but I’m not interested in upholding the values set out by the great unwashed. A champion worth their weight is a person that changes those who step into the ring with them. Tonight I changed Joshua Dean. Tonight I broke that man’s spirit by pulling the rug out from right under him.”
What I’m not telling her is that realistically Trace didn’t give me much of a choice. I either accepted his help or went out on my back.
“I’ve got no problem with losing this championship Lila, but I will NOT lose it to the unworthy, and Joshua Dean is just that. He’s a Tag Team Champion because I gave him one of MY titles, he was the number one contender because he beat two irrelevant nobodies and now, now he’s a former World Heavyweight Champion because I gave him that moment. I’m in the driver’s seat Lila. Me. I’m the one pulling the strings and if you want to start throwing your weight around because my choices have rubbed you the wrong way then swing for the fences. Don’t blame me though if those same puppet strings find their way around your hands and feet as you sink to the bottom of the Atlantic.”
Silence. Again. F*ck this.
“Bye Lila.”
I start down the hall in the direction of the showers. All I want to do is get out of here and put my feet up. Jesus, I’m turning into such an old man. What ever happened to all night coke parties with girls literally dripping off of every surface?
“Are you joining his cause?”
His cause? I don’t even bother turning around when I respond.
“Lila what you have to understand is Trace’s revolution is dead. Done with. He had his fun. He shouted a pretty good electoral rally but by all accounts he’s moved on. He’s bored of messing with you, and as far as me joining anyone’s cause but my own………need I go on?”
I set off walking again but then stop and look back over my shoulder.
“However, for someone who’s seemingly always valued my neutrality in matters such as these you did a pretty shocking job of keeping Samael Ahriman away from my business tonight. You had better get that lousy f*ck back on a lead or we may quickly find that there’s more animosity between us than would be considered healthy in a loving relationship.”
And roll credits. I take a right and Sleater loses sight of me in what I can only imagine was a thrillingly cinematic sequence. She must be in awe right now. Damn I’m good.
With that thought though I stumble into the wall and am seized by a coughing fit. My left arm is thrown up to support my weight as I bend double, spit pouring from my mouth as I try my best not to puke. Both title belts fall to the ground and I can do nothing to save them. I’m exhausted. Totally spent. I need to get under a shower, but right now my body is failing me as a twinge in my infamous back forces me down to a knee. I slump against the wall, sliding down, and then further down until I’m basically sat. The only comfort in all of this is I’m already out of Sleater’s line of sight. I need to pull myself together though before someone else happens upon me. I can’t afford a display of vulnerability after what just happened out there.
Foot steps.
Sh*t.
Come on Isaac. Pull it together. Get up.
It’s no use though as my body refuses to answer the call. The foot steps are upon me and I look up from my pool of saliva only to be shocked at the proximity of the face looking down at me, possibly for the first time in his life.
”What’s good f*ggot?”
Donnie.
”You having a little tea break, or whatever you limey f*cks get up to in between blow jobs?”
Even through my exhaustion and nausea I’m aware, and nigh on impressed, at how much offence Donnie can fit into one sentence. He’s a marvel.
I try to reply but instead dribble down my bare chest. Excellent stuff.
”Jesus. This is what a World Heavyweight Champion looks like then? You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t ask for an autograph.”
I can hardly say I blame him. I’m a total wreck right now. Dean may not be my idea of a torch bearer but he throws a mean forearm.
”I was coming to congratulate you on a return to form, but I think I’ll save that for when you’re not puking up your own nuts. Come on. Get the f*ck up.”
I reach up for a hand but he laughs at me.
”All these years of midget jokes and you think I’m helping you? Ha!”
He’s got a point, but when have I ever let logic take precedence over my own self preservation? I push off of the wall with my shoulder and to steady myself as I rise to my feet I use his head like a bed post. Needless to say he doesn’t appreciate it. Muttering under his breath he scoops up both title belts and I begin walking toward the showers again, this time with a vertically challenged porter at my side.
