Post by David Sanchez on Jan 6, 2017 12:13:10 GMT -5
VIII: L o s t ?
I just got lost
Every river that I've tried to cross
And every door I ever tried was locked
Oh, and I'm just waiting 'till the shine wears off.
You might be a big fish
In a little pond
Doesn't mean you've won
'Cause along may come
A bigger one
And you'll be lost
Every river that you tried to cross
Every gun you ever held went off
Oh, and I'm just waiting 'till the firing starts
Oh, and I'm just waiting 'till the shine wears off
Jack of Ashes
It suffered, watching the mindless things in their roiling riotous living. Resentment grew, turned into anger, and finally the anger turned into rage towards the stupid, pointless things and their endless, inane, insulting existence. Without pause to think what it was doing, it rose up and rushed at one of the lizards that had come to be; wanting somehow to crush it. Then, a wonderful thing happened. It was inside the lizard; seeing what the lizard saw, feeling what it felt. For a long while it forgot rage altogether.
Monday, 2nd January, 2017, 14:30
Hope Valley Crematorium, Chicago.
“How the fuck can they be gone? It’s just two jars of ash. Are you absolutely sure of this?”
David was enraged as he screamed across the service counter, positively unable to believe what he was hearing. How could they be gone? As far as he was aware, urns weren’t exactly a sought after item in the world of petty theft. Yet, there he was; this little man with horned spectacles and a frightened disposition. Telling the Mayor that his wife and son’s ashes had went missing. How does one lose an urn? Let alone two urns. Surely the very job description of this man would dictate that he was responsible for ensuring that no remains were removed from the crematorium.
So how was it that Samantha and Kayden could have been missing? Nothing made sense. The place had pretty solid security; from cameras to a trifecta of armed guards who walked the perimeter of the premises in shifts to ward off troublemakers and graverobbers. The Crematorium was split into two areas: indoor and outdoor. The latter being the less costly option. David had paid the surplus and went one extra, housing the remains of his beloved wife and child in a room usually saved for celebrities who have passed and opted for cremation instead of a burial.
The receptionist was trembling, poor kid. He was new to the job last week and here he was being verbally abused by the city’s mayor for something that he was pretty sure was not his fault. He gulped heavily and struggled to keep eye contact, even as David bent his knees so that he was level with this civil servant who sat at his reception desk and assumed the role of submissive scapegoat. Somehow, David already knew that this man was not to blame; he had a good idea who was though and this made it increasingly frustrating. The Jackal after-all could be in the body of anybody, even this spastic with the flop sweat and the tacky suit.
“Sir, if you’d just calm down for a minute I’d be happy to have security go through the footage again. Take a seat in the waiting area, I’ll have security comb through the tapes again and see if we can’t figure out what’s happened.”
A simple solution offered to a simple problem is never so simply put.
“Oh certainly. No problem, before I do that though, could you perhaps tell me where they buried your grandparents so I can go fetch pappy’s femur bone and give you some perspective?”
A pause befalls the situation in which the receptionist is able to grasp that this figure was being sarcastic. Even still, it was a little hurtful. He never even knew his grandfather but he was fairly certain that being presented with his skeletal leg would cause him a great deal of discomfort. David taps his Italian leather loafer on the spot, the heel clicking against the hardwood floor and making his growing impatience audible as well as visible.
“The waiting area is just down the hall and to the left. I’ve already buzzed the silent alarm for in-house security. They should be here momentarily.”
David is rather stunned that this man has managed to brush his forked tongue aside with such ease, maybe, all this shit was finally starting to get to him; he was losing his touch. If he could no longer drive a man to taking his own life by the mere flick of his tongue any longer then what was the point in carrying on? He steps away from the desk, knowing that if he is to find out exactly who has desecrated his wife and son’s remains then he must obey this perplexing little man.
“Very well then.”
Straightening his tie, the Mayor walks down the hall only a few steps before two large gentlemen in black become visible, having just entered the shot through an office door on the same corridor. They looked unofficial at first; mall security types. It was only when the light reflected on one of their police badges that David felt a little better. At least they had actual cops looking into this thing - it was a comfort if nothing else.
“Woah! - Gene, that’s the guy!”
The larger of the two oafs rubs his eyes in disbelief.
