Post by Deleted on Jan 13, 2021 0:59:43 GMT -5
FLASHBACK – Plano, Texas || October 12, 1999
(off camera)
(off camera)
The stained blanket off the bed had made a great blackout curtain, turning the tiny room into a cozy den – it reminded him of that shitty little apartment above Mr. Tang's in Queens. It smelled the same. Sour, vaguely of rotten vegetable peelings from the dumpster below the fire escape. He'd gotten used to it. Now the smell made him hungry, made him crave some greasy spring rolls and chicken balls in that giant glob of deep-fried puffy batter with that radioactive orange sauce. His stomach growled at the memory, but he knew he couldn't trust himself to order anything. Not when he was slipping in and out of the real world – certainly not when the room kept spinning at random intervals like an out-of-control carnival ride. He hadn't moved in more than twenty-four hours except to stub out one cigarette and light another. He hadn't looked in the mirror after that first glance had sent him scuttling into the dark like Quasimodo. The scars seemed more prominent on his cheeks, despite a few days' worth of stubble and the giant bruise that stretched across the bridge of his nose and down onto his cheek, bracketing the eye that was swollen shut.
His fingers groped on the bedside table, finding the last two of the precious Excedrin and he tossed them in his mouth, chewing them – they were expired, tasting slightly vinegary but they shoved the pain off to a place where it was easier to ignore for at least a little while. A sigh escaped his lips. His hand shook as he silently smoked, trembling as he raised the cigarette to his lips, taking a long drag. He dropped the damned thing when the knock on the door came, almost setting the bedding on fire. "Jesusfuck!" He bellowed, brushing ashes and the remains of the Camel deadhead to the floor, watching the orange glow of the cherry slowly fade, already distracted.
On the other side of the door, Charity McLeod stood, panicked and on the verge of tears. The flight had taken almost four and a half hours from New York to Texas, and it'd felt like an eternity. Her husband, Bruce, had been due home two days before after competing in a wrestling match for WCWF. She hadn't heard from him and it was scaring her to death. She hadn't traveled with him because she hadn't been able to find a last-minute sitter for their almost two-year-old daughter, Siobahn. Her father had been on the road, her brother out of town for a gig. Shifting from one foot to the other, she looked back at the parking lot and the few cars scattered about, not knowing if any of them belonged to her husband or not. All she had was this room number and the name of this damned motel but when she'd called the front desk for help, they couldn't be bothered to check on him – it wasn't the sort of place where they cared much beyond collecting money for the rooms. She'd tried to text Jackson, the man who'd gotten her husband into the company in the first place but had heard nothing back. Trying to find something on the internet proved fruitless as well. There was no mention of the match he was supposed to have been in even though there was mention of the event. She hated the fact that she felt like one of those nagging shrews, desperate to track down her errant spouse but when she had gotten nothing but an answering machine at the number she'd found for the WCWF offices in Plano, Texas, she'd had no choice.
Finally, after talking with her father (and using his credit card to purchase the tickets), she'd made the decision to fly out to Texas to see what was going on for herself. She hadn't even bothered to really pack a bag, hoping that she wouldn't be staying in the state long. For the trip, she'd dressed in a pair of denim boot-cut jeans, one of Bruce's hooded Harley sweatshirts, and a pair of sneakers. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a messy bun on top of her head – she looked like a high school senior, far too innocent to be out on her own in a seedy dive like this.
Leaning against the wall, she bit her lip, torn between storming down to the office and begging them to give her a key to the room and just kicking the door in. Instead, she lifted both fists, pounding on the door as hard as she could as that sob that had been sitting like a lump in her throat for the last six hours finally broke free, ending in a scream. Just when she thought she was about to lose her mind; she heard the jingle of the chain lock and then the door opened a crack.
Bruce looked like hell with a huge shiner blackening one eye, making the broken blood vessels in that swollen eye even more apparent before he blinked in confusion. "C-Cherry?" Her name caught in his throat, his voice barely above a ragged whisper and he had to reach up and grip the doorframe because his knees suddenly felt like water, flowing down his aching legs and fucking off into the dirty carpet.
"Oh my God!" Upon seeing her husband, Charity threw her arms around his neck – she was so relieved to see him standing here alive. All those poisonous thoughts fled to the back of her mind, even though he looked like he'd been worked over and left for dead. "What happened to you? Who did this?" This couldn't have been the result of his wrestling match; something must have happened afterwards. Had he been mugged? Had he gotten into a scrap with someone else? "We need to get you to a hospital!"