”So you actually listened to what I had to say in Vegas then? You’re not as dumb as I always thought.”
Understanding that’s not a compliment I just let him continue.
”As much as I don’t like you it’s been f*cking painful watching you lie to yourself for the last couple of years. I never understood why Mike chose you as his running partner, but it sure as hell wasn’t because you had honour and all of that heroic bull sh*t. We both know you make a terrible good guy, no matter how many times you write it on your name badge. One thing that did surprise me just now though is that Trace and you are working together? What’s up with that? I thought you fell out after he farted in your mouth?”
He manages all of about 45 seconds of coherent, even constructive, conversation before inevitably retreating to his vulgar comfort blanket. It’s a wonder no one has ever beaten Donne to death. It’s a wonder I’ve never beaten him to death. I suppose it’s testament to my sense of humour.
“First of all go f*ck yourself, and secondly we’re not friends, just business men with a good sense for what benefits us both.”
”Okay, so answer me this: what’s in it for him? Why should he give a f*ck who’s the champion and who isn’t?”
“Honestly? I don’t know for certain, but I would imagine a number of reasons. Keeping me sweet, and as the champ, puts one less person between him and another title shot. Not only that but after tonight, after what we did to Joshua Dean’s big moment, people are going to pay a whole lot more to see me lose.”
”If it’s a rematch with you he wants why doesn’t he just book it? He’s the boss isn’t he? I don’t understand why he isn’t permanently the f*cking champion if he has that much power? What is he, f*cking stupid?”
“People would switch off.”
I’ve almost totally regained my composure now and the shower room is in sight.
“At the end of it all Trace wants to make as much money as possible, and push this company to it’s very limit. No one wants to see a self gratulating owner masturbating in their face every week. He has to play the game, the same as everyone else. Plus I think his ego is far too inflated to allow him to do something as easy as that. He wants to be remembered as the best, and right now he knows the only way to do that is to beat me himself. He couldn’t allow Josh to be the man to topple that tower of cards. Even if you disregard everything else about him Trace is still as selfish as ever. That’s why this alliance will work, because I’m just as bad.”
It’s also the reason it will likely end in tears, but right now I don’t give a f*ck. All I want is a torrent of cold water. We’ve now stopped outside the shower room and Donnie starts to wrap things up.
”Listen, all I want out of this is Ahriman’s head on a f*cking pike. You’re the only man I can turn to who can offer me that and if it means I have to work with Trace Demon as well then so be it.”
“There might be more colleagues to entertain yet little man. You’re going to have to get to working on your public relations if you want to see this through right to the end.”
I take my title belts back from the now puzzled maniac and close him out with a simple swing of a door. It’s a moment before I hear him walk away and I wait until I know he’s gone before turning on the shower. Dumping my belts, trunks and boots on the bench I step under the water and close my eyes. The water beats against my eyelids and consumes me as I feel the final remnants of THE GOOD GUY run down my legs and spiral down the drain. My mouth curls into an enervated grin.
There are so many uncontrollable variables that will steer the direction of things to come but, whatever happens, whether I end up stronger than ever or losing everything, it feels good to smile again.
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And so I suppose now is the moment I pay credence to what lies immediately ahead instead of rambling on about the many ways in which I have changed those around me, myself included.
No Remorse.
A show title I’m finding it hard to get behind. Why? I don’t feel as though it aptly embodies the true nature of the main event. I’m not Phillip Schneider. I won’t be treating my freshly debuted opponent as a human sacrifice at the altar of desperation. No. There will be no need for hordes of officials to drag me from the bloodied pulp that used to make up Trevor Wolf. That’s not my style.
I’d never bring a gun to a banana fight ey Phil?
What I intend to showcase in Philadelphia is a clinic of what world class, tenured wrestling looks like. Not just for you at home, or even for the fans in attendance but for one of my fellow competitors.
Mr Wolf.
