WAR On The Horizon
Sept 20, 2015 15:37:52 GMT -5
Night Rider, Cormack MacNeill, and 4 more like this
Post by Deleted on Sept 20, 2015 15:37:52 GMT -5
CAW!
A crow takes off from the middle of Waylon’s unkempt field. It rises into the sky, joining its family in the sky, before slowly disappearing. The sun of an early indian summer hangs overhead, making every movement more difficult than it should be. The oppressive heat doesn’t seem to bother Waylon, who sits atop the railing of his new porch. His long legs dangle free, as he stares, fixated on a wallet size picture in his hand. The girl in the picture is a raven haired beauty with emerald eyes that glow even in such a small image. Her smile is radiant, and Waylon returns it, but with a heavy note of sadness. He hears the front door open, and he quickly slides the picture back into his wallet, as the voice of Blake Updegraff III comes quietly from behind him.
Blake:I can not for the life of me understand why you would live down here. It’s hotter than the blazes nine months of the year.
Waylon:That’s how some of us weirdos like it.
Waylon spins around, and steps down off of the railing. He finds himself surprised to see Blake in just a button down shirt and black pants. The older gentleman rolls up his sleeves, and leans against the railing. He surveys the land with a slight smile on his lips.
Blake:I will give you this… it is quite beautiful to look at sometimes.
Waylon:Now you’re startin’ to get it. Sure it’s got racists, homophobes, bigots of all kinds. Sure southern states are usually dead ass last as far as schools go, and we got more churches than we do people… but hell if it ain’t pretty.
Cash lets out a sardonic chuckle, before pulling a cigarette from behind his ear, and setting the filter between his lips. The unlit cigarette bobs in his mouth as he speaks.
Waylon:Y’know… I used to be proud of comin’ from the south. I used to think the stereotypes were bullshit, and that there were more people like me here than everyone thought. Of course I look at WCF and all I see are tools like Young and Bates and it makes me wonder.
Blake:You’ll have your hands on the likes of them soon enough. Keep your eyes focused on the closest goal, Mr. Cash. There is no crop to harvest if you do not first sew the seeds.
Waylon:Well shit, anything sounds inspirational when you say it in that fake ass British accent you got.
Blake:Again, this is not a fake British accent, it is a real Massachusetts accent, and that is beside the point. Make as many jokes as you wish, but if you are not focused on Billy and Vic Venable, they will stop your momentum cold before you can even get to WAR.
Waylon leans on the railing, staring off at the horizon line. He finally gets around to lighting his cigarette, and inhales deeply. The smoke drifts from between his lips as he speaks.
Waylon:You think I even got a chance?
Blake takes a moment to look over at Waylon, catching his eye so Waylon knows he’s serious.
Blake:I have always believed you can do anything you set your mind to. The trouble was always getting you to set your mind to something other than growing cannabis. The look in your eye when you talk about destroying the stables tells me you truly want it, and I have always said Christ pity the man standing between Waylon Cash and something he truly wants. That is not to say it will not be difficult, but I know you. You are capable to doing everything it takes and more. You just have to demand it of yourself.
Waylon smiles, taking another drag from his smoke. He exhales the grey plume into the air, and savors the silence.
Waylon:Scott thinks I’m gonna get myself killed.
Blake:And he may be correct. However, it does not matter what Mr. Savage or I think. What matters is what Waylon Cash thinks.
Blake pats Waylon on the shoulder, and heads back into the air conditioned house. Waylon steps down off the porch, and wanders out into the yard, amongst his makeshift weightlifting equipment. He turns and looks at the house, smiling at first as he marvels at the gift given to him by his oldest friend. Slowly the smile fades, as his mind flashes him back to a memory. His old trailer, the home his father lived and died in, engulfed in flames. The orange destruction erupting from the windows, turning everything black… even the sky. Decades of memories suddenly gone, replaced by a pile of carbon and charred steel. Waylon shakes his head, chasing the image from his mind. He starts to set himself on one of the weight benches, but stops when he hears Blake shouting at him from inside.
Blake:Good lord! It’s a spider demon!
Waylon laughs loudly, and jogs into the house, knowing immediately what Blake has seen. Sure enough, he walks into the kitchen to see Blake brandishing a baseball bat at a scorpion in the middle of the floor. Waylon pulls the bat out of his hand and sets it on the counter, before grabbing a thick towel. He tosses it over the creature, and gently picks it up. Cash walks it out the door, and tosses it into the field. When he returns, Blake gives him a look that is equal parts astonishment, disgust, and fear.
Blake:What in the world?!
Waylon:Just a little scorpion. We get those from time to time.
Blake can only shake his head and mumble to himself.
Blake:This is hell. Scott has brought me to hell, and he is not coming back for me.