“Sir! You have the right to remain…”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
David cuts the police detective off mid-sentence, with such grace and poise that he doesn’t notice the other man has already pounced. With a spear it was over, Sanchez was grounded in cuffs and this cop in casual clothes was calling it in as his partner applies a hammerlock that looked a little less than police issue.
“…You have the right to an attorney…”
He rattled through the rest of the Mayor’s Miranda Rights and pressed the black button on his big ridiculous walkie-talkie, proceeding to have an entire conversation in police jargon before the other man is able to snap the cuffs shut and drag Sanchez up to his feet. As pissed off as David looks in this moment, it wouldn’t have compared to the six-scale meltdown he would go through were he to see how scuffed his suit was in this moment.
“We’re bringing him in now.”
Thud! The giant lout smashes David’s crown with a single shot from the billy-club.
“Jesus, calm the fuck down Terry.”
“Suck a dick Gene, I’ve been dying to do that since this cunt took office.”
Gene approaches his partner and aids him in lifting the deadweight of David Sanchez up to a vertical base. The two men now proceed to link arms with him, one on either side and drag him back down the hall from which he had came originally. Away from the answers, away from the ashes, away from…
Everything.
L O S T ?
“Hello, Bandit.”
A red light flashes in upon a black background. Proper blood on black velvet shit. The air is heavy here - wherever this is?
“Hello?”
My voice is everywhere, the sounds vibrate the colours around me. My words were painting the scene.
“You need to wake up, David. You don’t belong here.”
Samantha, my love.
“You should listen to the little lady David, you most certainly don’t belong here. Not yet anyway.”
I could hear Jack’s voice louder than Samantha’s, but as usual I couldn’t see him. Not in any form, he remained a ghost to me.
“Jack. Be careful with them.”
There was no air now, no colour - only an empty grey space, and the Jackal’s haunting voice for company.
“David - you continue to waste my time playing games.”
His anger turned the nothingness into blood. It wasn’t really there, but I could feel it; taste it even. It was enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
“It’s time time to cut him down David, he’s not expecting you.”
The voice was softening, the air returning to this fractured state of consciousness I seemed to be trapped in.
“Joseph?”
He laughed, and I felt the echo moving time itself.
“No. The other one... Him.”
Nothing made sense now, what did he have to do with anything?
“Why? He’s not who you want.”
I could feel my lungs; weighted breath and then my smokers cough.
Thump..
Thump..
My heartbeat was deafening.
Thump..
Thump..
The light was blinding.
Thump..
Thump..
“Reduce his world David… Reduce it all to ash.”
Thump..
Thump..
It hurts so fucking much.
Thump…
Thump…
Thump…
BANG!
L O S T ?
Dead to Rights.
I'm a meth lab first rehab
Take it all off
And step inside the running cab
There's a love that knows the way
I'm the rainbow in your jail cell
All the memories of
Everything you've ever smelled
Not alone, I'll be there
Tell me when you want to go
Monday, 2nd January, 2017, 17:10
Cook County Department of Corrections, Chicago.
Reality came crashing back like an earthquake.
“Wha..."
David was brought back into consciousness by the sound of a metal cell door being slammed closed. He parts his eyelids, uneasy and unsteady; a dull throbbing pain in his temples after being knocked out. Looking down he was sure of two things: he was in jail, and he had a concussion.
“David. Welcome back to the land of the living.”
Cannibal Jones spoke with a convicted sympathy towards his client. The lawyer unclipping his briefcase as he cosies up next to David on the jailhouse cot. He had been in the employ of Sanchez since he had taken office; a charismatic young man with dark hair and sunken facial features which would suggest a paper delivery route much more difficult than his years would account for. Stirring, David fights off the urge to vomit - the usual joys which walked hand in hand with said concussion.
“What the hell is going on Jones?”
Starry-eyed and nauseous, Sanchez sits up in his bed; soaking in the sights and smells of Cook County Correctional - a prison which ironically he had just opted to endorse upgrading as of the policeman’s ball and a particularly inebriated conversation with this establishment’s warden.
“Actually, I was hoping you could tell me that.”
Still confused, his last memory was that of him being thrown into the back of a riot van and even that was seen through glazed eyes. Everything was blurry after the baton to the skull and it left a dull, throbbing pain in the middle of his head that echoed even now as his highly paid attorney gave him a perplexed look.
