Post by Prophet of Ash on Apr 25, 2017 10:12:42 GMT -5
Both men back to their feet. Big right from Schneider. Drakz throws a hard left. Both men are ripped to ribbons and bleeding from every spot possible. The ring is an absolute war zone. Drakz throws a spinning back elbow that catches Schneider flush. Schneider is spun around from the impact. Scoop into a death valley driver position from Drakz. He's going for Needle Damage into the pile of hell. Schneider slides out of it. Boot to the stomach from Schneider. Inverted full nelson lift from Schneider. Schneider walks Drakz over, stepping up onto the corner of the blocks and dropping Drakz with Beverly Kills 90210 into the needles and gusset plates laid across cement blocks.
Alecia Matthews: FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT'S GOOD! STOP THE DAMN MATCH!
Cameron Stone: Needles and gusset plates laid across cement blocks, no give what so ever, and Drakz just took Beverly Kills 90210 on it all. That's gotta be it.
Schneider rolls Drakz out of all of the mayhem. A gusset plate is completely embedded in Drakz's back and two needles have pierced the flesh of his shoulders. A little off from center ring, Schneider makes a cover. Referee down for the count, 1......2........3.
Alecia Matthews: That's three.
The bell sounds. Schneider slowly rises to his feet. Christa Adina comes over the P/A system to make the announcement official.
Christa Adina: Your winner of this match and the NEW WFWF Heavyweight Champion of the World, Phillip SCHNEIDER!
Cameron Stone: He rolled the dice, he went all in, and it paid off. For the third time, Phillip Schneider is the WFWF Heavyweight Champion.
Alecia Matthews: The match at Superbrawl has gone down as one of the best catch as catch can matches in WFWF history. This one may go down as the most barbaric.
Drakz slowly stirring. He's trying to get the items stuck in his back out. Medics have rolled into the ring to try to tend to both Schneider and Drakz. Drakz is willing to accept the aid removing the foreign objects from his flesh. Schneider has the championship belt in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He dumps a bunch of water over his head, clearing his face and chest of some blood for about three seconds before the wounds immediately cover what he just washed again. Medics are trying to check on Schneider. He brushes them away. Schneider is staring down at Drakz. Drakz extends his hand. And Schneider kicks his hand, simply rolling out of the ring with the title belt in tow.
That's how it went in my mind, at least. That's how it continues to play out in my mind, as I sit in Methodist hospital in Indianapolis. I've been to hospitals countless times over the years for my own injuries. And I'm here today for surgery. That's nothing new either. But today is different. It's different because it's not me going under the knife. It's not me dealing with anesthesia. It's not me laid up in the hospital.
Introspection is needed in a time like this, because it's the WFWF that brings us here, his friends, his family. It's pro wrestling that caused this to be needed. This is the fixing of years of constant pain for him. This is fixing a potentially life threatening issue.
As my career came to a close, it was Percy that was feeling the ramifications from the years of abuse. Percy's body was somehow more banged up than mine and the week in and week out travel further irritated the injuries he sustained in his career. Percy's in ring career came to a close due to compressed discs in his back that could've potentially severed his spinal cord, injuries he sustained in a match with me, though doctors have stated numerous times that it was cumulative damage from the years of in ring abuse. The car rides, the bus rides, the plane rides.. They've caused the compressed discs to compress further and fragment. Percy's been in constant pain and never left my side and that's why I am here by his side today.
I brought a book along with me, as seems customary for a hospital waiting room, though I haven't opened it since arriving. My mind keeps drifting whenever I try to open it, drifting back to the wars of yesteryear. Drifting away and wondering what has brought Percy to this situation. Wondering what's brought me here. I find myself an introverted pariah in this hospital room. Despite being Percy's best friend and long time employer, his family looks at me as the reason he's in this situation in the first place. Not because it was my hands that caused the injuries in ring, but because I'm the one who dragged him into the wrestling business in the first place. Then after Percy was hurt. After I knew he shouldn't be around it any more, after I knew he was in constant pain traveling.. I kept him on the road, so he could run cheap interference in my championship matches. I can understand their anger and frustration with me.
This is my first time back in the states in about a year. It's strange being back here. It's like reentering a lost world for me though. In Japan, I was just gaijin. I'm the weird blonde gaijin with money. And when I couldn't find the hair dye I liked, I blended in even more with natural dark hair. Here, I'm Phillip Schneider, this mythical person. This wrestling legend. Despite my biggest career win coming in Japan, somehow, that's where civilian life was easier for me. No one looked at me with these judgmental, angry eyes. No one thought of me as this destructive vortex of violence, a reputation I carved for myself in the flesh of my foes. I was just Phil.
