Post by CM Poor on Apr 24, 2017 15:08:27 GMT -5
Is there anything more nauseatin' than the guy who thinks he's better'n everybody else?
I know what you're thinkin'.
"But David - you seem to think you're better than everyone else!"
There's a difference.
The operative word here is "think".
I am better than everyone else.
I didn't come to that conclusion on the back of some baseless conjecture that the places I've been and the people I've fought put me up on that f*ckin' pedestal. Take a walk down Broadway some Sunday afternoon in early spring - you won't be able to spit without hittin' some piece of sh*t I've gone toe to toe with. Sh*t, you'd probably be able to spin in a circle with your arms out wide and slap the back of the head of twice as many people who'll try and tell you how they stomped my ass. Growin' up the way I did, the odds ain't much in your favor that you're gonna learn a whole lot, but you'd be hard pressed to come out of a neighborhood like that without a healthy understandin' about just how much people tend to talk sh*t, and how little it tends to mean.
You wouldn't think the folks around here'd need a refresher on that one.
Maybe that's why this tournament was such a bust.
I don't know if the view was any different from you were standin', but from my perspective, all I saw was a buncha talk and hardly a soul alive steppin' between the ropes with any intent on backin' it up.
Make sense?
I can hear you f*ckers right now, runnin' your little mouths over how ain't anybody out back who runs his f*ckin' mouth off as often as ol' David Brennan. If a one of you spent half as
much time puttin' your money where your mouth is as you do sittin' back tryin' to deconstruct each other before the bell's even rung, maybe one of you could have given me a run for my f*ckin' money. Not likely, of course, but the point stands - I've laid more than enough claim to my undefeated run through Block B. I'd be remiss to not lavish at least a little bit of the credit on the rest of you for hardly puttin' out as much worth as the paper your contracts are printed on.
You put me here - I just did the heavy liftin'.
Remember that sh*t the next time one of you runs your mouth about the quality of champion the WFWF has to offer. Seems like someone's always got somethin' to say about the bastard cunning enough to get himself the strap around his waist, even if they ain't puttin' forth the effort to wire their jaw shut for the two f*ckin' seconds they may need to do somethin' about it. I ain't got thing one nice to say about anyone who's worn that thing since I started throwin' fists. Kyzer? Drakz? Obo the Hobo? The King of Demons? Josh Dean for like, a f*ckin' minute?
Pieces of sh*t, one and all.
Aside from havin' what it took to take what it is they were after, the lone compliment I might lend 'em is the courtesy of not listin' the likes of Dex alongside their otherwise tainted names. Damage has been done - no sense in kickin' a guy while he's down, right?
Point is, you'd be hard pressed to find anyone with a whole lotta kind to sling in any one of their directions, save for maybe the family man, who everyone seems to be willin' to give a free indiscretionary pass to for some f*ckin' reason, but who among you can brand yourselves capable enough to take what they'd earned from 'em?
If the line to validate Sleater's claims that I ain't the WFWF tag team champions is any indication? I don't see myself havin' to take off my boots to be able to keep countin' the hands that just went up.
Now, I ain't about to paint myself as some revolutionary here to fix the WFWF's "problems", whatever they may be. Sh*t, I got enough humility left to concede that I could probably be chalked up to the cause of more than a few of 'em, but damned if there ain't always someone tryin' to bang down the door, defeatin' from the mouth over what sorta "change" they're bringin' to the WFWF this week.
So show me.
I've heard a whole lot of talk over the years from a whole lot of people who fancied themselves "the one" or "the ones" who were gonna revolutionize the WFWF, bring it out of the dark ages, deliver a product the fans wanted to see. I've seen Raiders and Bennetts and Saviors and Bishops and not a f*ckin' one of them has delivered on a single word that managed to creep out their f*ckin' mouths. Just like every assh*le crawlin' around the losers' circle of Block B and every verbal hardass what let Joe f*ckin' Bishop make an example out of 'em in Block A, all they did was talk.
Talk is cheap.
What are gonna f*ckin' do about it?
Don't talk to me about your prowess in the ring - Block A was always gonna turn out either yourself or the Demon. Find me someone who disagrees and ain't named Anna Ahriman, Austin Hayes, or Hugh f*ckin' Jass. I don't know how the two of you swindled that f*ckin' cakewalk, but I'm expectin' a fair bit of leniency in questionin' the fact that your side of the equation was all but set up to ensure some sort of final resolution between you and your old sensei. Both of you were handed a pick-three appetizer of nobodies so as to all but guarantee that nobody would have their appetite spoiled when we all got to the main course.
Am I supposed to be impressed?
For a guy who's toutin' the notion of bein' afforded opportunity based on what you can manage between those ropes, you sure are ridin' a pretty high f*ckin' horse off a set of wins over folks tryin' to prove their worth on the backs of their family name, their finesse with a roll of the ol' twelve sides die, or the fact that they just happened to be the guy who showed up to work on the right day.
Maybe your standards are too low.
See, Joe, I could go on and on 'til I'm blue in the face about some of the guys I squared up with back in the day - guys that would have knocked that sh*t mop you called hair clean off of your head years before you finally decided to do somethin' about it - and the lumps I took and how funny some of 'em are still walkin' today, and it wouldn't make a lick of f*ckin' difference 'cause as far as you or Trace or anybody else who spent this tournament hopin' a silver tongue'd land 'em a shot at the gold is concerned, without seein' it for yourself, that sh*t is just talk.
It never happened.
No one - not the fans, not the sponsors, not the man behind the curtain, and sure as sh*t, not me - gives a flyin' f*ck what it is you did or didn't do in Japan or Europe or wherever the f*ck else it is you figure you spent enough time to come back and talk some big game about how much better you are than everyone else. It's talk. Archive footage. A whole lotta 'then' that doesn't make a f*ck to the 'now'.
Did it land you any titles here?
Did it push you up the ladder?
Is it gonna help you win the day when the time comes and you've got to step into the ring with David f*ckin' Brennan?
No?
Then shut the f*ck up.
Manifest Destiny
Old Haunts
Travelin' solo is the drizzlin' sh*ts.
It had really been my M.O. for the past year or so, and I think it somehow became part of my identity or whatever, which is kinda funny consderin' how pretty much up until now I'd really only done brief stints all by my lonesome, usually travelin' alongside either Captain Pious there for a cuppa or The Mescaline Twins way back. I know lately I'd kinda buried myself in the whole sorta distance game, which was fine and all, but lemme tell you - it's right f*ckin' boring, and after that run down Tennessee, I'd kinda secretly had my hopes set on bringin' Nat out for a couple of runs. There ain't a price you can put on that degree of good conversation, and while I'm sure there are a handful of regular old scholars out back who can hold their own just fine, it ain't much surprise that they ain't linin' up for a chat with ol' David Brennan.
Funny - this is usually the type of place where people tend to try and hitch their wagons to even the slightest bandy of success.
Guess I just gotta way with people.
Anywho - normally I'd have been a good and f*ckin' fine with just haulin' ass back to the airfield and catchin' a private ride home, but a certain pilot who figures he's been stretched too thin lately and a remarkably short list of drivers lookin' for a pickup that night found me starin' down a rival I ain't bothered to square up with since decidin' to shack up in Pasadena in the weeks leadin' up to SuperBrawl.
Travel lodgin'.
Look, there's a laundry list of sh*t I've really come to enjoy about my time in the WFWF. I know that'll forever be a bitter pill to swallow to some, but facts are facts - this sh*t won me over. All the same, no matter how much of a company boy I may become, now matter how many belts I sweep up in my endeavors to hold down the rest of the locker room, I ain't ever gonna warm up to the f*ckin' window lickers waitin' around lobbies and baggage claim and all that lookin' for a second's worth of face time. That in of itself was enough to justify the private jet and whatever it costs town to town to stow the thing for a couple of hours.
It ain't much of a thrill tryin' to find a bite to eat at that hour after you've been all but tossed from the arena tryin' to buy the f*ckin' mouth breathers enough time to figure they've seen everyone who's gonna come through at check in.
If only Mike Hickenbottom could see me now - saunterin' my ass down to the hotel bar. Imagine the scoop. Imagine the scandal.