Waylon shakes his head with a smile, and walks into his room, shutting the heavy oak door behind him. He flops back on his bed, looking at the vastness of his space, wishing desperately that it meant anything to him. As it is, the size of the room only serves to strengthen the feelings of loneliness. Suddenly, the memories of Roxxanne begin to flood into his brain. He immediately sits cross legged on his bed, and closes his eyes, pushing her from his mind. He hums, quietly meditating her memory away.
___ _ _ _ _ ___ _ _ _ _____
Waylon rushes as he puts his long, dirty blonde hair in a ponytail. He clumsily throws a faded Tennessee Oilers hat on top of it, and starts making his way to the door. He lets out a frustrated grunt when he hears Blake’s voice behind him.
Blake:Mr. Cash! Wherever you plan on going will have to wait. Scott sent me a text message telling me I was to make sure you filmed your promo and got it up tonight before you did anything else. His words, not mine.
Waylon lets out an exaggerated sigh.
Waylon:I don’t see why I gotta do these things. I do my talkin’-
Blake:In the ring. He told me you would object, and gave strict instructions that I was not to relent.
Waylon:Come on, Blake. I got-
Blake’s tone is more stern now, stopping Waylon mid sentence.
Blake:Mr. Cash. I never dreamed I would have to force a thirty five year old man to do his job, but I will if I have to. I am here to be your friend, but I am also here to make sure you stay on the right track where your career is concerned. To do that, you must keep your profile up, and you mustn’t disrespect your opponent by refusing to even talk about them. Now I will ask one more time, please, handle your responsibilities as an adult, and film this promo.
Waylon is too stunned to speak. The last time Blake spoke to him this way he was nineteen years old, and had just been caught drinking on the night before a show. Not wanting to anger the man any more, he gives in.
Waylon:Alright, alright. Let’s get this done. You know how to work a camera?
Blake:Please, Mr. Cash. I am not quite as old as you seem to think.
Blake walks over to the coffee table, and picks up the small, handheld camera. He stares at it in bewilderment for a moment.
Blake:Where do you put the tape?
Waylon:Jesus fuckin’ Christ.
Waylon takes the camera, and sets it up, before handing it back to the man.
Waylon:Just hit that button.
Blake:Now that I am capable of.
The camera comes on, and Waylon stands in the dimly lit room. His long hair hangs in front of his face, as an unlit cigarette dangles from his mouth. His bloodshot eyes peer up at the camera. A look of obvious disdain. He remains silent for a few minutes, and is incredibly quiet when he starts talking.
Waylon:People think I don’t hear things. I don’t know why they think I can’t hear, but I can. I hear everyone sayin’ I’m crazy. Sayin’ my trip to rehab musta ended with a lobotomy. I get it. I ain’t stupid. I know what I’m doin’ sounds bugnuts. I’d probably laugh at any other dude that said the things I said. What makes me think I can take out the stables then? Let’s just say I ain’t always the smartest bulb in the drawer. Naw, Waylon Cash wasn’t blessed with a lotta brains, but that’s playin’ in my favor. I’m too stupid to know how risky this is… but I might just be able to pull it off ‘cause of that.
Waylon chuckles at himself, before lighting the cigarette in his mouth. He takes a drag and exhales, staring at the floor. He spends an extra moment searching for his words.
Waylon:I ain’t the first person that ever had this idea. Shit, I’m sure lots of people have thought about goin’ after the stables. The difference is that other men think about it, and then find somethin’ safer to do. Not me. I’m gonna put my whole fuckin’ heart into it. I know the odds are slim, but I’m dumb enough to believe I can do it. I’m also smart enough to know that if I got any chance of makin’ it happen, I gotta throw everything I got into it. I gotta be willin’ to die in that ring… and I promise… I am. So talk about me all you want. I’ll just keep listenin’, and movin’ forward. That’s what Waylon Cash does.
Cash takes another drag, letting the smoke drift slowly from between his lips. He lifts his head, and looks into the lens.
Waylon:Far as this week goes… I ain’t even sure where the hell to start. Lemme talk about Vic for a minute. Here’s what’s got me scared about Vic, he’s almost as dumb as me. He’s too dumb to realize that he can’t beat Waylon Cash. Your brother thought he could beat me too. I took his title from him. You come at me with that weak shit, I’ll take your career. You ain’t gettin’ the same Waylon your brother got. I’m harder, angrier, and more willin’ to destroy a mother fucker than I ever been in my life. I’m ready to roll through whoever they put in front of me, and you just happen to be one of those unlucky sumbitches.
Waylon holds the cigarette in his hands, allowing strands of smoke to curl upward and dance momentarily, before disappearing. He flicks the ashes onto the floor, and slips the filter between his lips again.
Waylon:And Vic, you can save your talk about broken systems and redemption stories. The only thing I wanna break is your damn face, and the only redemption I need is gonna come when I win WAR this month. You flap your gums a lot, but all I wanna hear you say this week is “sorry for thinkin’ I could challenge you, Mr. Cash. I ain’t even gonna show up.” That’s the only smart thing you could say. If you do the stupid thing I know you’re gonna do ‘cause you’re a Venable, it’s just gonna end in you shittin’ out your own teeth in a few days.