My mind's wandered again and probably for a while, because most everyone has left the waiting room, though I'm not entirely sure how many of the people here were here for Percy or for other surgeries. I'm never very comfortable in these situations because I don't know who's here for my people or who's here for other situations and I don't feel comfortable engaging them. Within pro wrestling, I'm boisterous and outspoken, but within private moments, I just want people to leave me alone.
There is one familiar face still here though. It's Sam. Sam is front and center in front of me, in fact.
“Dad. Dad! Get up Dad! They're saying Percy's paralyzed, get up!”
Her voice echos through my ears. It registers with me, but somehow, I don't even make eye contact with her. This is my penance for the evil I've done. Nothing can be taken away from me. Taking the belt, taking my career, it wasn't punishment. They know they have to do worse. They're taking Percy. Sam disappears into the hospital foreground like a specter as time continues to blur and warp around me.
June 2015
I don't even know who I am any more.
Over the last three months I've seen my entire being as a person change and shape before my very eyes. The things that once defined me exclusively as a person are now simply relics and memories of my past, stories that I can look back on and tell stories about with the mementos and trophies to back up the stories too ridiculous to be true otherwise. The scars to justify every action. But was it all worth it?
That's what I've been forced to ask myself over and over. Was it all worth it? Was it worth it to go after Drakz a second time for the title? Was another title shot worth risking my entire career? Was my “entire career” worth the twelve years of my life I poured into it? Most people who work at a job for twelve years gain valuable life experiences that they can take on to another job. What's the natural progression from pro wrestling?
I've been largely quiet since that night. Everyone's expected some sort of resolution to the Phillip Schneider story and frankly there isn't one. There isn't a resolution to a story that never truly had a beginning, a middle, or an end. In Hollywood and fairytales, there's a happily ever after or the evil is vanquished once and for all and everyone goes home happy but unfortunately the real world isn't so cut and dry. And by in ring standards, yeah, my career is over. Drakz pinned my shoulders to the mat and by the prematch stipulations, I'm no longer a professional wrestler. But the problem is, I have to live with myself still. Phillip Schneider, pro wrestler, is gone forever but he leaves behind a frame of a man that was built for the last decade around that idea of the Prophet of Ash, the King of Gore, the Heretic Hero, Obo the Hobo, whatever else. This entire idea and thought process was the catalyst for everything I did in my life and without it there I've been aloof. I'm realizing a lot of things opponents said about me are true. I am paranoid. Scared. Anxious. Depressed. I do have anger issues. Parental trust issues, both with my own parents and with my kids. Because how the
does someone raise kids when the themselves were never raised?
You've seen the last of Phillip Schneider as an in ring competitor. And you've seen the last of me as a trainer, too. But I can't abandon everything. I can't. There's too much of me left on that canvas to just walk away clean. Since 2003, I've bled, sweat, cried, and nearly every other possible bodily fluid that one can exhume on that canvas and to walk away with absolutely nothing to show for it outside of two rings on my fingers and a plaque that says I did good is disgustingly terrifying. This idea that it was all a wash. That everything went in a big circle. That it's business as usual with the WFWF minus Phillip Schneider but what kind of business does Phillip Schneider keep minus the WFWF?
“She's saying the yakuza is going to kill you if you ever step foot in Japan again, man. What exactly did you do on your way out?”
Percy has that judgmental Dad look in his eyes as he looks up from the laptop screen. I went mostly radio silent in Japan. Chen seemed like such a nice girl when I met her, and to everyone on the outside. Exactly what I needed in my life. Nice, quiet. Submissive. Everything that makes a good Japanese housewife, that was Chen. So when people seen me with Chen, it was natural. She needed a strong willed older man to tell her exactly what to do and when to do it, and I needed some cute arm candy to keep me busy and away from wrestling. It was a natural fit.
Chen's brother didn't think it was such a natural fit though. He didn't fancy his one baby sister with a gaijin, much less a gaijin covered in tattoos and scars. Not that he was against tattoos, his half sleeves on both arms said differently. But somehow, his little sister was supposed to have better than him and his equally tattooed friends. Little did I know who his friends were.
“I didn't do anything Percy. I didn't do anything to her.”
