Post by bloodiedfox on Apr 22, 2021 4:55:51 GMT -5
It is a beautiful spring day as Bloodied Fox walks through the Missouri Botanical Gardens. Sir Borkington the corgi gambols around his feet, alternating between looking at his 'Pop Pop' with ardent affection and sniffing whatever plantlife next catches his attention. Fox himself looks deep in thought, hands clasped behind his back, brow furrowed. After a few moments, he begins to speak.
In the spirit of honesty, I feel there's something I should tell you, Cross. When you first came to the AWF I was a bit peeved. It wasn't because I felt you were a threat to my position in the company; when it comes to that I'm entirely self-focused. It wasn't because you were aligned with Chris Card, because I've rarely had much cause to think about him then or now. No, what annoyed me, and as I say it out loud I understand even more how dumb it was, was your nickname:
The Fox.
He chuckles and shakes his head.
Like I said, dumb. And yet I couldn't shake the irritation. After all the stupid shit I've had to put up with over the years about the name I wrestle under, most of it no smarter than “Huh huh you're name is stupid!”, here comes some other guy partly co-opting my niche. There's not exactly a surplus of Foxes in professional wrestling, after all. There's Alicia, AR, me, and you. It's not like you can stake a cultural claim there; neither Italy or America can claim much vulpine folklore.
Fox pauses for a second, leading to Sir Borkington walking into his leg and giving a yip of complaint.
Well, I suppose America does have Brer Fox in the Brer Rabbit stories, but since I'm guessing you went with The Fox for its allusions to cunning, being on the receiving end of another's trickery isn't what you intended. Not to mention those stories don't belong to white boys like us.
He starts walking again, the corgi having immediately forgiven him for the temporary stoppage.
Anyway, the irritation largely faded over time, but now that we're finally set for our first ever one on one meeting part of it has resurfaced in a thought that came to me that I just couldn't dislodge: what separates The Fox and Bloodied Fox? And yes, I know, “a rose by any other name” etc etc, but it kept niggling at me, so I had to sit and puzzle it over. Eventually I came upon an answer, and like the best answers it's both simple and complex. Also, bloody.
Those of you who don't like when I start one of my impromptu history lessons, skip ahead a bit. The rest of you, buckle up. The history of medicine is fascinating because it's a field whose development accelerated dramatically in the span of the last two centuries. See, up until the mid-1800s, the theories and treatments surrounding most any illness or injury less obvious than a broken bone all revolved around the concept of Humors, chemical elements in the body. Illness, it was believed, was caused by the humors becoming unbalanced. Now, the concept of humors was interpreted in a lot of different ways by a lot of different people over the centuries, but the most commonly held was the version laid out by Hippocrates, wherein there were four: yellow bile, black bile, phlegm, and blood. To Hippocrates' thinking, these four didn't just affect the body, but also the behaviour. Each resembled an emotional state. Yellow bile was anger and aggression, Black bile was melancholy and depression. Phlegm made you withdrawn and reserved. Blood? Well, there's a reason sanguine originates from the Latin word for blood. Enthusiasm; sociability, positivity; those were the traits associated with the humor of blood. Now look at me and look at you and tell me which of us those describe these days.
Fox shakes his head sadly as he stops to admire a rose bush.
God damn it, Cross, a year ago do you think anyone would have believed that out of the two of us it's you who'd have destroyed everything meaningful in their life in the name of obsession? I wear my heart on my sleeve. I always have, I always will, and I am fully aware what a double-edged sword that is. It's only now, looking back, that I realise how close I came to ruining my own life I came, first in my obsession with revenge on Seth Dillinger, then in my obsession for vindication against Keith Williams. I nearly lost the man I love. I nearly lost the job that I have dreamed of since I was a child. I came right up to the edge, but thankfully I never quite went all the way over. You, Cross? You dived over head first, and you still have your eyes shut so tight that you can't see the ground rushing up to meet you. You drove away Dakota Jennings, the woman you loved, who loved you every bit as much. Now you sit there alone in that penthouse apartment of yours; the poster child for 'money doesn't buy happiness'. For what? Because Chris Card ended your undefeated streak? Newsflash: wrestlers lose matches. Does it suck? Yes. Is it the end of the world? No.
The real punchline to the joke you've made of yourself, Cross, is that you got your revenge, and yet you're still going on and on about your former mentor. You beat him! Clean! This isn't like me getting screwed by The ReVenants at AVAC! He had you in a choke, and you shifted your body weight to get his shoulders on the mat for the three seconds it took to win. You didn't cheat, as though that would have tainted a win over man who breaks rules as often as he breathes! You outsmarted the man considered by many to be the smartest in the game, but somehow that's not enough. You went up against a determined and talented competitor in Erin Gordon last show, yet still you kept talking about Chris Card. You took your eye of the ball and you ended up taking another loss. Why? Because I guess a submission counter pinfall just wasn't win enough for you. Weird how Card punching Julianna Del Marco with brass knucks to pin her in a tag match was enough for you to proclaim you beat me though.
Fox looks up from the roses and stares into the camera, his deadpan expression highlighting the hypocrisy mentioned in his last sentence.
I don't know what it's going to take to get you to pull back from this self-destructive course you're on, Cross. You've lost Dakota; you've lost your unbeaten record; is the casino next? Would that be enough? Somehow I doubt it. Oh, and before you ask why I care, I'll tell you. Right now, you are a living example of what I could have been if I didn't get a fucking clue and pull my head out of my arse, and that really pisses me off. You are better than this, Cross Recoba, and if it takes me beating the everliving fuck out of you to make you realise that, then I guess that's what I have to do.