I'd bellied up enough times in life to make sort of a habit out of payin' no mind to whoever's sittin' to my left or my right. In retrospect, I'd have been better off just grabbin' some far off table to call my own like I'd done out west, but hey, cut me some slack here. I got myself all high and dry, but some habits are just hard to break.
F*ckin' regret that, soon enough.
"And I here I thought you'd given this stuff up."
Right about now.
"Down as many of those as you want, Sleater. Ain't changin' the turnout any."
She smirked, even as she stared down into her glass of...well, whatever it was she was downin'...tellin' me as much as I needed to know that I'd just struck at least half a sore nerve. I wasn't about to find myself any sort of good small talk, what with Nat sittin' this one out on account of some project or other she had cooked up back home, but a couple more digs in at my one true rival in the WFWF, at a time where she'd be takin' a shot to the foot to do anything about it?
Well, beggars can't be choosers, now can we?
"I suppose you'd know. Congratulations on that, by the way."
"Sh*t, don't hurt yourself or nothin'."
"I'm serious. You endeavored through quite the pool of talent to get here tonight."
"Ok, now I know you're talkin' out your ass."
"Well, think what you will. I hope you don't think I'm still hung up on what transpired last year."
She was bluffin'. That's fine. Neither of us particularly wanted to land here tonight.
"Guess we both win the New Year's resolution game then, huh?"
"Everything is second to this company, Brennan. If butting heads with you is what's going to up the buy rates, then I'll gladly have you bash my head in."
"Sh*t, how many of those have you had?"
"Would you believe me anymore than you've bought anything else out of me tonight?"
No. Guess someone had to fill my boots, what with me walkin' the dry road now. I just figured it'd be our boy Dex or some sh*t.
"Hey, I've changed my fair share of tunes this past year Sleater, but you're tryin' to tell me you're cool and collected with how this sh*t's played out? Heh. Those are some high notes to sing, even if you still thought you had my nuts in a vice."
"Good television's good television. You and Bishop? That's practically a vacation, on my part. Sells itself."
"Guess there's plenty of room on Easy Street for the two of us."
"You've faced some good hands, Brennan, but not that good."
"Bishop? Sh*t. Now I know you're tanked."
"The heads upstairs are feeling pretty good about Joe Bishop. A win on his part could bring some real legitimacy to our title picture."
"Ain't my fault you all but handed me every belt on the table."
"Are you still carrying around stolen property, incidentally?"
"Why? Did I relapse and feed the pin to someone I ain't heard about?"
"Either way, the point stands. No one can deny your claim to the International Championship. That's yours, fair and square, but this charade of yours, playing like you hold every belt we've branded? It's kind of a joke, isn't it?"
"Who's jokin?"
"Look at it from the stands, Brennan. You haven't got a partner. You haven't got a legitimate claim. Millions of people, live and at home, watched you get stripped of the titles on live broadcast television. Is that really a claim you want to lay?"
"She says, havin' stood idly by as Dex called himself the World Heavyweight Champion."
"And you think there's a difference."
"Yeah - I actually won that sh*t, and you decided you didn't like how that played out."
"I know you've got this supplanted idea that the company is out to get you, Brennan, but I can assure you, from the horse's mouth, that that's hardly the case."
"Is that why I'm the first International Champion subject to a golden shower at a moment's notice?"
"If you're worried about the outcome..."
"Whitner? Remind me who you were just congratulatin' again?"
"If this was a ploy, don't you think we'd put someone forth who might have you sweating some?"
"You ain't got anyone."
"Well, then. I guess you're untouchable, aren't you?"
"Gets easier, the more you say it."
"That's going to be one hell of a target on your back, assuming things go your way."
She seemed please with herself, like she'd just put one over on me that I ain't already considered.
I'd given it a thought or two. Kinda hard not to, bein' all but about to hold every title the company has to offer. That ain't about to sit right with anybody. Then again, neither is the fact that for a straight year now, I was undefeated in every endeavor. That ain't nearly as hot a button as a stranglehold on the title picture, seein' as that's the sorta sh*t that seems to make everyone's d*cks feel small, but all the same, there've been more than a few would bes who've come along hopin' to be the lucky son of a b*tch to knock off David Brennan. Probably a real nice foothold in the cards for whoever could manage to pull that one off.
Wouldn't know - ain't happened yet.
"Figure you've got someone waitin' in the wings, might be able to get the job done?"
"Not much money in one man holding all the cards, is there?"
"Maybe not for you."
That one stung.
If I had to guess, I'd bank on Sleater risin' with the sun each day hopin' on word that I'd decided to make my way off into the sunset again. I know it can't have been easy, havin' to watch all that sh*t go my way, even right up 'til now. I said some right horrid sh*t about her, none of it that I really regret, and truth be told, I'd be hard pressed to blame her for tryin' to push some initiative to force me outta the picture, even though I knew that she wasn't smart enough to try and pull such a stunt.
"Of all the bars in the world..."
"Least you believe me. Figure you wouldn't have come near this place, you thought for one second my ass might waltz on in."
"I might have reconsidered..."
"Well, make it count, yeah? I'm in four oh six, you wanna charge that sh*t to me. Probably my fault, anyway. Part of of it, at least."
"I can swing it."
"I'm sure. Couple for the road might not hurt, though. You'll probably want 'em after what's left to come."
"Are you ever not a d*ck?"
"Dunno. You'll have to ask the wife. Four oh six. No joke, but...ah, don't come knockin' alright? It's late, and I'm fine enough to get ahead on my own merits."
No Revolution
There's always been this sorta underlyin' implication that I got somethin' against the WFWF as a whole.
Nothin' could be further from the truth.
I figure if someone like Josh Dean ultimately mustered up the balls to say it, then there ain't much of a stretch in assumin' that the lot of you've been thinkin' it for some time now. Right? I mean, he's the stupid son of a b*tch type who'd be the one to blurt out in class that everyone thought the teacher was fat even though the rest of the kids knew that the joke only worked on the down low, lest they all suffer the wrath of the schoolyard talk reachin' the wrong set of ears, so it only stands to reason that in some weird sorta twist on where one might expect to find Dean's fortitude in a situation where the entire locker room'd be made to look the fool, he'd be at the f*ckin' forefront of it all, playin' the biggest horse's ass.
Not that it much f*ckin' matters.
Contrary to what any self righteous twat like Josh is gonna try and pass off as fact, I don't get how any of you, whether you're sittin' in the locker room or out in the crowd, could ever figure I got anything but love for this joint. Check this - where else in the world can some dumb f*ck kid from Southie, who ain't ever learned sh*t outside of what they might cap off at the secondary level or what he might've picked up along the way at the business end of a fist out in the streets, take all that hard got wisdom, without a second's worth of any additional trainin', turn in a couple of well placed haymakers, and land on his feet as cleanly as I have?
You think I hate this place? Mother f*cker, I was made for this place.
Sh*t, there's days I wake up even kinda likin' this sh*t.
Look, times were tough for a while there. I ain't gonna sit here and try and deny that flat out. The tapes exist, and ain't nobody who lived through it is gonna need themselves a refresher course, so let's just call it what it is and leave it at that. I might've said some ruthless sh*t, but hey - I'm a changed man, yeah? I ain't about to try and play up like I had some big come to Christ moment or nothin', but there's definitely a sense of appreciation followin' my ass around that maybe wasn't there before, and I ain't gonna sit here and make like I haven't made a pretty fine livin' for myself beatin' the holy hell outta people and gettin' myself a fair pay outta the deal. Hittin' fast and hittin' hard has paid off particularly well for me this past year, and I'd be remiss to sit and try and act like I got some sorta vendetta against the avenues that have allowed me to do so.
So I'll be god damned if I'm gonna let some self important hack like Joe Bishop f*ck that up for me.
I ain't ever had time for guys like Joe Bishop. Anybody who's ever found 'emselves bound to a fight has probably come across the guy who hides away behind the notion that there's some sort of boundaries to the way business of a physical nature ought to be conducted, tryin' to give 'emselves some sorta elevated nature on account of exactly how it is they conduct 'emselves when push come to shove.