“I find that really hard to believe given your track record, man”
I didn't do anything to her that she didn't ask me to do first. The marks, she asked me for every one of them. Even when she couldn't through the tears, she asked me for every single one of them. This isn't a “read between the lines” sort of thing, she literally asked me to. I told her brother that. And that was the prelude to him flying through that Kawaii vendor's front window. Don't swing on me, bub. It's a really bad idea.
She liked it. She loved that I was stronger than her. That I could move her where ever I wanted whether she liked it or not at the time. She loved the way I could absolutely dominate her, physically and mentally. Such a weak little girl. I learned this later on, but I liked that too. I loved the way I could manipulate her, and I loved the way she wanted to be manipulated. And I thought I had her brother and his thug friends manipulated too. Until they showed up at our apartment with katanas. Live by the sword, die by the sword, right JD?
“It was all consensual, you know how I am.”
“How consensual?”
“Entirely”
The pictures and videos of her getting pissed on is what really set her brother off. And when I laughed in his face when he said “YOU DIE, PHIRRIP”. Silly Engrish speaking goon. Who knew seeing his sister on her knees getting pissed on would bring shame to his whole family. It'd bring shame to him, more importantly, and to show he wasn't the type of push over that he was being portrayed as, he had to be a big man to his gangster friends. He had to go after the King of Gore.
“What about the car accident, man? A car doesn't get that screwed up just driving to the grocery store.”
“I was being chased.”
“By the yakuza?”
“Maybe.”
I knew I was outnumbered. Piss off one yakuza, piss them all off. Unless you pissed one off by doing something for another, but that's a different story. That night in Osaka, I knew I pissed off the wrong people. I knew even if I knocked the piss out of Jun, his friends wielding pistols and swords would avenge him. The avenging, that's the bit of Japanese culture I never got. But I also knew I was still an American. Americans have rights. And my visa was about up anyways. Sayonara, Chen-san. Once behind the gates of the Consulate office that night, I knew I'd be flying home soon. That car left wrapped around the tree? Not my problem. And I'm sure that kid will get the motorcycle back sometime. But home, what is home?”
“I don't want to talk about it, Percy. Just know I'm not going back to Japan any time soon.”
The real bitch of Trace Demon being in charge was that I didn't like Trace and he didn't like me. Might have to do with the fact I tried to cripple him more than once. Might have to do with the sand in his vagina. But having a boss who doesn't particularly care for you can make life a real son of a bitch. Especially when you have “contract issues”. Namely, a document that says I'm not allowed to be a wrestler for the WFWF. But wouldn't you know, when the corrupt president got impeached and at the same time, Darwinism sorted Drakz out, that document disappeared from WFWF offices. What kind of corporation keeps only one copy of sensitive documents, and actually keeps paper copies? It's 2017. But these sort of clerical errors shouldn't be scrutinized, no, they should be celebrated. Because see, this has kicked the door open for your savior to return. And as I walk through the doors, a silent observer to everything, I realize that the booking of this place has not improved one bit.
This is Phillip Schneider, in DCs and not wrestling boots talking. Do you understand how unbelievably frustrating it has to have a distinct lack of focus for an entire programming cycle, then try to motivate yourself to go out and do these incredible things? To be told ten different stories about what's going on behind the scenes and they all have these political motivations to them and none of them are accurate. As the Heavyweight Champion of the World, it drove me crazy. You find a top contender, you say he's the top contender, then you give me a chance to say “hey look dude, I don't like you and when the money is set on the table and the contracts are signed, we're going to go at it.”. Instead there was always some sort of roundabout convoluted sort of nonsense. Do you know why there are so few fresh matches and top contenders to the championship? Out of the last twenty PPV main events, how many championship matches have been one on one encounters? How many have had more than three participants? I'd be willing to wager it's a higher than 1:1 ratio and that's off of the top of my head.
So while I greatly look forward to the pending David Brennan versus Joe Bishop championship encounter, I cringe at the fact it took four weeks of convoluted round robin tournament action with a mirade of forgettable matches to get to this point. Was a top ten really a thing in the WFWF? Really? Cause I looked at that tournament from the start and knew block A was coming down to Bishop and Demon and block B was coming down to Ante and Brennan, though I had my wagers on a Demon versus Ante championship encounter. But now we're here. And the fallout is that history will show Hugh Jass as a top contender for the WFWF championship for a period of several months.
People have asked me since this match was made “why Hugh Jass, why not Ante Whitner, why not Trace Demon, why aren't you going for the title again”. We'll answer these in inverted order, because that's the simplest way.
