Post by Deleted on Feb 1, 2021 3:14:34 GMT -5
VEGAS || DECEMBER 6, 2020
(off camera)
(off camera)
"Hit me." The words came out rough, a hoarse whisper laced with steel and they were met with silence thick enough to hear the rush and rattle of air through the vents overhead. Stalking to the other side of the ring, he shook his head, trying to banish the anger. The lid had come off that little box deep down that he kept it in, burying the bitterness under that affable charm. The last season break in CGW had done the same thing, had sent him on a spiralling path that had led to the Triad Challenge – one success amid the false hopes of TWC and the revival of WARPED. Sure, he never lost a match in either, but the whole of the experience was largely forgotten now.
He hated being idle.
He was exhausted, still jet-lagged, still sore from working that last match in Edmonton just a few days ago only to fly back to Vegas in time to see his daughter lose her debut match in UPRISING. He still had the CGW Rising Star championship and the longer it remained around his waist, the more absurd it all became. Twenty-plus years in the business, and his star was just now on the rise? Jesus wept. What a joke.
The last place Bruce McLeod expected to find himself was back here, back in the old Fear & Loathing training facility – he'd expected it to be torn down or converted into something else by now since its parent company had shuttered the doors a few years back. He'd been surprised to find the key still worked, let alone the dusty equipment still filling most of the space like forgotten relics of another time. The last year had helped – so many things falling to the wayside in the face of the world falling apart but he'd taken it on himself to spruce the place up a little before bringing his new student here to work.
He walked over to the corner of the ring, noting the loose bottom rope – he'd have to fix that later – before picking up the bottle of water that had gone warm hours ago. He swished some around his mouth, spitting it on the floor. He needed to banish the taste of old dust and even older memories on his tongue.
"I'm not gonna hit you."
The words slithered down his spine uneasy and he felt a flare of anger that he knew had more to do with the exhaustion and his own bullshit than the source. He remembered a time someone else had said the same thing, after inflicting wounds that would never really heal. He stood there a moment longer, his back turned as though inviting them to go back on that declaration with the perfect opportunity. Nothing happened.
"Then you're going to lose."
The rest of the bottle was dumped over his head and he sluiced the wet hair back from his eyes, not caring as the rest of it ran down his face to soak the cut-up tee he had on. He let the anger simmer, that bitter taste like old pennies in the back of his throat and then the lizard brain took over. He could do this shit in his sleep, after all. He didn't give any warning before charging across the ring and he rushed her into the corner, one forearm against her throat. He'd never raised a hand to her in anger but at the look of terror on her face, he had to swallow that sick feeling that arose. He had no idea how frightening his expression had been in that instant. There were no mirrors here, no cameras rolling to watch back later.
"Sorry." He backed off quickly, holding up his hands, just as spooked as she seemed to be.
"Yeah. Me too." His daughter stared at him; her eyes were bright, on the verge of frustrated tears again. "I should just give it up. I'm never gonna be good at this."
The irony of those words made him want to laugh hysterically until he puked up all the sour emotions in his guts. A snort of derisive laughter came out instead as he shook his head. "Grass looks greener from a distance, luv. Doesn't mean it's the truth."
"Oh my God, would you just be straight with me for ten seconds?!" She stood there with her hands on her hips, glaring. "I'm so sick of this 'ancient wisdom' Wrestle Da bullshit. Save it for your dumbass followers on Twitter. You watched the match; you saw me lose spectacularly – so be honest for once. Is this a mistake?"
He wanted a cigarette more than anything in that moment. Instead, he walked away again, stepping gracefully between the ropes before sitting down on the apron. The muscle in his jaw twitched as he ground his teeth together, feeling the ache radiate up into his temples – he was bottling too much stress again. Eventually it was going to boil over. It was going to get messy.