That's b*tch sh*t. Cowardice, plain and simple.
Joe Bishop's world would revolve around Joe Bishop gettin' everything Joe Bishop'd like to have because Joe Bishop fights a certain f*ckin' way. Look, for my money? I don't give a sh*t how it is Joe Bishop, or any one of you out back for that matter, wants to go out their and settle your scores. I figure after enough time here, I've been hit with just about everything down to the kitchen sink. Doesn't make a f*ck to me, so long as I'm the one standin' tall when all's said and done.
Think that's maybe the difference?
I can't imagine anyone worth their salt in a fight wantin' to lay down a set of rules edged entirely in their favor unless they had some serious f*ckin' doubts as to whether or not they were capable enough to get the job done. Joe talks a big enough game about bein' the purist or whatever the f*ck he's off about this week the WFWF has sorely been lacking and that he's gonna lead by example and stir up a revolution - as if we ain't heard that f*ckin' line outta him before - that'll one day lend itself to only the best and brightest who fight just like Joe Bishop bein' awarded for their efforts.
C'mon, Joe - is that the best you've got?
We all know that in this fantasy world of yours wherein you dictate the fight that every last competitor brings to the ring, you'd be the World Champion in right f*ckin' fashion. Why the hell else would you be clamorin' for such an otherwise asinine sort of setup? The sad underlyin' story - the real one that you ain't been so forward about - is that when all the dust clears and all the pins are counted, gettin' your hands on the variables is the only way you're ever gonna shatter that little self imposed glass ceiling of yours, Joe.
It's pretty pathetic, really. I have to pause and wonder, in as competitive and ruthless a sport as what we do can be, how you manage to muster the f*ckin' courage to show your delicate little face in that locker room, runnin' off at the mouth the way you do about the sort of "shambles" this place is in, seemingly over your own ingrained inability to get with the f*ckin' times and put up a decent enough fight to hold that spot at the top. I mean, f*ck - is this how you're plannin' on trashin' that aura of bein' the guy that "could" be somethin' bigger? By blamin' the state of things around you for your own f*ckin' shortcomings? That's low, Joe. That's...damn, I don't even know, man. I'd like to brand that sh*t "Dex Low", but even that mother f*cker had the audacity to own his own losses, even if he did keep on comin' back for more.
Sh*t like this? This "revolution" of yours? It's why you'll never be anything more than second best. You're spendin' all this energy of yours worryin' your pretty little head about how others went about landin' the success they've found without sparin' a single passin' moment to wonder how the f*ck it is you haven't, which, maybe ironically, is the answer you should be chasin' after right there within.
Don't get me wrong - I'm right there with you. I think I've already said before that I'd be hard pressed to come up with enough vile terms to properly elaborate just how little I think of guys like Kyzer, Drakz, your daddy Trace, Schneider - the whole lot of 'em. It barely scratches the surface to call 'em scum, dirt, spam, really, whatever nasty sorta term you wanna use. F*ckin' ain't a soul alive out back, save for maybe the ones tryin' to hitch up their wagons thinkin' that'll be their quickest road to success - and we've both been there, am I right? - that's gonna come out and try and defend the characteristic honor of any of those f*cks, and rightfully f*ckin' so. But you? Nah, you seem to wanna hit 'em in the one place you've got next to no f*ckin' case to hold water, and that's their success over yours.
You wanna know why guys like Isaac Cray keep on winning?
You wanna know why guys like me keep on winning?
We fight harder, b*tch.
I don't doubt that you can wrap me up in seven different submissions 'til Sunday, each one culled from a different part of the world. I don't doubt that ten out of ten times, your footwork is fancier, your ring awareness is more on point, your technical acumen is more refined, and a moment's notice, you could pull out any number of exotic moves honed to perfection in places I ain't ever heard of. In a bout of sheer showmanship, you win every time, Joe. You don't need to make the case for yourself - I'm here to confirm it for you. You are, always have been, and always will be a better wrestler than me.
But I bet I can hit you harder.
That pedigree of notches in your worldly belt might hold a lot of water to some folk, but as far as I'm concerned, all that matters when we're standin' across the ring from one another is whether or not I think I can take you, and in case you've been livin' under a rock somewhere?
I can.
I have no doubt in my mind that I've got everything I need to give you a fight that'll leave you beggin' for the opportunity to get your ass handed back to you another couple hundred times by Trace Demon. No uncertain number of holds or maneuvers is gonna change the fact that all my Sunday plans involve stompin' holes in your face so deep they'd make the Massachusetts Department of Transportation blush. You could fill another dozen passports before you'll ever find me losin' a second's worth of sleep over the fact that you and I are on a collision course born of circumstance and dumb f*ckin' luck. You'll have the world's first doctorate in technical wrestling proficiency before I give a single, solitary f*ck about where you've been, who you've beaten, or who you've studied under because for every last iota of wrestling prowess you think you've got over me, I've got another fist to the face tellin' you that there ain't a bit of that what's gonna find you leavin' Ultimate Supremacy with that belt in your hands.
Who you gonna blame that one on, Joe?
Some Fatherly Advice
Part II
Then
"Do you know what it is that really shakes 'em down to their core?"
I didn't.
The truth is, beyond just not havin' the answers to Jack's cryptic f*ckin' questions, more often than not I didn't have clue f*ckin' one as to what he was talking' about. I'm sure he liked that just fine. Jack liked to talk in a way that, at least from his perspective, made peoples' heads spin. It was one of the thousand some odd nuances that stacked on top of one another to create the five foot nine pule of sh*t that was Jack Brennan. I guess he figured maybe if people were exhaustin' all their energy tryin' to make sense or sort out of whatever the f*ck it was he was sayin', it might leave him the openin' he needed to hit 'em just the way he wanted to.
He was kind of a sick f*ck, really.
'They', of course, were everyone around us. I'd only been home a few weeks, havin' handed in my four years to Uncle Sam without anything even resemblin' an exit plan, which meant, bein' the good son and all, knockin' down Jack's door and seein' what it is he had to offer. I dunno if he had some sorta conscience buried somewhere deep within the rot that made him who he was or somethin' to that effect that lead him to shield me from ever gettin' my feet wet with any of his sloppier work assignments, but that summer, I somehow found myself in the fortuitous position of collectin' a paycheck for little more than accompanyin' Jack on his little strolls throughout town.
Lemme tell you - for an old son of a b*tch, that mother f*cker could walk.
'Observations', he called 'em. The way Jack saw it, the whole city belonged to him in some roundabout sorta way, so he may as well keep abreast as to what's goin' down from the bottom on up. If you'd ask him, he'd probably tell you Menino got the idea from him. In three months, I'd seen more of that city than I had in all my twenty one years. I'd seen the deepest crevices of places I thought I'd known like the back of my hand. I'd seen places I'd never known to exist, and brother, by that summer's end, I could walk through Kenmore Square on game day f*ckin' blindfolded.
That piece of sh*t hadn't taken me to a game since I was a kid, but damned if we didn't walk that neighborhood every night the Sox were home. Jack f*ckin' loved that bit. You ever figure that one out, you give me a shout - far as I knew he couldn't give two f*cks about the game itself. Maybe it was the atmosphere. All those eyes on him - and they always f*ckin' were - that was the sorta sh*t Jack lived for. Whatever it was, it put that extra little pep in his step that was really f*ckin' creepy to see for yourself if you had any sorta inkling - and everyone did - just how sick this son of a b*tch truly was.
"That weird f*ckin' way you're walkin'?"
"Always with the smartass."
"Who's jokin'? Sh*t'a creepy as f*ck, Jack. Like you're gonna start slicin' folk like butter at any second."
"Should I not?"
That was f*ckin' Jackie. I dunno if he'd ever been seen, like...professionally...but I know a few shrinks who'd have loved to have gotten their hands on him. You never knew - I figure that, then and there, he was jokin', but I'd be a fool to have been surprised if he straight up busted out that week's favorite blade and just started cuttin' a path down Landsdowne.