It struck me that, having never heard of you, you felt the need to put my name in your mouth. You started making assumptions about my character having never so much as spoken to me. Angry with you? What possible reason would either I or Trace Demon have to be angry with you? I will however be honest with you. I didn’t watch your debut match. I don’t know wether you won or lost. I don’t even know who else was in the match. Do you know why? Because those at the bottom of the card, the curtain jerkers, may as well work for another company as far as I’m concerned. Your actions and those of your fellow class of ’16 have literally no effect on someone like me. I’m not saying that to be egotistical, and I’m not claiming I’m untouchable. What I mean is that you’re simply not in my league and therefore couldn’t possibly bring about even a modicum of change to my life…….until now.
Somehow you, in only your second match in the hallowed WFWF, have found yourself across the ring from the most decorated, celebrated and respected man ever to lace up a pair of wrestling boots. Now that is quite the turn of events wouldn’t you say? You’ve gone from a whisper in the next room to beautiful music ringing in my ears in less than 2 weeks. That’s something to get excited about Trev. That’s something to call home about. Not only that but you are in the main event! You, who only one show previous opened the show in a throw away, now find yourself at the top of the bill! There are few who can claim to have that kind of fortune, and yet there is even more reason to puff up that chest of yours. You are challenging for the WFWF Tag Team Championships!
Smack my ass and call me a b*tch. This is unheard of. Truly, the butterflies must be fornicating in that prepubescent gut of yours.
What worries me though Trevor is that you don’t seem in the least bit worried. Instead you’ve been making bold claims such as I have never faced the likes of you before? You say this to a man who has quite literally faced everyone there is to face and come up smiling. You say this to a champion who has retired men who would make short work of your parents, let alone their screaming sprog. I said this to my own partner and I feel you should hear it too; bull headedness plays an important part in making a name for yourself here and I can see you have that by the vagina load, however when you’re face to face with a mind as clear and brilliant as mine you’re going to need more than that to avoid leaving the Wells Fargo Center with anything more than a very red backside.
I’m going to teach you dear boy. I’m going to spank the unsubstantiated arrogance out of you in such a way that you’ll run back to the bottom of the card with your tail tucked so firmly between your legs that it tickles your stomach. I’m not angry with you Trevor, but I am angry that Samael Ahriman has felt the need to groom you. Consider this beating an act of protection. I’m trying to make you less attractive to the older man that’s dying to dip his wick into your barely adult body.
Now that brings us quite neatly to the interesting absence of your partner’s name. Sam has taken it upon himself to offer up some kind of knight in shining armour to come to this young man’s aid. An accomplice in what I can only assume he thinks will be the heist of the century? I’m quite fond of surprises, I suppose it’s the inner child in me, and to be honest where some may see this uncertainty as something to be worried about I see it as a reason to be excited. Sam’s fairly short on friends these days. He cast most of them to the side when he signed up for the Midget & Monster Travelling Circus and the only other one I can think of is pretty damn riddled with ‘The Big C’, so I either get to slap around two unheard ofs in one match or, and my God I hope I’m right, he’s going to wheel Shawn Malakai down to the ring and let me beat the radiation out of the man who 2 years ago disrespected my WFWF World Heavyweight Championship by gifting it to yet another nobody. I hardly see that coming to fruition but heavens above that would be just too sweet of a fruit to pass on.
Now of course there’s dear old Joshy in my corner, neutered by circumstance, but I think I’ve already paid him enough credence. So how about I close things by pointing out how piss poor this main event really is?
‘Mr. TBA’ finds himself aligned for the first time in his career with a sheep in wolf’s clothing to take on Joshua “I’m only Champion because my partner chose me” Dean and his partner, perhaps the only redeeming ingredient of the match, quite literally ‘The Man the People Paid to See’, your WFWF Heavyweight Champion of the Wooooooorld………
Little old me.
See you in the ring boys.
(A.K.A. One Freaky, Freaky Orgy)
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Why Drakz why?
Why Isaac why?
You were OUR champion. You were a hero of the people. A shining beacon of honour in a world darkened by vulgarity and self obsession.
