Post by Old Line Jeff on May 15, 2023 1:50:23 GMT -5
Author's note: Because I'm so late to the party this week, I made sure not to even glance at Crane's first RP before I finished this one because deadline dogging like that and exploiting the last word advantage just wouldn't be right.
A day or so after War in Wolverhampton was in the record books, Ronnie Long was walking up the sidewalk to his house, not thinking anything in particular. He’d gotten the late flight so he wasn’t surprised that Deanna wasn’t waiting on him at the airport, but he was a little bit surprised - and just a tad worried - when he realized she was standing on the porch with her hands on her hips.
“Take that thing off your face NOW. In fact, let me.” She marched down the stairs, stopping on the first one so that they were about the same height. She snatched the bandana he’d tied over his mouth and chin off his head and threw it on the ground.
“You don’t like?” He was surprised.
“I will give you two reasons I don’t like it. First, you’re trying to get away from the dark edgy shit. And it’s not even that dark. It makes you look more like an anxious millennial than anything else.”
“Hmm.” He said. “And the other?”
“Because when you’ve got a bandana over your face I can’t do this.”
And she grabbed him by the back of the head and kissed him so passionately he almost fell over on his back.
Luckily he recovered in style, scooped her up in his arms and marched in the front door as triumphantly as he remembered in… well, ever.
A couple hours later he was lying on his back, with her head resting on his chest.
“I promise I’ll never wear a bandana over my face again.”
Half asleep, Deanna made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a grunt.
“What was the occasion, though?”
She took a deep breath and squirmed a little closer to him.
“...I like it when you win.”
He thought of a few different flip remarks. He just decided that now wasn’t the time for them.
“PrrrrrESSSSure!”
Good times don’t last forever, and a couple days later he walked into the gym, and Daeriq Damien’s mouth was already wide open. He was doing a set of bicep curls with his good arm. His other one was, of course, locked up in that titanic brace.
“Shut up. I don’t need this.”
“You’ve been off the surface of the planet basically for a week, and you’ve got a World Title shot coming up. Yes, you need this.”
“I… a week?” Ronnie pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked it. “Well shit.”
“Yep. Having a hot wife may be great for you, but it’s not gonna win you a belt.”
“Yeah, well, most of what Wesley Crane does is brag about all his hookups. Can’t hurt to establish that hey I can get laid too, can it?"
“No it can’t. We’re all very proud of you, I assure you. And since you’re not obsessed with your dignity anymore, you could even get into a juvenile back and forth with him over whether Deanna’s hotter than any of his random hookups. Since she’s your wife, I respectfully won’t comment.”
“Since fucking when? You’ve messed with her every chance you’ve got for years.”
“But I never went after her looks in any way shape or form.” Derek said it slowly, patiently, condescendingly. “I have limits. There’s no point in villainy if you don’t. Otherwise you’re just an edgelord. Also, I only did it to try and piss you off.”
“And that worked out so very well for the both of us.” Ronnie climbed onto an exercise bike and started his heart rate monitor.
Daeriq said nothing.
“Our conversations don’t meander so much as they do an abrupt about-face and lunge face-first at the nearest wall. You were saying something about pressure?”
“Well… Ron, one thing you’ve got in common with The Jeffer is that you don’t do too well under pressure sometimes. And I was just wondering if maybe we should talk about it?”
Ronnie sighed. “Do you have to do this? I thought you were going for the more supportive thing here."
“I mean, every time your WfWA World Champion run comes up you sing the blues about how Boston Bancroft and Chris King got so mad at you for not trying at Summer Games that they tried to sabotage your Defiance career over it. Your first Defiance career, the one before you decided Eric Dane was everything wrong with everything. But to be fair… you did kind of, well, not make a single media appearance leading up to it.”
“As far as W:UK goes, that’s just dropping random names. No one cares. Maybe Gus Arnold if he’s paying any attention, but I doubt it.”
“Perhaps. But then consider how many title shots you got in GLOBAL that you came up short on.”
“I had a fever of one hundred and fucking four when I got the shot at whatever they called their Intercontinental level belt. GLOBAL’s such a blur by now I hardly remember a thing about it. And it’s not like I’m going to call Jesse Jamester up and have another GLOBAL reminisce. Obligatory Jamester potshot.”
Ronnie leaned forward over the bike, sped up his pedaling, and watched his heart rate rise to that coveted target rate. He’d never before been big on going to the gym, but Heidi Christenson had convinced Deanna that it was a good idea, and she’d engaged the nagatron. And not gassing was kind of helpful.