I settled for an exasperated shake of the head. I may have been flesh and blood, but I was maybe two months removed from a four year stretch surrounded by the type of folk who'd have been happy to have taken my head for trophy on account of the flag on my shoulder. It wasn't outta the realm of imagination that, what with his crazy ass eyes and weird as jaunt, Jack might be eyein' the chance to do the same.
"So...?"
"So what?"
Old ass forgetful mother f*cker...
"You were shakin' peoples' cores..."
"Ah, right! Not even a guess?"
"Think I'd have said by now."
"Heh. Brennan blood. Look at 'em."
We always f*ckin' did this. 'Look at 'em, kid'. Somehow, Jack was under some sorta delusion that I'd somehow made it twenty one years in this town without noticin' every beady set of ugly ass eyes stickin' to me like glue everywhere I went on account of the son of a b*tch who went and decided he was gonna lay risky one night.
"They hate it."
"You ain't exactly in an endearin' line of work Jack."
"Please - what would they do without the local flavor of car wreck television? They don't give a f*ck what it is I do."
"So what's that look then? Adoration? You didn't exactly hand out attractive genetics, y'know."
"Adoration...that's envy, Davey. The green eyed monster. Not a soul in that park gives a f*ck one way or the other how it is I've made my way. They just hate that I, given the choice, get away with it."
"Yeah? And why's that?"
Playin' the role. Bein' Jacky's personal conversationalist wasn't exactly thrillin', especially after four hot years in the desert, but it paid well, and...sh*t...you know how some people, once they get goin', there just ain't no stoppin' 'em?
Jack f*ckin' Brennan, right there.
"C'mon, Davey - you remember how soft the court of public opinion went on Billy Bulger, right?"
"Thought he was on the lam."
"Get your small timers straight - that's Whitey. Billy's his brother. Runs that school."
"He talked to him..."
"...knew you had something up there. Could've blown the whole case wide open. Think he didn't know where Jimmy was? That's like Messy pretendin' he doesn't know we're here right now. Point is, that sort of stunt? That's complicity in the highest degree."
"So?"
"So, these eyeballing mother f*ckers around us all but know he could have handed in Boston's biggest small time crook, but aside from your Howie Carrs and such, no one was clamoring for his head on a platter."
"And the pièce de résistance?"
"Billy's a good looking kid, ain't he? Dresses nice,
plays his money right..."
"You're an idiot."
You think you're some hot sh*t, even at twenty one. Like you know everything. I figured as such. You've made it past that age, you probably did too. Thing is, you're just a f*ckin' kid. Jacky had a long, drawn out way of makin' a simple f*ckin' point, but sh*t - he had a point.
People look kindly upon the right look. All comes back to Boston, but look at that Central Square kid who torched the f*ckin' marathon. Kid's a dyed in the wool f*ckin' ISIS militant, took out three innocents and a kid tryin' to make his way into the force, and even still - right in town, even - he's got a cadre of folk who thinks he's just too damn pretty to be a real terrorist.
Even when I started - all them years ago on that train, makin' my way out to meet up with the circus, day f*ckin' one against big Randell Benjamin, Jack was still tryin' to beat this sh*t into my head, and brother, I just wasn't havin' it. I figured Jacky was just bein' his old racist self - if you knew him, it ain't that outlandish an idea - but lookin' back, for a right piece of sh*t, he had himself a fair number of points. I was still playin' up the skinhead card pretty heavy then, which don't mean much to anyone unless you're some boneheaded f*ck that thinks that carries an implication, and Jacky figured I was divin' into hot f*ckin' water squarin' up against a brother man.
I hate lettin' him be right, even in death, but it took drinkin' myself into oblivion to shake that stigma.
"Two f*cking kids, each one thinks he's god's gift to intellectualism. Call me when you're figuring on changing your name."
"Might be worth a look."
"Won't matter. You said it yourself, Davey - bad genetics. You'll always be a Brennan, kid."
Fall in Line
Y'know what's funny about this whole new champ, new era thing?
I mean, aside from the fact that all that sh*t people used to talk about me bein' on a crash course with the WFWF Championship is about to come to pass.
Nah, what's funny here is that, even if by some miracle, Joe Bishop comes out there and fights harder, hits harder, and shows the world that, for once, he wants that sh*t more and that he ain't gonna be content to try and bury his shortcomings beneath someone else for a change, it ain't gonna make a lick of f*ckin' difference.
Ain't gonna matter.
Joe's on this rampage over makin' sure folk like me don't come to represent this place to the public. I dunno if that's just another leg on his little warpath of self righteousness or if we're dealin' in some whole new sorta deficiency here wherein Joe's fancyin' himself the world's guardian from the realm of reality, but he's made pretty f*ckin' clear, least as far as I can see between the lines, that he thinks it's time someone 'proper' become the oh-so-revered 'face of the WFWF'.
B*tch, I am the face of the WFWF.
Take a look around yourself.
Start with the mirror.
Got yourself any hardware lately, Joe?
Glance around the room. Go ahead and use those judgmental little eyes you look at us all through for all I f*ckin' care.
Who's carryin' this sh*t, Joe?
You think the folks at home are tunin' in to see 'The Golden Opportunity Champion'?
You think the gate is gettin' inflated on account of some has been MMA fighter who puts more effort into his own shoestring budget endeavors than he ever has in a WFWF ring?
You think anyone is sittin' in those stands, waitin' with bated breath hopin' for the return of Josh f*ckin' Dean to give 'me cause to leap to their feet?
Hell, maybe Mike Hickebottom'll do a show this week on another entry in the passport of ol' Joe Bishop.
I sincerely f*ckin' doubt it, right across the board.
The fact is, whether you or anyone else out there wants to accept it, I've been carryin' this company on my back since the lights went down in Pasadena and Drakz got hauled off to wherever it is they keep two time invalid has beens these days. For a guy so rooted in tradition, you've got a conveniently short attention span, overlookin' the fact that in a world, even as twisted, backward, and safe as yours, where the champions make the brand, I am literally all this company has got. You can make whatever Lila Sleater sponsored case you want against my reign as Tag Team Champion, but the fact remains that bullsh*t circumstance and Sleater tryin' to make like she's one of the boys and suddenly managed to grow a pair doesn't make a f*ck against the fact that, to date, no one out back has stepped up and tried to take these belts off of me the old fashioned way. Lucas Crowe hasn't even had the stones to show his face since eatin' the pin at SuperBrawl, which tells me all I need to f*ckin' know as far as the fortitude out back goes, and I think it sings a pretty harmonious tune in time with the line of folks who've stepped up to the place since tryin' to make their bones against the only pieces of gold not up for grabs in some hamfisted, pre-fixed tournament for show.
They all recognize - maybe it's time you did, too.
I'm not just the face of the WFWF, Joe...
...I am the WFWF.
I can't imagine how much that eats you up inside. It's gotta be bad enough, knowin' how much clout I carry to the ring each and every night, but the fact that even if you were to somehow take ahold of my year long undefeated streak, break with all precedence - which has never been your strong suit - and show the world the Joe Bishop they always thought might someday, maybe, possibly become the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion, you'll still pale in comparison to the fact it'll still be me doin' all the heavy liftin'. You can lift that belt as high as your little arms'll allow - higher than Malakai hoisted Dex up like a newborn cub off the edge of Pride Rock - and you still won't be able to outshine the fact that I'm single handedly holdin' down sixty six point six percent of the f*ckin' marquee, and that even as the reignin', defendin', undisputed WFWF Champion, you'll still just be a footnote to all I've done this year.
Me.
David f*ckin' Brennan.
Don't think I don't know.
You can go on and on, never utterin' my name, almost as if the truth is too much to bear, and I'll still be here, the livin', breathin', sole embodiment of everything you've professed to hate about the WFWF, outshinin' you at every turn.
You get it, right?
You want a revolution, Joe?
You're gonna have to kill me.
Does that fit your mold?
For generations, my family has made their name buckin' tradition wherever it tries to rear its ugly head. You don't need to look twice to know we don't fit any sort of predetermined branding methodology. The Brennan name is synonymous with tellin' whatever system it is tryin' to fit our square pegs into a round hole to kindly f*ck 'emselves sideways.
All this? It's just destiny waitin' to happen.
