Post by stratford on Jun 12, 2020 18:44:05 GMT -5
The Protagonist does not have a name. Why that is, can only be speculated on. Is he a transient who never received one? Did something so completely fucked up happen to him that this part of his past is missing? Has his hippocampus been physically damaged to the point that recollection is difficult? Or is it something far more sinister?
You refer to him as Id, because he is the definition of poor impulse control. In Freud’s deconstruction of the psyche, the Id is the part of the psyche where all of our impulses live, the need to seek immediate satisfaction, without consideration for consequence or nuance. If you’ve ever read “The Chimp Paradox” by Professor Steve Peters, Id is wholly and completely the chimp, untamed, on the loose and unapologetically so. He feeds the chimp, he does not control the chimp and keep it in its cage. The chimp is in control of the vehicle at all times.
If you haven’t read “The Chimp Paradox”, then that whole paragraph likely made no fucking sense. But I strongly suggest you read it.
He is somewhat eloquent, he is an intelligent person. He is obsessive. His current obsession is with the issues surrounding equality in the United States. And it is not as though this is not a noble cause or something worth fighting for, nobody in their right mind could disagree. It is just unusual, given that when he speaks, his accent betrays undertones of foreign origin. He has clearly spent many years in the United States, which would make sense, given his career choice - it’s usually here or Japan, right? - but beneath the localized Bayou accent, there is a clear Oceanic vibe buried in that accent.
Next week, he might be bored of the plight of African Americans and other minorities and the injustice that they face on a daily basis. He might be interested in digging into climate change, tearing down the paper houses that are built on the ‘facts’ of flat-Earthers, or Holocaust-deniers. What I am saying, basically, is that he’s taken up a cause with such veracity and fervor, and it is probably in attempt to find some meaning and clarity in his otherwise lost existence.
When you look at him, his aging features, his greying crew-cut hair, the skin starting to droop under his eyes, the weathered look of a man who has lived through difficult times, it is clear that behind those eyes there is a level of emptiness that can only come from trauma and tragedy. The hollow emotional void.
So, he tries, day by day. To build, rebuild, start over.
At Showcase, he preached to the audience and read a poem. He wasn’t supposed to debut at Showcase, he was supposed to debut at Highway2Hell, but with the unrest in the country at the moment, he thought it was his place to step up and make a statement on behalf of the organisation. He felt that nobody else was willing to do it.
He is reinventing himself as a somebody, because he has spent so much time drowning in the void of life as a nobody.
Maybe one day he will find it within himself, the strength inside, to allow himself an identity. But for now, he’s our protagonist, and he has no name.
So the story goes, that he had been a bit lost in life as of late, looking for purpose. Things had come apart some time ago. In his younger years, he was a wrestler for sure. A pretty successful one, though one thing had always eluded him. He never won a World Championship, and it was an itch in a spot that he could never quite reach. He’d stepped away when the regional scene had quietened down, started a new life.
At the moment, he made money trading in digital currency, lived alone in New Orleans as he always had, and mostly kept to himself.
As I said, he was an impulsive man, he was obsessive too. He spent a lot of time on the internet, whilst waiting to trade in his bitcoins, watching people like Alex Jones on YouTube, people trying to convince the internet that the world is flat, all manner of things. This formed the basis for his re-emergence in to the public eye, I guess.
His rabbit-hole had lasted ten years or more, I couldn’t quite say for sure. There was a darkness about him, that he hid well when he needed to. But there was something buried in there, for sure. But on the surface, he was balanced, well-adjusted, and knew how to carry himself amongst normal folk.
He wasn’t a militant lefty, nor was he a snowflake. He wasn’t a virtue signaller, looking to jump on bandwagons of white-knightery. On the surface of it, he was just a normal guy who was a bit more opinionated than most people, who cared a bit more loudly about injustice and inequality. A lot of the income he generated from trading digital currency was redirected to community funds that were designed to aid in the fight against malpractice in the judicial system against at-risk young men and women from underprivileged societies.
