Post by James Raven on Apr 21, 2021 15:35:38 GMT -5
There can only be one tyrant.
I don’t make the rules, it’s historically dictated. A tyrant seizes control and forms the world that the rest of us live in, for better or worse, and it’s only after their downfall that another tyrant can rise and take over that same territory.
There can only be one…
… and it’s not me.
I’m not jealous, so chase all thoughts of pending betrayal from your minds. There’s no insurrection coming. His position is deserved and well earned, and those rooting for upheaval will need a different source. I’ve never been one to turn my back on someone, just because I wasn’t satisfied with the salad on my own plate. I’ve never been one to tear the first brick out of something I’ve tried (however successfully) to help build. I won’t knock the crown from his head for you just because you can’t leap high enough.
There can be only one, and I’m not jealous.
I’m fucking pissed.
At you.
At all of you.
I’m pissed at you for looking down your noses at me for being the Legacy member that isn’t the Tyrant, when none of you fucks are either! Am I supposed to pretend that I don’t notice? It’s hard not to recognize when people turn their backs and leave only their shirt collars smiling back at you. It’s hard not to hear the gossip when people stop offering you the courtesy of whispering.
You’ve all gotten far too goddamn comfortable with me.
You confuse the fact that I haven’t wrecked each of your fucking shit yet, with the theory that I can’t.
“Raven is getting carried”, “he’s stuck is in the shadow”, “CAN Raven even wrestle a singles match?”, “he can barely even get booked!”, “Raven and the tag belts are just three big anchors”, “the roster doesn’t even like him!”.
I hear it all, followed by your goofy ass giggles, telling each other jokes where my name is the only punchline.
I take note.
I take fucking note of anyone that confuses my loyalty for impotence and thinks that they can take pot shots when I’m in the background, like I’m not capable of flipping the script and going right back to the front and center, top billed, A-List, smiling set of abs that’s slapped on every pay per view poster, every merch stand tee shirt, and every one of your girlfriends walls at a moments fucking notice.
My inactivity is not inability.
General Subutai conquered more territory than any other commander in history, he just did it on behalf of the tyrant Genghis Khan. Thomas Cromwell reformed The Church of England, but simply to clear the path for The Bluebeard King Henry VIII.
I can move fucking mountains, and scorch earth, rookies; whether I lurk in the fringe or I close out the show. A social media campaign to book me can get more traction in 10 minutes than most of you have gotten in your entire Project: Honor run, and a whisper in the right ear could give me everything you’ve scratched and clawed for.
Ozymandias.
It’s people like you, who think evoking a monster can save you when you awaken a beast, and who cast idle threats at people they haven’t so much as asked around about. You speak down to me like I’m a yelping puppy that can be locked in the bathroom when you don’t want to be disturbed, and not the G.O.A.T.. You send a manager to take me out? Like a pretty face nullifies a pretty face, regardless of ability?
If a manager was a fighter they’d be a fighter, Ozy.
A manager is a crutch, and one I look forward to kicking out from under you to watch you crash. A manager is someone who can talk or be marketable or provide you with something that you can't do on your own.
A Tyrant can do it all.
I can do it all.
… and with that said, I propose to you a hypothetical; what if The Tyrant wasn’t the one you should have been worried about all this time? Sure, you were clouded by revenge, you wanted to break his spine over your knee and sip his blood... but what if while you chased the battle, the quiet little bird in the shadows was ready to win the war?
I mentioned General Subutai and Genghis Khan. Do you know how they were so successful? They divided their forces. They coordinated over long distances. They sacked towns you weren’t protecting and attacked from angles you didn’t expect.
It’s too late to check behind you.
You wanted me occupied, so I can’t help? We want your weapons and your numbers gone. You’re feeding me your general in the second match of the night. Who the fuck is going to help you at the end? A word of advice, and take this seriously; tell Meredith to stay home. You’re leading her head first into a buzzsaw.
In fact, tell everyone affiliated with you to stay home.
Tell everyone that’s ever read a Lovecraft story, stopped by a Scientology centre, or worn a goddamn vest with a trenchcoat and cargo pants to stay. Fucking. Home. I will end them all, one by one and limb from limb if I fucking have to…
If Cthulhu itself finds it’s way to the arena, I will rip the tentacles from it’s face and beat it with the bloody tendrils until it’s left in a heap on the stage, and I’m not fucking kidding. This shit’s on pay per view and I’m tossing all parental advisories out the window. I will sit atop it’s corpse and fucking laugh at you when the Tyrant takes you off your feet again, and you look around for someone to lift you up. I will laugh as he squeezes the life out of you and beats the fucking gimp mask off your skull.