Cash crouches down and snuffs out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray. He stands back up, and gives the camera another silent glare. Behind it he sees the faces of all his former foes, and all those yet to come. In the face of this, he can only smile.
Waylon:See, I realized somethin’ about you, Vic. I realized why you do what you do. You didn’t join that gang back in the day because you give a shit. You can pretend you’re socially conscious all you want. Truth is, you’re a joiner. A desperate little parasite who’s gotta find some group to belong to all the god damn time. You’re not interestin’ enough to have an identity of your own, so you latch onto whatever you can. It don’t matter if it’s some goofy anarchist gang, joinin’ WCF, or bein’ a part of whatever shitty stable you join in the future. You base who you are on the group you can join, and that kinda weak minded attitude makes me sad. Sad that I’m gonna have to beat the stupid outta you, and teach you how to have some damn self respect.
The camera follows Waylon through the dark room, as he has a seat on the arm of his new couch. He crosses his arms in front of him, and stares at the ground for a minute, as if he’ll find the rods he’s looking for down there. When he doesn’t, his hateful eyes shift back up to the lense.
Waylon:You don’t gotta be a joiner Vic. I mean, maybe you do, maybe you suck, but the people need to get the message that they don’t gotta be like you. Joiners are usually people who ain’t got enough substance to be a real person. They didn’t bother to turn themselves into anything when they were growin’ up, so they wander around, searchin’ for some kinda identity… well you ain’t gonna find it here. All you’re gonna find when you step into the ring with me is a world of blood and pain. I can see it now, brother. You’re gonna walk to the ring with that cocky fuckin’ smirk on your face, and about thirty seconds later you’re gonna be wonderin’ who the hell is screamin’ so loud… it’s gonna be you. Those sounds are gonna be your own voice explodin’ outta your throat without even askin’ you. You’ll be in too much pain to worry about that though.
Cash cracks his neck back and forth, before dropping down into the couch. His legs rest on one arm, and his head rests on the other. He doesn’t even look at the camera. Instead he stares at the ceiling, as if baring his soul to a therapist.
Waylon:You wanna know the truth? The system ain’t broken. It did exactly what it was supposed to do. It took stupid, angry kid like you, and sold him on all this anarchy bullshit. They convinced you you were bein’ a rebel by buyin’ their rebellious clothes and listenin’ to their rebellious music. They packaged and sold you that shit, and you bought it up like it was bottled water in Vermont. Now that you’re older, they’re sellin’ you somethin’ different. they’re sellin’ you this culture of redemption. They’re makin’ you think they can redeem you the same way they turned you into a snivelling little punk. You get dressed all nice, and you walk down to the ring, sandwiched between commercials for pick up trucks, and energy drinks. You ain’t got any convictions or morals. You’re just bein’ sold lifestyle after lifestyle, and tryin’ to make yourself better somehow. Let me tell you, my ring ain’t the place for self improvement. My ring is where men go to destroy themselves. You keep that in mind when you’re decidin’ whether or not to hop on that plane this week.
Waylon gives the camera an evil smile, before removing a second cigarette from behind his ear. Instead of putting this one between his lips, he holds it up in front of the lens so the camera can get a good shot of it.
Waylon: See this, Vic? You’re a lot like this cigarette. You seem stable, well put together, looked over by a qualified inspector. You look like you’ll stand up to quite a lot… here’s your problem…
Waylon’s other hand lifts a cheap plastic lighter, and after a couple tries, manages to bring flame to the top.
Waylon:Waylon Cash is like a fuckin’ flame. I don’t always look so impressive… but I destroy everything I touch…
Waylon puts the cigarette in his mouth, and turns the end a glowing orange, taking a few deep drags. He sets the lighter down, and holds the cigarette up in front of the camera again.
Waylon:You see this long column of ash… it ain’t nobody’s fault, but that’s what happens.
He flicks the ashes into his palm, and blows them away into the darkness.
Waylon:I’m sorry Vic. You can be as well put together as any man in history. Waylon Cash is still gonna burn your ass. So many men have tried to do what you’re gonna try to do, and most of them end up just like that, floatin’ in the wind, almost like they disappeared from the world entirely. Ask Steve Orbit. Ask your own brother. Shit, go back in time and ask Bo fuckin’ Stoned! They’ll all tell you the same thing. After they fought Waylon Cash, they weren’t the same. Somethin’ got took from them, just like I’m gonna take somethin’ from you on Sunday. The fire’s comin’ for you, and ain’t no way you’re gonna be the one to put it out.
Cash takes another drag off the cigarette, and blows the smoke up into the air. His look of anger is replaced by a grin and a shake of his head.
