Post by stratford on Apr 28, 2021 20:19:51 GMT -5
WALKIN' OUT OF TOWN LOOKIN' FOR A BETTER PLACE SOMETHING'S ON MY MIND ALWAYS IN MY HEAD SPACE In Freud’s deconstuction of the psyche, the super-ego is the centre of morality that sits astride the ego and the Id. It is the part of the brain that controls the impulses of the Id, the part that is the ideal self, the part that whispers quietly in your ear when you’re laid on your back, in your bed, staring at the ceiling and imagining what it would be like to be the Immortal Heavyweight Champion of the World. The super-ego is responsible for defining your morals, and trying to compel its host, The Protagonist, into upholding them as it moves through this chaos we call life. The so-called angel to the counterpart Id’s devil. Which is ironic, because the poor little super-ego has a devil’s face painted over his, and black wings, because he’s desperately leaning into the heinous acts that he relied on to get him the leverage he needed to lay Xavier Wolf down. Desperately trying to hide the identity of a man, of a hypocrite. Because when The Protagonist was a boy, and when he laid on his back, in his bed, staring at the ceiling and imagining what it would be like to be the Immortal Heavyweight Champion of the World, he hadn’t imagined stabbing people in the back to do it, and he hadn’t imagined bringing innocent bystanders into the fire and causing untold disruption to their entire existence. As a champion, The Protagonist had not dreamt that he would shy away from the vast media attention. He had not dreamt that he would shun the opportunity to be a role model for children and adolescents who looked up to him, he did not dream that he would repel the spotlight, getting angrier and angrier each time a camera (or more likely, cameraphone) was thrust in his face with little thought for concern or consent. He did not dream of a motorcade of security separating him from any and all members of public, nor did he dream of following an increasingly belligerent, arrogant and aggressive Joe Montuori as they waded through the experience of being the champion. When he laid on his back, in his bed, staring at the ceiling and imagined what it would be like to be the Immortal Heavyweight Champion of the World, the super-ego had always pictured flashbulbs, podiums, pomp, circumstance, glory and adulation. Milk cartons, schools, public engagements and signing posters. When he had agreed to work with Joe Montuori, over a year ago, he had met a calm man who was methodical in his rationale, meticulous in his planning, and softly spoken. A gentle veteran, who spoke clearly about his vision for a post-Wolf world. He followed Joe Montuori into this battle, into this war, and piece by piece the plan fell into place until Stairway 2 Heaven, when everything went to plan save for a slip of a finger, which cost him everything. But eventually, the deal was sealed and the realisation of a life’s work came to fruition. So where was the fork in the road? How did he find himself here, searching desperately in the darkness for any vague representation of what he hoped he’d become? Where was the ego, now? See, that’s the thing about the super-ego, part of it is the ideal self, and the other part of it is the conscience. And when he set himself up to fail, laying there on his back, in his room, dreaming of being Immortal Heavyweight Champion of the World, with all of these lofty idealistic ideations of what it’d be like, he didn’t account for the price he’d pay, emotionally and physically. So The Protagonist is being obliterated by all of this guilt that the super-ego thrust up to the surface. And thus, in accomplishing his life’s work, he feels like a failure. Because he could and would never be able to meet those expectations. OH, I HOPE SOME DAY I'LL MAKE IT OUT OF HERE EVEN IF IT TAKES ALL NIGHT OR A HUNDRED YEARS NEED A PLACE TO HIDE, BUT I CAN'T FIND ONE NEAR WANNA FEEL ALIVE, OUTSIDE I CAN'T FIGHT MY FEAR He worked hard to bury me, to bury the Id, to find the super-ego and push him to the forefront, and to live this altruistic life of a perfect person, a perfect Protagonist. But quickly it became apparent that it was a pipe-dream. It started to fall apart before it even began. The Protagonist never really enjoyed being the champion and his descent into darkness was swift and brutal. When he laid there on his back, in the ring, staring up at the lights of the New Orleans sky, stars splintering through the jet black ceiling of night, finally realised as the Immortal Heavyweight Champion of the World, he already knew. He already knew it wasn’t going to be the way he imagined it. The whole of Bourbon Street fell silent, in disbelief. The uneven carpet of gardenia in the ring served to remind him, as he lifted one from the canvas and looked to the sky, that he couldn’t have been more alone. She wasn’t there, with him. It was always supposed to be a combined effort, their plan, their goal, their