Maybe it's time you do what you do best, and fall in line, Joe.
I know what you're thinkin'.
"But David - you seem to think you're better than everyone else!"
There's a difference.
The operative word here is "think".
I am better than everyone else.
I didn't come to that conclusion on the back of some baseless conjecture that the places I've been and the people I've fought put me up on that f*ckin' pedestal. Take a walk down Broadway some Sunday afternoon in early spring - you won't be able to spit without hittin' some piece of sh*t I've gone toe to toe with. Sh*t, you'd probably be able to spin in a circle with your arms out wide and slap the back of the head of twice as many people who'll try and tell you how they stomped my ass. Growin' up the way I did, the odds ain't much in your favor that you're gonna learn a whole lot, but you'd be hard pressed to come out of a neighborhood like that without a healthy understandin' about just how much people tend to talk sh*t, and how little it tends to mean.
You wouldn't think the folks around here'd need a refresher on that one.
Maybe that's why this tournament was such a bust.
I don't know if the view was any different from you were standin', but from my perspective, all I saw was a buncha talk and hardly a soul alive steppin' between the ropes with any intent on backin' it up.
Make sense?
I can hear you f*ckers right now, runnin' your little mouths over how ain't anybody out back who runs his f*ckin' mouth off as often as ol' David Brennan. If a one of you spent half as
much time puttin' your money where your mouth is as you do sittin' back tryin' to deconstruct each other before the bell's even rung, maybe one of you could have given me a run for my f*ckin' money. Not likely, of course, but the point stands - I've laid more than enough claim to my undefeated run through Block B. I'd be remiss to not lavish at least a little bit of the credit on the rest of you for hardly puttin' out as much worth as the paper your contracts are printed on.
You put me here - I just did the heavy liftin'.
Remember that sh*t the next time one of you runs your mouth about the quality of champion the WFWF has to offer. Seems like someone's always got somethin' to say about the bastard cunning enough to get himself the strap around his waist, even if they ain't puttin' forth the effort to wire their jaw shut for the two f*ckin' seconds they may need to do somethin' about it. I ain't got thing one nice to say about anyone who's worn that thing since I started throwin' fists. Kyzer? Drakz? Obo the Hobo? The King of Demons? Josh Dean for like, a f*ckin' minute?
Pieces of sh*t, one and all.
Aside from havin' what it took to take what it is they were after, the lone compliment I might lend 'em is the courtesy of not listin' the likes of Dex alongside their otherwise tainted names. Damage has been done - no sense in kickin' a guy while he's down, right?
Point is, you'd be hard pressed to find anyone with a whole lotta kind to sling in any one of their directions, save for maybe the family man, who everyone seems to be willin' to give a free indiscretionary pass to for some f*ckin' reason, but who among you can brand yourselves capable enough to take what they'd earned from 'em?
If the line to validate Sleater's claims that I ain't the WFWF tag team champions is any indication? I don't see myself havin' to take off my boots to be able to keep countin' the hands that just went up.
Now, I ain't about to paint myself as some revolutionary here to fix the WFWF's "problems", whatever they may be. Sh*t, I got enough humility left to concede that I could probably be chalked up to the cause of more than a few of 'em, but damned if there ain't always someone tryin' to bang down the door, defeatin' from the mouth over what sorta "change" they're bringin' to the WFWF this week.
So show me.
I've heard a whole lot of talk over the years from a whole lot of people who fancied themselves "the one" or "the ones" who were gonna revolutionize the WFWF, bring it out of the dark ages, deliver a product the fans wanted to see. I've seen Raiders and Bennetts and Saviors and Bishops and not a f*ckin' one of them has delivered on a single word that managed to creep out their f*ckin' mouths. Just like every assh*le crawlin' around the losers' circle of Block B and every verbal hardass what let Joe f*ckin' Bishop make an example out of 'em in Block A, all they did was talk.
Talk is cheap.
What are gonna f*ckin' do about it?
Don't talk to me about your prowess in the ring - Block A was always gonna turn out either yourself or the Demon. Find me someone who disagrees and ain't named Anna Ahriman, Austin Hayes, or Hugh f*ckin' Jass. I don't know how the two of you swindled that f*ckin' cakewalk, but I'm expectin' a fair bit of leniency in questionin' the fact that your side of the equation was all but set up to ensure some sort of final resolution between you and your old sensei. Both of you were handed a pick-three appetizer of nobodies so as to all but guarantee that nobody would have their appetite spoiled when we all got to the main course.
Am I supposed to be impressed?
For a guy who's toutin' the notion of bein' afforded opportunity based on what you can manage between those ropes, you sure are ridin' a pretty high f*ckin' horse off a set of wins over folks tryin' to prove their worth on the backs of their family name, their finesse with a roll of the ol' twelve sides die, or the fact that they just happened to be the guy who showed up to work on the right day.
Maybe your standards are too low.
See, Joe, I could go on and on 'til I'm blue in the face about some of the guys I squared up with back in the day - guys that would have knocked that sh*t mop you called hair clean off of your head years before you finally decided to do somethin' about it - and the lumps I took and how funny some of 'em are still walkin' today, and it wouldn't make a lick of f*ckin' difference 'cause as far as you or Trace or anybody else who spent this tournament hopin' a silver tongue'd land 'em a shot at the gold is concerned, without seein' it for yourself, that sh*t is just talk.
It never happened.
No one - not the fans, not the sponsors, not the man behind the curtain, and sure as sh*t, not me - gives a flyin' f*ck what it is you did or didn't do in Japan or Europe or wherever the f*ck else it is you figure you spent enough time to come back and talk some big game about how much better you are than everyone else. It's talk. Archive footage. A whole lotta 'then' that doesn't make a f*ck to the 'now'.
Did it land you any titles here?
Did it push you up the ladder?
Is it gonna help you win the day when the time comes and you've got to step into the ring with David f*ckin' Brennan?
No?
Then shut the f*ck up.
Manifest Destiny
Old Haunts
Travelin' solo is the drizzlin' sh*ts.
It had really been my M.O. for the past year or so, and I think it somehow became part of my identity or whatever, which is kinda funny consderin' how pretty much up until now I'd really only done brief stints all by my lonesome, usually travelin' alongside either Captain Pious there for a cuppa or The Mescaline Twins way back. I know lately I'd kinda buried myself in the whole sorta distance game, which was fine and all, but lemme tell you - it's right f*ckin' boring, and after that run down Tennessee, I'd kinda secretly had my hopes set on bringin' Nat out for a couple of runs. There ain't a price you can put on that degree of good conversation, and while I'm sure there are a handful of regular old scholars out back who can hold their own just fine, it ain't much surprise that they ain't linin' up for a chat with ol' David Brennan.
Funny - this is usually the type of place where people tend to try and hitch their wagons to even the slightest bandy of success.
Guess I just gotta way with people.
Anywho - normally I'd have been a good and f*ckin' fine with just haulin' ass back to the airfield and catchin' a private ride home, but a certain pilot who figures he's been stretched too thin lately and a remarkably short list of drivers lookin' for a pickup that night found me starin' down a rival I ain't bothered to square up with since decidin' to shack up in Pasadena in the weeks leadin' up to SuperBrawl.
Travel lodgin'.
Look, there's a laundry list of sh*t I've really come to enjoy about my time in the WFWF. I know that'll forever be a bitter pill to swallow to some, but facts are facts - this sh*t won me over. All the same, no matter how much of a company boy I may become, now matter how many belts I sweep up in my endeavors to hold down the rest of the locker room, I ain't ever gonna warm up to the f*ckin' window lickers waitin' around lobbies and baggage claim and all that lookin' for a second's worth of face time. That in of itself was enough to justify the private jet and whatever it costs town to town to stow the thing for a couple of hours.
It ain't much of a thrill tryin' to find a bite to eat at that hour after you've been all but tossed from the arena tryin' to buy the f*ckin' mouth breathers enough time to figure they've seen everyone who's gonna come through at check in.
If only Mike Hickenbottom could see me now - saunterin' my ass down to the hotel bar. Imagine the scoop. Imagine the scandal.