"It's too soon to make a call like that." He opted for the truth, letting his head hang. He felt the ring vibrate with her steps, knew she was coming over closer and then she was leaning on the ropes beside him. He grunted as he lifted one hand to his face, rubbing it over his stubble-covered cheeks. It wasn't just that he was stewing over the prospect of no wrestling on the horizon other than whatever scraps OPW was going to throw his way – he already hated the place more than AGW. There was too much bullshit, drama every week for no reason. The shows were loud and messy, the schedule so erratic that it just didn't feel like the right fit anymore. Everything right now was conspiring to annoy him, and he was trying his hardest not to lash out at her and steal away her dream. He needed to find a new outlet. A new gig. Something stable, already established and teeming with talent. Something-
"Dad?"
He blinked, clearing his throat as though he'd been stalling as he searched for words rather than wallowing in the mire.
"The most valuable lesson I can give you is this: there are no friends 'twixt these ropes," he didn't look up at her. He was thinking about Canadian Desperado turning on him during that strange bedfellows tag match in CGW. He was thinking about Stratford and Wolf recruiting him to OPW and then sniping at him the moment he tried to rise to their level. He was thinking of all the other times people had turned on him over the years. There were too many to count. She needed to know that cautionary tale above all else – protect her heart more than the rest of it. Never trust anyone fully.
Siobahn laughed, thinking he was setting up some punchline.
"Am serious-like," he snapped, "not saying there's no room for mercy or kindness – not exactly true. Not saying that allies don't exist, that you won't need them from time to time. I mean there's no room for regret. There's no margin for error, no save point and a mulligan you can call on for a do-over. In the blink of an eye, the choices you make have very real consequences. Even hesitation."
"So, what you're saying is I suck, and this was a fucking mistake?"
"No. What I'm saying is…" he hesitated, biting his lip for a moment as though he wanted to keep the bitter words from slipping out. In the end, they won because keeping them in was too much effort when he was already exhausted. "Mine are the last footsteps you should ever be trying to follow in."
WrestleDa.wordpress.com blog posting
02-01-2021
IF YOU SCREAM into the void, and nobody is around to mash the little heart button and validate your existence, are you still a twat? These are the burning questions I ponder in the wee hours of the morning, when the rest of my family is sleeping.
There's a divide in this business – there's one in the company as well. Two brands. Two ways of thinking. Two very different schools of thought on the subject that range from ‘anything goes' chaos to wrestling ‘as pure as the white virgin snow Space Lord puts up his nose'. Somehow, someway, I've ended up on the wrong side of the equation – according to my wife, bless her soul. She wants me to come home in one piece. She doesn't want to watch another almost-snuff film in the guise of sports entertainment. Once was enough for her. Go figure.
Ladies and gents, there's an elephant in the room. There's a monster waiting in the wings and it's with the stealthy steps of the reaper himself that he creeps up. Two fuckaree rumbles, going simultaneous – the winner of one faces the winner of the other. Brand against brand. Purist against pugilist, or should that be masochist? Last man standing becomes the Tyrant.
tyrant (noun)
ty·rant | \ ˈtī-rənt \
1a: an absolute ruler unrestrained by law or constitution
b: a usurper of sovereignty
2a: a ruler who exercises absolute power oppressively or brutally
b: one resembling an oppressive ruler in the harsh use of authority or power
Abuse of power? Authoritarian rule? Given that I had my sights set on the Noble Championship, this bizarro world prize doesn't hold much appeal, even though I've no idea what comes of it outside of that terrible moniker. Am no habitual line-stepper. Don't get my rocks off by playing chap-door-run with fate, but this seems a terrible idea when there's already a crybaby with an invalidated championship running around with a loaded nappy, hanging like a dark cloud over the whole sorry mess. If I were to win this, does this make me the best of the best? Does this make me worthy of the shot at the Legacy Championship I've already been promised by one of the hopefuls? Or is this just a waste of time, filler to keep us busy so nobody realizes that the powers-that-be had nothing else planned for sixteen of us?