success. ISN'T IT LOVELY, ALL ALONE HEART MADE OF GLASS, MY MIND OF STONE TEAR ME TO PIECES, SKIN TO BONE HELLO, WELCOME HOME As such, The Protagonist didn’t celebrate. He was on the first flight out of New Orleans. He lived there but he wanted to be anywhere but there. And before he knew it, he was on a whirlwind tour of semi-sterile radio studios, unable to take a beat. To digest the gravity of his success. And so the super-ego collapsed, and part of me pushed my way to the fore again. Part of me took over. He succumbed to the weakness, and let that chimp right out of his cage. The Id was behind the wheel, and we were bolting break-neck down the strip with the top down, strippers clutching to the back of the leather seats, headlong into a clichéd tragic ending. Burning both ends of the candle, and everything between, because what really was the purpose of anything, anymore? So it is no surprise that on this day, we find The Protagonist circling the drain. “Fuck.” I say, aloud, exhaling deeply. “Where is it?” It’s a rare moment now, that I find myself alone. I have to go to the bathroom for that privilege, and oftentimes even then I have a heavyset man with a crew-cut hairstyle standing next to me. But this time, I struck lucky. I’m fumbling around in my pocket, trying to find that flask I filled for the flight, or the ziplock baggy, or a pill. Something, anything. We arrived in Tokyo a day ago, and through some miracle, I’d convinced the boring Montuori that I needed an evening to explore the city, that I’d stay out of trouble, and that I’d be refreshed and ready to resume the attritious schedule for marketing in the morning. And as my chipped black nails scratched through the seams of my pocket, hoping beyond hope that I’d find anything worthy in the seam, I knew I was headed nowhere good. The graffiti on the bathroom stall wall is kanji etched with a knife. And the words themselves are meaningless to me, but like a universal language, I know that I had fallen to the lowest strata of society just by the existence of this very artform. And the place has an aura of ammonia, like the kind you get when piss stains are left to marinate and vapourise. Maybe I misplaced my social lubricants, but I’m empty handed and frustrated, and so I pull the lock mechanism back, and slam open the door. My reflection stares back at me in the mirror above the hand washing basins, faded lipstick, smudged black eyes, a ripped leather jacket hanging off at an angle and a staggering swagger as I steady myself on the basin, and then I saw her, in the reflection of the mirror. Some kinda punk kawaii vibe, baby pink pigtails framing a narrow, heavily-made-up face, with smudges around her eyes similar to mine. Her eye makeup had smudged from tears and run into the foundation and contour on her cheeks and cheekbones. Mine was from exhaustion and having been applied several days prior. But as she raised a silver hipflask to her glossy ebony lips and tipped the vessel upside down, I caught her eye. She was startled. I SAW HER IN THE BATHROOM DRINKIN' VODKA SHE MUST HAVE BEEN A SWEET NOTHIN' DOPE LET'S HER SLIDE, LOOKS SHE CAN'T HIDE HEROIN HANDS CAN'T KEEP HER CLEAN SHE NEEDS ANOTHER WAY OUT I want to approach her, because she looks like a kindred spirit, she looks like the type of person that would really ‘get me’, you know? But as I turn toward her, she flinches. We aren’t close, more than a social distance, anyway. But she’s skittish. I try my best to turn my snarling face into a smile, and its been long enough that I’m not sure whether I pull it off or not. Stepping back, I raise my hands up and try to use my body language to let her know I mean her no harm. I point to the doorway behind her, trying to let her know that she’s blocking my way out. She moves out of the way and as I step through the door, I notice that I’d entered the female bathroom. Which is probably why she was so perplexed, and it then occurred to me that I hadn’t even questioned it. A table jutted out from the narrow walkway back to the bar and caught my hip, I turned to see what had happened, and noticed that it’d ripped my black denim jeans at the hip. LET'S DRINK UNTIL WE COME LATER ON WE'RE SAILIN' ON IT GETS TO YOU WHEN I SAY THIS STUFF BUT I KNOW WHAT I'M DOIN' JUST ASK ME WHAT I'M DOIN' I’m at the bar now, and after a moment of jabbing my finger frustratedly at various bottles, eventually the grey, aged man pours a healthy measure of a wood-aged liquid into a glass of questionable cleanliness, and without a second thought I put it to my lips. I’m still thinking about the girl, and about how beautiful she was, how much I’d like to invite her to join me. I was never one for casual encounters, it didn’t suit me. I’m an odd person and I don’t do well in short doses, but today it could be just the thing to level me out a day out from my first feature presentation as the defending champion. My eyes kept drifting toward the corridor where the restrooms are, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Hoping she’ll catch a glimpse of me. Maybe she’d be impressed with me if I showed her the OPW Immortal Heavyweight Championship of the World, brought her to the penthouse, took her out of this slum and showed her some of the life I’ve earned. Eventually, our eyes do lock. And everything changes. The thought of her taste, the idea of feeling her body writhe beneath me, it evaporated instantly. Because what looked back at me wasn’t neutral, it wasn’t joy, it was fear. She looked at me like I was an animal, like I was a predator, she checked over her shoulder several times, before making her way out of here. A moment of clarity, the fog of deception that has been clouding my vision temporarily lifted. My optics are all wrong, they’re all fuckin’ wrong. I’m not a creep. I’m not a shit champion who wants to be a copy and paste of the rest, I’m not the guy you think I am, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m pleading with the universe to understand me, to realise that this isn’t how its supposed to go. I don’t want to be alone forever, I don’t want to laud my success over you like an arrogant cunt and shout from the rooftops so everyone pays attention to me, I don’t want to be like this. I want to be anonymous, I want to be loved. I want it to be different. I growl, as I slide the glass toward the bitter-faced bartender, and slam my Doc Marten boot into the ground, wishing I had looked up at least how to ask for tin foil remedy in Japanese, because this was going headlong into a tree faster than even I had accounted for. DRIVE THIS TOWN INTO THE GROUND LOSE THE PLACES THAT WE FOUND TOGETHER THERE'S NEVER NOTHING RIGHT THERE'S NEVER NOTHING RIGHT WE ARE ALONE, WE ARE ALONE, WE ARE ALONE “Strat.” I can hear the voice but everything seems fuzzy. I blink a few times, hoping to clear the blur, but I can’t quite focus. Its dark, maybe. “STRAT!” The noise comes again, louder this time. I recognise the voice as a Montuori. How? Because if its a voice from inside my fucking hotel room, its always a fucking Montuori. They don’t have boundaries and I’m about done with their bullshit. But as politely as I can, I tilt my head up to see that it is the long-haired Montuori. “The fuck do you want?” I ask, letting my neck muscle relax and dropping my head back to the pillow with a thud. “Joe got the concierge on the payroll, told me you rolled in at 5am unconscious.” He pushed his warm, clammed up hand into my head, his fingers looping through my hair as he cradled my head. He slumped into the bed next to me, and dragged my head uncomfortably onto his lap. That motherfucker. “Does he indeed? He doesn’t trust the ‘best to ever do it’?” I ask sarcastically, because he always pushes that point to anyone who will listen and it makes me cringe every time. Paul knows it makes me cringe, too, which is why he always calls me ‘bestie’. “Said you were passed out in the street, they put you on a luggage trolley and dumped you in bed. I’m worried about you, bestie.” He sounded almost a little solemn, now. As though he was genuinely sharing his feelings. I took a deep breath, and let my head roll off of his lap. It felt heavy, and I was starting to get an itch in my veins, I was starting to feel the pain creep into my central nervous system. “Its fake news, Baby Mont. I was home by ten, they just want sensationalism.” I offer finally, feebly. IT'S JUST A LITTLE RED WINE, I'LL BE FINE NOT LIKE I WANNA DO THIS EVERY NIGHT I'VE BEEN GOOD, DON'T I DESERVE IT? I THINK I EARNED IT, FEELS LIKE IT'S WORTH IT IN MY MIND But it wasn’t a lie, and we both knew it. Truth is, I was worried about myself too. I was sure that I had it under control, the drug use. I mean, this big scary spooky drug wasn’t so scary after all. It’s just chill. It didn’t feel addictive like everyone else says it is. It doesn’t make me do dumb shit like other drugs, like the shit Baby Mont is mainlining. It doesn’t make you stay up all day or hallucinate like coke or DMT. It doesn’t empty your serotonin like MDMA or give you a hangover like alcohol. It is just a nice drug. So after that first time, when Brandon rigged me up and delivered the payload, I woke up and everything was normal. No headache, no shitty feeling, just afterglow, remembering that incredible way that it made me feel, made me able to cope. So then the next opportunity arises, and its accessible, right? I mean I have my own enabler, and it feels so good. There are so many drugs that I could take to help me replace the pain I’m feeling deep in my chest, but I liked heroin. It didn’t fuck me up. I could still think clearly. No hangover. No feeling like shit later. I was still awake, for the most part, until I eventually nodded out. Because I could actually sleep! It made me happy, and content with life. And it’s so accessible. I have the hookup. So now I will just use heroin, its way better than the other drugs. And it makes sense, right? Because