And Daeriq Damien, of course, waited until Ronnie was running out of breath, then spoke back up.
“Since I’m doing the genuinely helpful thing Ron, I think it’s going to be genuinely helpful if I try to make sure you don’t do that, y’know, thing where you stress out and zone out in the leadup to the match and end up fighting out of shape.”
Ronnie tried to ignore him.
“And since you brought up Jamester, here’s something recent and relevant. Remember when you got so ambitious you were going to unify the NPW Openweight and Double Crown titles? You were the Openweight champion, and Jamester was the Double Crown, and I don’t believe either title was on the line, but it was just as well for you because-”
“Stop.”
“-Because you-”
“No.”
“Lost.”
“Shut. Up.”
Daeriq shrugged and dropped the dumbbell he’d been working out with on the ground.
Of course Daeriq Damien’s the kind of guy who never re-racks his weights.
“Y’know Ron, actual, honest-to-god peptalk incoming. You know you’ve had three matches since you got back. One was a twenty person battle royal with some very big deals in it. You won. Then your next match was against a former W:UK World Champion. And you won. And then your next match after that was against another former W:UK World Champion. And you won. What exactly the fuck are you waiting for? Why are you acting like this is business as usual? Stop working out, you’re using it as an excuse to ignore me.”
Ronnie kicked back on the bike pedals, forgetting that exercise bikes don’t have breaks.
“Then what? If quietly getting ready for an important match is wrong, then what do you think I should be doing?”
“LOUDLY getting ready for an important match. I’ve got to assume this is stress talking and not real ignorance, because you’ve hung out with Jeff Andrews often enough to know how to make an exhibition of yourself, and really the entire Dominion event.”
After finishing his cardio and skipping lifting, Ronnie called Jeff Andrews.
“Jeff, I need some help making a scene.”
“I’m drunk and the Washington Redskins’ new name is gay.”
So he hung up and called Heidi Christenson.
“Heidi, I need some help making a scene.”
“I don’t think I want to get involved frontside. Wrestling’s gotten so… tame. Look, just do a flowchart. If this was happening anywhere besides wrestling, would I go to jail for it? If the answer is no, try harder.”
He was scrolling through his contacts, his finger hovering over the name ‘Brian Simon’, when he made a decision.
“Fuck this, I’m calling a press conference.”
A day or so after War in Wolverhampton was in the record books, Ronnie Long was walking up the sidewalk to his house, not thinking anything in particular. He’d gotten the late flight so he wasn’t surprised that Deanna wasn’t waiting on him at the airport, but he was a little bit surprised - and just a tad worried - when he realized she was standing on the porch with her hands on her hips.
“Take that thing off your face NOW. In fact, let me.” She marched down the stairs, stopping on the first one so that they were about the same height. She snatched the bandana he’d tied over his mouth and chin off his head and threw it on the ground.
“You don’t like?” He was surprised.
“I will give you two reasons I don’t like it. First, you’re trying to get away from the dark edgy shit. And it’s not even that dark. It makes you look more like an anxious millennial than anything else.”
“Hmm.” He said. “And the other?”
“Because when you’ve got a bandana over your face I can’t do this.”
And she grabbed him by the back of the head and kissed him so passionately he almost fell over on his back.
Luckily he recovered in style, scooped her up in his arms and marched in the front door as triumphantly as he remembered in… well, ever.
A couple hours later he was lying on his back, with her head resting on his chest.
“I promise I’ll never wear a bandana over my face again.”
Half asleep, Deanna made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a grunt.
“What was the occasion, though?”
She took a deep breath and squirmed a little closer to him.
“...I like it when you win.”
He thought of a few different flip remarks. He just decided that now wasn’t the time for them.
“PrrrrrESSSSure!”
Good times don’t last forever, and a couple days later he walked into the gym, and Daeriq Damien’s mouth was already wide open. He was doing a set of bicep curls with his good arm. His other one was, of course, locked up in that titanic brace.
“Shut up. I don’t need this.”
“You’ve been off the surface of the planet basically for a week, and you’ve got a World Title shot coming up. Yes, you need this.”
“I… a week?” Ronnie pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked it. “Well shit.”
“Yep. Having a hot wife may be great for you, but it’s not gonna win you a belt.”
“Yeah, well, most of what Wesley Crane does is brag about all his hookups. Can’t hurt to establish that hey I can get laid too, can it?"