Waylon:Then we got Billy… where the fuck do I even start? A lot of people would treat you like a joke, Billy. Not me. Shit, you’re a winner! How am I gonna write off somebody that’s got the kinda record you do?! I can’t do it. You might be a fat, stupid, stereotype, but apparently you’re one hell of a fighter. That don’t surprise me. Shit, look at all the fat guys that kicked ass before. Wrestlin’s full of ‘em. I ain’t gonna be the guy that says you can’t be the next King Kong Bundy, and then gets squashed. You might surprise the shit outta everyone.
Waylon contemplates his cigarette for moment, shaping the ashes a bit before he takes his next drag.
Waylon:Then again… I can’t really feel too sorry for you. People treat you like a joke because you treat yourself like a joke. You make stupid speeches about free food, make shitty jokes that my uncle wouldn’t even find funny, and just generally act like a dipshit who’s thrown away any chance at self respect. Vader never woulda acted like that. Bundy never woulda acted like that. You know who does that shit? The kinda people who don’t think they’ll ever make it outta the mid card. You talk a big game, but deep down I know you hate yourself. You don’t gotta though! You don’t gotta feel that way or act like a damn clown for people to notice you! I’m gonna save you Billy. I’m gonna fix you.
Waylon snuffs out the cigarette, and leans back on the couch. He puts his feet up on the coffee table, and his hands behind his head, reveling in his new found luxury.
Waylon:You wanna know how I’m gonna fix you? I’ll tell ya. First I’m gonna start by knockin’ your teeth out, so all you can eat is applesauce and soup. That oughtta drop a few pounds offa you. Then I’m gonna schedule you some god damn therapy sessions. Even if you don’t need ‘em now, you’re gonna after the ass whoopin’ I lay on you gives you a serious case of PTSD. I don’t give a shit how fat you are, I really don’t. I’m just sick of jokes like you cloggin’ up the roster. I’m tired of seein’ worthless punchlines where future main eventers should be, so I’m fixin’ to give you one last warnin’. You change your attitude and start takin’ yourself seriously, or I’ll fuckin’ kill you this Sunday. Shit, I might just kill your ass anyway. To be honest, I just plain don’t like your face.
Cash sets his feet on the floor and leans forward, resting his elbow on his knees. He looks into the lens for a few moments more, before shaking his head and chuckling.
Waylon:WCF never needed me more. I’m gonna shock this cesspool with some good ol’ chlorine, and wash out some of the trash. It’s time WCF stopped bein’ the laughin’ stock of the world. It’s time we injected some respect back into this bitch. That’s what Waylon Cash is here for. Whether it’s the stables, or some trash like my opponents this week, I’m here to clean up, and that’s exactly what I plan to do. It don’t matter if it’s two other guys, or forty, Waylon Cash is gonna dominate, and ain’t shit anyone can do about it. You can bet on that y’all. See you Sunday.
Blake hits the button again, shutting the camera off.
Waylon:There, we good?
Blake:That should be sufficient… we are not, however, good. I must ask where you plan on going.
Waylon gives him an incredulous glare, but backs off before a word of argument is spoken.
Waylon:Look, I ain’t goin’ out to score coke, alright? You can piss test me tomorrow if you want, but I ain’t gonna be a prisoner in my own fuck-
Blake holds up a hand, stopping Waylon mid speech.
Blake:That was all I required. Have a good night.
Waylon looks at him like he doesn’t believe him at first, but quickly turns and leaves the house. The cool night air washes over his skin as he makes his way to the car. He climbs in, and starts the engine with a loud roar. He speeds off down his long driveway, the wind whipping his hair behind him. He breathes deep, taking in the scent of freedom as he makes his way through the winding, Georgia back country. He holds his hand out in the wind, letting it move up and down freely. In the darkness of the new moon, his headlights are the only think to cut through, guiding him as he goes farther away from the city. Tall evergreens grow closer at a rapid pace, and disappear into the darkness in rapid succession. After a while, he slows his pace, pulling into a section full of lifeless buildings that look as if they haven’t had people in them since before Waylon was born.
Despite the buildings, the dirt streets still crunch beneath Waylon’s tires. He slows to a stop in front of the one building with any lights on. He stands beside his car, looking at the dilapidated brick building with the three lit windows, he has a moment of contemplation, followed by him stepping forward and knocking on the rusted metal door. After a few moments, the door creaks open, allowing the scents of incense and perfume to waft out into the night air. He steps into the former apartment building, into an empty lobby. The woman who opened the door for him remains in the shadows, but makes a few noises, causing a line of scantily clad young women to emerge from different hallways.
Waylon scans the women, until he spots one with long black hair, and deep emerald eyes. He doesn’t say a word. He merely points, and she leads him to an empty room. The room smells heavily of perfumed oils, probably used to cover the stench of sex and cigar smoke. The young woman lays back on the bed, giving Waylon a hungry stare she had perfected with years of practice. He doesn’t buy it, but that’s not what he’s here for.
Waylon:What’s your name sweetheart?