I'd bellied up enough times in life to make sort of a habit out of payin' no mind to whoever's sittin' to my left or my right. In retrospect, I'd have been better off just grabbin' some far off table to call my own like I'd done out west, but hey, cut me some slack here. I got myself all high and dry, but some habits are just hard to break.
F*ckin' regret that, soon enough.
"And I here I thought you'd given this stuff up."
Right about now.
"Down as many of those as you want, Sleater. Ain't changin' the turnout any."
She smirked, even as she stared down into her glass of...well, whatever it was she was downin'...tellin' me as much as I needed to know that I'd just struck at least half a sore nerve. I wasn't about to find myself any sort of good small talk, what with Nat sittin' this one out on account of some project or other she had cooked up back home, but a couple more digs in at my one true rival in the WFWF, at a time where she'd be takin' a shot to the foot to do anything about it?
Well, beggars can't be choosers, now can we?
"I suppose you'd know. Congratulations on that, by the way."
"Sh*t, don't hurt yourself or nothin'."
"I'm serious. You endeavored through quite the pool of talent to get here tonight."
"Ok, now I know you're talkin' out your ass."
"Well, think what you will. I hope you don't think I'm still hung up on what transpired last year."
She was bluffin'. That's fine. Neither of us particularly wanted to land here tonight.
"Guess we both win the New Year's resolution game then, huh?"
"Everything is second to this company, Brennan. If butting heads with you is what's going to up the buy rates, then I'll gladly have you bash my head in."
"Sh*t, how many of those have you had?"
"Would you believe me anymore than you've bought anything else out of me tonight?"
No. Guess someone had to fill my boots, what with me walkin' the dry road now. I just figured it'd be our boy Dex or some sh*t.
"Hey, I've changed my fair share of tunes this past year Sleater, but you're tryin' to tell me you're cool and collected with how this sh*t's played out? Heh. Those are some high notes to sing, even if you still thought you had my nuts in a vice."
"Good television's good television. You and Bishop? That's practically a vacation, on my part. Sells itself."
"Guess there's plenty of room on Easy Street for the two of us."
"You've faced some good hands, Brennan, but not that good."
"Bishop? Sh*t. Now I know you're tanked."
"The heads upstairs are feeling pretty good about Joe Bishop. A win on his part could bring some real legitimacy to our title picture."
"Ain't my fault you all but handed me every belt on the table."
"Are you still carrying around stolen property, incidentally?"
"Why? Did I relapse and feed the pin to someone I ain't heard about?"
"Either way, the point stands. No one can deny your claim to the International Championship. That's yours, fair and square, but this charade of yours, playing like you hold every belt we've branded? It's kind of a joke, isn't it?"
"Who's jokin?"
"Look at it from the stands, Brennan. You haven't got a partner. You haven't got a legitimate claim. Millions of people, live and at home, watched you get stripped of the titles on live broadcast television. Is that really a claim you want to lay?"
"She says, havin' stood idly by as Dex called himself the World Heavyweight Champion."
"And you think there's a difference."
"Yeah - I actually won that sh*t, and you decided you didn't like how that played out."
"I know you've got this supplanted idea that the company is out to get you, Brennan, but I can assure you, from the horse's mouth, that that's hardly the case."
"Is that why I'm the first International Champion subject to a golden shower at a moment's notice?"
"If you're worried about the outcome..."
"Whitner? Remind me who you were just congratulatin' again?"
"If this was a ploy, don't you think we'd put someone forth who might have you sweating some?"
"You ain't got anyone."
"Well, then. I guess you're untouchable, aren't you?"
"Gets easier, the more you say it."
"That's going to be one hell of a target on your back, assuming things go your way."
She seemed please with herself, like she'd just put one over on me that I ain't already considered.
I'd given it a thought or two. Kinda hard not to, bein' all but about to hold every title the company has to offer. That ain't about to sit right with anybody. Then again, neither is the fact that for a straight year now, I was undefeated in every endeavor. That ain't nearly as hot a button as a stranglehold on the title picture, seein' as that's the sorta sh*t that seems to make everyone's d*cks feel small, but all the same, there've been more than a few would bes who've come along hopin' to be the lucky son of a b*tch to knock off David Brennan. Probably a real nice foothold in the cards for whoever could manage to pull that one off.
Wouldn't know - ain't happened yet.
"Figure you've got someone waitin' in the wings, might be able to get the job done?"
"Not much money in one man holding all the cards, is there?"
"Maybe not for you."
That one stung.
If I had to guess, I'd bank on Sleater risin' with the sun each day hopin' on word that I'd decided to make my way off into the sunset again. I know it can't have been easy, havin' to watch all that sh*t go my way, even right up 'til now. I said some right horrid sh*t about her, none of it that I really regret, and truth be told, I'd be hard pressed to blame her for tryin' to push some initiative to force me outta the picture, even though I knew that she wasn't smart enough to try and pull such a stunt.
"Of all the bars in the world..."
"Least you believe me. Figure you wouldn't have come near this place, you thought for one second my ass might waltz on in."
"I might have reconsidered..."
"Well, make it count, yeah? I'm in four oh six, you wanna charge that sh*t to me. Probably my fault, anyway. Part of of it, at least."
"I can swing it."
"I'm sure. Couple for the road might not hurt, though. You'll probably want 'em after what's left to come."
"Are you ever not a d*ck?"
"Dunno. You'll have to ask the wife. Four oh six. No joke, but...ah, don't come knockin' alright? It's late, and I'm fine enough to get ahead on my own merits."
No Revolution
There's always been this sorta underlyin' implication that I got somethin' against the WFWF as a whole.
Nothin' could be further from the truth.
I figure if someone like Josh Dean ultimately mustered up the balls to say it, then there ain't much of a stretch in assumin' that the lot of you've been thinkin' it for some time now. Right? I mean, he's the stupid son of a b*tch type who'd be the one to blurt out in class that everyone thought the teacher was fat even though the rest of the kids knew that the joke only worked on the down low, lest they all suffer the wrath of the schoolyard talk reachin' the wrong set of ears, so it only stands to reason that in some weird sorta twist on where one might expect to find Dean's fortitude in a situation where the entire locker room'd be made to look the fool, he'd be at the f*ckin' forefront of it all, playin' the biggest horse's ass.
Not that it much f*ckin' matters.
Contrary to what any self righteous twat like Josh is gonna try and pass off as fact, I don't get how any of you, whether you're sittin' in the locker room or out in the crowd, could ever figure I got anything but love for this joint. Check this - where else in the world can some dumb f*ck kid from Southie, who ain't ever learned sh*t outside of what they might cap off at the secondary level or what he might've picked up along the way at the business end of a fist out in the streets, take all that hard got wisdom, without a second's worth of any additional trainin', turn in a couple of well placed haymakers, and land on his feet as cleanly as I have?
You think I hate this place? Mother f*cker, I was made for this place.
Sh*t, there's days I wake up even kinda likin' this sh*t.
Look, times were tough for a while there. I ain't gonna sit here and try and deny that flat out. The tapes exist, and ain't nobody who lived through it is gonna need themselves a refresher course, so let's just call it what it is and leave it at that. I might've said some ruthless sh*t, but hey - I'm a changed man, yeah? I ain't about to try and play up like I had some big come to Christ moment or nothin', but there's definitely a sense of appreciation followin' my ass around that maybe wasn't there before, and I ain't gonna sit here and make like I haven't made a pretty fine livin' for myself beatin' the holy hell outta people and gettin' myself a fair pay outta the deal. Hittin' fast and hittin' hard has paid off particularly well for me this past year, and I'd be remiss to sit and try and act like I got some sorta vendetta against the avenues that have allowed me to do so.
So I'll be god damned if I'm gonna let some self important hack like Joe Bishop f*ck that up for me.
I ain't ever had time for guys like Joe Bishop. Anybody who's ever found 'emselves bound to a fight has probably come across the guy who hides away behind the notion that there's some sort of boundaries to the way business of a physical nature ought to be conducted, tryin' to give 'emselves some sorta elevated nature on account of exactly how it is they conduct 'emselves when push come to shove.
That's b*tch sh*t. Cowardice, plain and simple.
