Realizations and the trappings of self.
Jan 8, 2021 13:38:49 GMT -5
SWAT Team, Eron Hunter, and 4 more like this
Post by Justin on Jan 8, 2021 13:38:49 GMT -5
I feel like shit.
Stretched to my limits.
The CCFC is a goddamned zoo. The Syndicate’s all over the place. I was supposed to be the X*Crown Champion by now. But no. Here I sit, broken down and bitter, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I forget that I’m not in my thirties anymore. Hell, I’m pushing fifty at this point. Seems like every other asshole I come up on is tripping over themselves to remind me of that, too.
As if I could forget?
Like somehow the handful of pills that I have to eat daily just to get everything functioning is gonna slip my memory once I drag my fuckin’ boots on? Some fuckin’ people, I swear… It takes an hour to wrap my knees just so I can put in a half hour of cardio in the morning, but I guess I need some jamoke from nowhere who ain’t ever drew a dime to tell me how I can’t go like I used to, or how all I do is cheat my ass off and hide behind Scott Steel and Jesse Jamester.
Maybe I’m just paranoid.
Making this shit up.
Convincing myself to either burn it all down around me or stand up and make a point.
Who the fuck knows, am I right?
Or cares, for that matter?
Maybe I forgot, trying to beat a guy twenty years my junior, that all of those fancy moves that brought me to the dance weren’t what kept me there and put a crown on my head. Maybe I got so caught up trying to be better than Dylan Black that I forgot the cardinal rule of wrestling.
It doesn’t matter how you win, only that you do.
Record books, the real ones, they don’t carry star ratings or breakdowns written by neckbeards who wouldn’t last ten minutes running the ropes, let alone taking bumps. Only thing those books record, in immaculately boring detail, are wins and losses. So yeah, I probably for sure stepped over my boundaries trying to go blow for blow with Black on New Years Eve. That’s a mistake that I can’t afford to make again, even with greener than goose shit Joe Mack. I’ve got to get back to what I’m the best at sooner than later otherwise this whole last hoo-rah bullshit’s gonna end before it ever gets where it’s supposed to be going.
I’m supposed to have the entirety of NPW pressed firmly under my bootheel. I should be sitting on a throne, lording over my lessers and waiting for somebody to climb the mountain and bring me a worthy challenge. Instead I’ve got to beg, borrow, and steal to get anybody on the roster to take an open contract just so I can defend the Double Crown this month.
This is all wrong.
The Syndicate has devolved into a traveling circus.
People should be scared of us. Scared of me.
Something’s got to give.
An example will have to be made.
Stretched to my limits.
The CCFC is a goddamned zoo. The Syndicate’s all over the place. I was supposed to be the X*Crown Champion by now. But no. Here I sit, broken down and bitter, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I forget that I’m not in my thirties anymore. Hell, I’m pushing fifty at this point. Seems like every other asshole I come up on is tripping over themselves to remind me of that, too.
As if I could forget?
Like somehow the handful of pills that I have to eat daily just to get everything functioning is gonna slip my memory once I drag my fuckin’ boots on? Some fuckin’ people, I swear… It takes an hour to wrap my knees just so I can put in a half hour of cardio in the morning, but I guess I need some jamoke from nowhere who ain’t ever drew a dime to tell me how I can’t go like I used to, or how all I do is cheat my ass off and hide behind Scott Steel and Jesse Jamester.
Maybe I’m just paranoid.
Making this shit up.
Convincing myself to either burn it all down around me or stand up and make a point.
Who the fuck knows, am I right?
Or cares, for that matter?
Maybe I forgot, trying to beat a guy twenty years my junior, that all of those fancy moves that brought me to the dance weren’t what kept me there and put a crown on my head. Maybe I got so caught up trying to be better than Dylan Black that I forgot the cardinal rule of wrestling.
It doesn’t matter how you win, only that you do.
Record books, the real ones, they don’t carry star ratings or breakdowns written by neckbeards who wouldn’t last ten minutes running the ropes, let alone taking bumps. Only thing those books record, in immaculately boring detail, are wins and losses. So yeah, I probably for sure stepped over my boundaries trying to go blow for blow with Black on New Years Eve. That’s a mistake that I can’t afford to make again, even with greener than goose shit Joe Mack. I’ve got to get back to what I’m the best at sooner than later otherwise this whole last hoo-rah bullshit’s gonna end before it ever gets where it’s supposed to be going.
I’m supposed to have the entirety of NPW pressed firmly under my bootheel. I should be sitting on a throne, lording over my lessers and waiting for somebody to climb the mountain and bring me a worthy challenge. Instead I’ve got to beg, borrow, and steal to get anybody on the roster to take an open contract just so I can defend the Double Crown this month.
This is all wrong.
The Syndicate has devolved into a traveling circus.
People should be scared of us. Scared of me.
Something’s got to give.
An example will have to be made.
You ever see Fight Club?
Remember the one scene where Ed Norton beat the shit out of the pretty blond kid, and I quote, “just so I could destroy something beautiful?”
That’s what you are to me, Joe.
Just like Angel Face, that was the kid’s name, just like him you’re entire reason to exist in my story is so that I can break something pretty as I’m in the middle of a tantrum.
Past that, you don’t rate, and you know it.
You’re not the biggest or the strongest guy I’ve ever come against. That honor goes to Victor Mandrake, and I gave him a Stardriver off the top of a cage. He was over seven foot tall and four-hundred pounds of muscle and malice with a hard-on for inflicting the kind of pain that you wouldn’t even understand. I carved a star in his chest with a hatchet, Joe.
Because I fucking could.
You’re not the most technical guy I’ve come across, either. That distinction goes to Michael Lennox. Sure, he might have preferred the hardcore stuff, but he could stretch you six ways from Sunday at the drop of a dime and there wasn’t a fucking thing anybody could do about it. I traded more World Titles with that guy than you’ve had years in the business, kid, so tell me…
What makes you think you’re special?
You got a body?
Good.
Great.
Fan-the-fuck-tastic!
The business is full of body guys. They’re a dime-a-dozen. Most of them, yourself included, have deluded yourselves into thinking that just because you can throw iron in a gym that it somehow translates into you being a threat inside a wrestling ring.
Not to say that it can’t, but it’s anything but automatic.
What sets you apart?
Is it that strong jawline?
Those washboard abs?
Think about this, Joe:
You’re Scott Steel, only not as smart.
That is to say, smart enough to attach yourself to someone who can point you in the proper direction. Someone who can harness your raw potential and mold it into something a bit more tangible. You could really be somebody, kid, but you’ve got to learn to have a bit of patience and a whole lot more respect than you’re currently showing.
I like you, kid. You’ve got balls and I respect that.
That and a quarter used to get you a cup of coffee. These days it only gets you hemmed up in the kind of situation that your abs aren’t going to get you out of. Doesn’t have to be that way though, Joe. We can skip all this and jump straight to the part where I unleash you on the rest of the Northern Pro roster!
Hell, the entire XHF.
All you’ve got to do is kiss the ring.
Join the Syndicate.
♪ Deaf and blind and dumb and born to follow ♪
♪ What you need is someone strong to guide you ♪
♪ Like me. ♪
Tool - “Opiate”