Hooker:Samantha.
Waylon:Naw, not tonight. Tonight your name’s Roxxanne.
A crow takes off from the middle of Waylon’s unkempt field. It rises into the sky, joining its family in the sky, before slowly disappearing. The sun of an early indian summer hangs overhead, making every movement more difficult than it should be. The oppressive heat doesn’t seem to bother Waylon, who sits atop the railing of his new porch. His long legs dangle free, as he stares, fixated on a wallet size picture in his hand. The girl in the picture is a raven haired beauty with emerald eyes that glow even in such a small image. Her smile is radiant, and Waylon returns it, but with a heavy note of sadness. He hears the front door open, and he quickly slides the picture back into his wallet, as the voice of Blake Updegraff III comes quietly from behind him.
Blake:I can not for the life of me understand why you would live down here. It’s hotter than the blazes nine months of the year.
Waylon:That’s how some of us weirdos like it.
Waylon spins around, and steps down off of the railing. He finds himself surprised to see Blake in just a button down shirt and black pants. The older gentleman rolls up his sleeves, and leans against the railing. He surveys the land with a slight smile on his lips.
Blake:I will give you this… it is quite beautiful to look at sometimes.
Waylon:Now you’re startin’ to get it. Sure it’s got racists, homophobes, bigots of all kinds. Sure southern states are usually dead ass last as far as schools go, and we got more churches than we do people… but hell if it ain’t pretty.
Cash lets out a sardonic chuckle, before pulling a cigarette from behind his ear, and setting the filter between his lips. The unlit cigarette bobs in his mouth as he speaks.
Waylon:Y’know… I used to be proud of comin’ from the south. I used to think the stereotypes were bullshit, and that there were more people like me here than everyone thought. Of course I look at WCF and all I see are tools like Young and Bates and it makes me wonder.
Blake:You’ll have your hands on the likes of them soon enough. Keep your eyes focused on the closest goal, Mr. Cash. There is no crop to harvest if you do not first sew the seeds.
Waylon:Well shit, anything sounds inspirational when you say it in that fake ass British accent you got.
Blake:Again, this is not a fake British accent, it is a real Massachusetts accent, and that is beside the point. Make as many jokes as you wish, but if you are not focused on Billy and Vic Venable, they will stop your momentum cold before you can even get to WAR.
Waylon leans on the railing, staring off at the horizon line. He finally gets around to lighting his cigarette, and inhales deeply. The smoke drifts from between his lips as he speaks.
Waylon:You think I even got a chance?
Blake takes a moment to look over at Waylon, catching his eye so Waylon knows he’s serious.
Blake:I have always believed you can do anything you set your mind to. The trouble was always getting you to set your mind to something other than growing cannabis. The look in your eye when you talk about destroying the stables tells me you truly want it, and I have always said Christ pity the man standing between Waylon Cash and something he truly wants. That is not to say it will not be difficult, but I know you. You are capable to doing everything it takes and more. You just have to demand it of yourself.
Waylon smiles, taking another drag from his smoke. He exhales the grey plume into the air, and savors the silence.
Waylon:Scott thinks I’m gonna get myself killed.
Blake:And he may be correct. However, it does not matter what Mr. Savage or I think. What matters is what Waylon Cash thinks.
Blake pats Waylon on the shoulder, and heads back into the air conditioned house. Waylon steps down off the porch, and wanders out into the yard, amongst his makeshift weightlifting equipment. He turns and looks at the house, smiling at first as he marvels at the gift given to him by his oldest friend. Slowly the smile fades, as his mind flashes him back to a memory. His old trailer, the home his father lived and died in, engulfed in flames. The orange destruction erupting from the windows, turning everything black… even the sky. Decades of memories suddenly gone, replaced by a pile of carbon and charred steel. Waylon shakes his head, chasing the image from his mind. He starts to set himself on one of the weight benches, but stops when he hears Blake shouting at him from inside.
Blake:Good lord! It’s a spider demon!
Waylon laughs loudly, and jogs into the house, knowing immediately what Blake has seen. Sure enough, he walks into the kitchen to see Blake brandishing a baseball bat at a scorpion in the middle of the floor. Waylon pulls the bat out of his hand and sets it on the counter, before grabbing a thick towel. He tosses it over the creature, and gently picks it up. Cash walks it out the door, and tosses it into the field. When he returns, Blake gives him a look that is equal parts astonishment, disgust, and fear.
Blake:What in the world?!
Waylon:Just a little scorpion. We get those from time to time.
Blake can only shake his head and mumble to himself.
Blake:This is hell. Scott has brought me to hell, and he is not coming back for me.
Waylon shakes his head with a smile, and walks into his room, shutting the heavy oak door behind him. He flops back on his bed, looking at the vastness of his space, wishing desperately that it meant anything to him. As it is, the size of the room only serves to strengthen the feelings of loneliness. Suddenly, the memories of Roxxanne begin to flood into his brain. He immediately sits cross legged on his bed, and closes his eyes, pushing her from his mind. He hums, quietly meditating her memory away.