Joe Bishop's world would revolve around Joe Bishop gettin' everything Joe Bishop'd like to have because Joe Bishop fights a certain f*ckin' way. Look, for my money? I don't give a sh*t how it is Joe Bishop, or any one of you out back for that matter, wants to go out their and settle your scores. I figure after enough time here, I've been hit with just about everything down to the kitchen sink. Doesn't make a f*ck to me, so long as I'm the one standin' tall when all's said and done.
Think that's maybe the difference?
I can't imagine anyone worth their salt in a fight wantin' to lay down a set of rules edged entirely in their favor unless they had some serious f*ckin' doubts as to whether or not they were capable enough to get the job done. Joe talks a big enough game about bein' the purist or whatever the f*ck he's off about this week the WFWF has sorely been lacking and that he's gonna lead by example and stir up a revolution - as if we ain't heard that f*ckin' line outta him before - that'll one day lend itself to only the best and brightest who fight just like Joe Bishop bein' awarded for their efforts.
C'mon, Joe - is that the best you've got?
We all know that in this fantasy world of yours wherein you dictate the fight that every last competitor brings to the ring, you'd be the World Champion in right f*ckin' fashion. Why the hell else would you be clamorin' for such an otherwise asinine sort of setup? The sad underlyin' story - the real one that you ain't been so forward about - is that when all the dust clears and all the pins are counted, gettin' your hands on the variables is the only way you're ever gonna shatter that little self imposed glass ceiling of yours, Joe.
It's pretty pathetic, really. I have to pause and wonder, in as competitive and ruthless a sport as what we do can be, how you manage to muster the f*ckin' courage to show your delicate little face in that locker room, runnin' off at the mouth the way you do about the sort of "shambles" this place is in, seemingly over your own ingrained inability to get with the f*ckin' times and put up a decent enough fight to hold that spot at the top. I mean, f*ck - is this how you're plannin' on trashin' that aura of bein' the guy that "could" be somethin' bigger? By blamin' the state of things around you for your own f*ckin' shortcomings? That's low, Joe. That's...damn, I don't even know, man. I'd like to brand that sh*t "Dex Low", but even that mother f*cker had the audacity to own his own losses, even if he did keep on comin' back for more.
Sh*t like this? This "revolution" of yours? It's why you'll never be anything more than second best. You're spendin' all this energy of yours worryin' your pretty little head about how others went about landin' the success they've found without sparin' a single passin' moment to wonder how the f*ck it is you haven't, which, maybe ironically, is the answer you should be chasin' after right there within.
Don't get me wrong - I'm right there with you. I think I've already said before that I'd be hard pressed to come up with enough vile terms to properly elaborate just how little I think of guys like Kyzer, Drakz, your daddy Trace, Schneider - the whole lot of 'em. It barely scratches the surface to call 'em scum, dirt, spam, really, whatever nasty sorta term you wanna use. F*ckin' ain't a soul alive out back, save for maybe the ones tryin' to hitch up their wagons thinkin' that'll be their quickest road to success - and we've both been there, am I right? - that's gonna come out and try and defend the characteristic honor of any of those f*cks, and rightfully f*ckin' so. But you? Nah, you seem to wanna hit 'em in the one place you've got next to no f*ckin' case to hold water, and that's their success over yours.
You wanna know why guys like Isaac Cray keep on winning?
You wanna know why guys like me keep on winning?
We fight harder, b*tch.
I don't doubt that you can wrap me up in seven different submissions 'til Sunday, each one culled from a different part of the world. I don't doubt that ten out of ten times, your footwork is fancier, your ring awareness is more on point, your technical acumen is more refined, and a moment's notice, you could pull out any number of exotic moves honed to perfection in places I ain't ever heard of. In a bout of sheer showmanship, you win every time, Joe. You don't need to make the case for yourself - I'm here to confirm it for you. You are, always have been, and always will be a better wrestler than me.
But I bet I can hit you harder.
That pedigree of notches in your worldly belt might hold a lot of water to some folk, but as far as I'm concerned, all that matters when we're standin' across the ring from one another is whether or not I think I can take you, and in case you've been livin' under a rock somewhere?
I can.
I have no doubt in my mind that I've got everything I need to give you a fight that'll leave you beggin' for the opportunity to get your ass handed back to you another couple hundred times by Trace Demon. No uncertain number of holds or maneuvers is gonna change the fact that all my Sunday plans involve stompin' holes in your face so deep they'd make the Massachusetts Department of Transportation blush. You could fill another dozen passports before you'll ever find me losin' a second's worth of sleep over the fact that you and I are on a collision course born of circumstance and dumb f*ckin' luck. You'll have the world's first doctorate in technical wrestling proficiency before I give a single, solitary f*ck about where you've been, who you've beaten, or who you've studied under because for every last iota of wrestling prowess you think you've got over me, I've got another fist to the face tellin' you that there ain't a bit of that what's gonna find you leavin' Ultimate Supremacy with that belt in your hands.
Who you gonna blame that one on, Joe?
Some Fatherly Advice
Part II
Then
"Do you know what it is that really shakes 'em down to their core?"
I didn't.
The truth is, beyond just not havin' the answers to Jack's cryptic f*ckin' questions, more often than not I didn't have clue f*ckin' one as to what he was talking' about. I'm sure he liked that just fine. Jack liked to talk in a way that, at least from his perspective, made peoples' heads spin. It was one of the thousand some odd nuances that stacked on top of one another to create the five foot nine pule of sh*t that was Jack Brennan. I guess he figured maybe if people were exhaustin' all their energy tryin' to make sense or sort out of whatever the f*ck it was he was sayin', it might leave him the openin' he needed to hit 'em just the way he wanted to.
He was kind of a sick f*ck, really.
'They', of course, were everyone around us. I'd only been home a few weeks, havin' handed in my four years to Uncle Sam without anything even resemblin' an exit plan, which meant, bein' the good son and all, knockin' down Jack's door and seein' what it is he had to offer. I dunno if he had some sorta conscience buried somewhere deep within the rot that made him who he was or somethin' to that effect that lead him to shield me from ever gettin' my feet wet with any of his sloppier work assignments, but that summer, I somehow found myself in the fortuitous position of collectin' a paycheck for little more than accompanyin' Jack on his little strolls throughout town.
Lemme tell you - for an old son of a b*tch, that mother f*cker could walk.
'Observations', he called 'em. The way Jack saw it, the whole city belonged to him in some roundabout sorta way, so he may as well keep abreast as to what's goin' down from the bottom on up. If you'd ask him, he'd probably tell you Menino got the idea from him. In three months, I'd seen more of that city than I had in all my twenty one years. I'd seen the deepest crevices of places I thought I'd known like the back of my hand. I'd seen places I'd never known to exist, and brother, by that summer's end, I could walk through Kenmore Square on game day f*ckin' blindfolded.
That piece of sh*t hadn't taken me to a game since I was a kid, but damned if we didn't walk that neighborhood every night the Sox were home. Jack f*ckin' loved that bit. You ever figure that one out, you give me a shout - far as I knew he couldn't give two f*cks about the game itself. Maybe it was the atmosphere. All those eyes on him - and they always f*ckin' were - that was the sorta sh*t Jack lived for. Whatever it was, it put that extra little pep in his step that was really f*ckin' creepy to see for yourself if you had any sorta inkling - and everyone did - just how sick this son of a b*tch truly was.
"That weird f*ckin' way you're walkin'?"
"Always with the smartass."
"Who's jokin'? Sh*t'a creepy as f*ck, Jack. Like you're gonna start slicin' folk like butter at any second."
"Should I not?"
That was f*ckin' Jackie. I dunno if he'd ever been seen, like...professionally...but I know a few shrinks who'd have loved to have gotten their hands on him. You never knew - I figure that, then and there, he was jokin', but I'd be a fool to have been surprised if he straight up busted out that week's favorite blade and just started cuttin' a path down Landsdowne.
I settled for an exasperated shake of the head. I may have been flesh and blood, but I was maybe two months removed from a four year stretch surrounded by the type of folk who'd have been happy to have taken my head for trophy on account of the flag on my shoulder. It wasn't outta the realm of imagination that, what with his crazy ass eyes and weird as jaunt, Jack might be eyein' the chance to do the same.