Fox shakes his head again, this time in what could best be interpreted as disbelief in this whole situation and walks out of shot as we fade to black.
In the spirit of honesty, I feel there's something I should tell you, Cross. When you first came to the AWF I was a bit peeved. It wasn't because I felt you were a threat to my position in the company; when it comes to that I'm entirely self-focused. It wasn't because you were aligned with Chris Card, because I've rarely had much cause to think about him then or now. No, what annoyed me, and as I say it out loud I understand even more how dumb it was, was your nickname:
The Fox.
He chuckles and shakes his head.
Like I said, dumb. And yet I couldn't shake the irritation. After all the stupid shit I've had to put up with over the years about the name I wrestle under, most of it no smarter than “Huh huh you're name is stupid!”, here comes some other guy partly co-opting my niche. There's not exactly a surplus of Foxes in professional wrestling, after all. There's Alicia, AR, me, and you. It's not like you can stake a cultural claim there; neither Italy or America can claim much vulpine folklore.
Fox pauses for a second, leading to Sir Borkington walking into his leg and giving a yip of complaint.
Well, I suppose America does have Brer Fox in the Brer Rabbit stories, but since I'm guessing you went with The Fox for its allusions to cunning, being on the receiving end of another's trickery isn't what you intended. Not to mention those stories don't belong to white boys like us.
He starts walking again, the corgi having immediately forgiven him for the temporary stoppage.
Anyway, the irritation largely faded over time, but now that we're finally set for our first ever one on one meeting part of it has resurfaced in a thought that came to me that I just couldn't dislodge: what separates The Fox and Bloodied Fox? And yes, I know, “a rose by any other name” etc etc, but it kept niggling at me, so I had to sit and puzzle it over. Eventually I came upon an answer, and like the best answers it's both simple and complex. Also, bloody.
Those of you who don't like when I start one of my impromptu history lessons, skip ahead a bit. The rest of you, buckle up. The history of medicine is fascinating because it's a field whose development accelerated dramatically in the span of the last two centuries. See, up until the mid-1800s, the theories and treatments surrounding most any illness or injury less obvious than a broken bone all revolved around the concept of Humors, chemical elements in the body. Illness, it was believed, was caused by the humors becoming unbalanced. Now, the concept of humors was interpreted in a lot of different ways by a lot of different people over the centuries, but the most commonly held was the version laid out by Hippocrates, wherein there were four: yellow bile, black bile, phlegm, and blood. To Hippocrates' thinking, these four didn't just affect the body, but also the behaviour. Each resembled an emotional state. Yellow bile was anger and aggression, Black bile was melancholy and depression. Phlegm made you withdrawn and reserved. Blood? Well, there's a reason sanguine originates from the Latin word for blood. Enthusiasm; sociability, positivity; those were the traits associated with the humor of blood. Now look at me and look at you and tell me which of us those describe these days.
Fox shakes his head sadly as he stops to admire a rose bush.
God damn it, Cross, a year ago do you think anyone would have believed that out of the two of us it's you who'd have destroyed everything meaningful in their life in the name of obsession? I wear my heart on my sleeve. I always have, I always will, and I am fully aware what a double-edged sword that is. It's only now, looking back, that I realise how close I came to ruining my own life I came, first in my obsession with revenge on Seth Dillinger, then in my obsession for vindication against Keith Williams. I nearly lost the man I love. I nearly lost the job that I have dreamed of since I was a child. I came right up to the edge, but thankfully I never quite went all the way over. You, Cross? You dived over head first, and you still have your eyes shut so tight that you can't see the ground rushing up to meet you. You drove away Dakota Jennings, the woman you loved, who loved you every bit as much. Now you sit there alone in that penthouse apartment of yours; the poster child for 'money doesn't buy happiness'. For what? Because Chris Card ended your undefeated streak? Newsflash: wrestlers lose matches. Does it suck? Yes. Is it the end of the world? No.
The real punchline to the joke you've made of yourself, Cross, is that you got your revenge, and yet you're still going on and on about your former mentor. You beat him! Clean! This isn't like me getting screwed by The ReVenants at AVAC! He had you in a choke, and you shifted your body weight to get his shoulders on the mat for the three seconds it took to win. You didn't cheat, as though that would have tainted a win over man who breaks rules as often as he breathes! You outsmarted the man considered by many to be the smartest in the game, but somehow that's not enough. You went up against a determined and talented competitor in Erin Gordon last show, yet still you kept talking about Chris Card. You took your eye of the ball and you ended up taking another loss. Why? Because I guess a submission counter pinfall just wasn't win enough for you. Weird how Card punching Julianna Del Marco with brass knucks to pin her in a tag match was enough for you to proclaim you beat me though.
Fox looks up from the roses and stares into the camera, his deadpan expression highlighting the hypocrisy mentioned in his last sentence.
I don't know what it's going to take to get you to pull back from this self-destructive course you're on, Cross. You've lost Dakota; you've lost your unbeaten record; is the casino next? Would that be enough? Somehow I doubt it. Oh, and before you ask why I care, I'll tell you. Right now, you are a living example of what I could have been if I didn't get a fucking clue and pull my head out of my arse, and that really pisses me off. You are better than this, Cross Recoba, and if it takes me beating the everliving fuck out of you to make you realise that, then I guess that's what I have to do.
Fox shakes his head again, this time in what could best be interpreted as disbelief in this whole situation and walks out of shot as we fade to black.