___ _ _ _ _ ___ _ _ _ _____
Waylon rushes as he puts his long, dirty blonde hair in a ponytail. He clumsily throws a faded Tennessee Oilers hat on top of it, and starts making his way to the door. He lets out a frustrated grunt when he hears Blake’s voice behind him.
Blake:Mr. Cash! Wherever you plan on going will have to wait. Scott sent me a text message telling me I was to make sure you filmed your promo and got it up tonight before you did anything else. His words, not mine.
Waylon lets out an exaggerated sigh.
Waylon:I don’t see why I gotta do these things. I do my talkin’-
Blake:In the ring. He told me you would object, and gave strict instructions that I was not to relent.
Waylon:Come on, Blake. I got-
Blake’s tone is more stern now, stopping Waylon mid sentence.
Blake:Mr. Cash. I never dreamed I would have to force a thirty five year old man to do his job, but I will if I have to. I am here to be your friend, but I am also here to make sure you stay on the right track where your career is concerned. To do that, you must keep your profile up, and you mustn’t disrespect your opponent by refusing to even talk about them. Now I will ask one more time, please, handle your responsibilities as an adult, and film this promo.
Waylon is too stunned to speak. The last time Blake spoke to him this way he was nineteen years old, and had just been caught drinking on the night before a show. Not wanting to anger the man any more, he gives in.
Waylon:Alright, alright. Let’s get this done. You know how to work a camera?
Blake:Please, Mr. Cash. I am not quite as old as you seem to think.
Blake walks over to the coffee table, and picks up the small, handheld camera. He stares at it in bewilderment for a moment.
Blake:Where do you put the tape?
Waylon:Jesus fuckin’ Christ.
Waylon takes the camera, and sets it up, before handing it back to the man.
Waylon:Just hit that button.
Blake:Now that I am capable of.
The camera comes on, and Waylon stands in the dimly lit room. His long hair hangs in front of his face, as an unlit cigarette dangles from his mouth. His bloodshot eyes peer up at the camera. A look of obvious disdain. He remains silent for a few minutes, and is incredibly quiet when he starts talking.
Waylon:People think I don’t hear things. I don’t know why they think I can’t hear, but I can. I hear everyone sayin’ I’m crazy. Sayin’ my trip to rehab musta ended with a lobotomy. I get it. I ain’t stupid. I know what I’m doin’ sounds bugnuts. I’d probably laugh at any other dude that said the things I said. What makes me think I can take out the stables then? Let’s just say I ain’t always the smartest bulb in the drawer. Naw, Waylon Cash wasn’t blessed with a lotta brains, but that’s playin’ in my favor. I’m too stupid to know how risky this is… but I might just be able to pull it off ‘cause of that.
Waylon chuckles at himself, before lighting the cigarette in his mouth. He takes a drag and exhales, staring at the floor. He spends an extra moment searching for his words.
Waylon:I ain’t the first person that ever had this idea. Shit, I’m sure lots of people have thought about goin’ after the stables. The difference is that other men think about it, and then find somethin’ safer to do. Not me. I’m gonna put my whole fuckin’ heart into it. I know the odds are slim, but I’m dumb enough to believe I can do it. I’m also smart enough to know that if I got any chance of makin’ it happen, I gotta throw everything I got into it. I gotta be willin’ to die in that ring… and I promise… I am. So talk about me all you want. I’ll just keep listenin’, and movin’ forward. That’s what Waylon Cash does.
Cash takes another drag, letting the smoke drift slowly from between his lips. He lifts his head, and looks into the lens.
Waylon:Far as this week goes… I ain’t even sure where the hell to start. Lemme talk about Vic for a minute. Here’s what’s got me scared about Vic, he’s almost as dumb as me. He’s too dumb to realize that he can’t beat Waylon Cash. Your brother thought he could beat me too. I took his title from him. You come at me with that weak shit, I’ll take your career. You ain’t gettin’ the same Waylon your brother got. I’m harder, angrier, and more willin’ to destroy a mother fucker than I ever been in my life. I’m ready to roll through whoever they put in front of me, and you just happen to be one of those unlucky sumbitches.
Waylon holds the cigarette in his hands, allowing strands of smoke to curl upward and dance momentarily, before disappearing. He flicks the ashes onto the floor, and slips the filter between his lips again.
Waylon:And Vic, you can save your talk about broken systems and redemption stories. The only thing I wanna break is your damn face, and the only redemption I need is gonna come when I win WAR this month. You flap your gums a lot, but all I wanna hear you say this week is “sorry for thinkin’ I could challenge you, Mr. Cash. I ain’t even gonna show up.” That’s the only smart thing you could say. If you do the stupid thing I know you’re gonna do ‘cause you’re a Venable, it’s just gonna end in you shittin’ out your own teeth in a few days.