“Okay, what the hell are you talking about?”
Unsure if his employer was being serious; the lawyer begins to break recent events down for the Mayor.
“I know you miss them Dave, but taking their remains is just fucked up. Sam’s mother is thinking of pressing charges. I don’t get it - keeping them in the crematorium was your idea in the first place…”
Offended, Sanchez sighs and rubs his knuckles into his eyes before interrupting Jones.
“Woah... What? That wasn’t me. What the fuck are you talking about? I was in the middle of trying to find out who it was when I was savagely assaulted by a rent-a-cop.”
Still not really certain if Sanchez was winding him up, the man referred to by David as Cannibal Jones tidies some files in front of him, skimming through his portfolio before withdrawing a black and white document from his binder. Cannibal wasn’t his real given name; this was only a cute moniker given by defence attorneys who had stood across the courtroom from him during his days working for the prosecution in the public sector. They coined this particular namesake because of the way he seemed to feed on other men’s subtle nuances; finding unorthodox and scathing ways to get the win by any means necessary, not unlike his new employer.
“... They’ve got you dead to rights Dave. The fingerprints match up and I’ve just been shown the CCTV footage. It’s you boss, - as clear as day. Look; a buddy of mine sent the file to my phone, don’t worry the cameras are off. Take a look for yourself.”
Jones hands him the silver Samsung and there he is, in handheld form; breaking and entering with the best of them. True as his legal aid had spoken. As the video plays he watches himself from a birdseye view; not unlike some strange take on an out-of-body experience. He first watches as he breaks the lock on the front entrance to the crematorium with a screwdriver, the alarm sounding immediately. Unphased, he enters the building and disappears from sight for a few moments - a vacant look up at the security camera, into his own eyes. For two, perhaps even three minutes the scene is quiet; no comings and certainly no goings. Until, as the sirens approach from North Avenue, David steps back out of the building; two urns, one in either hand now concealed in his black Parka jacket before he flees into the surrounding woodland.
“... Jack, you crafty bastard.”
Another look of confusion upon the lawyer’s face. He clicks his pen and begins to scribble away notes on the blank charge sheet.
“Jack, who’s that? Is this a setup Dave? Is somebody framing you?”
Letting out an exasperated sigh David looks hurt by the footage. He hands the phone back to his attorney and brings his mitts to his face, wiping the sweaty palms of his hands down his cheeks as a sign of exhaustion. He had half-expected something like this; but to see it in front of him in living colour was something else entirely.
“It’s not that simple Jones, th-…”
The cell door opens now and a police officer enters the room, whispering to Jones so that David can’t quite make the words out beneath the general din of the holding cells. For a few moments the two share a conversation that makes the Mayor increasingly uneasy. Finally, after what passes like a lifetime the officer leaves back through the barred door of the cell.
“... It never is when it comes to you David, is it?”
The suspense was too much for him. The police officer wasn’t even out of earshot and already David enquires.
“Well, what’s the verdict? Am I shipping out to Folsom? Because I really can’t see myself in one of those orange jumpsuits picking up trash on the side of the freeway.”
Jones smiles. He had good news to give his client finally. With a buckle of his briefcase the paperwork is hidden away and he turns back to Sanchez, speaking in a puzzled tone laced with empathy.
“You’re free to go, for now. That’s purely based on who you are though and what you’ve done for the warden. He’s agreed to keep this under wraps since technically you are the deceased’s next of kin. No charges will be pressed provided you never set foot in the crematorium again. No exceptions, no excuses, no political bullshit. This is a good deal boss. You’d be stupid not to take it.”
Straightening the creases in his Prada suit that was now a mess after sleeping rough in the minuscule holding cell that was smaller even than the majority of his cupboards at home. A slight smile breaks his expressionless mould for but a moment as he thanks his attorney.
“Thanks again Jones, you’re a lifesaver. Is that your personal, or professional opinion though? Just call it the curiosity of a concerned citizen.”
Sanchez rises to his feet now, in time with his legal aid; the cell door remaining open now to symbolize that he is free to leave at any time.