think about your average user. This person works and has responsibilities, so they know they can’t go into work drunk, or on MDMA, or high. So they don’t. Simple. But heroin.. Well, with heroin, you might just feel like I felt. Like you do better with heroin. I work harder, I take more pride in my work, because I’m not in my feelings about stuff. I’m not sad, grumpy or depressed. I’m happy. Mellow. Content. Everything is fine and the world is beautiful. Sure, it’s raining, its dark, I woke up at 5:30AM to catch a transatlantic flight to god knows what shithole third world country, I’d have a headache and I’d have been miserable, I’d be wondering how life’s roads twisted and turned and ended me up here. This place right now. But no, no, everything is fine. Life is beautiful. The raindrops are just falling and in each one I see the reflection of every person’s life around me. Heroin is a wonderful drug. Heroin is better than everything else. Heroin builds up a tolerance fast. Heroin starts to be less accessible when you’re burning through your hookups supply as fast as he is. I need heroin to feel normal. I don’t love anymore. Now I’m starting to feel sick. I’m sick. I can’t get hold of the heroin that I need, where the fuck is Brandon anyway? It feels like he’s been gone. How did one payload used to get me high? Now I need a few, at least three. Moore let me try a bit but he’s not got the supply to keep me sustained. Oh, I have to find a real dealer? This guy? This guy can sell me heroin? This guy is a felon and carries a gun, but he can sell me the drug that lets me find love in the world. IT'S JUST A LITTLE WHITE LINE, I'LL BE FINE BUT SOON THAT LITTLE WHITE LINE IS A LITTLE GLASS PIPE TIN FOIL REMEDY ALMOST GOT THE BEST OF ME I KEEP PRAYING I DON'T REACH THE END OF MY LIFETIME No. This isn’t working. “I’m worried about me, too, Paul.” I whisper, but I don’t think he’s there anymore. I need to quit. The Protagonist has finally hit rock bottom. The super-ego has completely taken control again and I am finding myself squeezed out, like a kid in the projects with a baggy, pushed up against a convenience store wall getting put in chains for the third time this week. He’s fighting me, and he’s getting the upper hand. He doesn’t realise, he has never realised, that he can’t kill me completely. Because if he does, where does that leave him? Toothless, gutless, a hollow shell. I am the fire that eradicates his problems. Who do you think was responsible for what happened to the Wolf family before we left on an international tour? Stratford? That meek, mild-mannered, gender-confused pathetic excuse of a man? Of an athlete? Who do you think dug deeper in New Orleans and put paid to the jewel in the Wolf family crown, Xavier, at Drugs Sex and Rock n’ Roll? The angel, with his wings? The same one who, upon going on a journey of self-discovery that the snowflake generation all marked the fuck out for, failed to get the job done at Stairway 2 Heaven? No. It was me. THAT'S ME IN THE CORNER THAT'S ME IN THE SPOT-LIGHT LOSING MY RELIGION TRYING TO KEEP UP WITH YOU AND I DON'T KNOW IF I CAN DO IT OH NO I'VE SAID TOO MUCH I HAVEN'T SAID ENOUGH So what purpose does it serve to put me in a cage, to put me in a box, to stifle me? “You don’t understand.” He said aloud, to nobody. “You’re not good for me.” How can you say that, when everything good happened BECAUSE of me? “You are the reason I lost everything!” He’s almost crying, clutching his duvet like a pathetic junkie, weak as beads of sweat start to roll into his eyes, mixing with the tears. Do you remember how this started, Stratford? Do you remember what got us here in the first place? Right back at the beginning. You interrupted the broadcast of Showcase, the first one after you earned your place in the Stairway 2 Heaven match, and you got involved in the match between Scotty Adams and Xavier Wolf, your face on the screen, and you told them some home truths. It went a little like this: “The Producer and I have come to an arrangement. We’ve decided that the glass ceiling needs to be penetrated, the oligarchy needs to be diffused. Wealth, power, control needs to be given back to the people. We have readied ourselves, we’ve made the necessary steps. No more can the Wolf dynasty pass power back and forth between each other. At Stairway2Heaven, that proposition is off the table. There are wildcards involved. Adams, down there, he’ll be there. Hopefully he has the stones to take a piece of Wolf home with him tonight. If not, that is okay too. Just another brick in the pavement that leads to their downfall. One by one, Wolf by Wolf, you will fall. And then at the Stairway2Heaven, the whole shit gets blown apart for good.” You and me, we were in this together, why? Why are we in this together? What is our objective? But he looks up, apathetic. He’s trying to look at me, as though he thinks his eyes can focus on a part of his subconscious. He’s following a sunspot in his