Almost staggering back as she threw herself into his arms, Bruce caught himself and the pain in his head and everywhere else made it clear that this wasn't a dream at all. He remembered bits and pieces of the match, gimmicked nonsense for the launch of Wednesday Night Wreckage: the new hardcore-themed show. Opening match – Jackson had called it a ‘curtain jerker' and he hadn't really pressed to suss out the meaning behind that term. All he knew was that the lights were dimmer, the cameras dark when he'd come down the ramp to some generic rock song he'd never heard before. He'd been paid to answer an ‘open challenge', to take the fall and to have a man named Dan Bonez tenderize him with a kendo stick because that was his trademark. He'd been assured the stick had been rigged to break after the second blow to his head, as if they thought he might balk at that sort of assault. He'd been in worse fights.
The stick hadn't broken. Bonez had kept swinging it, smashing it down over and over until he'd surged to his feet and laid the asshole out with a sucker punch out of sheer frustration. Blood had flowed and he'd been punished for the disrespect, as accidental as it'd been – the whole mess had devolved from there. It was supposed to, really. Was supposed to set the tone for the chaotic and violent show. He didn't remember much after being dropped on his head with a sloppy piledriver and when he'd come back to his senses, the match was over, and he'd already managed to blunder his way backstage; they'd told him that he probably had a concussion, but it was no big deal. It happened all the time in these sorts of matches. He'd let them blow him off, taking his envelope of money that was a little thinner than he'd hoped. He'd gone back to the motel, had fallen into bed and...
He realized Charity was staring at him and he wondered how long he'd been standing there, glazed and confused as he relived those jumbled up moments. "It's fine." The words left his lips of their own volition, some desperate need to assuage her fears there even though his brain was scrambled eggs and oatmeal – he could feel her anxiety coming off her in waves.
"Fine?!" It was an incredulous squeak as she pulled back, seeing him wince at the volume of her voice and she realized she was probably hurting him, clinging to him like that and shouting in his ear. When she spoke again, she made it a point to lower her voice, but the concern was still written all over her face, those baby blues of hers wide with fear. "Do you even know what day it is? Do you have any idea how worried I've been?"
The room was so dark he hadn't noticed the passage of night into day and back again. Even now, he wasn't sure if it was dusk or dawn and that said more than he really cared to admit. His silence spoke volumes and Charity shook her head, giving his chest a gentle shove so that he stepped out of the doorway. She walked in, ready to catch him if he wobbled but he managed to stay upright, and she turned away for a second to close the door.
"Don't lie to me, Bruce." Her tone had taken on an authoritative note that she usually reserved for their defiant toddler. "Let me help you back to bed." She was desperate to get him off his feet and to take care of him.
He let her lead him back, the realization that he'd lost track of time finally dawning on him. "What..." he cleared his throat, hating to even ask. "What day is it?"
"Friday," she said as she got him to the bed. Her hands were out, giving him the option of holding onto her – she wasn't surprised when he didn't reach for her. He'd always been too damned stubborn for his own good. "I hadn't heard from you and I didn't know what else to do." Once he was on the bed, she took a seat next to him, clasping her hands together between her knees so she didn't start wringing them. "Have you seen a doctor?"
Had he? It all felt so hazy, but he remembered a light shining in his eyes and some unfamiliar voice telling him that he'd be fine in a few days. He hadn't asked for credentials. Hadn't really been aware of it until the poking and prodding was mostly over. "Not sure," he muttered, sitting back amid the rumpled and sweat-dampened sheets and the pillows that were halfway out of their cases. "Mebbe did..." he paused, feeling like he needed to elaborate, "at the arena?"
"Maybe? I think I'd feel better if we got you checked out." Charity was trying to sound calm, but she could hear her pulse pounding in her ears, wondering if it were so loud that Bruce could hear it, too. "Let me just call a cab and we'll go to the hospital." Looking at him, she couldn't deny how bad he looked any more than she could silence the panic she felt. "Okay? Please?"
The thought of being poked and prodded after sitting around some sterile waiting room for an eternity held little appeal. He wasn't sure if they'd call him back to fight again if he made waves – wasn't even sure if the place were legitimate enough to be operating aboveboard. He'd gotten pulled in by that damned Jackson, had been pointed towards the ring and told to make the fight look real. He'd felt like an absolute choob, as if this were some magical secret society and he wanted to make sure he was granted acceptance. He'd seen programming on television over the years. Had seen some of the folks that competed in the ring go on to have dolls and breakfast cereals with their faces on it. He couldn't deny the appeal that had, especially now that they had a third mouth to feed. It was certainly bound to be a bigger payday than the bare minimum he made editing skin flicks down at the studio.
