Post by The Gangsta on Apr 25, 2017 21:35:03 GMT -5
Ante Whitner RP
Houston, We Don’t Have a Problem
“The Mandela Effect”
I stood there at the orifice, entering through the glass revolving door. The creaking sound reminded me of an old hotel door I used to run around in as a child. I never belonged in those hotels, but walking around aimlessly in the concrete jungle of Manhattan gave me a reason to do so.
The lights captured me instantly, brazen yet slightly dimmed. The white collars of Wall Street had already arrived with their checking books ready to be emptied. The soft tones of orchestral music played in the backroom corridor, enough sound to be noticeable but not too ambitious; Beethoven, Symphony No. 7, Allegretto, Movement No. 2.
The paintings, drawings, and photography captured the environment of the Louvre and the charisma of capitalist America. Everyone who had their work displayed had shown a postmodern echelon, unmatched by the artists of yesterday. Their suits and dresses echoed the imaginative aroma in our little world situated in the middle of Manhattan. Their art was framed, critiqued by the locals. I then proceeded to look down at my piece.
The ripped jeans, the plain white shirt, and the Timberland boots couldn’t fill in the empty canvas of my piece. There was no frame, no message, and yet everyone looked. I walked slowly down the hall, each step followed with a crack of the hollow wood beneath. I slowly turned my head twice, once on each side. I looked at them with frustration, anger, and vexation, unable to mold my intentions into words.
I found a sliver of drywall to hang my piece, the orchestra playing a crescendo as I began to place it there. I heard whispers behind me, white collars mustering their emotion into the petty, self-absorbed words they loved to use. I simply grinned.
I stepped away from my unframed, blank piece. A tear ran down my cheek as I looked at the opportunity I once had, a masterpiece I undertook. Guards began to walk over to me, asking their overlords to escort me out of the exhibition. I paced slowly toward an object I had caught at the corner of my eye.
A briefcase.
I violently took the briefcase with the intent of opening it. I had told myself there was nothing in it from the moment I had walked in. Guards began to rush now; opening the briefcase felt like a slow-motion action flick. A cliche bomb defusal. The briefcase opened for itself, propping onto the floor once it activated.
Inside, there was a paintbrush, a jar of acrylic, and a small vial of water. I laughed hysterically, a wine glass dropping in the background. I forcefully took the brush and painted and rushed forward to my empty masterpiece. My ticket fell onto the floor, non-refundable. I pushed, I swerved, creating the image I had seen in my dream. The guards tackled me down, the Van Gogh piece adjacent to mine almost falling. I continued to laugh as everyone looked at my painting.
My masterpiece.
It was only a quarter complete before the guards came; the astonishing might of my loss to you had finally tipped me. Dragged out, back onto the street where I was molded from. The brush, the paint, and the water, all still in my grasp. I got up and stood into the face of the art exhibit; the face of armageddon. A maniacal laughter consumed me.
The more I thought of my encounter with the ambiguous briefcase, the more intense my satisfaction was. The feeling, the Mandela effect. The painting is not complete, the feeling won’t end until it’s done.
And David Brennan, Frank Lynn, my sentiments still stand. I want you to recall what happened in that exhibit, I want you to remember what gave me the drive to go forward and paint on my embarrassment-of-a masterpiece. I want you to never forget what was there until the day you die.
Remember the briefcase, the divine right, the one-way ticket.
“Strictly Business”
April 19th, 2017
New York, New York
The third night in a row I woke up in a sweat deep enough to drown in. As I wiped the droplets of sweat off my forehead, I stare up at the ceiling and have a meta-moment. The blank white ceiling suddenly becomes a bright and colored nebula of images as if I was prancing around in Strawberry Fields. The images I saw were each distinctly different, playing around with every aspect of my emotions. It reminded me of Donnie’s.
I took a swig of the Jack under my bed that had been there for weeks. When tensions run high in cloud nine, Tennessee whiskey washes it all away. But, the last picture I saw, before the whiskey tsunami crashed ashore, stuck with me for a couple of hours. It was me on a pedestal I had never given the thought of: a father, sitting at the head of the dinner table.
I had just come home from work, put my briefcase down. My wife had greeted me with a kiss, my two children gathering around the table. Only smiles, even a f*ckin’ dog running through a doggie door. The smell of freshly cooked turkey, corn, and peas flooded my mind. It brought back an unfamiliar, yet nostalgic feeling of home, unconditional love, and pride. The only thing that was missing was the gravy; perhaps that was the Jack Daniels.