Considering the numbers he turned over on a regular basis doing this ‘job’ if you will, he lived an incredibly modest lifestyle. He owned a small townhouse in the French Quarter, a few blocks back from the riverfront. It was sandwiched between other buildings, nothing secluded, or reclused, or away.
But he kept himself to a small circle, he knew the local shop owner, a couple of his neighbours, and the mail man. That was about it. He liked it like that, the majority of his outward expressions of opinion were distributed digitally. He took pleasure in the isolation that his life choices had thrust upon him. He was beholden to nothing, nobody expected anything from him and he was never left feeling like he had to do something that he did not want to do. As a result, unlike most self-styled ‘loners’, a cloud of darkness did not follow him.
But enough about what he was or was not. In time, you’ll get to form your own opinion on the fiber of the fabric that makes up this man.
Thumbing through the pages of the newspaper he found left on his faded white porch, his lips creased into a small pursed poise. He hadn’t even sat down to start reading it yet, and was already done. He tosses the paper over the balcony and onto the dry crisp grass below, landing with a thwuck.
[ Id ] : “Drug addict, repeat offender, career criminal…” Remind me why I ever agreed to have this shit rag sent to me?
He asked the question as though was expecting somebody to answer him. But he lives alone, an answer isn’t coming. He leans forward on the balcony, looking out to the street below. It is quiet, it has been quiet for some time. Since the outbreak of the COVID-19 strand of coronavirus, most of the world has been cooped up, sat on top of each other, ‘enjoying’ family time.
This will be the test of many marriages. People forced to spend all day every day together, the cracks may start to appear in an otherwise perfect relationship. Those idiosyncrasies that you thought were cute? The way he snortles a bit when he’s watching Instagram stories and a funny meme comes up? Soon that becomes more than just an idiosyncrasy. Soon it begins to get on your nerves, then a couple times later it starts to annoy you. Then every time he reaches for his phone and you see him on Instagram, all that is racing through your mind is “BREATHE A BIT FUCKING LOUDER YOU ASSHOLE, I DARE YOU!” and you fantasize about smacking that fucking iPhone out of his cunting hands and maybe having a glass of sauvignon blanc when you’re done burying him in the crawl space.
As time passes, ‘together time’ just becomes time looking at a rectangle screen in the same room as your significant other, and any progeny you were stupid enough bring into the world. The screen is filled with curated fake news designed to grab your attention, incite your outrage, keep you plugged in, collect your data and sell it on the back end for untold amounts of profit in order that they can better refine their algorithm and keep pushing all the right buttons to make your dopamine spike, to keep you engaged, keep you outraged. A humongous circle-jerk of big businesses, designed to give you just enough so you keep coming back. You’re just as lonely as everyone else, even when you’re sat next to somebody else.
Our Protagonist chuckled to himself as that thought rolled around inside his mind. He was glad of his choices.
[ Id ] : Whether it’s a biased newspaper or a post on your favorite social network, it’s all the same. We all live in echo chambers. Ain’t no easy way to the truth, and that’s how the authorities want it. They want you to question everything, to know nothing for certain, to have constant discord so they can use it to control us. We live in a post-truth world. Over and over again, we let the wool get pulled over our eyes. It stops now. With more and more technology, we must always hold authority to account of their actions. We must stand up wherever we can when we see that authority is being abused.
The Protagonist steps carefully, barefoot, down the steps of the porch and into the chunky dry grass that separated his property from the local authority’s, he traded in his discarded newspaper for a rough headed broom, which he carried effortlessly in his right hand. There was a dust in the air. It was the morning after the night before, a night where protests had been taking place, like much of the United States and major cities across the world. Protests were peaceful, but it left a void feeling in the air. A heavy aura consumed the morning. The Man reached the road, and started to walk slowly toward the riverfront. He avoided the trash in the street, his blackened bare feet dancing between discarded drinks cans and fast food wrappers. Did these protesters not care for the environment whatsoever? It crossed his mind, albeit briefly.