He didn't tell Charity any of that. He didn't want her to think he was dumber than she already did. "I'll be okay," he repeated that party line, trying to sell it with all the conviction he could muster, "it's just a headache from Hell, Babylove."
Looking at him, it was hard not to feel some kind of déjà vu from when they'd started dating. He'd participated in fights before and had come out looking rough. "Maybe next time Sam and I should come with you?" She had an uneasy feeling about traveling with him, especially bringing their almost two-year-old on the road to places like this. She wanted their family all in one place, especially if he were to get hurt like this again.
He wanted to tell her that there probably wouldn't be a ‘next time', that he'd broken the nose of the hardcore champion and was probably going to be blackballed in the business before he'd ever even made it to a televised match. All the training he'd done over the last year in the basement of his cousin Maureen's bar was amounting to a giant waste of time. He'd come to Texas with the promise of glory, the promise of fat envelopes full of cash and screaming fans and flashbulbs popping. The arena wasn't even full. People were still trickling in, loitering at the snack bar when he'd been out there – the whole experience was a giant letdown in the worst way.
"Dark match," he muttered, not even aware he'd said it until Charity cocked her head, looking at him funny.
"What does that mean?"
He chuckled ruefully, parroting what Jackson had told him when he'd sold the whole mess, wrapped in a pretty bow. "Sometimes they book more matches than they have airtime – it's a treat for the paying fans, before the cameras roll."
"Seeing you get beat up like this is a treat? To whom? Michael Myers and Freddy Krueger?" She scoffed at the thought, resting her cool hand against his cheek. "Does this place at least have an ice machine? We should get something on your eye... bring down the swelling."
"Cut me, Mick," Bruce quipped, not surprised when she didn't get the reference, looking at him as though he was raving deliriously. "Rocky Balboa said it, Cherry – it's from a movie." He'd have to add that to the list of movies she needed to see. Right up there with The Godfather and Citizen Kane.
"It's not funny."
"Aye," he nodded, regretting that when his head started pounding. Despite the pain, he reached out and caught her hand, bringing it to his lips as he settled back against the pillows. It didn't matter that he'd lost or that the match hadn't been recorded. It didn't matter that they hadn't fallen at his feet and offered him a million-dollar contract on the spot. He'd gotten paid and he'd made it out alive. That was better than any of the bullshit unsanctioned fights Jimmy O'Riordan had dragged him into over the years. Maybe he could make a go of this, after all. He'd just need to be a little more careful next time.
"C'mere, Babylove. Lay with me awhile, hmm? Been two days already... don't think I can get any uglier if we put off icing just a little longer." He tugged her hand, pulling her down into his arms and the first thing he did was bury his face against her neck. It was like coming home after the longest time away and his voice was a little hoarse when he replied to that question she'd asked earlier. "If there's a next time," he paused, chuckling against her skin, "yer comin' with, Cherry. Promise."
WrestleDa.wordpress.com blog posting
13-01-2021
I HATE INTRODUCTIONS. Suppose am not alone in that, am I? There's always that moment of doubt where you look at the cards, trying to decide which to show and which to hold close to the vest for later. A line from a movie sticks in the craw, gives me a little chuckle.
Allow me to be frank at the commencement. You will not like me.
Am sure a good many of you're wondering just why Wrestle Da's in a dark match when two overblown numpties with facepaint, arm tassels and the bulging forehead veins of steroid and nose candy abuse made it into a televised match. Enlightenment comes at no cost to me. The Journeyman never gets his due. His name in lights. He works his arse off, show after show. Bleeds buckets, sweats rivers enough to wash away every sin in every locker room – does anyone care? Unless I stand on a soapbox and wave my hands around... scream at the top of my voice about the VENGEANCE OF THE ALMIGHTY in some poor-man's parody of a character in an otherwise forgettable Tarantino film? Ah, probably not. I may never make any hall of fame, but can be damned sure your name'll appear first on the ballot for the hallowed halls of pain.
Don't mistake my words. Am not salty. Not even remotely. This fella's happy just to have a place to lace up these boots. So which cards've I shown here? Hmm. That's the real brain-teaser, aye?
It's funny how many people in this industry think they've got your number after skimming a biography online, or worse yet, scrolling through someone's Twitter feed. Ah, but that's the lowest hanging fruit, innit? What you put out there reflects, though. Most certainly. Plants the seeds for that first impression. How much is true? How much is willful subterfuge and now much is a front for backdoor twattery? The universal mystery. The global conspiracy of this damnable industry.
