Post by Old Line Jeff on Jul 30, 2022 16:15:01 GMT -5
Even at nighttime, the heat is oppressive. The roar of traffic on A60, the sound of the water lapping against the concrete banks of the River Trent, every sound has a heavy, sort of sticky quality as if it’s struggling to be heard over the sheer humidity.
Ronnie Long sits on one of the tiers of the concrete banks, one leg dangling, one knee up, his arms on it and his head on them. Staring into the distance, watching as the city lights flicker on the surface of the Trent.
“If I were God - and I might be mistaken but I don’t think I am - I’d wash my hands of this place.”
Hair hanging over his face, obscuring the eye that isn’t already obscured by an eyepatch, he turns slowly to face the camera, then looks away again.
“It’s not every day you get invited to join an Army of God, and I suppose it’s an honor, but I’m just not interested.”
A long, slow breath.
“There’s too many small Gods, and each one has its own army. I tire of it - a true God shouldn’t need to work through the hands of man. And yet, as tired as I am of that whole rat race, as much as I tried to stand against it back in the good days, I yet again find myself with an army I don’t truly want anything to do with. If you said that I didn’t want an army right up until I hit some adversity in this ridiculous run I’m calling a comeback, you’d be justified. But, you know what? One man can’t fight an army, and here in W:UK, the only person who doesn’t come with an army already attached is trying to create one - and wants me in it.”
A shake of the head.
“I’m not playing.”
He stands, turning towards the A60 bridge.
“If Jakie Wentzel’s offer is in earnest, he has… drastically misunderstood the kind of person I am. I did try to be the good guy. It didn’t work out. I… FAILED!”
A sudden scream as he turns and slams both fists into the side of the bridge.
“I failed, and I signed on with the devil that hounds me, and with that decision I’m obligated to walk that line. I’m sorry, Jakie. Truly. But you’d be better off giving up before. Find a farm, raise grain, create something. You don’t belong here with the rest of us.”
Long sits down again, this time with his back to the bridge.
“Much like Zolothatch. Zolothatch belongs here. Blood sacrifices, backstabbing… if Great Cthulhu was just a little bit more mortal, I suspect he’d be here in the ring with the likes of us. He’d be a great fit - all violence and madness and the holocausts of ecstasy and freedom and all that, and isn’t that what’s really going on inside those arenas? It’s even better than actual virgin sacrifices, because the way it works in wrestling, we do it, then we go back next week and do it again, and again, and again forever, and even when the players change the game stays the same. No wonder Cthulhu would send his… well, whatever Zolothatch is to him, to wrestling. What blind idiot god wouldn’t love the spectacle?”
“I’m not scared of the likes of Zolothatch though. If the Old Gods wanted us dead, we already would be. If they wanted Zolothatch to win, she already would have. Either that, or Cthulhu’s a fraud of a God who got himself locked in a sunken city and the reason Zolothatch exists is because it’s the closest he can come to a front row seat for the spectacle.”
He rests his head against the back of the bridge, looking at the sky.
“I have a friend who almost figured the game out. No, she didn’t know how to end the cycle, but she certainly did embrace it.”
A wan smile briefly appears on his face, then he lowers his head, frowning again, hair over face.
“I’m not going to bore the XHF by singing the praises of Heidi Christenson. In the end, she was just another blonde amazon. Just like Olympia. I don’t have any problem with them, but blonde amazons was Jeff Andrews’ thing, not so much mine. But anyway. If Heidi couldn’t figure out how to break the game, Olympia doesn’t have the slightest chance. I’m not discounting what she can do in the ring - combat sports have been her entire life and there’s no denying she’s very good at them - but that’s just one part of the game. This ridiculous, insane game.”
Leaning back again, Long taps the back of his head against the side of the bridge a few times.
“Have you ever considered not playing?”
Daeriq Damien, more oily than the night, oozes out from underneath the bridge. Very fitting, really. Despite the heat he’s wearing a black leather suit - the lack of a dress shirt and the dangling crucifix necklace on his bare chest only emphasize the overall oiliness. At least he’s not wearing shades in the middle of the night - they’re hooked into the pocket of his suit jacket.
“You’re interrupting my obligatory monologue about why I’m better than everyone I’m in the ring with.”
“And since David Vector has provided you with absolutely no reason to devote any of your monologue to him, I thought I’d step in and take up some time.”
Despite himself, Ronnie Long grins, just managing to hold back a chuckle. Damien, standing one tier below Ronnie on the concrete river banks, leans back against the bridge. Just inside it, aside from his head and bare chest, he blends into the shadows.
“Do you really believe that there’s no point in any of this?”