[ Id ] : We must be mindful that it is our responsibility as an adult to seek the truth, not just blindly follow the spoonfed diatribe of our favorite news outlet. Fact check the hyperbole. Don’t eat a bucket of bullshit and start spreading it like a virus. Take everything with a grain of salt until you can independently verify the facts for yourself.
As the protagonist inched closer to the riverfront where the main demonstration had took place, the smell of burning plastic began to twitch at his nose, and within a moment or two, smoke began to waft past him from the smouldering ruins of a trash can fire around the corner. No more flames, just the embers sizzling to their natural end. There was disarray all through the street, it had not been left in a good state. He turns to the right, his back to the fire, and further away from his home, and carries on walking. This main thoroughfare is completely devoid of people, and as our Protagonist continues to walk, he starts pushing large swaths of debris to the side, to allow people to start returning to normal.
[ Id ] : Spent most of my career fighting people for money. Recently, I’ve been fighting people for justice. Through letters, petitions, Facebook comments… trying to make people see the world for what it is, not what their tabloid-tinted, pre-filtered news outlet conditions them to think it is. And whilst that is noble, there are other problems in the world. In the world I call home. The wrestling world. As I look around the landscape, I see that it mirrors the rest of the world perfectly. It would be a perfect metaphor to come in and fix OPW. As I look around, it is clear to me that there is a broken system. All of the power is condensed at the top, among too few people, who want to recycle the power among themselves. The rich get richer, whilst the people below them fight tooth and nail to get a leg up, only to hit the glass ceiling. The Wolfpack, they are much more than a group of individuals. They are a dynasty, they have the power, and even when it looks like things might start to fall apart, they have the ace up their sleeve. They stack the deck. Send poor little Xavier out into the cold, excommunicate him - allegedly. Then get him to fight for the title. Keep it all in the family. It’s as clear as crystal. Whether one wins, or the other, the power stays with the dynasty. The rest of you? Good luck. Fight over the scraps. Pretend you’re relevant. But make sure all your eyes are on the Wolfpack.
Here he was, literally picking up the pieces of the city. The Protagonist continued to work as he spoke. The city was beginning to wake up, and people began to slowly mill from building to building, much like the Protagonist, with pails and brooms, dustbins, bags.
[ Id ] : I’m here to see to it that this ends. Among their ranks they have scum from top to bottom. The first step is gaining leverage, and in my debut, my return, the first fight in over 12 years, I have the opportunity to do just that. With victory, as expected, in this qualification four-way, I will be fighting for the world title. Which means one or the other of the Wolves. Wolf, or Swan. In my crosshairs.
And I know better than to count my chickens. [ A wide grin. ] But let’s face it, this won’t be competitive by the time I’m through. I don’t think the people in OPW quite knew what they’re getting when they signed me up. I will disrupt the status quo, I will pull apart the fabric at the seam, and make sure my face is prominent in the tapestry.
In this battle, at HIGHWAY2HELL, I face a former title challenger, another foal who was sent to be sacrificed to the big machine that stands atop the organisation. He didn’t have a chance, really, and everybody knew that. He was sent up there, like an independent in the election, there to earn his participation trophy. There was no doubt in anybody’s mind that he would walk away with anything. He wasn’t the right look for a champion, but he was the right look for an opportunity. [ Raises his left hand and imitates quote marks. ] “Everyone can achieve the American Dream”. You weren’t ready then, you’re not ready now. But because it looks good on the optics, they continue to push you. Further and further out of your depth, because it makes them look good, giving minorities the big chances to prove themselves. The problem Abdul bin Hussain has is that he has typecast himself, and he can’t get out of his own way. He is struggling, week after week, to remain relevant and original, because after the initial impact of being ‘a bit controversial’, everybody got bored of the same old shit, week in and week out. He needs to reinvent himself if he is going to stand a chance at reliving the highlight of his career…
which was being bent over and fucked in the ass...
