Post by damienyoung on May 31, 2018 15:52:37 GMT -5
The plane touched down at Heathrow Airport just after 1 AM, and Damien Young was exhausted. He lazily rolled out of his seat, balanced himself with sheer willpower, and collected his carry on from the overhead bin. He stood there for what seemed like hours before the slow herd of humans inched forward towards the exit.
“Thank fuck.” Damien thought as he headed through the narrow walkway that separated the plane from England.
The normally rambunctious and ridiculous Phoenix champion, had not felt like himself lately. In fact, he had noticed that he had begun to believe that his whole life was a lie, made up by some entry-level 20-something employee in Maryland. This concerned him greatly, but he had bigger things to worry about. He was on a mission to prove that the Phoenix Title was not just something that was given to new guys in the AWF, but was a strap that demanded respect.
That would have to wait though. Customs demanded his attention first.
Damien didn’t have much in the way of belongings. He was always on the road, so he never brought much around with him. As he looked over the list of items to declare, he chuckled to himself as he only checked the alcohol box, a pint of jack hidden in his carry on. He joined the rest of the passengers as they were herded into another line, waiting for their number to be called.
“Number six-hundred and thirty-one” the computer-voiced lady said. Damien stepped forward to a large white man, who looked a lot like Winston Churchill, or so Damien thought.
“Name?” the man said gruffly, snatching Damien’s passport from his hands.
“Damien Young” The Gun replied, punctuating his answer with a long, deep yawn. Damien also handed over his work visa.
“Occupation?”
“Oh, I’m a professional wrestler.”
The border agent looked up at Damien. “What, Davey Boy Smith, Thomas Billington, and Johnny Saint?”
Damien nodded quietly.
“Blah, it’s all fake anyway, innit?”
Damien rolled his eyes and chuckled. He was used to the jabs and jokes people made. They were all stuck on what Damien called ‘The 80’s Syndrome’. People still thought wrestling was about the costumes, and the over the top personalities. They thought of his business as just a soap opera on steroids. They didn’t care about the training, the creativity, and the passion that dominated today’s wrestling scene. But, Damien knew better than to argue. He’d have another day to win that battle, he was sure of it.
“Go on, and enjoy your time in the UK” the man said as he pushed Damien’s passport and visa back to him. Damien nodded and half waved to the agent as he walked through.
He hadn’t bothered to pack anything beyond his gear and belt, so he bypassed the baggage claim and headed out into the street. The rain was lightly misting as Damien hailed a cab, and the black vehicle slowly pulled to a stop in front of him. He climbed in.
“Where’ll it be?” a man in his mid-30’s asked Damien.
“Hotel Chamberlin” Damien said tiredly.
“Nice place” the cabbie remarked as he pulled out a packet of cigs. “You smoke? I’m not supposed to on shift, but I reckon it’s near 2 in the morning, who’s going to tell on me?” the cabbie laughed, provoking a smirk from The Gun.
“Sure, might as well.” Damien replied, taking one from the driver. He lit it and took a long inhale. The smoke hurt, and Damien’s eyes watered before the nicotine hit his brain, sending him into a relaxed buzz.
“What do you do?” came the question, but Damien didn’t respond. He’d had enough of talk for right now. He felt bad, but the cabbie didn’t seem to take much offense, and they remained silent for the rest of the ride.
“Here we are” the cabbie said 18 minutes later. Damien yawned and thanked him, gave him an extra five quid, and walked into the hotel. Upon finding his room on the fifth floor, Damien fell into a deep, restless sleep.
Damien awoke early the next morning, largely because he had forgotten to close the blinds. But, deciding that the failure of sleeping had been enough for one night, he got up, pulled on the previous day’s attire, and stepped out into London.
It wasn’t long before Damien found himself a small café and ordered a coffee and muffin. He noticed several boys sitting in the corner, eyeing him. Trying to be friendly, he waved meekly at them. The smallest of the boys yelled out to him.
“Oy, aren’t you Damien Young?”
“Sometimes. Depends who’s asking.”
The boys broke out into a fit of laughter.
“You ain’t shit, mate! AXW’s gonna wipe the floor with all of you AWF losers! They’ll kick your ass from here to Birmingham!”
Damien rolled his eyes. Londoner’s were nothing if not exceedingly hospitable.
“I shagged your mum!” Another fit of laughter from the boys. Damien picked up his food and walked out. He was tired. He didn’t need this. He promptly returned to his hotel, shut his blinds, and laid motionless on the bed for hours.
Damien was scheduled to make an appearance that night at GBPW, Great British Pro Wrestling. Bell was at 7:30, and Damien rolled in around 6:45, early enough to show face, but not too early to mess with the workers pre-show ritual. Damien had a pretty easy spot. He’d be announced, he’d walk out, a local talent called Jimmy “The Juggalo” Stevens would ambush him, he’d beat the hell out of The Juggalo, everyone would go home happy. It’s the kind of appearance Damien used to dream of, but tonight he couldn’t think of anything worse. He worked out his angle with Stevens, an otherwise nice guy, and watched the first few matches politely before heading to the curtain.
“Introducing, all the way from DES MOINES, IOWA, the Phoenix Champion of the AWF, THE GUN, DAMIEN YOUNG!!” the announcer’s voice boomed. The Phoenix Reigns started in and suddenly, nothing else mattered. All of the sleepless nights, the jokes, the ribs, and the hate washed from Damien. It was no longer about himself, but all the fans. This is what mattered to him; this is why he was here. If AXW wanted a fight, he was ready.
