Post by Michael Bishop on Mar 1, 2022 1:36:38 GMT -5
By giving you no time instead of it all
'Til the pain is so big you feel nothing at all
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be"
-[Working Class Hero, John Lennon]
(....Michael Bishop sits at his living room table, staring out the Balcony window at the Chicago Skyline. He ponders everything… coming up as a poor kid, making his living, his career, his way by hand. Just when he thought he had it all in the Octagon… the biggest MMA promotion in the world went bankrupt. He remembers making the jump to MMA, out of hunger, out of drive… there are times like this he wish he didn’t).
“Life is rough, Mike”
(He thinks about every single time he lost. Many times, they were just the better man. And yet… the older he got, the more experienced he got. It became about who was better, and who was just lucky. A bad referee stoppage, an opponent having friends interfere, or just random ass bullshit. He thinks about the first time he lost. He lost hard. He got knocked the fuck out. He sits there in an arena locker room, his mom picked him up off the floor and hugged him:)
“I know it seems grim Michael, but you’ve got to endure. This isn’t the end. Life is rough… it’s shitty… but you’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. You have to believe this isn’t the end. You’re more than just one stumble. Your time will come, Michael…”.
(Michael’s eyes snap to every single little distant light, window, and flicker in the distant Chicago. He sits back, blanketed by the darkness, for the first time, in a long time, he’s shrouded by the misery. But, it’s not pity. No… it’s taking two. He’s never been the one for acknowledging his own bullshit, but recently… things have been getting rough, and things have been just absolute shit. That’s why things need to change… he needs to see this through. He made a promise, after all).
“I need you to promise me you’ll get out of this, Michael”.
(Michael Bishop is standing beside a hospital bed, the last time he allowed himself to be drowned by his misery. Misery from a near career ending injury that did nothing but stunt him. In the darkest parts of his life… his old friend left him. Michael stands there, for the first time in a long time, the man made so immortal by his fortitude, his grit… couldn’t help but absolutely grief stricken as his mother was hooked up to more machines than he could count. For someone who could move the world, shape the future.. He was powerless to do a god damn thing but watch).
“Make it all worth it. Win this War, the one withing yourself… prove to yourself there’s more to you than just a nickname and a legacy of violence. Our time will come Michael. Promise me you’ll push on…”.
(Bishop grips the edge of the table as he remembers holding Laura Bishop’s hand for the last time. “I Promise”. Those words nearly eat him alive. Some may call it sulking, but to Michael Bishop it’s a necessary reminder of the person who helped get him this far, why he got this far… why he needs to see this through. Like the millions of lights distant from him, many will not know the countless battles, wars, and blood built friendships that paved the road for the Dreadknight to walk forward as the longest active fighter in history. But he did, and he would make sure by the end of this no one forgot what it took to get here…. His manager, Bo Maro, walks in and sits across the table to his right. He watches the city outside with him).
Bo Maro: It’s been a rough year.
(Bishop rubs his temples, and he actually chuckles).
Michael Bishop: When is it not. We’re a different breed, Bo. You remember what it was like back in the day, the all or nothing days. Now? We never seem to get lucky. You know this, I know this… a lot of blood, a lot of hard lessons learned. And Yet, despite it all…. It never seems as if I can get there. Always watching, back against a steel wall as I watch someone else climb because they were just meant to be there. The villain and receiving end of someone else’s success story.
(There’s a tense, unfortunate silence between them. Maro looks and Bishop hasn’t pried his eyes off the window… until he gazes over at Bo and the two lock eyes).
Michael Bishop:. Haven’t I done enough? Bled enough?! … Call me fucking Selfish Bo- you know what? I honestly don’t care. No one else does. The days pass, Michael Bishop gets passed up for a shot at championship gold even as he spends the year killing fools and cunts left and right. I’m fucking sick of it. Maybe Alyssa was right… Maybe I am continuing to push through to the end, headlong into the darkness, because I can’t go home empty handed. Not again. Brute forcing against a world that always seems to be just one step ahead of me. I can’t back down, I need to see this through… For Lita. For ‘becca… Cause I don’t know what I’m gonna do if I don’t…
(The air is heavy, Bo initially reaches for a cigarette… then his phone rings. He looks at the number and raises an eyebrow. He answers… and is surprised… he slides the phone over to Bishop. Michael reluctantly answers).
Michael Bishop: Hello?
“Bishop…..”
(The voice on the other end is none other than Liz Kalrson, the Brick Shithouse herself…)
Michael Bishop: Karlson… Look you did good the other night-
“Yeah, and what the hell does ‘doing good’ matter at this point? Tell me, Michael. How many fucking times are you gonna hear ‘better luck next time’, ‘get em next time’, before it really pisses you off? You pissed off, Bishop?”.
(Bishop ponders the question… beneath all the sorrow, the regret, the despair… it’s there. It’s always been there. The fire than has pulled him through every trench, every foxhole, every war over the past 20 years).