It's Passover, kids. Paint the blood of the slaughtered lamb over the door, and maybe you'll live to see another day. Wear it like warpaint. Call yourself a warrior. Call yourself a god. GOAT. King of Kings. What a joke. The rest of us, those who haven't subscribed to the bombastic pageantry can just keep our heads down until the egos collide and cancel each other out. We'll get to pick the bones like vultures, break ourselves for an ephemeral ‘title', nothing tangible. Fitting, I suppose. For me, anyhow.
I've always believed I was above that hubris, that I was circumventing it because of a million other things. I believed in careful and repeated applications of reality to keep myself grounded. Apply a leech every one in a while, let it thin the blood. Like the elephant in the room, you can always turn a blind eye. Pretend it isn't there. Hang one of those gas station pine trees around your neck so you don't smell the toxicity that's overflowed from that broken sewer that's been backed up for months, ever since the new championships were revealed. Oh, but we tread lightly here, on kitten feet and we give the monsters a real berth. Warriors are meant to bash each other. Never slay the dragon and sully this shiny armament. Are you kidding? The monsters aren't real to me. It's a belief thing. They need validation to be real. They collect little red hearts, little green swirly-do's and with each one they grow louder. They're happy to ignore me for the most part. I've one foot into the grave already, you see. Not much longer for this business… for this world.
I'm too old.
Too this.
Too that.
Always something.
I'm happy to ignore them in return, all thirty-one flavours. Such a glorious spectrum, from varying shades of Batman villain to the KKK bubblegum trifecta of scene girls, torching joy and happiness on the lawns of decent folks. Repeat the party line, pass the brain down to the next one. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Ragnaros will burn us all (if we're not careful). Do my best to prevent that if I can. Too much plastic in one place. We get that burning and it'll be worse than a tire fire, endless and disgusting. May serve well to thin the ranks, but otherwise? No. Wouldn't want to add more toxicity to the air. It's already a mite too thick for my tastes. War Games? No. You think half of these so-called warriors would last an hour on a battlefield, would last ten minutes in the jungle or a desert without their endless scrolling Twitter feed? Absolutely not. Perish the thought.
Maybe a swift kick in the arse of ambition is what this is all about?
FLASHBACK – NYC || May 21, 2016
(off camera)
(off camera)
"…when I was little, my dad was the smartest guy I knew. He told me that finishing school was the most important thing I could do with my life."
The words cut right through his funk, bringing his eyes up to lock on the beautiful girl who stood on the stage behind the podium, dressed in her cap and gown. He flashed her a smile, finding that she was looking straight at him as though she could see deep into his soul from that great a distance. He'd almost been late for the ceremony, slipping through the doors at the last possible second only to find that his ex-wife had brought a date. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting after the awkward phone call inviting him here but seeing the evidence that she'd moved on cut deeper than he cared to admit.
"…he dropped out when he was sixteen. He was almost thirty when he went out and got his GED, almost sixteen years ago and I…"
Bruce closed his eyes, dragging in a deep breath and he almost reached for Charity's hand beside him – he caught himself in time, thankfully. Instead, he ran his ragged thumbnail over the groove in his ring finger, catching on the little callus that had built up at the base of the ring he didn't wear anymore. Up on stage, his daughter continued on with her valedictory address.
"…knew what he was talking about, that he was telling me the truth to prepare me for the world. So now I'm telling you. Every time you think of quitting, of giving up, think of my dad. Think of the things he sacrificed when I was little, the crappy things he had to do to make ends meet and every time I felt overwhelmed, every time I wanted to quit and give up over the years, I thought about those words. I thought about what it meant to succeed, to have something to show for it at the end of all these years. So, while I'm grateful for everything I've learned from our teachers and from my peers, it's really that first lesson from my dad that meant the most. No matter what, don't give up. I know all of you are amazing and talented and I want you to know that I believe in all of you. I believe we can do anything we put our minds to for the future because we made it this far!"