The more I thought about it, the more I wanted it. It became an insatiable desire out of left field with no player to catch it. I signaled a request for my coach to put me in quick before it landed dead on the outfield grass. As I remained in limbo after awaking, I got a call on my phone.
Ante: Yes?
James: I f*cking knew it! You love me!
Surprisingly, I didn’t look at the phone before answering it. The voice of James on the other line startled me a bit, but not to the point where I would moan about it from that point on. To me, James is a thorn that won’t fall out of your ass, no matter how many times you try to pluck it. At least he broke me out of my little trance.
Ante: I didn’t look at the number, my bad. Look, I’m really tired, didn’t get much sleep last night…
James: I don’t care. I wanna give you an offer for a minute.
Ante: An offer? To me?
James: Yes, is your fleshlight around? I wanna speak to him first because you and I both know a first grade education is better than nothing.
Ante: No, he’s in Philly.
James: Fine, I’ll give to you raw then. Take it with a grain of salt, but I have an investment opportunity if you wanna dabble in that. I know your buddy Donnie was a maestro in the field.
My briefcase is empty, the golden moniker stripped away from it. If this is James’s way of returning the prize’s color to me, I’m pretty disappointed.
Ante: I’m not the kind of guy to put my money in some white collar’s p*ssy for a penny or two, you know that.
James: It ain’t just any white collar’s p*ssy, it’s Elijah Houston’s.
Ante: And who the f*ck is that?
James: One of the main investors in the new renovations at the Coliseum. He basically turned the sh*tshow of Long Island sports into a cumbersome training ground for future breakouts. And the reason I called you is because he set up a beautiful new wrestling gym. You’ll dig it.
And just like that, James hooked, lined, and baited me into another one of his offers. As my skeptical mind processes the information, I search up “Elijah Houston” to see if James is bluffing or not. I rarely trust people, James definitely not being an exception.
Ante: You’re not kidding. This sh*t is ridiculous.
James: I know. If you want, come down to Uniondale. I’m with him and a bunch of other investors right now. I think Mr. Houston would love to see a WFWF wrestler check out his gym.
Still skeptical.
Ante: Perhaps, I was supposed to hit the blocks in an hour. I haven’t run in weeks.
James: Well, if you change your mind, a bunch of filthy rich men are waiting to put their money somewhere. You could invest in Mr. Houston while the others could invest in you.
Ante: I’ll let you know later. Thanks for the offer, James.
James: Uh, no problem. Are you actually thanking me?
I’m really not.
Ante: Yep, don’t overstay your welcome.
James: *chuckles* It’ll clean your act up, give you that edge over Dave Brennan, Frank Lynn, and even the psychopathic pedophile that’s after you.
Ante: Philip Schneider? I’m not too worried about him anymore.
James: You should. Just because he has a hard-on for a Hugh Jass at the moment doesn’t mean his homoerotic feelings toward you aren’t gone.
My meeting with Percy rings into my head; the note, him chuckling as he exited. Hell, James had even literally echoed the same statement “You should fear him”. As dissatisfied as I was by being played by the panhandler himself, I am itching to get another meeting with him. He knows this business in and out and more specifically, Obo the Hobo. I laugh and take a small swig of Jack.
Ante: Oh, I know that. But, if he’s not attacking me right now, I need to focus on my more immediate opponents like Frank Lynn, Tyson Watts, and Dave Brennan.
Brennan handed me my first loss in a while. I had breezed through the tournament feeling unaccomplished, landing Josh Dean in the hospital, something I still deeply regret. But when Brennan dropped me for the three-count, I couldn’t feel more accomplished. A man on top gets bored, lonely, and tired. Once he’s thrown back to the bottom, his incentive for victory is only stronger. Perhaps that’s why this tournament is even being held anyway.
James: And your stupid briefcase?
I take a glance at my briefcase in the corner of my room. It had been collecting some dust since the last time I held it. I even refused to clean up the papers left on the floor from when James came to visit.
Ante: Oh, it’s still here.
James: Good. That sh*t may be completely empty, but that’s the message, ultimately. Emptiness, nothingness is nature’s largest weapon.
Ante: Poetic?
James: English Major at FSU. Funny, I know, but I’ve read Moby Dick and my essay everytime deals with the whale’s blank color and how it invokes fear.
Fear from nothingness? The inner and poetic Ante is only itching to be let free.
As down to Earth as James is being at the moment, my skepticism still stands. As much as I want to shake it loose and move on, I simply can’t. This is the same guy who tried to beat me in a Miami alleyway, tried to manipulate me against his own sister, and get me to be his f*ckbuddy.