What many seem to omit from their own version of events though is that I never tried to be anything but vulgar and self obsessed. No where along this path have I considered my actions a betrayal of character. From dark, to light and back to dark seems like such a well trodden path to me, and I never intended on following in the wake of others. No. There has never been a light or a dark, merely a constant dusk. I am a perpetual moment in which one can not determine the time of day. A mystery. An unpredictable quantity. At a moment’s notice the sun could rise, but equally as possible is a plunge into a Mariana like blackness.
I never swore an allegiance to ‘the people’ and yet my perceived change of heart was enough for them to rally to my cause. Admittedly coining a monicker as on the nose as “THE GOOD GUY” may now seem like an attempt to pull earthward on the proverbial wool, but convincing myself was always going to be the hardest part. Perhaps if I repeat a name enough times it will prop up my own crumbling sense of belief? Or perhaps I’m simply dancing away from the absolute truth once again?
I suppose what I’m trying to say, in an admittedly convoluted fashion, is I haven’t changed. I haven’t turned my back on the protagonist in me because I had never disowned the antagonist in the first place. I merely sought to walk the line for a while to see where it took me.
And where did it lead?
The longest championship reign in WFWF history.
The first double Grand Slam in WFWF history.
The retirement of Phillip Schneider.
Boredom.
I am the WFWF’s resident over-achiever. I have done too much and in effect have shot myself in the foot. What else is left for me? What more can I do now except have fun in the waining moments of a career well spent?
It’s time for me to stop caring about accolades and prizes. It’s time for me to stop chasing grandeur and world records. It’s time for me to worry about me. Not the sporting personality, or the image of a legend that many perceive, but the inner man. It’s time for me to satisfy the cravings and needs of my true self. For too long now have I been measuring my happiness in days elapsed as WFWF World Heavyweight Champion. That was never going to bring me anything but disappointment.
999 days is 1 short of a nice and round letter K.
504 days is 1 short of a palindrome.
In my hunger a sense of satisfaction would always slip through my fingers, never quite reaching the ultimate. So how do I feel now it’s been snatched away? How does it sit with me that everything I had worked so hard for over the last 16 months has now ended in such a way that I can take nothing away from it?
While my word at this stage may mean very little to most of you I would like to assure you that I was sincere in my quest for a worthy replacement. I truly wanted, and still want, a competitor capable of carrying this mantle in my absence, but instead of being relieved of it I find the burden merely adjusted on my back. I continue to carry the weight of a champion but no longer have 504 days behind me. Instead I have started a fresh.
Heavyweight Championship numéro trois.
The worst part about what happened in Las Vegas? Joshua Dean now has the right to call himself a former champion, although if I was him I would scratch that from my resumé as quickly as it appeared there. A reign of less than 5 minutes is merely an embarrassment, not a reason to write an acceptance speech. Once again I have done what I do best and placed Joshua Dean in the corner of the classroom, dunce hat firmly atop his head. No matter how great of a performance he showcases in that ring it will be a long time before the world forgets how much of a lie his trophy cabinet is.
Calling yourself a former World Heavyweight Champion once upon a time meant something to people. Over the years that ideal has been marred into a joke though because of the likes of Dex and Shawn Malakai, and it is because of them that I have put in the ground work to re-establish the championship as something to be revered. But now, now those 504 days have been gelded, I am able to look beyond such honourable actions. Now I can dedicate my time to self gratifying behaviour, safe in the knowledge that the title does not make the man, the man makes the title.
I suppose I should thank you really Josh, because your ability to grasp the situational advantage at Show Time has allowed me room to breathe. More fool you my friend. More fool you. Now you find yourself in a position of much confusion. The very man who snatched away your ‘moment in the sun’ is still your tag team partner. A partner you can’t run away from because you are bound by championship gold. For a time I was incensed by the notion that I had to say anything but “I am the Tag Team Champions” but now I know how much it must irk you I couldn’t be happier.
WE are the WFWF Tag Team Champions my boy and WE will continue to defend those belts until I say otherwise. You are forced to follow the sound of the piper because your job depends on it. If you so much as refuse a tag in one of our title defences I will see to it that your 5 minutes on top of the mountain will be the closest you ever came to taking my spot.