The applause was thunderous, enough to make her blush as she went back to her seat. He wished she hadn't told that story even though he didn't really care what anyone in this room thought of him or what was being said behind closed doors. He didn't deserve that praise, didn't deserve to be cited as an inspiration. It made him feel like an impostor, like the worst sort of fraud imaginable.
Despite everything that had happened, despite the distance that yawned between Charity and himself, they had still managed to do something right. Their beautiful Siobahn was proof of that. A cheer went up from the teens as caps were tossed in the air and he realized he'd missed something again. Glancing over, he saw that Charity and her date were already on their feet and he forced a thin smile as he stood, stepping into the aisle to allow them passage. She touched his arm as she passed, a friendly and familiar gesture and he hated how it made him feel.
"Glad you were able to make it," she favored him with a tight smile, "Bruce, this is my friend Michael Roberts." Her arm slid through her date's, her smile changing to a warmer one as she looked up at the handsome man. "Michael, this is Bruce, Sam's father."
He felt like he was being measured and judged, thankful that he'd at least thought to shave and get a haircut before this little event. He had a goatee now, growing a little more facial hair in an effort to draw the attention away from the scars on his cheeks but he felt like Roberts' eyes were drawn right there.
"Good to meet you." Michael extended his hand in Bruce's direction, shaking so firmly that he might as well have whipped his dick out to measure it. "Sammy's a really good kid; glad I was able to be here." His other arm went around Charity's waist, the tension in the air all too thick.
"Sammy?" One dark brow lifted as a chuckle passed Bruce's lips. "Oh, aye. Siobahn is a blessing, isn't she?"
It was difficult not to compare himself to the man standing here before him, to measure his own silver hair and signs of age against the fresh-faced Roberts who looked like he had walked right out of a GQ ad, right down to the flashy Rolex on his wrist. His gaze slipped to Charity's as he wiped his hand on his suit jacket before stuffing both into the pockets of his dress slacks. The jacket was a deep shade of blue, worn over a black dress shirt that he'd kept open at the collar, letting just a little bit of his chest hair peek out – he'd deliberately chosen this outfit with her in mind, wondering what she'd think about the fact that he'd finally stopped waxing his chest for the sake of the wrestling business, going natural for the first time in a good fifteen years. His goatee was neatly trimmed, his hair shorter than she'd last seen it and he knew he was far more fit than he'd been the last time they were together. He knew he looked as good as he possibly could, perhaps even better than the young, strapping lad she'd fallen for all those years ago.
There were a thousand things he wanted to say, the least of them being how much he'd missed her and how damned proud he was of their daughter, but the words were locked away behind that brittle smile. He turned away slightly, his gaze roving over the knots of kids in their grad caps and gowns chatting until he spotted the strawberry blonde locks of his daughter. "Nice weather," he finally said, wanting to kick his own ass for allowing himself to be thrown this way, "least it didn't rain."
Charity hadn't failed to notice how good Bruce looked, but that wasn't a surprise to her – he'd always been the most handsome man she'd ever known. "Not too hot either." That was the only thing she could think of to say as Michael's arm around her felt almost like a vice grip. "It's gorgeous." Her cheeks reddened slightly as she felt his hand slide down to her backside.
"Yeah, but not as gorgeous as you or Sammy," Michael leaned in and kissed her cheek, a smirk of satisfaction on his face – he knew he was getting to the older man. If Michael Roberts were to say that he didn't feel threatened by Bruce McLeod, it would have been a bold-faced lie.
The smirk on Bruce's lips was almost cruel as he turned his attention back, seeing where those roaming hands of Charity's new beau had gone. "Generally, try not tae judge the looks of underage girls, myself." He let that thought hang for a moment, trying his best not to indulge the irrational jealousy he felt and cause a scene.
Before Michael could respond, the day was saved by Siobahn running over and throwing her arms around her father's neck. "Da! You made it!"