Ante: Ah, interesting.
James: So, Ant’, are you coming down or not? They’re gonna get blue balls if you don’t answer in time.
I ponder on the question for a minute.
For my entire life, I’ve been on the receiving end of life’s biggest disasters: grief, devastation, heartbreak, pain, and depression. I’ve been regarded as the second-in-line, the next-best choice, the one who’s there but not quite yet. I’m a man waiting on line in the supermarket with an elderly woman cutting in front of me after each purchase until sundown and the store closes.
But, now, for the very first time, I’m not that guy. Once I’m in line, I wait my turn, no one cutting into my lane with road rage ensuing. I’m number one, rejuvenated and rebuilt from the ground up where the only true enemy is myself. I am my maker, judge, jury, and executioner.
The image of me being plastered on a freshly built gym wall excites me and only reiterates this great feeling of becoming THE man.
Ante: Yes.
James: Good, now get down here as fast as you can.
I hang up and get dressed in the same clothes I went in to meet with Percy. They’re not dry cleaned, ironed, or steamed. The same smell of uneasiness, desolation, and fear reeks through, giving me the flashback again of Percy laughing as he walked out on me. I think to myself if Schneider really wants me. Does he want to probe me, does he want to kill me? Who the f*ck knows.
I leave the apartment, enter the Uber waiting in the midst of the mid-day, Mid-town traffic. I bring and take a couple of ibuprofen pills to ease the headache I get while I’m in motor vehicles. It’s always been a strange and quirky flaw to my character, but a simple Advil or two fixes it easily.
Uniondale is in the middle of Long Island, a rich, white, Jewish haven for middle-aged parents looking to undermine their tax returns. I’ve only been to Long Island once or twice in my entire life; for a funeral and a local wrestling fed gig. In the near fifteen year time span in between my last visit and now, nothing has changed except for maybe the demolishment of Shea Stadium.
The more I think of the Great Gatsby’s picturesque depiction of Long Island, the more I think of my career. The way Gatsby follows the “green light” is eerily similar to the direction I’ve been following for a couple of months now, without the gaudy and aristocratic luster of our faded American dreams. I’ve had an inability to move from the past and in attempt to forget about that past, I chose to try and recreate it in a different image, much like Gatsby himself. It’s an excellent metaphor, but a sad reality when the current state of a pioneer region in American suburbia is comparable to New Jersey. At that moment of realization, the red light at the intersection turned green after at least five minutes of waiting.
Driver: Well that was a God awful long time.
Ante: Yeah, I know, Jesus.
Funny how after nearly an hour on the road, the driver talks to me about a green light. I pop a pill into my mouth and swallow it without water. The driver notices, but looks away when I make eye contact with him in the front mirror; I ignore it.
The Uber pulls up to a parking lot behind the newly renovated Coliseum. I’m in awe at the job they did at redoing it, remembering the disgusting pictures of its previous incarnation I had seen on the Internet earlier in the day. A pair of security guards are standing next to James as he devilishly grins upon my arrival.
James: Ante, good to see you pal!
He puts his hand on my shoulder as if we were best friends. I subtly take it off.
Ante: Thanks for the opportunity.
James: You’re welcome, seems like this offer is a whole lot golder than your other opportunity.
He looks at his Rolex as if he is punctual and classy. I chuckle a bit quietly when I see the price tag still attached to it. The sleaziness of this Jewish wasteland surprises me, almost like Philip Schneider was born here. He leads me to a board room with the most diverse group of wealthy men and women inside. They all have smiles on their faces as they see me walk into the room. I feel a stage fright crawling up my spine, making me stand speechless. The black man at the front of the table breaks the silence.
Elijah: Ante Whitner, what an honor to meet you.
The group claps at my arrival, landing me a half-assed grin on my face. I’m awkwardly sweating and feel like a fever is coming on. The directors issue to me to sit down.
Elijah: So, I might as well properly introduce myself. I’m Elijah Houston, the Chairman and CEO of Houston International. Beside me is Liz Rinck, my Vice President of…
James: In short, that’s Liz, that’s Mike, Jerry, Alyssa, Fiona, and Paul. Oh and myself, James O’Malley.
Elijah: Thanks, but don’t interrupt me ever again Mr. O’Malley. Got it?
James’s act of cocky defiance wears away. I feel a compelling desire to laugh, but hold it in. Elijah is serious, a down-to-Earth businessman. He looks built, nearing his 40s, and wealthy as hell. Something tells me it wasn’t always that way though.