I want the title back. I love the prestige to the championship and I love having the unarguable right to say I am the best in the world at what I do. I hate everything about the championship. I hate the fact that being the champion, everyone thinks they have the right to gun for you. I hate the fact that everyone thinks THEY should be the heir to the throne when the seat hasn't been switched. I hate the politics. I hate the fact that the championship contenders are constantly determined through convoluted and redundant situations that last weeks and months at a time like the recent championship series. I hate the fact that the number one contender to the biggest show of the year is determined by an open invitation battle royal, not the rightful number one contender who has won wrestling matches week in, week out, and defeated everyone in front of them. It's an over the top rope battle royal with a lottery draw staggered entry. Might as well just make the Superbrawl main event a lottery all together and simplify the process.
Why not Trace Demon? I hate Trace Demon. I hate to see his face. When I'm in an arena he's in, I'll dress in the boiler room instead of the locker rooms so that I don't see him. I hate his smile. I hate his gear. I hate his cologne. I hate everything about him. But at this particular moment, he hasn't motivated me to want to decimate him in any way prior to the last time I beat him until he looked at me and said “yes sir, whatever you say sir, right away sir”. So while it gives me wet dreams to be the one to end Trace's career, that's a card to flip on the table at another day.
Why not Ante Whitner? I don't hate Ante Whitner. I get motivated to compete through anger. I want to go out there and be the last opponent anyone who steps into the ring with me has. I want to end every single person's career I step in the ring with and with Ante Whitner, I don't have these feelings. I look at Ante the way that people looked at Hutton Brown and looked at Johnny Knight. Everyone hyped those two up as the next big thing, the biggest thing, unlimited potential and the next GOAT. Then they tangled with me. They crossed the Cursed Prophet and they were never seen again. I don't want that for Ante, because I see him filling the role that everyone else thought Hutton and Knight were going to fill, the future of this company. I'm not around much any more. Drakz comes and goes as his body is breaking down. When was the last time Kyzer wrestled a match? The WFWF needs reliable hands who are excellent at what they do and will carry this company for the next ten years. That's what I see Ante as. I look at Ante Whitner and I see Phillip Schneider from ten years ago, this hungry young kid ready to smash the glass ceiling. And I'm willing to hand him the hammer. Nothing more.
“So why Hugh Jass? Of everyone in the WFWF, why Hugh Jass?” It's a fair question from my closest friend. Percy looks me down from his wheelchair, trying to get a read on the situation while outright asking for the information, but knowing he isn't going to get the answer. It's a complicated question to answer. After being away from the ring for so long, why would I pick on a comedy character who's struggled to gain any real footing? Percy picks at his eggs while he tries to come up with the way to ask another question without getting a direct answer to the first one.
“Ya know Phil, there are guys with a background that you could go after. If you just want to prove a point, you don't have to go after the bottom of the totem pole any more. There's guys you can make some money with on the roster right now that aren't going to give the biggest threat or competition. You know, still fish in a barrell. You don't have to go after Ante.”
“I don't want Ante, Percy. I want Hugh Jass. I am going to kill Hugh Jass.”
With a quizzical look on his face, Percy chokes down the bite of eggs and ham he's just stuffed into his gullet. “But why him man?”
“He's the biggest problem in the WFWF right now. He's the first problem I need to fix to make things right.”
Percy chuckles a little bit, taking a sip of water before following up, “How is he a problem? Because he won that battle royal?”
“That no one entered, yes. That's patient zero. But the entire idea of Hugh Jass makes me angry. The idea of him calling himself a Bart Simpson dialing Moe'sTavern name. Hey guys, I'm coming for Hugh Jass! Yeah, I like booty, just look at Meg, but I also like titties. That's the problem. How is anyone supposed to gain ground when they're expected to cut a serious interview on Hugh Jass. Is their next opponent IP Freely? Ivana Humpalot? This funny guy stuff has had it's time. Hear of Los Hobos? Funny's done. And funny as a top guy act? Yeah, how's that work? What'd funny get you Percy? A Hall of Fame ring and an electric wheelchair.”
Percy bows his head, looking down at the ring on his finger resting over the controls for his wheelchair.
“Is wrestling funny Percy? Haha, funny, goofy silly comedy stuff? Look at the clown? Is that why you've spent the last ten years in pain, and the six months in that chair? You're never going to walk again, Percy! YOU ARE A GOD DAMN CRIPPLE NOW PERCY! It's wrestling's fault. It's the WFWF's fault. Is that funny?!”