You will beg for your followers, cry for your cult.
I’ll dangle their ears on a chain in front of you so you know you’ve gone unheard.
“Can James Raven even wrestle a singles match?”.
I can wrestle an army if I’m asked to.
General Subutai conquered 1/7th of the world, because he believed in his Tyrant.
There can be only one.
You’re done slandering me just because I knew who to back.
The G.O.A.T. is here. His feathers are ruffled and you've pissed him off.
Fuck you all. Fear the Raven... Forevermore.
BZZZZZZZZ! BZZZZZZZZ!
Throbbing.
Head throbbing.
BZZZZZZZZ! BZZZZZZZZ!
The world explodes back to life around me, my head resting on a hard surface as my right hand scampers across what feels like polished wood towards the source of the sound. Am I on the floor? No. I’m sitting, I think… hard to tell as the room spins and swirls around me.
BZZZZZZZZ! BZZZZZZZZ!
My knuckles bump against something. An empty glass. I keep fumbling, fingertips dancing around until landing on what feels like a cell phone. I need to lift my head up, I need to open my eyes.
So heavy…
So tired…
BZZZZZZZZ! BZZZZZZZZ!
The phone vibrates in my hand, jolting me back out of my stupor. Instinctively I click the side button on the device, sending the call to voicemail.
RAVEN: Fuck…
My voice is hoarse, my mouth dry as I try to swirl my whiskey soaked tongue around between my cheeks for relief. I’m definitely sitting; I begin to recognize the familiar hunch that comes with a bar stool, and drop the cell phone as I plant my hands on the wood and push myself up, opening my bleary eyes to take in my surroundings.
I don’t recognize this place at all.
VOICE: Você está vivo.
I swing my head clumsily, noticing a young man standing behind the bar and eyeing me carefully.
RAVEN: Huh?
MAN: You’re alive.
I nod slowly. Portugese. I guess I made it to Brazil.
RAVEN: You speak some English?
He holds his thumb and index finger an inch apart. A little bit.
RAVEN: When did I get here?
MAN: Late.
RAVEN: How long was I passed out?
MAN: A while.
I look down to check my watch, but a bare wrist stares back at me. I hold my arm up to him.
RAVEN: Did you rob me or something?
He pulls the watch out of his pocket.
MAN: Foi um presente. A gift. If nobody bothered you.
It takes a moment for what he’s saying to cut through the fog inside my head, but eventually I shrug. It sounds like me, and I’ve got plenty of watches. I stare at the empty glass in front of me, noticing multiple empty bottles pushed down the bar a few feet away from me. Christ.
RAVEN: Did we talk about anything?
MAN: A monster. You said you were here to kill it by, uhhh… “skull fuck”?
Now that absolutely sounds like me. Ozymandias and Meredith; so at least I was focused on the task at hand while I tried to poison myself to death.
RAVEN: Just wrestling? I didn’t say anything else?
MAN: Você falou sobre uma garota. A girl. You spoke of a girl.
RAVEN: Did I say what her name was?
He shrugs his shoulders. He doesn’t remember. I guess neither of us does. That may be for the best. I stumble off the stool, nearly collapsing to a knee as I do so, and after a moment of gripping the bar top for balance I manage to take a few steps away. I reach into my pocket and pull a small stack of folded bills, dropping it on the counter in front of him before turning towards the exit and making my way towards the light.
BZZZZZZZZ! BZZZZZZZZ!
The cell phone begins to vibrate again, echoing off the polished wood and through the small room. I turn back, picking it up and offering the man behind the bar one final appreciative wave before heading back to the door.
BZZZZZZZZ! BZZZZZZZZ!
Click… click… click… click…
The heels of expensive leather shoes clip the cheap and warped floorboards of the bar, paint chips peeling from the walls and ceilings and floating down to the floor every once in a while and crunching underfoot.
BZZZZZZZZ! BZZZZZZZZ!
Click… click… click… click…
My brain bounces against my skull with each step. My muscles and body spasm with each buzz of the phone. I need to get out of this room. I need to breathe some fresh air. I ignore everything as I stumble ever forwards towards the door and finally explode through it to the street.