“I’m on the payroll - Dave. Everything I say is professional opinion, you pay me for that. Personally though, from one friend to another. Sort your life out mate, people are starting to worry about you, and it’s going to start reflecting in the polls sooner or later. That’s not a threat, I’m just looking out for number one. Don’t want to have to go back to working in that depressing public defender’s office for cents on the dollar.”
With a parting smile, he leaves David with a handshake; and just like that he vanishes down the corridor, leaving the Mayor to dwell on what he has just learned. His world was crumbling around him and there was only one thing to hold accountable, but how does one go about ensuring an invisible entity receives his just desserts? Short of hiring an exorcist - he was running low on ideas. He shouts after his lawyer, thanking him as the scene fades with Sanchez free to leave Cook County Correctional.
“Thanks again Jones, tell Arabella I’m asking for her. Hopefully I'll see you both soon.”
Not even turning, Cannibal replies - his mocking words the last noise before black engulfs the screen.
“I will, hopefully not that soon though, eh?.”
#DrunkBookerBooksDrunk
So, I wake up on Monday morning and take a quick look at the match list for next week. For a few minutes I have to make sure I’m actually awake and that this isn’t just some horrible dream, but time prevails and this does indeed prove to be the way Seth wants it - well he gets it! David Sanchez versus Captain Pantheon… with some non-entity as the special guest referee.
… What the frostbitten fuck is this shit!?
I’m fighting fucking Gravedigger at Thirteen next week and Seth still sees fit to put me in this randomly generated match that nobody cares about? Do you see that old dick I’m up against in Minnesota on this card? Do you fuck. He, of course has the night off to prepare for XIII whilst I’m left holding hands with some retard who can’t open an envelope, let alone officiate a match and a chessboard looking bellend in a gimpsuit. Thanks a million Lerch, as always I appreciate your constant, unyielding efforts to keep a good man down.
So here we are; January 5th. Five days into a new year and my first blog post of two-thousand and seventeen. This really is a remarkable milestone for me as it marks my first public address since winning Final Destination at One and successfully cementing my place as the next big thing in this company. You see, I’m not Logan - There’s no second Mexico incident coming to a screen near you in the foreseeable future, I’m happy to report. My moment will be much more defining. Much more… me.
My-oh-my! What a celebration it’s been in the Pantheon camp. Since One it’s all been puppies, sunshine and rainbows for us. Fuck, I guess you could even say since Helloween if you look beyond the few minor flaws. World title, Trios titles, Final Destination, Jared’s wedding, Bates getting fired. The good news just keeps on pouring through the front door. At this rate the headline on the eleven o’clock news tonight is going to be something about Jay Omega and Alex Richards being caught in a passionate act of sodomy in a Macy’s changing room whilst Jeff Purse arranges the odd socks according to thread count and masturbates furiously.
Bow before us, peasants. Me more so, but the others all the same. Pantheon has done exactly what we set out to do when we came back to this cesspool. Yet, still this is only the beginning; what comes next is the real masterpiece - a Kansas City Shuffle for the ages. When everybody goes left, we go right through the woodwork like termites and tear it apart before anyone notices.
It’s a beautiful thing; the element of surprise and it’s something which I’m able to manipulate now into a reign as WCF World Champion, when-so-ever I see fit. Now, a lot questions have came my way lately. - Most are idiotic and easily shrugged off but some have stuck in my craw. I will address these momentarily but first - a word from my sponsor.
“The Devil Wears Spandex” the New York Times best-selling autobiography of professional wrestler turned politician, David Sanchez is available now from all major bookstores.
5/5 AmazonBooks “A beautiful insight into the inner-workings of a true South-American success story.”
***** ReadAllAboutIt “A macabre and interesting spin on both the day-to-day running of an entire city and successful wrestling career.”
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Lol, sike - I sponsor myself FGTS.
Anyway, yeah - the questions. Will I cash in while Joey is still World Champion? Maybe. That’s all I’ve got I’m afraid. I wasn’t really even considering this but I guess it’s a possibility. Joey deserves to be where he is at the moment though; if that were to change however, then that would certainly be something I’d consider. For now though, I’m happy to report we’re all playing nicely in the Pantheon house.