Percy looks up at me. He's got a tear bubbling out of the side of his eye. I think he gets it now.
“....no”
“You see what I have to do now, right Percy?”
“....yes”
“So why Hugh Jass, Percy?”
“Because it has to be done.”
“Who am I, Percy?”
“Phillip Schneider.”
“Because I'm Phillip Schneider.”
Alecia Matthews: FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT'S GOOD! STOP THE DAMN MATCH!
Cameron Stone: Needles and gusset plates laid across cement blocks, no give what so ever, and Drakz just took Beverly Kills 90210 on it all. That's gotta be it.
Schneider rolls Drakz out of all of the mayhem. A gusset plate is completely embedded in Drakz's back and two needles have pierced the flesh of his shoulders. A little off from center ring, Schneider makes a cover. Referee down for the count, 1......2........3.
Alecia Matthews: That's three.
The bell sounds. Schneider slowly rises to his feet. Christa Adina comes over the P/A system to make the announcement official.
Christa Adina: Your winner of this match and the NEW WFWF Heavyweight Champion of the World, Phillip SCHNEIDER!
Cameron Stone: He rolled the dice, he went all in, and it paid off. For the third time, Phillip Schneider is the WFWF Heavyweight Champion.
Alecia Matthews: The match at Superbrawl has gone down as one of the best catch as catch can matches in WFWF history. This one may go down as the most barbaric.
Drakz slowly stirring. He's trying to get the items stuck in his back out. Medics have rolled into the ring to try to tend to both Schneider and Drakz. Drakz is willing to accept the aid removing the foreign objects from his flesh. Schneider has the championship belt in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He dumps a bunch of water over his head, clearing his face and chest of some blood for about three seconds before the wounds immediately cover what he just washed again. Medics are trying to check on Schneider. He brushes them away. Schneider is staring down at Drakz. Drakz extends his hand. And Schneider kicks his hand, simply rolling out of the ring with the title belt in tow.
That's how it went in my mind, at least. That's how it continues to play out in my mind, as I sit in Methodist hospital in Indianapolis. I've been to hospitals countless times over the years for my own injuries. And I'm here today for surgery. That's nothing new either. But today is different. It's different because it's not me going under the knife. It's not me dealing with anesthesia. It's not me laid up in the hospital.
Introspection is needed in a time like this, because it's the WFWF that brings us here, his friends, his family. It's pro wrestling that caused this to be needed. This is the fixing of years of constant pain for him. This is fixing a potentially life threatening issue.
As my career came to a close, it was Percy that was feeling the ramifications from the years of abuse. Percy's body was somehow more banged up than mine and the week in and week out travel further irritated the injuries he sustained in his career. Percy's in ring career came to a close due to compressed discs in his back that could've potentially severed his spinal cord, injuries he sustained in a match with me, though doctors have stated numerous times that it was cumulative damage from the years of in ring abuse. The car rides, the bus rides, the plane rides.. They've caused the compressed discs to compress further and fragment. Percy's been in constant pain and never left my side and that's why I am here by his side today.
I brought a book along with me, as seems customary for a hospital waiting room, though I haven't opened it since arriving. My mind keeps drifting whenever I try to open it, drifting back to the wars of yesteryear. Drifting away and wondering what has brought Percy to this situation. Wondering what's brought me here. I find myself an introverted pariah in this hospital room. Despite being Percy's best friend and long time employer, his family looks at me as the reason he's in this situation in the first place. Not because it was my hands that caused the injuries in ring, but because I'm the one who dragged him into the wrestling business in the first place. Then after Percy was hurt. After I knew he shouldn't be around it any more, after I knew he was in constant pain traveling.. I kept him on the road, so he could run cheap interference in my championship matches. I can understand their anger and frustration with me.
This is my first time back in the states in about a year. It's strange being back here. It's like reentering a lost world for me though. In Japan, I was just gaijin. I'm the weird blonde gaijin with money. And when I couldn't find the hair dye I liked, I blended in even more with natural dark hair. Here, I'm Phillip Schneider, this mythical person. This wrestling legend. Despite my biggest career win coming in Japan, somehow, that's where civilian life was easier for me. No one looked at me with these judgmental, angry eyes. No one thought of me as this destructive vortex of violence, a reputation I carved for myself in the flesh of my foes. I was just Phil.