...by a girl...
...with a bigger dick than he has.
[ Id ] : What lofty heights we could all strive to attain. He is dismissive of those that he doesn’t know, dismissive of things he hasn’t experienced, and quick to make judgement. He chalks me down to just another name on the page, just another brick in the wall, just another day in the office. Just like the average American, puts his white collar shirt on, goes to the office, clocks in, phones in his effort for the day, delivers minimal acceptance criteria and clocks out. World title shot in the bag. More deluded than the poor fucking idiots out there posting #AllLivesMatter on social media because they’re just so fucking uncomfortable by the realization that there IS a problem, they stick their heads in the sand and try to diffuse it.
Okay.
Maybe not that deluded.
But close.
Maybe not that deluded.
But close.
He’d made a loop around his block, he’d swept a path through to the local grocery store and around the storefront. Jimmy was still trading despite all odds. Coronavirus was one thing, but combine that with this? The guy was crazy.
But the Protagonist, if you didn’t guess already, cared about community. He wanted to make sure Jimmy was okay. And now that this was secure, he made his way back to his own property without much more than a nod to other people helping out.
[ Id ] : Take care of my own, always have… always will. Another name to take care of is Daniel Holiday. Similar to myself, a ghost of the past. Kinda wondering if he still has it, came back and showed without shadow of doubt that he has something. The proverbial “it”, though? We’ve certainly roamed in different eras, taken different paths. Its unclear to me whether he’s the kind of guy that I’ll steamroll through, or will have to take my time with and really punish.
The Protagonist was now back at his house, and slowly placed the bristled dusty broom against the outer decking that concealed the crawlspace beneath his property. His filth-clad feet left an imprint in the tarnished central part of the step, where overuse had worn away the majority of the paint, and the woodwork below was starting to become visible. With a subtle creak, his door opened as he pulled it.
[ Id ] : He talks of old names as if it means something. Where I came from, there were names like Jerry Watts, Cameron Vincent, Lincoln Gray, Jerome Jordan. They’re meaningless here. Nobody has the first idea who they are, so what is the worth mentioning them? I watched him fight on Showcase, against Alexis Skye. I was waiting to pick my moment to come to the ring and say my piece on the George Floyd situation. I have no idea if Holiday was part or parcel in that situation, that girl and what happened to her, but that kind of situation is the entire reason why I exist. Injustice, abuses of power, #MeToo was last year, though. We should have moved on from this. To be part of such a thing, I think I’ve made my mind up.
I’m gonna look you straight in the eye
deep in your soul, share all my inner desires
whisper you all my sweet nothings
and keep fucking you up until you beg me to stop
...consent is no joke...
Leaning on his balcony, he smirks to himself.
The thing is, right, the Protagonist wasn’t really a promo guy, but he was trying something new. He was having a bit of fun with it, channelling his inner trash talker. There was not a lot, at this juncture, that he could do. Given that he had a self-imposed solitary period over the last ten years, it wouldn’t really be fun to watch him washing some dishes, but that was what was on his mind. He’d eaten twice today, already, and in both instances he’d thought of something else that he ABSOLUTELY needed to do before he cleaned up after himself.
Absolutely had to? Invariably not, that’s not really how life works. You never really ABSOLUTELY have to do something. You can choose to, or you can choose not to. Actions, or lack thereof, have consequences. Don’t clean your plates? You got dirty dishes. Keep that up a few days, you got no dishes. Continue to leave it, you’re starting to get a bad smell and bugs. You see where this is going.
He didn’t ABSOLUTELY have to go to the Outlaw Pro wrestling forum on a burner account and start trolling people who left negative comments on his segment from the Showcase taping last week. But that is what he did. Because fuck them.