It’s time to lace up those boots and get into the ring with me again Mr Dean.
It’s time to have some fun.
I’ve been waiting for too long already.
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After the Fact
The deed’s been done. I’m still the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion, or I’m the new WFWF World Heavyweight Champion, depending on who you ask. Regardless of hearsay though I’m the man with gold slung over both shoulders. Was it fair what we just did to Josh Dean? I’m not interested in the answer to that question. All I’m interested in is results, and the result of what we did out there? Crushing Joshua Dean’s dreams.
I pass back through the curtain leaving the baying crowds behind me with Trace Demon in tow. We’re met with complete silence. No congratulatory round of applause. No words of approval. None of the sh*t that usually comes from the back after a match like that. People would cuss us out and tell us we’ve done wrong but when you’re standing next to the man who pays their wages they tend to just look at the ground and save their ranting and ill wishes for the ride home.
P*ssies.
Trace puts a hand on my shoulder and I’m very aware that it’s resting on the World Championship’s face plate. A premeditated move I’m sure.
“You made the right decision.”
For whom I wonder? Just because I’ve aligned with Trace doesn’t mean I trust him. I know him better than that.
“I made the only decision mate.”
We both become aware of a whirling dervish coming our way from down the corridor and, with a knowing smirk on his face, Trace bids me farewell and ducks out toward the car park. It doesn’t take me long to figure out why.
“What the hell was that?! I mean……NO, I’ll just repeat it. WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!”
Lila Sleater, and clearly she’s not impressed with the way that main event just ended. I’m honestly both shocked and impressed at her public display of vitriol as she usually manages to keep things pretty well measured. Neither of these emotions are enough to warrant a reply from me though. Instead I scoff and push past her.
“Don’t you dare walk away from me! I can run you into the ground!”
Lila tends to forget from time to time that she is merely the booker of matches and at any given moment I can go straight over her head to Trace. It’s a seriously confusing hierarchy in this business. If T-Rizzle really is the sole owner of the WFWF then why doesn’t he just fire Sleater if he hates her so much? Who is on the board of directors and why can they veto anything he says? I’m not one for politics of that nature though and as such I let my gold plated d*ck do the talking for the most part.
“How does a title defence every single week between now and the end of your reign sound?!”
F*ck it, I’ll bite.
“Like a whole lot of fun.”
I turn to face my aggressor and can’t help but want to screw the frown off of her power tripping face. Victory tends to bring out the misogyny in me. I’m not proud of it.
“Just tell me why Drakz? Why, after all of our discussions over the last year, have you U turned and sided with……urgh.”
I wish those two would just get a room and 69 through their differences. It’s really exhausting always playing the middle man in this ego war.
“Why what? Why did I choose to walk out of here as the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion? Why did I leave Joshua Dean the only way he deserves to be left? Why did I get angry when one of YOUR officials wasn’t in position to do his job? Which question are you asking Lila?”
She’s in a stunned silence, although I’m not sure why? It’s hardly a surprise that I’ve displayed some audacity. Maybe it’s the fact that she can see in my eyes I’m not working under cover, vying for Trace’s affections just to undo him and his machinations? Or perhaps there’s just something unsightly on my face?
“Well?”
I’m doing my best to stay standing as, victorious or not, that match with Joshy boy has taken it out of me. My legs are shaking and my head feels somewhat……..lumpy. See? You know things are bad when the only adjective I can summon is f*cking lumpy.
“I don’t have time for these lover’s games Lila. Now if you’re done I’ve got a Dog and a hotel room to retire to.”
How that must sound…… I move to leave and she snaps out of her mute moment, the blood swelling back into her face.
“Why did you have to resort to that?!”