My mind's wandered again and probably for a while, because most everyone has left the waiting room, though I'm not entirely sure how many of the people here were here for Percy or for other surgeries. I'm never very comfortable in these situations because I don't know who's here for my people or who's here for other situations and I don't feel comfortable engaging them. Within pro wrestling, I'm boisterous and outspoken, but within private moments, I just want people to leave me alone.
There is one familiar face still here though. It's Sam. Sam is front and center in front of me, in fact.
“Dad. Dad! Get up Dad! They're saying Percy's paralyzed, get up!”
Her voice echos through my ears. It registers with me, but somehow, I don't even make eye contact with her. This is my penance for the evil I've done. Nothing can be taken away from me. Taking the belt, taking my career, it wasn't punishment. They know they have to do worse. They're taking Percy. Sam disappears into the hospital foreground like a specter as time continues to blur and warp around me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
June 2015
I don't even know who I am any more.
Over the last three months I've seen my entire being as a person change and shape before my very eyes. The things that once defined me exclusively as a person are now simply relics and memories of my past, stories that I can look back on and tell stories about with the mementos and trophies to back up the stories too ridiculous to be true otherwise. The scars to justify every action. But was it all worth it?
That's what I've been forced to ask myself over and over. Was it all worth it? Was it worth it to go after Drakz a second time for the title? Was another title shot worth risking my entire career? Was my “entire career” worth the twelve years of my life I poured into it? Most people who work at a job for twelve years gain valuable life experiences that they can take on to another job. What's the natural progression from pro wrestling?
I've been largely quiet since that night. Everyone's expected some sort of resolution to the Phillip Schneider story and frankly there isn't one. There isn't a resolution to a story that never truly had a beginning, a middle, or an end. In Hollywood and fairytales, there's a happily ever after or the evil is vanquished once and for all and everyone goes home happy but unfortunately the real world isn't so cut and dry. And by in ring standards, yeah, my career is over. Drakz pinned my shoulders to the mat and by the prematch stipulations, I'm no longer a professional wrestler. But the problem is, I have to live with myself still. Phillip Schneider, pro wrestler, is gone forever but he leaves behind a frame of a man that was built for the last decade around that idea of the Prophet of Ash, the King of Gore, the Heretic Hero, Obo the Hobo, whatever else. This entire idea and thought process was the catalyst for everything I did in my life and without it there I've been aloof. I'm realizing a lot of things opponents said about me are true. I am paranoid. Scared. Anxious. Depressed. I do have anger issues. Parental trust issues, both with my own parents and with my kids. Because how the
does someone raise kids when the themselves were never raised? You've seen the last of Phillip Schneider as an in ring competitor. And you've seen the last of me as a trainer, too. But I can't abandon everything. I can't. There's too much of me left on that canvas to just walk away clean. Since 2003, I've bled, sweat, cried, and nearly every other possible bodily fluid that one can exhume on that canvas and to walk away with absolutely nothing to show for it outside of two rings on my fingers and a plaque that says I did good is disgustingly terrifying. This idea that it was all a wash. That everything went in a big circle. That it's business as usual with the WFWF minus Phillip Schneider but what kind of business does Phillip Schneider keep minus the WFWF?
“She's saying the yakuza is going to kill you if you ever step foot in Japan again, man. What exactly did you do on your way out?”
Percy has that judgmental Dad look in his eyes as he looks up from the laptop screen. I went mostly radio silent in Japan. Chen seemed like such a nice girl when I met her, and to everyone on the outside. Exactly what I needed in my life. Nice, quiet. Submissive. Everything that makes a good Japanese housewife, that was Chen. So when people seen me with Chen, it was natural. She needed a strong willed older man to tell her exactly what to do and when to do it, and I needed some cute arm candy to keep me busy and away from wrestling. It was a natural fit.
Chen's brother didn't think it was such a natural fit though. He didn't fancy his one baby sister with a gaijin, much less a gaijin covered in tattoos and scars. Not that he was against tattoos, his half sleeves on both arms said differently. But somehow, his little sister was supposed to have better than him and his equally tattooed friends. Little did I know who his friends were.
“I didn't do anything Percy. I didn't do anything to her.”
“I find that really hard to believe given your track record, man”
I didn't do anything to her that she didn't ask me to do first. The marks, she asked me for every one of them. Even when she couldn't through the tears, she asked me for every single one of them. This isn't a “read between the lines” sort of thing, she literally asked me to. I told her brother that. And that was the prelude to him flying through that Kawaii vendor's front window. Don't swing on me, bub. It's a really bad idea.