Elijah: Mr. Whitner, we invited you here today because we issued an offer to your agent, Ben Harvey. Is he here today?
Ante: No, he’s in Philadelphia.
Second time today someone has asked me that.
Elijah: Ah, alright. Are you aware of the deal that is on the table?
Ante: I only know snippets. Fill me in please.
Take it with a grain of salt, Ante. Take it with a grain of salt.
Elijah: We are looking to build a local promotion here, taking place in the new Nassau Coliseum. I have surrounded myself with all of these wonderful people, ranging from marketing, money management, television time, et cetera.
A promotion? Is he asking me to switch over?
Elijah: Now, this may conflict with your current contract over at WFWF, but are you willing to provide some time with us to get the ball rolling and our show off to a head start?
My feet keeps tapping the floor, anxious about what Mr. Houston has just told me. I think about how I used to be; cocky, arrogant, ignorant of others and their ambitions in life. I used to tell myself I was the only good person in a world full of bad people, the needle in a haystack. Today, I see myself as the haystack, the breadth of what has been culminating these past few months. I see the heart of these people and their compassion for a business they desire to run not for themselves, but for the reinvigorated sports department of Long Island. They’re doing it for the fans, the people that matter most.
Ante: What kind of time do you need from me?
Elijah: If you would like to be a backstage and-or on-air talent. We wouldn’t force you to wrestle if you chose on-air because of your current obligation, but we were thinking of a role similar to a general manager; some authority figure.
Authority, the concept I had obsessed about in my soliloquies as National Champion. And after three years of it being my identity, I’ve only just begun to refuse it. And now here I am, forced with the decision of returning to my old habits or continuing in the newly carved path I desire. It’s as simple as an on-air figure, but to me, it’s like an emperor returning to conquer his old kingdom.
Ante: I’d rather be apart of the backstage personnel.
Elijah: That’s great to hear.
James: *whispers* Too afraid of ruining your image?
I ignore James’s little sidemark and everyone at the table stands up.
Liz: We’ve been waiting a while here so I think it’s time for lunch.
Elijah: I agree. Mr. Whitner, care to join me? I want to show you the new facility.
I grudgingly accept.
Ante: Yeah, sure.
We exit the boardroom, cigarette smoke reeking as we step out. As horrid and familiar the smell was, I felt reborn. Reborn out of smoke, redeemed by overcoming my conflicted emotions, restored to what a man should be.
A man that Philip Schneider and Dave Brennan will never be.
Elijah brings me outside of the arena without James or any of his directors at his side; just him and I. I feel darker thoughts lingering in my stomach being alone with man I’ve just met. He may be rich and promising, but he could be manipulating me right now into making a deal I wouldn’t wish for in a million years.
Elijah: How does it feel?
Right out of left field. Let’s break the ice then, Elijah.
Ante: How does what feel?
Elijah: Wrestling, pinning someone, being pinned by someone, choking someone out, being choked out?
It takes me a minute to realize what he’s asking. I’ve never been asked how it “feels”, only the feeling of victory or defeat by Donnie and James. When thinking about how it “feels”, I remember the Golden Opportunity match and being thrown into steel ladders like pig carcasses thrown in the trash at a butcher’s market. I remember Frank Lynn’s reaction to the briefcase being pull off of its hook by yours truly and looking at the other bodies below.
Ante: It’s a one-of-a-kind experience.
Elijah: Why do you say that?
Ante: Because it just is. Being hunted, being victorious, being in pain; it’s like your favorite first-person shooter game come to life.
Elijah: What if I don’t like shooter games?
Ante: Then, you’ll like the broader strategy video games.
Elijah: What if I like both?
I chuckle.
Ante: Then, you’re Issac Cray, WFWF World Heavyweight Champion for about two years.
Elijah: Or Philip Schneider?
My chuckle fades.
Ante: If you consider him relevant, then yes.
We start to walk around the new Coliseum, the newly placed steel beams reflecting the midday light onto the cold concrete.
Elijah: So, tell me, how did you get into this business?
Ante: Longtime fan, just like you. It took a lot of determination and commitment, but eventually I reached a deal with the WFWF about three years ago.
Elijah: That easy?
Ante: If ten years of nonstop pain and suffering is easy, then I should be free balling right now as World Heavyweight Champion.
Elijah: That long?
Ante: Yep. Count the death of my father, the paralysis of my best friend, and the disappearance of my brother and you’ve got the “Ante Whitner story”.