The smile he gave his daughter was filled with warmth, genuine and it lit up his whole face. "Of course, Possum," he used the pet name he'd given her when she was five and had been obsessed with the family of possums that lived under the shed in the backyard. "It's not every day my little girl grows up – never told me I was father to a certifiable genius." He chuckled, hugging her tightly as he spun her around in a circle like he used to when she was a little girl.
"Don't know about that, but I'll take it." The young woman said with a laugh as Bruce set her back on her feet. She immediately gave her mom a hug and then glanced at the man who was hanging off her like a barnacle. "Oh, hey Mike… thanks for coming." As pleasant as she tried to sound, it fell short.
"No way I would have missed it, Sammy." Michael gave Sam a smile before placing a kiss on Charity's cheek. "Unfortunately, I'm going to have to get going; headed out of town for work."
"Oh. Well, safe travels?" Sam's attention went back to her father and it was clear now that she still had him up on that pedestal. "Are you staying in town, Da?"
"Until Tuesday," he replied with a nod, feeling the girl slip her hand into his and they both watched as Michael Roberts walked away. Strangely enough, even though he had a secret life back in Vegas that neither of them knew about, he couldn't help but feel as though he was being systematically replaced and that little voice in the back of his mind was busy connecting dots. Before she'd greeted his replacement with such a startling lack of enthusiasm, he'd been thinking that maybe this new fella was the reason his daughter hadn't really seemed to have much time for him lately. He put his arm around Sam, pulling her close and planting a kiss on her cheek. "So very proud of you," he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.
Sam looked off at the crowd of kids, suddenly sheepish. "Emmie's parents invited us to spend the weekend at their beach house but if you're only in town for a few days…"
"It's fine," he said, feeling an ache in his chest. It was disheartening to feel so unimportant, despite that little speech she'd just given. "It's not every day you graduate. Your ol' Da'll be around for a while longer."
The girl looked from him to her mother, "would you be okay with me going?"
Charity paused, her gaze going to Bruce but he refused to make eye contact.
He shrugged, knowing it was probably best to let her go and have her fun with folks that she may never see again. It was easy enough to hide the disappointment behind that charming smile; he'd been doing it his whole life, after all. "Why not?" He glanced at Charity, "am in town for a few more days yet. Goan. Have fun. We can have dinner when you're back. Before I fly out."
"Absolutely!" She hugged onto Bruce once more before turning to her mother. "Ma, are you okay with me going?"
"Just make sure you check in, okay?"
Sam eagerly nodded, the smile making her look so much like her mother in that instant. "Promise. I'll call you both tonight when we get there. Love you!" And with that she was off to tell her friends the good news, leaving the adults to themselves.
Charity stepped back as soon as Sam was out to earshot, all traces of civility dropping from her as her body language shifted in an instant. "I should probably..."
Her reaction ripped the lid off that box and the anger filled him, mixing with the regret and guilt he'd been carting around for years. It made for a sickening cocktail. "C'mere," he reached out to take her hand before she could shy away. "Think we need tae have a wee chat somewhere private."
She roughly pulled her hand out of his and took a step back, shaking her head. "There is NOTHING we need to talk about."
The last thing he wanted to do was cause a scene, especially in a place so public where their daughter could overhear. His own eyes narrowed as he took her hand again and turned towards the doors at the back of the hall. He'd passed a handicapped washroom on his way in, tucked away in the corner under the stairwell and thought it might be a good place to get a few things off his chest. He didn't give her a choice in protesting, almost dragging her towards the doors that led out into the hallway – not bothering to look back, when she didn't pull back or resist this time, he quickened his strides and in a matter of what seemed like seconds, he was all but pulling her inside that room. The light came on automatically and he caught sight of her stricken expression in the mirror before he leaned against the door, locking it.
Charity was glaring at him as she pulled her hand out of his and if looks could kill, he'd have dropped dead on the spot. A million different emotions were running through her. "Let. Me. Out. Now." She was doing everything in her power to keep her breathing steady but could feel her blood pressure rising.