vision. Concentrate. Concentrate on what this is about. “They made a mockery of it.” He musters, pathetically. He’s fiending. He can’t concentrate. Of what? He’s mustering the strength now, slipping out of the bed and onto his knees. “Everything we built. But you, you don’t understand the price I paid.” I do, I insist. But the price is justified. He whimpers, probably thinking about her, them, again. Don’t forget that it was you... no, US... who put the nail in her coffin once already. This is what you came back to do, to prove it all, to end it all, to be the ultimate victor. Don’t let it slip. “But, Demi…” he cries, “And Charlotte. I lost Demi and Charlotte.” And what would they think of you, if you gave them up, only to fail anyway? I THOUGHT THAT I HEARD YOU LAUGHING I THOUGHT THAT I HEARD YOU SING I THINK I THOUGHT I SAW YOU TRY Several hours later, and the sweats had started to subside. I’m settled in my room with a cafetiere of coffee, and I’m certain that the path I’d been on isn’t the right one for me, its only leading me further from the end-game. As I continue to sell my soul to the devil, more and more of the things that I care for slip away. And I’m sub twenty four hours away from the next most important day of my life. It feels like every day is the most important day of my life these days. It feels like the crown becomes heavier the longer I wear it. But I’m not ready to give up the crown. No. Because that stupid voice inside my head, that nagging darkness that pulls at me and leads me through the great sea of blackness, penetrating corridors and dark serpentines, where I come to find the most high God, the voice that makes me believe both in God and my own madness, he’s right. So the crown stays. I WAS DANCING WITH THE DEVIL OUT OF CONTROL ALMOST MADE IT TO HEAVEN IT WAS CLOSER THAN YOU KNOW I take a deep inhale, let that coffee waft into my sinuses and it reminds me of Demi and part of my psyche wobbles again. “Get it together, Stratford.” I say to myself, just as the door to my suite swings open. “Get what together?” Joe Montuori asks, sauntering in like he owns the fucking place. “I swear, one day you’re going to find me in here fucking your sister. Knock. Announce yourself. Something. Fuck.” I wished I said, but in reality, I just grunted at him. And its not out of some strange sense of respect that I have for him, or something. It’s simply because it will fall on deaf ears. If there’s anything that can be said about Joe Montuori, he is his own man and he will not hear of it from anyone else. You can’t tell him anything, you can’t argue with him or debate with him. He will simply repeat himself until you give it, he will die on every hill he stands on, just because. So I learned to shut up, nod my head and have a peaceful life. “To what do I owe the pleasure, boss?” I smile that same snarly smile that I’ve had wrapped on my cocksucker for the last 6 weeks. Its sardonic and dripping with sarcasm, but that’s not the kind of thing that’d deter The Producer. “I come bearing gifts,” he stands, legs shoulder-width apart, and holding in his hand what appears to be a briefcase. “See, tomorrow is the big day. The day you put our flag in the ground and show all of them that FoCuS ain’t nothing to fuck with.” I shifted uneasily in place, waiting to see what his next grand plan was. “What’d I tell you, Strat?” He continues, placing the briefcase on the glass table in the middle of the reception area, and pulling up a chair. He does that thing, where he pinches the seam of his pressed suit pants and pulls them up an inch before sitting. “When we first sat down and I told you about the plan of attack I had with the OPW, and with how I was going to use my influence to assume the role of Producer, and bring FoCuS back? I told you to give me a chance and you wouldn’t be sorry.” I’m nodding my head, but my mind is focused on the pot of coffee that is slowly cooling down on the counter behind him. “And what has happened? You’re at the top of the food chain, you’re the Immortal Heavyweight Champion of the World. The majority of that is because of your talent, your ability and your heart, but also because I told you it’d happen. I told you that one of my main goals here was to get you to that Immortal Championship and it happened. What a great fuckin’ job.” Did he.. just.. Yeah. Yeah, he really did. The cojones on this guido PLAYING WITH THE ENEMY GAMBLING WITH MY SOUL IT'S SO HARD TO SAY NO WHEN YOU'RE DANCING WITH THE DEVIL “Before I get into anything else,” he starts off, again, stretching his arms out. “I want to show you somethin’ I got for you. I know this isn’t your style or class but I don’t give a fuck. You’re the champ. You need to act like it and be about it.” I roll my eyes with this again, but he’s on a roll and like I said, he won’t listen to me regardless. “It’s waiting for you back in New Orleans, taxed, registered, good to go.” His big ass grin is so wide with surprise, or anticipation, and