Michael Bishop: Yeah-
I’m really fucking pissed off. And why the fuck shouldn’t I be? You know it’s like I said, I’m a different fucking breed. I’m from the old school world of fighting, the golden age. We laid the groundwork of this shit… built, so you can crawl, crawl to walk, walk to stepping over the neck and skulls of every single person motherfuckers like Sonya Benson decides to step on when she comes off her ivory tower of monotony and cowardice. You know they say the bitter fog after a defeat can make you or break you. You can either decide right there and then, in that shallow grave, whether that one loss will be your end and you will unstrap your gloves for the last time and go, accept defeat. Or You can rise from the ashes the most gnarly version of yourself and strike absolute retribution into whoever the fuck decided to stand against you.
And you know what? I think I’m really fucking tired of this supposed god damn streak of bad luck bullshit that is hanging over my head in Project Honor. Lows blows, demonic bullshit, and knocked over the top rope after putting on the best Battle Royale performance that will make suicidal shitbirds like Brandon Hendrix blow his brains out because he will always be second best. That will make Johnny levy sit there, and claw at his skin, and cry. That will make Sonya Benson collapse, and crawl back into the corner and pray for fucking mercy.
Do you know how many times I’ve heard that, Sonya?! From men and women much more violent, much more built up that you? Do you know how many times a warrior queen or a straight fucking killer walked in there baring their teeth and screaming, and by the end their hands were up, blocking nothing but Hellbows and strikes, blood filling their lungs as all they could say was; “PLEASE!!! PLEASE DON’T!!!”. I go to bed every night with those bouncing around my skull!! And I sleep like a fucking baby!!
That’s what BFG Division is built on. It seems we’re the last motherfuckers not relying on any kind of frisky fucking bullshit to make due. With True Society needing an army of members, with Frontline breaking at the seems because the cult of Jeff X didn’t follow his whims, with the Mafia splitting because a certain King decided to give in like the rest… instead of speaking to his brother in arms. And I am fucking sick of it!! Everyone is fucking sick of it!! I’m sick of seeing good men die, innocents cry, all because mad men want to rule the world with an iron fist, of bullshit, and when they can’t fucking fight they find an easy way out.
I am angry. I am pissed. Rage has always ran through my veins, the venom of my existence more times than nought she was almost my executioner. But hey, Rage is one hell of a performance enhancer, ain’t she? C4 to the head, voltz to the chest, a pipe to the skull, thrice, and it ain’t shit. You would be right in saying I am a fucking war machine, I am the last legitimate motherfucker walking the canvas and there is a fucking reason I tore down the Frontline Banner long before the Clash of the Titans rolled around. Why I laid the Mafia to rest after the brother I trusted, did not trust me. I’ve only ever thrown in with good men I could depend on to protect me and mine, and even as they deteriorate and die, they’re still out there. So when Liz fucking Karlson of all people called me? Did you think I was going to pass up the chance?! Fuck No.
Liz Karlson is probably one of the last my kind, a rarity in the era where ego and vanity are the choice of the trade over lethality and calculation. And yet… she has braved the entire fucking storm and taken every ounce of bullshit on the god damn chin. I respect that, no, really- I fucking do. I wouldn’t be standing side by side with her if I didn’t. True respect is dry as hell as these days… Everywhere I go, it’s jokes about me being a wifebeater, a failure, men and women threatening to kill my daughter, to end my life… Motherfuckers don’t know when they cross the line, and when they’ve fucked around- they have found out. Liz believes in that. She believes the time for their reign of bullshit is order. She agrees with me that the only way to disrupt a corrupt natural order is by brute forcing your way through it with a fucking railgun. The only way to end a cycle of asinine ambitions is by bringing to bear a team of end all, be all motherfuckers who will take this industry by storm and we will do it with fucking style.
I was trained by a sociopath who pushed my human consciousness and sanity to the absolute no shit breaking point with a series of tests, drills, and a system that baptized me in the horrors of what the next two decades would come to bear with. The goal is heaven, the seat of every world champion and it’s a road to hell to get there. That road is paved through war, blood, battle, and only those initiated and borderline indoctrinated into it will survive. I wanted to see if Liz would past the test. I’m a trainer, an architect… I’m a master of over 20 martial arts ranging from every fucking corner of this globe. Sonya, Johnny… when I say I have not only master but perfected every single fucking thing you could only dream of doing in this wrong, I mean it. I wrote the god damn book on fighting and the calculations and reformations I make on the fly in the heat of a high stakes match would cause your little craniums to fucking burst.
So… I tried to fucking kill Liz Karlson.
Part of me felt bad. I’m a builder, but I’m also a destroyer. I wouldn’t put herself through anything I wouldn’t do myself, and I do this almost every single fucking week. She passed, hell, not just that she killed it. Liz Karlson is one of the most violent motherfuckers on this earth and we stand together in BFG not only as equals, but as the most two dominant forces on this wrestling earth that have always been just shy of breaking through. But that time is now. We decide the time, the finish, and the fucking stipulation, we decide why you fall, why you tap, and we decide when your career ends and if we’ll send you out whole or if we will take a fucking tray of pieces with us.
We’re here on Fallout to make a god damn statement. This is BFG territory now, motherfucker. And I don’t care what Tyrant, conspirator, or little rat fuck echochamber Billy Bennett has going where Savannah will follow her like a good drone. We’re gatecrashing this brand, this company, and you can try to fight it but I’m not gonna let you run like Havoc did, Sonya. You’re fucking crucified, you too Johnny. Time to show the world what real Tier 1 World Class Athletes look like.
See ya’ll real fuckin’ soon.