I hope to sell that novel one day.
Elijah: Many compare my story to an American success story, but I compare it to yours. My mother died not too long ago, my only friends went off to fight in Iraq and Afghanistan, and my sister died in a plane crash in Europe.
Ante: Sh*t.
I always had the thought in my head for as long as I can remember about how the people at the lowest of lows make their way back to the top and become stronger than ever. This revelation, along with my own story reinforces that idea.
Elijah: Maybe we are the American success story.
Ante: Then, you should be my tag-team partner in the WFWF. We’ll call ourselves the “American Success Story”. I’d dig it, especially with my moniker of a “Bloodied Eagle”.
Elijah: Why do they call you the “Bloodied Eagle” anyway?
The curious smile of Elijah reminds me that there was never an origin to the Bloodied Eagle. It was apart of my previous king fantasies but not a solid epithet that explained who I was. A more reasonable effort should be “the Opportunist” or something along those lines.
Ante: No idea. I prefer to be called the “Opportunist” or the “New Franchise” but I doubt Christa would announce me as so.
Elijah’s phone rings. As he answers, I gaze out into the empty parking lot with Hofstra University overlooking the background. The sun is falling down behind suburbia and there is no stop to it. I feel the lingering, the constant reminder of what lies ahead.
The night, the darkness; the one thing I can say I’m truly afraid of. I question if Schneider, Brennan, or Lynn are the serpents lurking in that black smog. I feel my briefcase in my hand, a dark force taking it away from me. I grow angry and violent upon the realization that my only tools lie within. The paintbrushes, the water; the tools to create my masterpiece.
I hear the words “death is coming” echo in my head. It’s endless, fatiguing, making me trip on a high. I feel light-headed, my eyes opening and shutting as my reality turns to black. At that moment, Elijah calls my name.
Elijah: Hey man, I need to head back to the boardroom and discuss more financing for the fed. I’ll catch you later, but feel free to tour the new arena. It’s f*ckin’ great man.
Ante: Thanks, I’ll see you later.
Elijah: Kick Frank Lynn’s ass, and whoever the other guy is.
Elijah runs like a f*ckin’ cheetah back to the building. There was something about him that captured my interest more and more in his deal. He’s a man on a journey, much like me, picking up the broken pieces of glass and gluing them back together. His offer to me is not just for a little hand at wrestling, but because he wants the both of us to reach our final destination; the end of our journey. Maybe my end is when I win the World Heavyweight Championship someday and maybe Elijah’s end is when his new federation ousts the WFWF or Frank Lynn’s lackluster company. Who knows.
I make my way into the new arena upon my devilish curiosity. It smells new, feels new, and looks new, just like the hookers Kyzer brought in every night in Seattle. I take a stroll around, sitting in a couple of the seats, capturing every angle of where the ring would be. Each seat felt like a different experience, a different story waiting to be told.
I first picture Frank Lynn and his ambition of conquering the Golden Opportunity. His dreams were shattered so he waits, staring at the ring in front of him until it opens itself up and he takes advantage. Frank Lynn is a ring rapist, for a lack of a better term. He wants lust and he’ll get nothing but a possible police pursuit and conviction. That’s what only fuels his fire. I like it.
I then picture Dave Brennan as I sit far away from the ring. Brennan holds no motive, no reason for being here so he takes the cheapest seat possible. Little did he know, he had copped a very coveted seat to some people, including me. The bidders were Josh Dean, Dex, Frank Lynn, and myself and he wasted everyone’s time with it. He’ll enjoy his cracker jacks and an extra large soda from his narrow-minded view without any care to the people who wanted his spot. Maybe he should give up the other seat he bought; the one for international travelers.
Lastly, I make my way up to the rafters as Philip Schneider. He holds the puppets from his high altitude position and makes games of them as everyone watches. He enjoys his sick fantasies, his hellish portrayals of his “perfect” world. He’s a sickening pessimist hypocrite master, conservative communist apocalyptic bastard. That’s what makes him pull the strings in his own precarious ways.
I pretend to hear someone from the seats, heckling me out. “Where do you sit, huh?!”
I don’t sit, I stand. And the ring is where I do it best.
Portray sincerity, act out of loyalty. Defend every country, wish away the pain. Hand out lobotomies to save little families. Your surrealistic fantasy is bland, boring agony.
We’re alienated from our cultures, crippled by the deck of a cards we were handed. This is a compromised world, a suffocating and hostile place for a new generation to witness. We’re a part of that generation, Frank. All we do is portray surrealistic fantasies that are bland, boring agony.