my face probably looks similar but with worry. He quickly whips out his iPhone 12 and starts scrolling through the camera roll. I try not to look at the screen, but its a natural focal point since it is the only thing moving in the room. I’m just scared of wayward dick pics, you know? You know. Its a risk with a guy like that. “First you got the gold, now you got your own custom..” Oh God no. Please no. He didn’t. Tell me he didn’t. “GOLD MASERATI WITH CUSTOM DETAILING!!!” He almost screeches, his pitch goes so high. He fucking did. He’s holding out a key fob, presumably for this abomination of a vehicle. He’s looking at me expectantly, and I guess I’m supposed to reciprocate his excitement. I force a smile, but it feels awkward. “Say something!” He prompts. What does somebody say to this? I reach out and take the key, placing it on the glass table. I walk past him, and pull a glass from the cupboard and pour a lukewarm black coffee into it. “I can see myself really enjoying the French Quarter traffic in that. Big dog energy.” Even I laugh at myself, and I feel like I’m breaking kayfabe, because I’m being very straight-laced and terse with Joe, because he annoyed me by bursting through the door. But Joe is used to my ways by now and isn’t offended by it. THOUGHT I KNEW MY LIMIT, YEAH I THOUGHT THAT I COULD QUIT IT, YEAH I THOUGHT THAT I COULD WALK AWAY EASILY BUT HERE I AM, FALLING DOWN ON MY KNEES “And that’s not all..” He says like some fucking creepy gameshow host who has yet another mystery prize for his unsuspecting contestant. “I have the briefcase.” Leaned against the countertop, my bare foot pushed against the cold pine door, I look down at the briefcase. At first it seems like any other black faux-leather briefcase, but it isn’t. It has a stamp pressed into it in the corner, a roundel with pointed starburst edges, and a familiar logo in the middle. The letters read ‘hWa’, and I get an inkling as to where he’s going with this. “Strat, I been around the best in the game. Bonz Williams, All Hannan, Bud Leaf, Tom Sinnery, Johnny eXtreme, Angel Sloane, Shawn Stevens, Jason Jarrett, Paul Montuori, Brandon Moore, Buh Buh Fungul, and the list goes on.” It really does go on, especially when you gotta hear it every time he opens his fuckin’ mouth. “Beaten most of them,” he continues, “but also lost to most of them too. My first ever world championship win was back in the day, against Chris Cage, a well known pioneer in this business.” He reaches for the briefcase and moves his fingers to correct the code keeping the container sealed. With a pair of clicking sounds, the briefcase pops open and almost immediately the tone of his face starts to glow with an orange-gold hue, the light reflecting off the championship and back into his face. He smiles, proudly, and spins the briefcase around to me. “I’m so damn proud of you. I believed in you since day one, and I knew one day it’d come together. It’s your time to take the ball and run with it, to be the next Cage, be the next Johnny eXtreme, Tom Sinnery, Angel Sloane, Joe fn Montuori.” “Its your time with that,” he points at the OPW Immortal Heavyweight Championship of the World which is resting on another table in the room, “but I want you to have this.” “It’s my first ever World Title belt, the one I beat Chris Cage for.” He grabs hold of the strap and holds it out to me. I hesitate, but he stands firm, and so with a level of reluctance, I take the championship title from his hand and hoist it on my shoulder, knowing that it’d be the first and last time, and that it would make him happier than ever. Sensing my trepidation, he slaps the sidepanel of the championship on my shoulder. “I got your back. The whole of FoCuS does. You’re gonna be the champ for a long time, man. I know you are. But you gotta be ready for war because everyone’s coming for you. When you get past Anicka tomorrow, they’re gonna be lining up for their chance to knock you off your pedestal. You’re building your legacy now and before you know it, you’ll be in book and halls of fame with the likes of the ELITE, and FoCuS members.” He’s really trying his best to be sweet, and I appreciate it, but he is so far off the mark that it hurts. It hurts deep in my heart because it feels like he doesn’t really understand or appreciate who I am, the man that plotted and planned this whole adjuncture that sent the landscape of Outlaw Pro Wrestling on a tailspin that its unlikely to recover from. OPW will never be the same again, because of what we did. And yet, here he is, thinking that I did it for adulation and acknowledgement, and 30 pounds of gold. So he gave me another one. “Joe?” I say, as he’s halfway out of the door. He pauses, and his head reappears in the doorway. “Thank you, Joe. Truly. I appreciate the gesture. You are one-of-a-kind. But I need you to understand something. This wasn’t ever about material things for me, this was always about breaking that stranglehold they had, because