“No it can’t. We’re all very proud of you, I assure you. And since you’re not obsessed with your dignity anymore, you could even get into a juvenile back and forth with him over whether Deanna’s hotter than any of his random hookups. Since she’s your wife, I respectfully won’t comment.”
“Since fucking when? You’ve messed with her every chance you’ve got for years.”
“But I never went after her looks in any way shape or form.” Derek said it slowly, patiently, condescendingly. “I have limits. There’s no point in villainy if you don’t. Otherwise you’re just an edgelord. Also, I only did it to try and piss you off.”
“And that worked out so very well for the both of us.” Ronnie climbed onto an exercise bike and started his heart rate monitor.
Daeriq said nothing.
“Our conversations don’t meander so much as they do an abrupt about-face and lunge face-first at the nearest wall. You were saying something about pressure?”
“Well… Ron, one thing you’ve got in common with The Jeffer is that you don’t do too well under pressure sometimes. And I was just wondering if maybe we should talk about it?”
Ronnie sighed. “Do you have to do this? I thought you were going for the more supportive thing here."
“I mean, every time your WfWA World Champion run comes up you sing the blues about how Boston Bancroft and Chris King got so mad at you for not trying at Summer Games that they tried to sabotage your Defiance career over it. Your first Defiance career, the one before you decided Eric Dane was everything wrong with everything. But to be fair… you did kind of, well, not make a single media appearance leading up to it.”
“As far as W:UK goes, that’s just dropping random names. No one cares. Maybe Gus Arnold if he’s paying any attention, but I doubt it.”
“Perhaps. But then consider how many title shots you got in GLOBAL that you came up short on.”
“I had a fever of one hundred and fucking four when I got the shot at whatever they called their Intercontinental level belt. GLOBAL’s such a blur by now I hardly remember a thing about it. And it’s not like I’m going to call Jesse Jamester up and have another GLOBAL reminisce. Obligatory Jamester potshot.”
Ronnie leaned forward over the bike, sped up his pedaling, and watched his heart rate rise to that coveted target rate. He’d never before been big on going to the gym, but Heidi Christenson had convinced Deanna that it was a good idea, and she’d engaged the nagatron. And not gassing was kind of helpful.
And Daeriq Damien, of course, waited until Ronnie was running out of breath, then spoke back up.
“Since I’m doing the genuinely helpful thing Ron, I think it’s going to be genuinely helpful if I try to make sure you don’t do that, y’know, thing where you stress out and zone out in the leadup to the match and end up fighting out of shape.”
Ronnie tried to ignore him.
“And since you brought up Jamester, here’s something recent and relevant. Remember when you got so ambitious you were going to unify the NPW Openweight and Double Crown titles? You were the Openweight champion, and Jamester was the Double Crown, and I don’t believe either title was on the line, but it was just as well for you because-”
“Stop.”
“-Because you-”
“No.”
“Lost.”
“Shut. Up.”
Daeriq shrugged and dropped the dumbbell he’d been working out with on the ground.
Of course Daeriq Damien’s the kind of guy who never re-racks his weights.
“Y’know Ron, actual, honest-to-god peptalk incoming. You know you’ve had three matches since you got back. One was a twenty person battle royal with some very big deals in it. You won. Then your next match was against a former W:UK World Champion. And you won. And then your next match after that was against another former W:UK World Champion. And you won. What exactly the fuck are you waiting for? Why are you acting like this is business as usual? Stop working out, you’re using it as an excuse to ignore me.”
Ronnie kicked back on the bike pedals, forgetting that exercise bikes don’t have breaks.
“Then what? If quietly getting ready for an important match is wrong, then what do you think I should be doing?”
“LOUDLY getting ready for an important match. I’ve got to assume this is stress talking and not real ignorance, because you’ve hung out with Jeff Andrews often enough to know how to make an exhibition of yourself, and really the entire Dominion event.”
After finishing his cardio and skipping lifting, Ronnie called Jeff Andrews.
“Jeff, I need some help making a scene.”
“I’m drunk and the Washington Redskins’ new name is gay.”
So he hung up and called Heidi Christenson.
“Heidi, I need some help making a scene.”
“I don’t think I want to get involved frontside. Wrestling’s gotten so… tame. Look, just do a flowchart. If this was happening anywhere besides wrestling, would I go to jail for it? If the answer is no, try harder.”
He was scrolling through his contacts, his finger hovering over the name ‘Brian Simon’, when he made a decision.
“Fuck this, I’m calling a press conference.”