“Lila. Sometimes ‘resorting’ to the lowest of means is the only way to get your message across. Believe it or not I sent a message to the entire Dean family tonight and it was heard loud and clear. Did you hear it? Did you hear what words I used? Tonight I proved to Joshua that no matter how hard he tries, no matter how hard he works and no matter how opportunistic he becomes he can NEVER take this title from me. I showed him that there’s more to being champion than just blood, sweat and tears. Sure that’s what most would have the world believe makes a true champion but I’m not interested in upholding the values set out by the great unwashed. A champion worth their weight is a person that changes those who step into the ring with them. Tonight I changed Joshua Dean. Tonight I broke that man’s spirit by pulling the rug out from right under him.”
What I’m not telling her is that realistically Trace didn’t give me much of a choice. I either accepted his help or went out on my back.
“I’ve got no problem with losing this championship Lila, but I will NOT lose it to the unworthy, and Joshua Dean is just that. He’s a Tag Team Champion because I gave him one of MY titles, he was the number one contender because he beat two irrelevant nobodies and now, now he’s a former World Heavyweight Champion because I gave him that moment. I’m in the driver’s seat Lila. Me. I’m the one pulling the strings and if you want to start throwing your weight around because my choices have rubbed you the wrong way then swing for the fences. Don’t blame me though if those same puppet strings find their way around your hands and feet as you sink to the bottom of the Atlantic.”
Silence. Again. F*ck this.
“Bye Lila.”
I start down the hall in the direction of the showers. All I want to do is get out of here and put my feet up. Jesus, I’m turning into such an old man. What ever happened to all night coke parties with girls literally dripping off of every surface?
“Are you joining his cause?”
His cause? I don’t even bother turning around when I respond.
“Lila what you have to understand is Trace’s revolution is dead. Done with. He had his fun. He shouted a pretty good electoral rally but by all accounts he’s moved on. He’s bored of messing with you, and as far as me joining anyone’s cause but my own………need I go on?”
I set off walking again but then stop and look back over my shoulder.
“However, for someone who’s seemingly always valued my neutrality in matters such as these you did a pretty shocking job of keeping Samael Ahriman away from my business tonight. You had better get that lousy f*ck back on a lead or we may quickly find that there’s more animosity between us than would be considered healthy in a loving relationship.”
And roll credits. I take a right and Sleater loses sight of me in what I can only imagine was a thrillingly cinematic sequence. She must be in awe right now. Damn I’m good.
With that thought though I stumble into the wall and am seized by a coughing fit. My left arm is thrown up to support my weight as I bend double, spit pouring from my mouth as I try my best not to puke. Both title belts fall to the ground and I can do nothing to save them. I’m exhausted. Totally spent. I need to get under a shower, but right now my body is failing me as a twinge in my infamous back forces me down to a knee. I slump against the wall, sliding down, and then further down until I’m basically sat. The only comfort in all of this is I’m already out of Sleater’s line of sight. I need to pull myself together though before someone else happens upon me. I can’t afford a display of vulnerability after what just happened out there.
Foot steps.
Sh*t.
Come on Isaac. Pull it together. Get up.
It’s no use though as my body refuses to answer the call. The foot steps are upon me and I look up from my pool of saliva only to be shocked at the proximity of the face looking down at me, possibly for the first time in his life.
”What’s good f*ggot?”
Donnie.
”You having a little tea break, or whatever you limey f*cks get up to in between blow jobs?”
Even through my exhaustion and nausea I’m aware, and nigh on impressed, at how much offence Donnie can fit into one sentence. He’s a marvel.
I try to reply but instead dribble down my bare chest. Excellent stuff.
”Jesus. This is what a World Heavyweight Champion looks like then? You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t ask for an autograph.”
I can hardly say I blame him. I’m a total wreck right now. Dean may not be my idea of a torch bearer but he throws a mean forearm.
”I was coming to congratulate you on a return to form, but I think I’ll save that for when you’re not puking up your own nuts. Come on. Get the f*ck up.”
I reach up for a hand but he laughs at me.
”All these years of midget jokes and you think I’m helping you? Ha!”