"There was a time you'd have been tickled tae be in closer quarters with me," Bruce replied, sarcasm oozing from his words, "but I see you've found yerself a wonderful upgrade. Tell me, luv… does he get as handsy with our daughter when-"
At the mention of Michael touching their daughter in any kind of inappropriate way, that last shred of control snapped, and she slapped him as hard as she could across the face. "How dare you insinuate I would let anyone hurt Sam." Her eyes were wide, the anger and frustration coupled with the hurt he'd caused her, all there on display for him to see. "How fucking dare you." Her fists were back at her sides – she was more than ready to strike him again if need be. "Let me out of here or I swear to God…" she trailed off, unsure what she would actually do.
"Or what?" His eyes were dead black as they locked on hers, the red imprint of her hand like a brand on his cheek. "You'll hit me again?" That wicked smirk was on his lips as he moved closer to her, "you'll find another useless twat tae make me feel second-class? Oh, Cherry-love…" he watched her take a few steps back, keeping out of his reach until she bumped into the sink and had nowhere else to go. "Heaven forbid I entertain the thought that you might've actually wanted me here."
"For Sam. Yes. That's it. I didn't want…" her voice broke and she cleared her throat, "I didn't want any of this, Bruce. I'm seeing Michael now. And I'm happy."
He couldn't believe how stupid he'd been, believing for a moment that her phone call out of the blue had meant something more than just having him here for his daughter's sake. "How long?" The words came out before he could stop them, as if he needed to know the precise moment she'd decided he wasn't worth a damn and to stop pining for what might've been.
She stared at him for a few seconds, as if she wasn't even sure what he was asking. "A few months. Why does it even matter?"
He wasn't sure why. Couldn't even begin to explain why he felt as though their divorce had been some reset button that he could push and it'd magically purge the darkness and the negativity that had filled their last few years together. He wasn't even thinking about what he'd left behind in Vegas, about the woman he'd married on a whim simply because she'd asked. He wasn't thinking about anything in that moment but how damned good she looked and how much he missed her. He looked down at her still-clenched fists. "Tell me tae piss off, Cherry. Hit me, then. Hurt me."
"I…" she hesitated for a fraction of a second and then shook her head, "I can't do that."
"Then there's hope for us yet." He turned away from that look on her face, fumbling with the lock on the door. "Staying at the Residence Inn on Broadway, got a view of Central Park and everything." He didn't bother to ask her to come with him. She knew him well enough to understand the unspoken invitation. He didn't turn and look at her again. Instead, he opened the door and slipped out, leaving her behind in that stunned and awkward silence. Whatever happened next, he was leaving in someone else's hands, a prospect that was utterly terrifying.
WrestleDa.wordpress.com blog posting
01-02-2021
01-02-2021
FOR THE TL;DR CROWD who have already dismissed the preceding little missive, I'll summarize. For those who tuned out and skimmed after the first sentence yet can somehow spend nine days posting far more nonsense in little social media snippets, I'll provide this brief addendum: I've no desire to be a martyr for a cause I don't understand. I've no desire to rule with impunity, with an iron fist and greed in my heart, trampling all that've come before (and who are bound to follow after) me. I want to see others succeed. I want to build up my brethren. I want to see a revival in the land, a return to our roots. I want to see the grass be greener because it's being treated fairly, maintained properly and not because it's replaced on a bi-monthly basis to maintain a shiny illusion.
I won't be signing off on my morality or selling out.
I will be the last man standing. I will put this house in order, brick by lonely brick. There is no one more suited to rule than one who has spent two decades serving the masses. I know what the people want. I can do this with my eyes shut. Am sick of listening to everyone else ascribing nonsense definitions. Am sick of raging against who I'm not. It's time to embrace the truth.
ALL HAIL BRUCE THE TYRANT!