BZZZZZZZZ! BZZZ-
RAVEN: WHAT?! What the fuck do you want?!
There’s silence on the other end of the line, then a soft breathing as the other party processes my greeting.
JEREMY SILVER: … James… my man… are you OK?
My manager. His voice in this moment, strangely, is a comfort… a shot to soothe my fractured nerves. I suck in a deep breath, the warm and humid Brazilian air filling my lungs and settling a writhing stomach.
RAVEN: I’m fine… I’m fine...
JEREMY SILVER: Where are you?
RAVEN: Belo Horizonte, I think? Brazil for sure.
JEREMY SILVER: You never checked into the hotel. Where have you been?
RAVEN: A bar.
JEREMY SILVER: … where did you sleep?
RAVEN: A bar.
I can hear him groan and mutter a few curse words on the other end of the line. Whatever, he isn’t the one that did it.
JEREMY SILVER: You’re lucky you weren’t robbed, or kidnapped!
RAVEN: I guess.
JEREMY SILVER: Not for nothing, James, but you can’t fucking do shit like this. I’ve called you at least a dozen times, I’ve got people contacting me non-stop because they can’t get in touch with you!
RAVEN: Not for nothing, Jeremy, but you’re never going to be the one to tell me what I can or can’t do. I’m in Brazil, I’m fine, all systems go for Public Execution.
He scoffs loudly. He wants me to hear it.
JEREMY SILVER: You’re lost in a foreign country. You have a match in a couple of days, and you’re hammered and making bad fucking choices.
RAVEN: I’ll dry out.
JEREMY SILVER: What am I supposed to tell Betsy?
RAVEN: To call me if she wants to.
JEREMY SILVER: She’s tried, and she says you’re not answering. Jackson says you’re not answering. Mia says you’re not answer-
I stop him cold, squinting and lifting a thumb and forefinger to rub my eyes as the throbbing in my head gets more and more debilitating.
RAVEN: Why is my ex-wife calling you?
JEREMY SILVER: Because people are talking, James! Betsy and Atara went nuclear last night; shitty tabloids and dirt sheets are picking it up and making up stories, and you haven’t said anything about it! Your ex-wife wants to know what she’s supposed to tell your son, James.
RAVEN: Nothing happened with Atara.
JEREMY SILVER: It’s none of my business if it did or it didn’t happen, James.
RAVEN: It didn’t.
There’s a long silence on the line. I don’t think he believes me, and I don’t think that I care. Finally he sighs and relents.
JEREMY SILVER: Well, I’ll let Mia know, unless you want to start calling people back? That’d be nice, right?
RAVEN: Nah. You got it. I’ll talk to people when I’m out of Brazil. I’m done getting run over by other peoples bullshit. Let them talk if they want to talk. Let them believe whatever the hell they want to believe. Just leave me alone.
He’s quiet.
JEREMY SILVER: … you’re not going to call Betsy?
I’m quiet.
RAVEN: I will.
He’s quiet.
JEREMY SILVER: … anybody else?
RAVEN: None of your fucking business. I’m hanging up now.
He shouts loudly, scrambling to keep me on the phone a moment longer.
JEREMY SILVER: HEY! James! Are you still there?
RAVEN: Uh huh.
JEREMY SILVER: Just… take care of yourself. Find the hotel. Get some real sleep. Eat something, and drink some water. Remember what you’re down there for, and get yourself ready… there’s nothing noble about a 72-hour binge and then marching yourself to the ring to get slaughtered. Whatever happened, whatever is in your head, whatever shit show you’re trying to hide from… we can deal with it when you get back. Just get back in one piece.
I stare up at the Brazilian sky, eyes locked on the sun until they nearly melt out of my skull.
JEREMY SILVER: Did you hear that?
RAVEN: Uh huh.
I pull the phone from my face and hang up the call. My eyes plummet to the dirt beneath my feet. The pressure has been building for weeks, and finally the wall crumbles and allows the toxic wave to flow through me.
Fuck ‘em all.
Kill ‘em all.
Men, monsters and myths alike.
BZZZZZZZZ! BZZZZZZZZ!
My phone rings again, and I glance at the name on the display. I smile as I turn back towards the small barroom I just vacated, retreating to the stool I’ve become so comfortable with.
I can get back on track tomorrow.
BZZZZZZZZ! BZZZ-
RAVEN: Hey.
FADE
TO
BLACK