He’s got a point, but when have I ever let logic take precedence over my own self preservation? I push off of the wall with my shoulder and to steady myself as I rise to my feet I use his head like a bed post. Needless to say he doesn’t appreciate it. Muttering under his breath he scoops up both title belts and I begin walking toward the showers again, this time with a vertically challenged porter at my side.
”So you actually listened to what I had to say in Vegas then? You’re not as dumb as I always thought.”
Understanding that’s not a compliment I just let him continue.
”As much as I don’t like you it’s been f*cking painful watching you lie to yourself for the last couple of years. I never understood why Mike chose you as his running partner, but it sure as hell wasn’t because you had honour and all of that heroic bull sh*t. We both know you make a terrible good guy, no matter how many times you write it on your name badge. One thing that did surprise me just now though is that Trace and you are working together? What’s up with that? I thought you fell out after he farted in your mouth?”
He manages all of about 45 seconds of coherent, even constructive, conversation before inevitably retreating to his vulgar comfort blanket. It’s a wonder no one has ever beaten Donne to death. It’s a wonder I’ve never beaten him to death. I suppose it’s testament to my sense of humour.
“First of all go f*ck yourself, and secondly we’re not friends, just business men with a good sense for what benefits us both.”
”Okay, so answer me this: what’s in it for him? Why should he give a f*ck who’s the champion and who isn’t?”
“Honestly? I don’t know for certain, but I would imagine a number of reasons. Keeping me sweet, and as the champ, puts one less person between him and another title shot. Not only that but after tonight, after what we did to Joshua Dean’s big moment, people are going to pay a whole lot more to see me lose.”
”If it’s a rematch with you he wants why doesn’t he just book it? He’s the boss isn’t he? I don’t understand why he isn’t permanently the f*cking champion if he has that much power? What is he, f*cking stupid?”
“People would switch off.”
I’ve almost totally regained my composure now and the shower room is in sight.
“At the end of it all Trace wants to make as much money as possible, and push this company to it’s very limit. No one wants to see a self gratulating owner masturbating in their face every week. He has to play the game, the same as everyone else. Plus I think his ego is far too inflated to allow him to do something as easy as that. He wants to be remembered as the best, and right now he knows the only way to do that is to beat me himself. He couldn’t allow Josh to be the man to topple that tower of cards. Even if you disregard everything else about him Trace is still as selfish as ever. That’s why this alliance will work, because I’m just as bad.”
It’s also the reason it will likely end in tears, but right now I don’t give a f*ck. All I want is a torrent of cold water. We’ve now stopped outside the shower room and Donnie starts to wrap things up.
”Listen, all I want out of this is Ahriman’s head on a f*cking pike. You’re the only man I can turn to who can offer me that and if it means I have to work with Trace Demon as well then so be it.”
“There might be more colleagues to entertain yet little man. You’re going to have to get to working on your public relations if you want to see this through right to the end.”
I take my title belts back from the now puzzled maniac and close him out with a simple swing of a door. It’s a moment before I hear him walk away and I wait until I know he’s gone before turning on the shower. Dumping my belts, trunks and boots on the bench I step under the water and close my eyes. The water beats against my eyelids and consumes me as I feel the final remnants of THE GOOD GUY run down my legs and spiral down the drain. My mouth curls into an enervated grin.
There are so many uncontrollable variables that will steer the direction of things to come but, whatever happens, whether I end up stronger than ever or losing everything, it feels good to smile again.
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And so I suppose now is the moment I pay credence to what lies immediately ahead instead of rambling on about the many ways in which I have changed those around me, myself included.
No Remorse.
A show title I’m finding it hard to get behind. Why? I don’t feel as though it aptly embodies the true nature of the main event. I’m not Phillip Schneider. I won’t be treating my freshly debuted opponent as a human sacrifice at the altar of desperation. No. There will be no need for hordes of officials to drag me from the bloodied pulp that used to make up Trevor Wolf. That’s not my style.
I’d never bring a gun to a banana fight ey Phil?
What I intend to showcase in Philadelphia is a clinic of what world class, tenured wrestling looks like. Not just for you at home, or even for the fans in attendance but for one of my fellow competitors.