they represent everything toxic and broken with the industry, the industry that I lost everything for.” And now he is nodding along, silently digesting, perhaps his whole worldview of who and what I am just got twisted. “I’m not going to drive your Maserati, so if you want it to replace yours, you’re welcome to it. I didn’t do this because I wanted to be worshipped, I didn’t do it to break records. I climbed the mountain to see the world, not so the world could see me. That’s the difference between me and you.” As the words escape my lips, I regret it, I feel like I want to reach out and try to catch them and put them back inside me. This is the price I pay when I don’t keep the monkey in his cage. He looks hurt, but he’s fronting it. TWISTED REALITY, HOPELESS INSANITY I TOLD YOU I WAS OKAY, BUT I WAS LYING But without me, what are you? They say if you tell a big enough lie and repeat it frequently enough, it will be believed. It will become a cultural truth, even if it has no factual origins. They also say that fear can convince a person, or a society, to do just about anything; no matter how unpleasant the act may seem at first. If enough people are doing it, others will follow. If enough people believe it, it won’t be questioned. Terms like “it’s for his own good” are often borne out of our primal need to rationalize and justify choices that abrade our instincts. To help us justify decisions that deep down, we know just don’t feel right. Of course, with anything in life there are extremes; encouraging our children to brush their teeth or eat their greens is unquestionably looking out for “their own good”. Is it for your own good? To shut me out and fade away? “No.” He answers, finally. At last. You came back to prove it all. This moment is key. We can figure out the rest later. The Protagonist smiles, taking a deep breath, sitting upright, legs crossed on the carpet, looking at himself in the mirror. “If we have to.” TOP OF THE WORLD, BOTTOM OF THE OCEAN TOP OF THE WORLD, BOTTOM OF THE OCEAN THEY BUILT YOU UP AND BROKE YOU DOWN AGAIN SO NOW YOU HOPE TO BEAT THE SURF IN The Id, his voice is heard. The monkey is out of the cage, but not off the chain. He doesn’t get unmitigated control. That’s mine. It is the only way. The Protagonist stands up, snarling arrogantly. He smears his makeup yet more erratically in the mirror and pulls on a tshirt that states “I’LL NEVER BE THE SANE”. Leather jacket wraps around him, Doc Marten boots slapping noisily against the tile floor as he walks through the reception area. He feels renewed. A sense of optimism that somehow, some way, had led him toward a mental state that would allow positive thought without heroin. You have to finish what you started. “Don’t you fucking worry about that.” He barked, gripping the strap of the OPW Immortal Heavyweight Championship of the World, and pushing through the door. This would be the reckoning that none of them saw coming, despite the fact that he has repeatedly and exhaustively delivered it as sermon for the best part of a year. Because they’re all so blind to it. They think they’re impenetrable. That much is obvious, when they allow her to come and reclaim the crown when anyone with an unbiased eye will tell you that she doesn’t stand a fucking chance. The Protagonist would flay her to the bone and leave nothing left for the coroner, because he only needed reminding of why we were here in the first place and the fire ignited in his belly was enough to fuel a thousand funeral pyres. CAUSE THE FUTURE IS NOT WHAT YOU'VE SEEN IT'S NOT WHERE YOU'VE BEEN TO AT ALL THE FUTURE IS NOT WHAT YOU'VE SEEN IT'S NOT WHERE YOU'VE BEEN TO AT ALL I’ll tell you the problem with Anicka Swan, and with the Wolf Pack in general. They overfished the ocean, so much so that there were no sharks left. As time passed, the skill of fishing sharks became obsolete, because they were extinct. But then, from the depths of the deep sea, under the biggest fuckin’ rock of queer pride painted coral you ever did see, came me. And now I’m wrecking havoc. One by one I’m eradicating them all, whilst they’re stood there on the deck of their fishing boat wondering what the fuck kinda kraken just got summoned to ruin their day. It almost doesn’t feel fair, what I do to these people. Almost. So, what exactly made Anicka Swan so special, to be the one to represent the family and be the inaugural OPW Immortal Heavyweight Champion of the World? To be the one to hold the championship for so long? Ani’s not the head of the family. That’s Kalvin. Ani’s not the matriarch of the family. For her sins, that’s VooDoo. Ani’s not the toughest son of a bitch in the family. That’s Vincent. Ani’s not the most gifted athlete of the family. That’s Xavier. Ani’s not the most charismatic member of the family. That could be literally anybody else. Fuck it, lets say its Damon. Just kidding. It’s also Xavier. Nah, she’s just the only one stupid enough to raise her hand when they asked for