“I didn’t say I think there’s no point. It’s just not the point any of them are looking for. There’s a reason I brought Heidi up yet again. Two, since I’d much rather talk about interesting people from my past than a schlub like Vector. She said it herself, Daeriq. She was free. Years of being the good one and getting by on technical ability, and she only got free when she gave that up for ziptying people and kicking their unconscious bodies until she was peeled off by the police, and when she started biting chunks out of people’s faces. Just being a normal joe who happens to wrestle got me called bland by the XHF, Daeriq. Should I start eating people’s faces? Would they like me then?”
“Do you want them to like you?”
“Come to think of it? No.”
“Mostly, not enough. Zolothatch might be pure dripping, oozing, otherworldly evil, but she’s not my problem. Jakie Wentzel is a misguided but decent man, I’ll enjoy beating him up somewhat less than I’d enjoy beating up some others. Same with Olympia, she’s just about the serious pro wrestling. And Vector wouldn’t be worth the trouble.”
“Rob Riot, on the other hand…”
Damien grins so wide his teeth show in the darkness.
“Daeriq, I really don’t like Rob Riot.”
“Oh?”
Long stands again, slams a fist back against the bridge.
“Did you hear my talk of little Gods? And all that rambling about armies? Rob Riot is a man. A wrestler. Not a movie star, not a politician, not even a promoter. He’s just a man who calls himself a God while criticizing others for their egos and walks with an army while insulting others for doing the same. The Bastards have a legacy, yeah - a legacy of meeting every challenge one on three. Just like everyone else here. Motorcycle gangs, sex pirates, holy retinues, and three fucking English guys.”
“But you have a manager who’s clearing your backstage path and teaching a few rookies at the same time, and that makes you the bad one.”
Long exhales between his teeth.
“It sure does. You know this whole thing started because Rob wanted to know if I still, and I quote, had spring in my step? At least I’m willing to admit my age, and that’s not taking Jeff’s fucking spaceship nonsense into account. Coy bastard. And you know what? It turned out I had a little more than a little more spring in my step than he expected, and this little God, this man among men, this legend of decades, went down to a lariat foaming at the mouth. And it was good. Best feeling I’d had since winning the belt in NPW. I may not like a lot of things about this game, but I love it when one of those arrogant shitheads who think they’re god actually GET THEIRS for a change. Carner, Adkins, Riot… whichever. I love it.”
“And you want to beat Riot again, to repeat that feeling at all costs?”
With a slasher grin, Long rubs his palms together.
“Oh yeah…”
Ronnie Long sits on one of the tiers of the concrete banks, one leg dangling, one knee up, his arms on it and his head on them. Staring into the distance, watching as the city lights flicker on the surface of the Trent.
“If I were God - and I might be mistaken but I don’t think I am - I’d wash my hands of this place.”
Hair hanging over his face, obscuring the eye that isn’t already obscured by an eyepatch, he turns slowly to face the camera, then looks away again.
“It’s not every day you get invited to join an Army of God, and I suppose it’s an honor, but I’m just not interested.”
A long, slow breath.
“There’s too many small Gods, and each one has its own army. I tire of it - a true God shouldn’t need to work through the hands of man. And yet, as tired as I am of that whole rat race, as much as I tried to stand against it back in the good days, I yet again find myself with an army I don’t truly want anything to do with. If you said that I didn’t want an army right up until I hit some adversity in this ridiculous run I’m calling a comeback, you’d be justified. But, you know what? One man can’t fight an army, and here in W:UK, the only person who doesn’t come with an army already attached is trying to create one - and wants me in it.”
A shake of the head.
“I’m not playing.”
He stands, turning towards the A60 bridge.
“If Jakie Wentzel’s offer is in earnest, he has… drastically misunderstood the kind of person I am. I did try to be the good guy. It didn’t work out. I… FAILED!”
A sudden scream as he turns and slams both fists into the side of the bridge.
“I failed, and I signed on with the devil that hounds me, and with that decision I’m obligated to walk that line. I’m sorry, Jakie. Truly. But you’d be better off giving up before. Find a farm, raise grain, create something. You don’t belong here with the rest of us.”
Long sits down again, this time with his back to the bridge.
“Much like Zolothatch. Zolothatch belongs here. Blood sacrifices, backstabbing… if Great Cthulhu was just a little bit more mortal, I suspect he’d be here in the ring with the likes of us. He’d be a great fit - all violence and madness and the holocausts of ecstasy and freedom and all that, and isn’t that what’s really going on inside those arenas? It’s even better than actual virgin sacrifices, because the way it works in wrestling, we do it, then we go back next week and do it again, and again, and again forever, and even when the players change the game stays the same. No wonder Cthulhu would send his… well, whatever Zolothatch is to him, to wrestling. What blind idiot god wouldn’t love the spectacle?”