Oh, aye. There's truth. You're more likely to find me in a gym in the wee hours of the morning. More often than not, I'm there at the arse-crack of dawn, before the rest of the 'new year, new me' crowd trickles in. Sometimes I forget to post the vainglorious selfie to document the occasion. Sometimes I lose myself in the motions, clear my mind of the pretentiousness of this business – we all put on airs, mind. Am no different, much as I try to set myself apart. I find peace in the simplicity. Am sure my upcoming opponent knows all about that. Ignorance is bliss, after all. Some dress themselves in it from head to toe, call it a 'vibe'. Ah, but here we are in these purgatory hours... these blessed little twilight moments before the bell rings and we do our Pavlovian dance. Ring a bell. Some salivate at the thought of riches and glory. Some at the thought of pain and violence and wanton destruction. Some feel that switch thrown and fall deep down into the rabbit hole of their own depravity, find themselves brooding in the boiler room until it's time for that Main Event. We've got 'em all here. Now who was it who said Proving GrounD was the better show? A sentiment applies to that woeful line of reasoning too; our dear friend Mr. Fairweather may appreciate it more than any other.
John 11:35
The shortest verse in the Holy Book: Jesus wept.
Seems appropriate right about now – you like your gospels according to the apostle John, don't you? Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I'm sure you've got a perfect understanding of the rhetoric you spew and how blasphemous it is to use in this place. And if you don't? Ah. Well then. That's a sad state of affairs. My heart pumps purple pony piss for the plight, truly.
Tsk, tsk... should be careful, hmm? Take precautions. The great reckoning is upon us and I could be stepping on a landmine, triggering someone with an innocent question. There's something worse than bringing up religion though, isn't there? Oh, aye. There is, Julius, there certainly is.
This is the prologue though, the preamble where I choose how the narrative begins and taking precautionary measures to protect some imaginary peace from exploding under the onslaught of this profession just seems like a waste of time. The miscreants, the hooligans with the vindictive and petty agendas will find fault in these words. They'll comb through, sifting grains of sand to look for a reason to justify that angst – point a finger and claim I'm nothing more than half a dozen weasels in a trench coat, trying to pass myself off as a professional. Of course, there are those who know who I am. Those who know what I can do and those who understand that 2020 saw me begin to claw my way out of the hole.
I beat some legends.
I beat some numpty-headed walking dildoes, too: "you're here left on the flumes you rode in on."
Prior to your nonsense, that was the dumbest thing I'd heard in years. Kudos on shattering that glass ceiling. What a trip it's been, too – Mr. Toad's Wild Flume Ride and the wet fart that my time in AGW was aside, of course. Here's a little advice. There's no honour among thieves and you should never suffer a fool. Remember both, friend. A lack of understanding may haunt you later. No fear, though. Wrestle Da has as much advice as the factory that prints those little slips of paper to go inside fortune cookies. Just as disposable, too. Your lucky numbers are: 102 117 99 107 121 111 117.
What you see is what you get. There's no bombastic bullshit here. No plagiarism to the nth degree. Wouldn't dream of stepping on the toes of some of these delicate flowers as I tiptoe wantonly through the tulips. Am not going to call myself a monster. A machine. A god-tier grappler. A scavenger. Won't hide behind some pithy and shallow concept of a hard-ass bad boy who eats broken glass and shits coffin nails – we've already enough of those in our midst, after all.
You want to know me, pay attention. Park an arse at the head of the class; don't forget to take notes. While others here like to pose and preen, parade around some jacked-up little fantasies, can always count on me to keep it real. Some like to imagine themselves a martyr when they've all the world handed to them on a silver platter. Never had that luxury. Wouldn't know what to do with it if I ever did. Ah, but I wish I knew what was coming next, and what little treat the good ol' dog'll be given when he tears his way through this cardboard cutout that's been propped up before him. Good boy. Lucky me.
Lucky, lucky me. Bludgeon me over the head a few times. Just don’t be too shocked when I lash out. Over twenty-two years, the patience has grown a mite thin. Though I suppose I should be grateful. Long as I get paid at the end of it all, does any of the rest of this song and dance really matter?
You don't need to know my name, Julius. You don't even need to remember how to spell it – beaten dozens over the years who couldn't get that right, despite those god-awful movies starring Christopher Lambert. Oh, aye. Have seen them, fella. The little quip isn't a clever one by any stretch of the imagination. But then, not sure I should've expected originality from the likes of you.
There can only be one.
It's just a damned shame that it won't be YOU.