The Gun had arrived.
“Thank fuck.” Damien thought as he headed through the narrow walkway that separated the plane from England.
The normally rambunctious and ridiculous Phoenix champion, had not felt like himself lately. In fact, he had noticed that he had begun to believe that his whole life was a lie, made up by some entry-level 20-something employee in Maryland. This concerned him greatly, but he had bigger things to worry about. He was on a mission to prove that the Phoenix Title was not just something that was given to new guys in the AWF, but was a strap that demanded respect.
That would have to wait though. Customs demanded his attention first.
Damien didn’t have much in the way of belongings. He was always on the road, so he never brought much around with him. As he looked over the list of items to declare, he chuckled to himself as he only checked the alcohol box, a pint of jack hidden in his carry on. He joined the rest of the passengers as they were herded into another line, waiting for their number to be called.
“Number six-hundred and thirty-one” the computer-voiced lady said. Damien stepped forward to a large white man, who looked a lot like Winston Churchill, or so Damien thought.
“Name?” the man said gruffly, snatching Damien’s passport from his hands.
“Damien Young” The Gun replied, punctuating his answer with a long, deep yawn. Damien also handed over his work visa.
“Occupation?”
“Oh, I’m a professional wrestler.”
The border agent looked up at Damien. “What, Davey Boy Smith, Thomas Billington, and Johnny Saint?”
Damien nodded quietly.
“Blah, it’s all fake anyway, innit?”
Damien rolled his eyes and chuckled. He was used to the jabs and jokes people made. They were all stuck on what Damien called ‘The 80’s Syndrome’. People still thought wrestling was about the costumes, and the over the top personalities. They thought of his business as just a soap opera on steroids. They didn’t care about the training, the creativity, and the passion that dominated today’s wrestling scene. But, Damien knew better than to argue. He’d have another day to win that battle, he was sure of it.
“Go on, and enjoy your time in the UK” the man said as he pushed Damien’s passport and visa back to him. Damien nodded and half waved to the agent as he walked through.
He hadn’t bothered to pack anything beyond his gear and belt, so he bypassed the baggage claim and headed out into the street. The rain was lightly misting as Damien hailed a cab, and the black vehicle slowly pulled to a stop in front of him. He climbed in.
“Where’ll it be?” a man in his mid-30’s asked Damien.
“Hotel Chamberlin” Damien said tiredly.
“Nice place” the cabbie remarked as he pulled out a packet of cigs. “You smoke? I’m not supposed to on shift, but I reckon it’s near 2 in the morning, who’s going to tell on me?” the cabbie laughed, provoking a smirk from The Gun.
“Sure, might as well.” Damien replied, taking one from the driver. He lit it and took a long inhale. The smoke hurt, and Damien’s eyes watered before the nicotine hit his brain, sending him into a relaxed buzz.
“What do you do?” came the question, but Damien didn’t respond. He’d had enough of talk for right now. He felt bad, but the cabbie didn’t seem to take much offense, and they remained silent for the rest of the ride.
“Here we are” the cabbie said 18 minutes later. Damien yawned and thanked him, gave him an extra five quid, and walked into the hotel. Upon finding his room on the fifth floor, Damien fell into a deep, restless sleep.
Damien awoke early the next morning, largely because he had forgotten to close the blinds. But, deciding that the failure of sleeping had been enough for one night, he got up, pulled on the previous day’s attire, and stepped out into London.
It wasn’t long before Damien found himself a small café and ordered a coffee and muffin. He noticed several boys sitting in the corner, eyeing him. Trying to be friendly, he waved meekly at them. The smallest of the boys yelled out to him.
“Oy, aren’t you Damien Young?”
“Sometimes. Depends who’s asking.”
The boys broke out into a fit of laughter.
“You ain’t shit, mate! AXW’s gonna wipe the floor with all of you AWF losers! They’ll kick your ass from here to Birmingham!”
Damien rolled his eyes. Londoner’s were nothing if not exceedingly hospitable.
“I shagged your mum!” Another fit of laughter from the boys. Damien picked up his food and walked out. He was tired. He didn’t need this. He promptly returned to his hotel, shut his blinds, and laid motionless on the bed for hours.
Damien was scheduled to make an appearance that night at GBPW, Great British Pro Wrestling. Bell was at 7:30, and Damien rolled in around 6:45, early enough to show face, but not too early to mess with the workers pre-show ritual. Damien had a pretty easy spot. He’d be announced, he’d walk out, a local talent called Jimmy “The Juggalo” Stevens would ambush him, he’d beat the hell out of The Juggalo, everyone would go home happy. It’s the kind of appearance Damien used to dream of, but tonight he couldn’t think of anything worse. He worked out his angle with Stevens, an otherwise nice guy, and watched the first few matches politely before heading to the curtain.
“Introducing, all the way from DES MOINES, IOWA, the Phoenix Champion of the AWF, THE GUN, DAMIEN YOUNG!!” the announcer’s voice boomed. The Phoenix Reigns started in and suddenly, nothing else mattered. All of the sleepless nights, the jokes, the ribs, and the hate washed from Damien. It was no longer about himself, but all the fans. This is what mattered to him; this is why he was here. If AXW wanted a fight, he was ready.
The Gun had arrived.