Cash crouches down and snuffs out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray. He stands back up, and gives the camera another silent glare. Behind it he sees the faces of all his former foes, and all those yet to come. In the face of this, he can only smile.
Waylon:See, I realized somethin’ about you, Vic. I realized why you do what you do. You didn’t join that gang back in the day because you give a shit. You can pretend you’re socially conscious all you want. Truth is, you’re a joiner. A desperate little parasite who’s gotta find some group to belong to all the god damn time. You’re not interestin’ enough to have an identity of your own, so you latch onto whatever you can. It don’t matter if it’s some goofy anarchist gang, joinin’ WCF, or bein’ a part of whatever shitty stable you join in the future. You base who you are on the group you can join, and that kinda weak minded attitude makes me sad. Sad that I’m gonna have to beat the stupid outta you, and teach you how to have some damn self respect.
The camera follows Waylon through the dark room, as he has a seat on the arm of his new couch. He crosses his arms in front of him, and stares at the ground for a minute, as if he’ll find the rods he’s looking for down there. When he doesn’t, his hateful eyes shift back up to the lense.
Waylon:You don’t gotta be a joiner Vic. I mean, maybe you do, maybe you suck, but the people need to get the message that they don’t gotta be like you. Joiners are usually people who ain’t got enough substance to be a real person. They didn’t bother to turn themselves into anything when they were growin’ up, so they wander around, searchin’ for some kinda identity… well you ain’t gonna find it here. All you’re gonna find when you step into the ring with me is a world of blood and pain. I can see it now, brother. You’re gonna walk to the ring with that cocky fuckin’ smirk on your face, and about thirty seconds later you’re gonna be wonderin’ who the hell is screamin’ so loud… it’s gonna be you. Those sounds are gonna be your own voice explodin’ outta your throat without even askin’ you. You’ll be in too much pain to worry about that though.
Cash cracks his neck back and forth, before dropping down into the couch. His legs rest on one arm, and his head rests on the other. He doesn’t even look at the camera. Instead he stares at the ceiling, as if baring his soul to a therapist.
Waylon:You wanna know the truth? The system ain’t broken. It did exactly what it was supposed to do. It took stupid, angry kid like you, and sold him on all this anarchy bullshit. They convinced you you were bein’ a rebel by buyin’ their rebellious clothes and listenin’ to their rebellious music. They packaged and sold you that shit, and you bought it up like it was bottled water in Vermont. Now that you’re older, they’re sellin’ you somethin’ different. they’re sellin’ you this culture of redemption. They’re makin’ you think they can redeem you the same way they turned you into a snivelling little punk. You get dressed all nice, and you walk down to the ring, sandwiched between commercials for pick up trucks, and energy drinks. You ain’t got any convictions or morals. You’re just bein’ sold lifestyle after lifestyle, and tryin’ to make yourself better somehow. Let me tell you, my ring ain’t the place for self improvement. My ring is where men go to destroy themselves. You keep that in mind when you’re decidin’ whether or not to hop on that plane this week.
Waylon gives the camera an evil smile, before removing a second cigarette from behind his ear. Instead of putting this one between his lips, he holds it up in front of the lens so the camera can get a good shot of it.
Waylon: See this, Vic? You’re a lot like this cigarette. You seem stable, well put together, looked over by a qualified inspector. You look like you’ll stand up to quite a lot… here’s your problem…
Waylon’s other hand lifts a cheap plastic lighter, and after a couple tries, manages to bring flame to the top.
Waylon:Waylon Cash is like a fuckin’ flame. I don’t always look so impressive… but I destroy everything I touch…
Waylon puts the cigarette in his mouth, and turns the end a glowing orange, taking a few deep drags. He sets the lighter down, and holds the cigarette up in front of the camera again.
Waylon:You see this long column of ash… it ain’t nobody’s fault, but that’s what happens.
He flicks the ashes into his palm, and blows them away into the darkness.
Waylon:I’m sorry Vic. You can be as well put together as any man in history. Waylon Cash is still gonna burn your ass. So many men have tried to do what you’re gonna try to do, and most of them end up just like that, floatin’ in the wind, almost like they disappeared from the world entirely. Ask Steve Orbit. Ask your own brother. Shit, go back in time and ask Bo fuckin’ Stoned! They’ll all tell you the same thing. After they fought Waylon Cash, they weren’t the same. Somethin’ got took from them, just like I’m gonna take somethin’ from you on Sunday. The fire’s comin’ for you, and ain’t no way you’re gonna be the one to put it out.
Cash takes another drag off the cigarette, and blows the smoke up into the air. His look of anger is replaced by a grin and a shake of his head.