Mr Wolf.
It struck me that, having never heard of you, you felt the need to put my name in your mouth. You started making assumptions about my character having never so much as spoken to me. Angry with you? What possible reason would either I or Trace Demon have to be angry with you? I will however be honest with you. I didn’t watch your debut match. I don’t know wether you won or lost. I don’t even know who else was in the match. Do you know why? Because those at the bottom of the card, the curtain jerkers, may as well work for another company as far as I’m concerned. Your actions and those of your fellow class of ’16 have literally no effect on someone like me. I’m not saying that to be egotistical, and I’m not claiming I’m untouchable. What I mean is that you’re simply not in my league and therefore couldn’t possibly bring about even a modicum of change to my life…….until now.
Somehow you, in only your second match in the hallowed WFWF, have found yourself across the ring from the most decorated, celebrated and respected man ever to lace up a pair of wrestling boots. Now that is quite the turn of events wouldn’t you say? You’ve gone from a whisper in the next room to beautiful music ringing in my ears in less than 2 weeks. That’s something to get excited about Trev. That’s something to call home about. Not only that but you are in the main event! You, who only one show previous opened the show in a throw away, now find yourself at the top of the bill! There are few who can claim to have that kind of fortune, and yet there is even more reason to puff up that chest of yours. You are challenging for the WFWF Tag Team Championships!
Smack my ass and call me a b*tch. This is unheard of. Truly, the butterflies must be fornicating in that prepubescent gut of yours.
What worries me though Trevor is that you don’t seem in the least bit worried. Instead you’ve been making bold claims such as I have never faced the likes of you before? You say this to a man who has quite literally faced everyone there is to face and come up smiling. You say this to a champion who has retired men who would make short work of your parents, let alone their screaming sprog. I said this to my own partner and I feel you should hear it too; bull headedness plays an important part in making a name for yourself here and I can see you have that by the vagina load, however when you’re face to face with a mind as clear and brilliant as mine you’re going to need more than that to avoid leaving the Wells Fargo Center with anything more than a very red backside.
I’m going to teach you dear boy. I’m going to spank the unsubstantiated arrogance out of you in such a way that you’ll run back to the bottom of the card with your tail tucked so firmly between your legs that it tickles your stomach. I’m not angry with you Trevor, but I am angry that Samael Ahriman has felt the need to groom you. Consider this beating an act of protection. I’m trying to make you less attractive to the older man that’s dying to dip his wick into your barely adult body.
Now that brings us quite neatly to the interesting absence of your partner’s name. Sam has taken it upon himself to offer up some kind of knight in shining armour to come to this young man’s aid. An accomplice in what I can only assume he thinks will be the heist of the century? I’m quite fond of surprises, I suppose it’s the inner child in me, and to be honest where some may see this uncertainty as something to be worried about I see it as a reason to be excited. Sam’s fairly short on friends these days. He cast most of them to the side when he signed up for the Midget & Monster Travelling Circus and the only other one I can think of is pretty damn riddled with ‘The Big C’, so I either get to slap around two unheard ofs in one match or, and my God I hope I’m right, he’s going to wheel Shawn Malakai down to the ring and let me beat the radiation out of the man who 2 years ago disrespected my WFWF World Heavyweight Championship by gifting it to yet another nobody. I hardly see that coming to fruition but heavens above that would be just too sweet of a fruit to pass on.
Now of course there’s dear old Joshy in my corner, neutered by circumstance, but I think I’ve already paid him enough credence. So how about I close things by pointing out how piss poor this main event really is?
‘Mr. TBA’ finds himself aligned for the first time in his career with a sheep in wolf’s clothing to take on Joshua “I’m only Champion because my partner chose me” Dean and his partner, perhaps the only redeeming ingredient of the match, quite literally ‘The Man the People Paid to See’, your WFWF Heavyweight Champion of the Wooooooorld………
Little old me.
See you in the ring boys.
you for beating me twice in five shows. Eventually in gonna have to get your sorry ass.