“I’m not scared of the likes of Zolothatch though. If the Old Gods wanted us dead, we already would be. If they wanted Zolothatch to win, she already would have. Either that, or Cthulhu’s a fraud of a God who got himself locked in a sunken city and the reason Zolothatch exists is because it’s the closest he can come to a front row seat for the spectacle.”
He rests his head against the back of the bridge, looking at the sky.
“I have a friend who almost figured the game out. No, she didn’t know how to end the cycle, but she certainly did embrace it.”
A wan smile briefly appears on his face, then he lowers his head, frowning again, hair over face.
“I’m not going to bore the XHF by singing the praises of Heidi Christenson. In the end, she was just another blonde amazon. Just like Olympia. I don’t have any problem with them, but blonde amazons was Jeff Andrews’ thing, not so much mine. But anyway. If Heidi couldn’t figure out how to break the game, Olympia doesn’t have the slightest chance. I’m not discounting what she can do in the ring - combat sports have been her entire life and there’s no denying she’s very good at them - but that’s just one part of the game. This ridiculous, insane game.”
Leaning back again, Long taps the back of his head against the side of the bridge a few times.
“Have you ever considered not playing?”
Daeriq Damien, more oily than the night, oozes out from underneath the bridge. Very fitting, really. Despite the heat he’s wearing a black leather suit - the lack of a dress shirt and the dangling crucifix necklace on his bare chest only emphasize the overall oiliness. At least he’s not wearing shades in the middle of the night - they’re hooked into the pocket of his suit jacket.
“You’re interrupting my obligatory monologue about why I’m better than everyone I’m in the ring with.”
“And since David Vector has provided you with absolutely no reason to devote any of your monologue to him, I thought I’d step in and take up some time.”
Despite himself, Ronnie Long grins, just managing to hold back a chuckle. Damien, standing one tier below Ronnie on the concrete river banks, leans back against the bridge. Just inside it, aside from his head and bare chest, he blends into the shadows.
“Do you really believe that there’s no point in any of this?”
“I didn’t say I think there’s no point. It’s just not the point any of them are looking for. There’s a reason I brought Heidi up yet again. Two, since I’d much rather talk about interesting people from my past than a schlub like Vector. She said it herself, Daeriq. She was free. Years of being the good one and getting by on technical ability, and she only got free when she gave that up for ziptying people and kicking their unconscious bodies until she was peeled off by the police, and when she started biting chunks out of people’s faces. Just being a normal joe who happens to wrestle got me called bland by the XHF, Daeriq. Should I start eating people’s faces? Would they like me then?”
“Do you want them to like you?”
“Come to think of it? No.”
Damien laughs.
“Well then, how much do you hate your opponents?”
“Mostly, not enough. Zolothatch might be pure dripping, oozing, otherworldly evil, but she’s not my problem. Jakie Wentzel is a misguided but decent man, I’ll enjoy beating him up somewhat less than I’d enjoy beating up some others. Same with Olympia, she’s just about the serious pro wrestling. And Vector wouldn’t be worth the trouble.”
“Rob Riot, on the other hand…”
Damien grins so wide his teeth show in the darkness.
“Daeriq, I really don’t like Rob Riot.”
“Oh?”
Long stands again, slams a fist back against the bridge.
“Did you hear my talk of little Gods? And all that rambling about armies? Rob Riot is a man. A wrestler. Not a movie star, not a politician, not even a promoter. He’s just a man who calls himself a God while criticizing others for their egos and walks with an army while insulting others for doing the same. The Bastards have a legacy, yeah - a legacy of meeting every challenge one on three. Just like everyone else here. Motorcycle gangs, sex pirates, holy retinues, and three fucking English guys.”
“But you have a manager who’s clearing your backstage path and teaching a few rookies at the same time, and that makes you the bad one.”
Long exhales between his teeth.
“It sure does. You know this whole thing started because Rob wanted to know if I still, and I quote, had spring in my step? At least I’m willing to admit my age, and that’s not taking Jeff’s fucking spaceship nonsense into account. Coy bastard. And you know what? It turned out I had a little more than a little more spring in my step than he expected, and this little God, this man among men, this legend of decades, went down to a lariat foaming at the mouth. And it was good. Best feeling I’d had since winning the belt in NPW. I may not like a lot of things about this game, but I love it when one of those arrogant shitheads who think they’re god actually GET THEIRS for a change. Carner, Adkins, Riot… whichever. I love it.”
“And you want to beat Riot again, to repeat that feeling at all costs?”
With a slasher grin, Long rubs his palms together.
“Oh yeah…”