volunteers to wear a big fucking target on her back. She tanked the shallow competition that OPW could offer, for the family, whilst they put all of the other chess pieces in place to ensure their dynasty could reign in perpetuity. And as for her tenure, the duration of it, I mean, you only have to look to the quality of the competition. OPW was a B league until I came, then they hooked the jumper cables up to X, told him to get the fuck outta bed and moved the belt to him. Barely. He called it a twist of fate, the separation between myself and him on that night. I proved him right the next time we stood across from one another. As soon as these boots were on the ground, the family knew they had to act. They knew the dog and pony show was over. And I’ve done what I said, every step of the way. Abdul bin Hussein, title challenger, headliner at the very previous pay-per-view, vanquished and retired on my debut at Highway 2 Hell. The Enforcer, henchman for the Syndicate and the man that defined the entire Prestige division in his image, put down like the pathetic dog he is. On my debut. And once again for my first title defence. Daniel Holiday, the next great hope. Where’s he now? Oh yeah. Hasn’t fought again. Kip Kutler, Blair Buchannan, Christian Rivers, the many team battles sprinkled throughout. Vanquished, beaten, bloodied. Forgotten. Gone. Somebodies until I made them fucking nobodies. The last dying gasp of a hope the family had left, Xavier Wolf. All of them fell. And then came Damon for another crack at redemption, and he left with his tail between his legs like the coward that he always was. Tell me how many times my shoulders have been pinned to the mat in OPW? You can’t. It didn’t happen. The Family aren’t stupid. They saw me coming. They tried to stop me. But they couldn’t. They can’t. Nobody can. Nobody can. Nobody can. THEY BURIED THE GOLD YOUR ANCESTRY'S SOLD AND LEFT JUST THE RESIDUE THEY BURIED THE GOLD YOUR ANCESTRY'S SOLD AND LEFT JUST THE MIST OF YOU And now what? The stupid twat has spent some time away filing paperwork for Xavier’s daddy, the zaddy, and now she’s bored enough that she wants back in the fire? Do you think he stopped sticking his dick in her and now she wants out? I’m unsure the motive, but making sense of it is about the only thing that has beaten me recently. She stepped in front of the only member of the family remotely close to being capable of doing something about their Stratford Problem, why? Maybe there are bigger problems afoot in the fractured family. I mean, to me, it looks like sabotage. Push Xavier out of the way, in order to try to recapture the glory that you once had, but didn’t deserve? Yeah, I said it, Anicka. You were the champion because they allowed you to be, not because you were the best. Because it was easier for them, they didn’t have to run the proverbial hill sprints that you did. That I am doing now. They didn’t have to worry about all the media attention. Who knows what Xavier was doing while you were champion, just coasting along and picking up a paycheck, and Vincent was so buried in that bullshit happy family facade that she was suffocating him with. It wasn’t until I came back that you all got the jolt in your arm that you needed, that you all woke the fuck up from the coma that had you thinking you could live with Anicka Swan as the posterchild of the family. And she’s too stupid to see it. Maybe there’re too many yes-men around her telling her she’s the greatest champion OPW ever had and she thinks she has what it takes - tell the blue haired yes-man to think with his head, not his dick, if he cares about the family he has tied himself to in order to ride the coattails of success. Because she thinks she is something that she clearly is not. Because the idiotic glutton for punishment that she is just doesn’t know when she’s swimming without floaties. It’s a classic case of Darwinism. Or like, what is it that they say? When a super progressive person makes all this fuckin’ headway into the sea of the patriarchy, and then just doesn’t know when to stop? Goes way past the line and crumbles and erodes all of the good. She was a trailblazer, but she should have taken the paycheck Xavier gave her, and stayed the fuck gone, because now she’s ruining everything she built for herself. She is to women’s wrestling what TERFs are to women period. If you know, you know. If not, Google is your friend. She’s going to embarrass herself, her family, her fans. We all saw it in the lead up to Stairway 2 Heaven when she had that dickbrain pull every trick in the book to fuck Apathy and Scotty Adams over. She’s not half a step behind the competition, she’s not even in the same race. ISN'T IT LOVELY, ALL ALONE HEART MADE OF GLASS, MY MIND OF STONE TEAR ME TO PIECES, SKIN TO BONE HELLO, WELCOME HOME Playlist: "LOVELY" by BILLIE EILISH "SPIKE ISLAND" by THE ICARUS LINE "DANCING WITH THE DEVIL" by DEMI LOVATO "LOSING MY RELIGION" by R.E.M. "BLACK GOLD" by FOALS |