She liked it. She loved that I was stronger than her. That I could move her where ever I wanted whether she liked it or not at the time. She loved the way I could absolutely dominate her, physically and mentally. Such a weak little girl. I learned this later on, but I liked that too. I loved the way I could manipulate her, and I loved the way she wanted to be manipulated. And I thought I had her brother and his thug friends manipulated too. Until they showed up at our apartment with katanas. Live by the sword, die by the sword, right JD?
“It was all consensual, you know how I am.”
“How consensual?”
“Entirely”
The pictures and videos of her getting pissed on is what really set her brother off. And when I laughed in his face when he said “YOU DIE, PHIRRIP”. Silly Engrish speaking goon. Who knew seeing his sister on her knees getting pissed on would bring shame to his whole family. It'd bring shame to him, more importantly, and to show he wasn't the type of push over that he was being portrayed as, he had to be a big man to his gangster friends. He had to go after the King of Gore.
“What about the car accident, man? A car doesn't get that screwed up just driving to the grocery store.”
“I was being chased.”
“By the yakuza?”
“Maybe.”
I knew I was outnumbered. Piss off one yakuza, piss them all off. Unless you pissed one off by doing something for another, but that's a different story. That night in Osaka, I knew I pissed off the wrong people. I knew even if I knocked the piss out of Jun, his friends wielding pistols and swords would avenge him. The avenging, that's the bit of Japanese culture I never got. But I also knew I was still an American. Americans have rights. And my visa was about up anyways. Sayonara, Chen-san. Once behind the gates of the Consulate office that night, I knew I'd be flying home soon. That car left wrapped around the tree? Not my problem. And I'm sure that kid will get the motorcycle back sometime. But home, what is home?”
“I don't want to talk about it, Percy. Just know I'm not going back to Japan any time soon.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The real bitch of Trace Demon being in charge was that I didn't like Trace and he didn't like me. Might have to do with the fact I tried to cripple him more than once. Might have to do with the sand in his vagina. But having a boss who doesn't particularly care for you can make life a real son of a bitch. Especially when you have “contract issues”. Namely, a document that says I'm not allowed to be a wrestler for the WFWF. But wouldn't you know, when the corrupt president got impeached and at the same time, Darwinism sorted Drakz out, that document disappeared from WFWF offices. What kind of corporation keeps only one copy of sensitive documents, and actually keeps paper copies? It's 2017. But these sort of clerical errors shouldn't be scrutinized, no, they should be celebrated. Because see, this has kicked the door open for your savior to return. And as I walk through the doors, a silent observer to everything, I realize that the booking of this place has not improved one bit.
This is Phillip Schneider, in DCs and not wrestling boots talking. Do you understand how unbelievably frustrating it has to have a distinct lack of focus for an entire programming cycle, then try to motivate yourself to go out and do these incredible things? To be told ten different stories about what's going on behind the scenes and they all have these political motivations to them and none of them are accurate. As the Heavyweight Champion of the World, it drove me crazy. You find a top contender, you say he's the top contender, then you give me a chance to say “hey look dude, I don't like you and when the money is set on the table and the contracts are signed, we're going to go at it.”. Instead there was always some sort of roundabout convoluted sort of nonsense. Do you know why there are so few fresh matches and top contenders to the championship? Out of the last twenty PPV main events, how many championship matches have been one on one encounters? How many have had more than three participants? I'd be willing to wager it's a higher than 1:1 ratio and that's off of the top of my head.
So while I greatly look forward to the pending David Brennan versus Joe Bishop championship encounter, I cringe at the fact it took four weeks of convoluted round robin tournament action with a mirade of forgettable matches to get to this point. Was a top ten really a thing in the WFWF? Really? Cause I looked at that tournament from the start and knew block A was coming down to Bishop and Demon and block B was coming down to Ante and Brennan, though I had my wagers on a Demon versus Ante championship encounter. But now we're here. And the fallout is that history will show Hugh Jass as a top contender for the WFWF championship for a period of several months.
People have asked me since this match was made “why Hugh Jass, why not Ante Whitner, why not Trace Demon, why aren't you going for the title again”. We'll answer these in inverted order, because that's the simplest way.
I want the title back. I love the prestige to the championship and I love having the unarguable right to say I am the best in the world at what I do. I hate everything about the championship. I hate the fact that being the champion, everyone thinks they have the right to gun for you. I hate the fact that everyone thinks THEY should be the heir to the throne when the seat hasn't been switched. I hate the politics. I hate the fact that the championship contenders are constantly determined through convoluted and redundant situations that last weeks and months at a time like the recent championship series. I hate the fact that the number one contender to the biggest show of the year is determined by an open invitation battle royal, not the rightful number one contender who has won wrestling matches week in, week out, and defeated everyone in front of them. It's an over the top rope battle royal with a lottery draw staggered entry. Might as well just make the Superbrawl main event a lottery all together and simplify the process.