It’s true. We loathe about our emotional lifestyles and search for ways to make it better. Our teenage blues make us feel like revolutionaries, held down by the establishment. We want to break the establishment, create our own, and decide who becomes the next figurehead for a developing government.
We’re emaciated and demented men in chains, maniacally thanking our masters for the harsh existence, before exploding with the rage of a feral animal. It’s what pushes us overboard, makes us make the dumbest mistakes. And we lose. I lost my match against David Brennan and you lost two times to me beforehand.
You keep coming back for the same reason: to prove me wrong. My anecdote should never be your mission, my victories over you should never fuel your fire. Frank, you have unlimited potential, just like Tyson and Brennan. You’re just like the rest of us: bland, boring agony. You’re just simply overextending these feelings into your destiny, your right to beat me.
And you certainly do have that right. But, you waste it time and time again. When you had the chance to beat me not once, but twice, you blew it for the sake of your “mission”. I was on a mission to become the face of the company as National Champion and yet, I fell flat to a nice pair of tits. You’re falling flat to a big sack of balls with a “golden” briefcase. The difference? I enjoyed it.
You obviously did not. I’m not arguing against you for not liking the sight of my nuts; it is pretty grotesque. But what’s even more grotesque is coming back with a fire only for it to be extinguished by my piss, leaving behind a disgusting smell and a wasted opportunity. I told you to help me build a boat the first time, I told you to break that boat and beat me the second time.
Now, I’m telling you to walk the f*ck home.
As much as your mission is impractical, you’re just out of juice Frank. Seriously, how could you come with a plastic knife to a sword fight? You lost all of your luster in your attempts to best me, wasted time and time again. There is a new sword somewhere in this company and you just have to find it. Once you do, come back to me and we’ll have a real fight for the fourth time.
I want you to beat me, I want your phony mission to end with vengeance being fulfilled for my boat sailing too far. I desire you to break the wheel that’s steering my boat so you can steer yours in the right direction. Hell, I’ll even give you the CD to “Come Sail Away” for free if you really do decide to become the captain of your own Titanic.
But, at the moment, you simply can’t beat me. You don’t admit defeat because as little as your fire is, you still have it. It’s making you delusional, giving you false hope in a man you simply cannot beat. Frank, listen to me.
The time will come when your vendetta against me fades. Your psyche, your body, won’t be able to handle the empty hole in your heart that vendetta cost you. You’ll become more vulnerable than you’ll ever be with losses piling on because you think you’ll become a better man with them.
Here’s a little reality check pal, it doesn’t. I’m saying this for a final time: save yourself the suffering and end it. You don’t even have to show up at Ultimate Supremacy and I could just hand the “L” to Tyson Watts. That “L” is gonna blur your name, ruin your image, and the fans you desire to worship you. Frank LLLLynn doesn’t sound too good, does it?
Let your name roll off the tongue, smoothly and carefully. You’re treading in dangerous waters, again. This boat is not steering clear of your little life raft, Frank. This third and final last ditch effort to beat me will cost you a lot. But hell, if you actually f*ckin’ do it, good job. You’ll soon remember your juvenile days in trying to best a former National Champion while you’re being pinned to the ground and choked by big Dave Brennan. Good luck with that one; yikes.
And as for you, Tyson Watts. Your fire is stronger than ever against Frank Lynn with the “cheap” win he pulled on you. If I were you, I’d run that f*cker into the ground with that flamethrower and save me some of the pain. You’ll need it when you desire old, worn-out meat to devour.
But if you would like to waste your fire on me, that’s completely fine. Your last name “Watts” obviously refers to electricity. If you’re so electric, all I have to do is throw a bucket of water at you and you’re squirming on the ground, begging I hadn’t done so. But, if you shock me (pun intended there) and the world by beating the both of us, connect your cable to a nuclear power plant and fire up that b*tch. You’ll be a loose cannon, firing anyone who steps in your path, possibly including the International Champion Dave Brennan.
The only thing I ask is when you do that, make sure you fire in the right direction and not end up like Frank. I have good faith in you, beat Frank and I and become the next rising star. I’d love to see your face on a WFWF poster one day. Please don’t make me reiterate it for a third time after you’ve already wasted your potential. Good luck brother.
As a parting message to both you, to Frank on his waste of a “mission” and to Tyson on a possible hard-fought journey, I’d like to quote a good friend of mine:
I’m Ante Whitner and you’re not.