"So...?"
"So what?"
Old ass forgetful mother f*cker...
"You were shakin' peoples' cores..."
"Ah, right! Not even a guess?"
"Think I'd have said by now."
"Heh. Brennan blood. Look at 'em."
We always f*ckin' did this. 'Look at 'em, kid'. Somehow, Jack was under some sorta delusion that I'd somehow made it twenty one years in this town without noticin' every beady set of ugly ass eyes stickin' to me like glue everywhere I went on account of the son of a b*tch who went and decided he was gonna lay risky one night.
"They hate it."
"You ain't exactly in an endearin' line of work Jack."
"Please - what would they do without the local flavor of car wreck television? They don't give a f*ck what it is I do."
"So what's that look then? Adoration? You didn't exactly hand out attractive genetics, y'know."
"Adoration...that's envy, Davey. The green eyed monster. Not a soul in that park gives a f*ck one way or the other how it is I've made my way. They just hate that I, given the choice, get away with it."
"Yeah? And why's that?"
Playin' the role. Bein' Jacky's personal conversationalist wasn't exactly thrillin', especially after four hot years in the desert, but it paid well, and...sh*t...you know how some people, once they get goin', there just ain't no stoppin' 'em?
Jack f*ckin' Brennan, right there.
"C'mon, Davey - you remember how soft the court of public opinion went on Billy Bulger, right?"
"Thought he was on the lam."
"Get your small timers straight - that's Whitey. Billy's his brother. Runs that school."
"He talked to him..."
"...knew you had something up there. Could've blown the whole case wide open. Think he didn't know where Jimmy was? That's like Messy pretendin' he doesn't know we're here right now. Point is, that sort of stunt? That's complicity in the highest degree."
"So?"
"So, these eyeballing mother f*ckers around us all but know he could have handed in Boston's biggest small time crook, but aside from your Howie Carrs and such, no one was clamoring for his head on a platter."
"And the pièce de résistance?"
"Billy's a good looking kid, ain't he? Dresses nice,
plays his money right..."
"You're an idiot."
You think you're some hot sh*t, even at twenty one. Like you know everything. I figured as such. You've made it past that age, you probably did too. Thing is, you're just a f*ckin' kid. Jacky had a long, drawn out way of makin' a simple f*ckin' point, but sh*t - he had a point.
People look kindly upon the right look. All comes back to Boston, but look at that Central Square kid who torched the f*ckin' marathon. Kid's a dyed in the wool f*ckin' ISIS militant, took out three innocents and a kid tryin' to make his way into the force, and even still - right in town, even - he's got a cadre of folk who thinks he's just too damn pretty to be a real terrorist.
Even when I started - all them years ago on that train, makin' my way out to meet up with the circus, day f*ckin' one against big Randell Benjamin, Jack was still tryin' to beat this sh*t into my head, and brother, I just wasn't havin' it. I figured Jacky was just bein' his old racist self - if you knew him, it ain't that outlandish an idea - but lookin' back, for a right piece of sh*t, he had himself a fair number of points. I was still playin' up the skinhead card pretty heavy then, which don't mean much to anyone unless you're some boneheaded f*ck that thinks that carries an implication, and Jacky figured I was divin' into hot f*ckin' water squarin' up against a brother man.
I hate lettin' him be right, even in death, but it took drinkin' myself into oblivion to shake that stigma.
"Two f*cking kids, each one thinks he's god's gift to intellectualism. Call me when you're figuring on changing your name."
"Might be worth a look."
"Won't matter. You said it yourself, Davey - bad genetics. You'll always be a Brennan, kid."
Fall in Line
Y'know what's funny about this whole new champ, new era thing?
I mean, aside from the fact that all that sh*t people used to talk about me bein' on a crash course with the WFWF Championship is about to come to pass.
Nah, what's funny here is that, even if by some miracle, Joe Bishop comes out there and fights harder, hits harder, and shows the world that, for once, he wants that sh*t more and that he ain't gonna be content to try and bury his shortcomings beneath someone else for a change, it ain't gonna make a lick of f*ckin' difference.
Ain't gonna matter.
Joe's on this rampage over makin' sure folk like me don't come to represent this place to the public. I dunno if that's just another leg on his little warpath of self righteousness or if we're dealin' in some whole new sorta deficiency here wherein Joe's fancyin' himself the world's guardian from the realm of reality, but he's made pretty f*ckin' clear, least as far as I can see between the lines, that he thinks it's time someone 'proper' become the oh-so-revered 'face of the WFWF'.
B*tch, I am the face of the WFWF.
Take a look around yourself.
Start with the mirror.
Got yourself any hardware lately, Joe?
Glance around the room. Go ahead and use those judgmental little eyes you look at us all through for all I f*ckin' care.
Who's carryin' this sh*t, Joe?
You think the folks at home are tunin' in to see 'The Golden Opportunity Champion'?
You think the gate is gettin' inflated on account of some has been MMA fighter who puts more effort into his own shoestring budget endeavors than he ever has in a WFWF ring?
You think anyone is sittin' in those stands, waitin' with bated breath hopin' for the return of Josh f*ckin' Dean to give 'me cause to leap to their feet?
Hell, maybe Mike Hickebottom'll do a show this week on another entry in the passport of ol' Joe Bishop.
I sincerely f*ckin' doubt it, right across the board.
The fact is, whether you or anyone else out there wants to accept it, I've been carryin' this company on my back since the lights went down in Pasadena and Drakz got hauled off to wherever it is they keep two time invalid has beens these days. For a guy so rooted in tradition, you've got a conveniently short attention span, overlookin' the fact that in a world, even as twisted, backward, and safe as yours, where the champions make the brand, I am literally all this company has got. You can make whatever Lila Sleater sponsored case you want against my reign as Tag Team Champion, but the fact remains that bullsh*t circumstance and Sleater tryin' to make like she's one of the boys and suddenly managed to grow a pair doesn't make a f*ck against the fact that, to date, no one out back has stepped up and tried to take these belts off of me the old fashioned way. Lucas Crowe hasn't even had the stones to show his face since eatin' the pin at SuperBrawl, which tells me all I need to f*ckin' know as far as the fortitude out back goes, and I think it sings a pretty harmonious tune in time with the line of folks who've stepped up to the place since tryin' to make their bones against the only pieces of gold not up for grabs in some hamfisted, pre-fixed tournament for show.
They all recognize - maybe it's time you did, too.
I'm not just the face of the WFWF, Joe...
...I am the WFWF.
I can't imagine how much that eats you up inside. It's gotta be bad enough, knowin' how much clout I carry to the ring each and every night, but the fact that even if you were to somehow take ahold of my year long undefeated streak, break with all precedence - which has never been your strong suit - and show the world the Joe Bishop they always thought might someday, maybe, possibly become the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion, you'll still pale in comparison to the fact it'll still be me doin' all the heavy liftin'. You can lift that belt as high as your little arms'll allow - higher than Malakai hoisted Dex up like a newborn cub off the edge of Pride Rock - and you still won't be able to outshine the fact that I'm single handedly holdin' down sixty six point six percent of the f*ckin' marquee, and that even as the reignin', defendin', undisputed WFWF Champion, you'll still just be a footnote to all I've done this year.
Me.
David f*ckin' Brennan.
Don't think I don't know.
You can go on and on, never utterin' my name, almost as if the truth is too much to bear, and I'll still be here, the livin', breathin', sole embodiment of everything you've professed to hate about the WFWF, outshinin' you at every turn.
You get it, right?
You want a revolution, Joe?
You're gonna have to kill me.
Does that fit your mold?
For generations, my family has made their name buckin' tradition wherever it tries to rear its ugly head. You don't need to look twice to know we don't fit any sort of predetermined branding methodology. The Brennan name is synonymous with tellin' whatever system it is tryin' to fit our square pegs into a round hole to kindly f*ck 'emselves sideways.
All this? It's just destiny waitin' to happen.
Maybe it's time you do what you do best, and fall in line, Joe.