StylezClash419 wrote
“who puttin politics on my wrasslin, lol, gtfo idiot, someone come smack him with a chair”
To which he replied
“Fuck off you tramp, you can have your first opinion when you got a tooth”
XxSwanSong69xX wrote
“All lives matter! <3 x0x0 Love to you all <3”
To which he replied
“Apart from yours.”
So yeah, his endeavour was not exactly crucial to his continued existence on this planet. But in the first paragraph, it was explained that this man is the definition of poor impulse control.
It was on his mind, that niggling itch that he can’t quite reach, that he still had not done it.
You don’t even want to know what he did after lunch instead of washing his plates.
[ Id ] : The final member of this fatal four way, if you will, is Enforcer. I don’t have the first clue about him. Everything I’ve seen about him has been in collaboration with another guy, fighting people like Christian Rivers, seems like a wildcard. Talks a bit, not a lot. A lot less repetitive than the Persian. The thing with this guy, as with a lot of people who think they are on the upward trajectory to the place where they mean something, is that the words that escape his cocksucker are meaningless. Some of it is talking a circle around a point that never quite gets made, and other parts of it feels like they wrote something boring, got a thesaurus out, significantly changed the words to synonyms to the point that he thought it sounded clever, and then read it from his cue cards.
probably fell over trying to pat himself on the back after
[ Id ] : In time, he will grow as a wordsmith, as a crafter of creativity. But for now, it leaves a lot to be desired. From what I’ve seen, that’s a perfect metaphor for your career. Big words, no coherence. I’ll go easy if you stay out of the way.
The Protagonist pushes through the front door, and pads toward the kitchen, the first room after the lounge on the right hand side of his entrance hallway.
His kitchen is large, dated, and even has a telephone on the wall. The walls are teal and yellow, the sideboard is marble, and yeah - the plates are significant. Much like the stairs that lead into the property, it looks like the impulsiveness of the Protagonist does not extend to home improvement or basic upkeep. This place has not had wet cloth across it to pick up dust, let alone a lick of paint on it. The style is at least 40 years outdated, the pans he cook with are blackened. They were never teflon to begin with, by the way, just stainless steel. When stainless steel is black, you know you got a problem.
[ Id ] : So as we can see, delusion is rife, outright incorrectness. [He opens the faucet and tests the water with his hands.] Whether it is the three that will walk into the ring with me and not walk out, or the two that are at the very top of the card. Whether it is the right-leaning newspapers trying to whitewash this public outrage, or the sheep on social media who think they’re being virtuous and white-knighty by perpetuating such slogans as “All Lives Matter”. [Tipping the bottle of dish washing liquid onto a sponge.] Of course all lives matter, you fucking morons. But all lives do not face the prejudices that we saw on May 25th, when an officer of the law, a group of thugs paid for by our tax dollars, grossly overstepped the mark for eight minutes and forty-six seconds. [His voice raises with emotion, over the sound of the gushing water from the faucet.] All lives do not face the prejudices that black lives deal with ON A DAILY BASIS, whether it is filmed on a fucking smartphone or not. [Angrily he throws down the sponge and turns away from the sink.] So yeah, all lives matter, but lets focus on the ones that are most in danger. We sort that shit out, then maybe we can worry about you.
Everyone’s trying to tell you a lie, trying to make you buy what they’re selling. You can see it everywhere you look. Right here in OPW - Xavier Wolf and Anicka Swan. Don’t tell me that Wolf isn’t gonna take the fall and let the dynasty continue, we all know it. [He puts his finger to his lips in a shush motion, and whispers...] He’ll put up a little fight, make sure we all buy what he’s sellin’. Then he’ll take the fall. Valiantly defeated. Its as see-through as his personality and her goth-slut cosplay.
but once I’m done with with my business
the circle jerk is over
it’s you i am coming for, Swan.
the circle jerk is over
it’s you i am coming for, Swan.
Bubbles start overflowing the sink, but the Protagonist has already opened the lid of his laptop...