Waylon:Then we got Billy… where the fuck do I even start? A lot of people would treat you like a joke, Billy. Not me. Shit, you’re a winner! How am I gonna write off somebody that’s got the kinda record you do?! I can’t do it. You might be a fat, stupid, stereotype, but apparently you’re one hell of a fighter. That don’t surprise me. Shit, look at all the fat guys that kicked ass before. Wrestlin’s full of ‘em. I ain’t gonna be the guy that says you can’t be the next King Kong Bundy, and then gets squashed. You might surprise the shit outta everyone.
Waylon contemplates his cigarette for moment, shaping the ashes a bit before he takes his next drag.
Waylon:Then again… I can’t really feel too sorry for you. People treat you like a joke because you treat yourself like a joke. You make stupid speeches about free food, make shitty jokes that my uncle wouldn’t even find funny, and just generally act like a dipshit who’s thrown away any chance at self respect. Vader never woulda acted like that. Bundy never woulda acted like that. You know who does that shit? The kinda people who don’t think they’ll ever make it outta the mid card. You talk a big game, but deep down I know you hate yourself. You don’t gotta though! You don’t gotta feel that way or act like a damn clown for people to notice you! I’m gonna save you Billy. I’m gonna fix you.
Waylon snuffs out the cigarette, and leans back on the couch. He puts his feet up on the coffee table, and his hands behind his head, reveling in his new found luxury.
Waylon:You wanna know how I’m gonna fix you? I’ll tell ya. First I’m gonna start by knockin’ your teeth out, so all you can eat is applesauce and soup. That oughtta drop a few pounds offa you. Then I’m gonna schedule you some god damn therapy sessions. Even if you don’t need ‘em now, you’re gonna after the ass whoopin’ I lay on you gives you a serious case of PTSD. I don’t give a shit how fat you are, I really don’t. I’m just sick of jokes like you cloggin’ up the roster. I’m tired of seein’ worthless punchlines where future main eventers should be, so I’m fixin’ to give you one last warnin’. You change your attitude and start takin’ yourself seriously, or I’ll fuckin’ kill you this Sunday. Shit, I might just kill your ass anyway. To be honest, I just plain don’t like your face.
Cash sets his feet on the floor and leans forward, resting his elbow on his knees. He looks into the lens for a few moments more, before shaking his head and chuckling.
Waylon:WCF never needed me more. I’m gonna shock this cesspool with some good ol’ chlorine, and wash out some of the trash. It’s time WCF stopped bein’ the laughin’ stock of the world. It’s time we injected some respect back into this bitch. That’s what Waylon Cash is here for. Whether it’s the stables, or some trash like my opponents this week, I’m here to clean up, and that’s exactly what I plan to do. It don’t matter if it’s two other guys, or forty, Waylon Cash is gonna dominate, and ain’t shit anyone can do about it. You can bet on that y’all. See you Sunday.
Blake hits the button again, shutting the camera off.
Waylon:There, we good?
Blake:That should be sufficient… we are not, however, good. I must ask where you plan on going.
Waylon gives him an incredulous glare, but backs off before a word of argument is spoken.
Waylon:Look, I ain’t goin’ out to score coke, alright? You can piss test me tomorrow if you want, but I ain’t gonna be a prisoner in my own fuck-
Blake holds up a hand, stopping Waylon mid speech.
Blake:That was all I required. Have a good night.
Waylon looks at him like he doesn’t believe him at first, but quickly turns and leaves the house. The cool night air washes over his skin as he makes his way to the car. He climbs in, and starts the engine with a loud roar. He speeds off down his long driveway, the wind whipping his hair behind him. He breathes deep, taking in the scent of freedom as he makes his way through the winding, Georgia back country. He holds his hand out in the wind, letting it move up and down freely. In the darkness of the new moon, his headlights are the only think to cut through, guiding him as he goes farther away from the city. Tall evergreens grow closer at a rapid pace, and disappear into the darkness in rapid succession. After a while, he slows his pace, pulling into a section full of lifeless buildings that look as if they haven’t had people in them since before Waylon was born.
Despite the buildings, the dirt streets still crunch beneath Waylon’s tires. He slows to a stop in front of the one building with any lights on. He stands beside his car, looking at the dilapidated brick building with the three lit windows, he has a moment of contemplation, followed by him stepping forward and knocking on the rusted metal door. After a few moments, the door creaks open, allowing the scents of incense and perfume to waft out into the night air. He steps into the former apartment building, into an empty lobby. The woman who opened the door for him remains in the shadows, but makes a few noises, causing a line of scantily clad young women to emerge from different hallways.
Waylon scans the women, until he spots one with long black hair, and deep emerald eyes. He doesn’t say a word. He merely points, and she leads him to an empty room. The room smells heavily of perfumed oils, probably used to cover the stench of sex and cigar smoke. The young woman lays back on the bed, giving Waylon a hungry stare she had perfected with years of practice. He doesn’t buy it, but that’s not what he’s here for.
Waylon:What’s your name sweetheart?
Hooker:Samantha.
Waylon:Naw, not tonight. Tonight your name’s Roxxanne.