Why not Trace Demon? I hate Trace Demon. I hate to see his face. When I'm in an arena he's in, I'll dress in the boiler room instead of the locker rooms so that I don't see him. I hate his smile. I hate his gear. I hate his cologne. I hate everything about him. But at this particular moment, he hasn't motivated me to want to decimate him in any way prior to the last time I beat him until he looked at me and said “yes sir, whatever you say sir, right away sir”. So while it gives me wet dreams to be the one to end Trace's career, that's a card to flip on the table at another day.
Why not Ante Whitner? I don't hate Ante Whitner. I get motivated to compete through anger. I want to go out there and be the last opponent anyone who steps into the ring with me has. I want to end every single person's career I step in the ring with and with Ante Whitner, I don't have these feelings. I look at Ante the way that people looked at Hutton Brown and looked at Johnny Knight. Everyone hyped those two up as the next big thing, the biggest thing, unlimited potential and the next GOAT. Then they tangled with me. They crossed the Cursed Prophet and they were never seen again. I don't want that for Ante, because I see him filling the role that everyone else thought Hutton and Knight were going to fill, the future of this company. I'm not around much any more. Drakz comes and goes as his body is breaking down. When was the last time Kyzer wrestled a match? The WFWF needs reliable hands who are excellent at what they do and will carry this company for the next ten years. That's what I see Ante as. I look at Ante Whitner and I see Phillip Schneider from ten years ago, this hungry young kid ready to smash the glass ceiling. And I'm willing to hand him the hammer. Nothing more.
“So why Hugh Jass? Of everyone in the WFWF, why Hugh Jass?” It's a fair question from my closest friend. Percy looks me down from his wheelchair, trying to get a read on the situation while outright asking for the information, but knowing he isn't going to get the answer. It's a complicated question to answer. After being away from the ring for so long, why would I pick on a comedy character who's struggled to gain any real footing? Percy picks at his eggs while he tries to come up with the way to ask another question without getting a direct answer to the first one.
“Ya know Phil, there are guys with a background that you could go after. If you just want to prove a point, you don't have to go after the bottom of the totem pole any more. There's guys you can make some money with on the roster right now that aren't going to give the biggest threat or competition. You know, still fish in a barrell. You don't have to go after Ante.”
“I don't want Ante, Percy. I want Hugh Jass. I am going to kill Hugh Jass.”
With a quizzical look on his face, Percy chokes down the bite of eggs and ham he's just stuffed into his gullet. “But why him man?”
“He's the biggest problem in the WFWF right now. He's the first problem I need to fix to make things right.”
Percy chuckles a little bit, taking a sip of water before following up, “How is he a problem? Because he won that battle royal?”
“That no one entered, yes. That's patient zero. But the entire idea of Hugh Jass makes me angry. The idea of him calling himself a Bart Simpson dialing Moe'sTavern name. Hey guys, I'm coming for Hugh Jass! Yeah, I like booty, just look at Meg, but I also like titties. That's the problem. How is anyone supposed to gain ground when they're expected to cut a serious interview on Hugh Jass. Is their next opponent IP Freely? Ivana Humpalot? This funny guy stuff has had it's time. Hear of Los Hobos? Funny's done. And funny as a top guy act? Yeah, how's that work? What'd funny get you Percy? A Hall of Fame ring and an electric wheelchair.”
Percy bows his head, looking down at the ring on his finger resting over the controls for his wheelchair.
“Is wrestling funny Percy? Haha, funny, goofy silly comedy stuff? Look at the clown? Is that why you've spent the last ten years in pain, and the six months in that chair? You're never going to walk again, Percy! YOU ARE A GOD DAMN CRIPPLE NOW PERCY! It's wrestling's fault. It's the WFWF's fault. Is that funny?!”
Percy looks up at me. He's got a tear bubbling out of the side of his eye. I think he gets it now.
“....no”
“You see what I have to do now, right Percy?”
“....yes”
“So why Hugh Jass, Percy?”
“Because it has to be done.”
“Who am I, Percy?”
“Phillip Schneider.”
“Because I'm Phillip Schneider.”
I dont know good luck 