What do I think of Steven Singh and his chances to topple the One Punch Man? Again, I think it’s more likely than Bates having retained at One in the first place - but, it’s not something I can see happening at Rise Up. Singh’s a talented competitor, but he’s not ready. He reminds me of where I was at last year, right around the time I became United States Champion. It’s a shame that division fizzled down into the Alpha because that belt would be perfect for him, or Ethan King - Why aren’t we making these two fight?
So… you’re writing him off? No. I never write anybody off until I’m absolutely sure they’ll fail, and that, I just can’t say about Thievin’ Steven yet. The next couple of weeks are the most important of his career and the decisions he makes will be responsible for every outcome after the fact. It’s no secret that I’m a Joey Flash supporter. Shit, I’d even go far enough to call him a friend. Singh’s got chops though; with the right voice in his ear...
He could pull off the upset…
Where does that leave David Sanchez though? Wherever I want it to leave me of course. I’m a patient man - and this is all a waiting game. I don’t care if I have to wait until December to cash my chance in; when I do there will be absolutely no doubt left as to my potential, my intentions and my motives. Whether Joey is King, or whether it’s Steven Singh, Thomas Bates or the ghost of Gemini Battle. I am still going to be on top of the Pyramid when it’s all said and done.
I’m a sure thing, you can pretty much bet your house on me having at least one title reign before the year is out. Probably get yourself some pretty good odds on that shit too if you’re quick. Stakes are sure to drop considerably after XIII when I make a Hall of Famer look like a shell of his former self and use him as a mere rung in the ladder to the Great Beyond.
Tomorrow’s World has already arrived ladies and gentlemen. My name is David and I’ll be your tour guide. Please keep your arms and legs inside of the vehicle at all times; this journey, is going to be bumpy. No need to check the rearview. There’s nothing left in the past but false promises, delusions of grandeur and guys like my opponent this week; Captain Glory-seek and his rubber suit of doom...
Obvious thoughts aside, (Why am I in this match? What’s the point in any of this? Who is Joe Smarts?) I think it’s pretty clear to everybody that a grown man playing dress-up whilst an autistic counts to three via twelve, is neither the hero the people want, or need. I have no Dark Knight Feeling when I look at this alleged caped crusader; just an overwhelming sense that vigilantism is rapidly becoming an epidemic.
I don’t really see any reason why we even need a hero anymore? In this story, the good guys ARE the bad guys. Everybody else has already assumed the position of submissive prey, patiently waiting to be consumed in the name of the greater good. Join your people Captain, I beg of you. Take off the make believe and the leotard, stop listening to Miyagi’s words of would-be wisdom and stick to your day job; carrying Steven Singh’s sports bag.
I blame Marvel and DC in equal parts for this abomination, along with what I can only assume to be a less than nurturing upbringing. Captain Pantheon, formerly Captain WCF. A leopard who switched from spots to stripes the very moment he realized he was fighting a losing battle. It was a cute concept in our absence though, I’ll grant you that. You would’ve gotten away with it too if it wasn’t for those pesky kids.
See - I’m not afraid to give credit where it’s due, and I make no exception, even when addressing the handicapped bottom feeders that seem to have popped up like polyps since our resurgence. Our beloved Captain deserves a tepid applause, at best. A champion of the common people, he served his purpose in keeping the seats filled in our absence, but now that we’re back… He still refuses to collect his severance package.
It’s a very unflattering quality; not knowing when you’ve outstayed your welcome. Some might even call what you do blissfully ignorant, but I prefer to think of it as it should be thought: disrespectful, childish pandering. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got a sense of humour. Broken English is always funny, broken English in a black and white morphsuit was comedy gold, but the thing I don’t find funny at all is the fact that this mockery of a man gets to carry gold in the company that signs my payslips.
That simply doesn’t make sense to me. We’ve got more talent on the roster now than ever before and we’ve got this fucking mess carrying one half of the tag titles around with a sense of entitlement. It’s like something out of the Twilight Zone, but then again when you look at how far this division has fallen lately, maybe that’s exactly where he should be? Leading the fight against midcard obscurity by teaming with a series of randoms in semi-successful teams that end up ultimately crippling both partner’s momentum beyond repair.
Living the fucking dream.
I’ve always been a glass half-empty kind of guy myself.
You know the difference between those of us actually in Pantheon, and those running around dressing up Venom on crack? It’s too vast for words. The gap in talent alone would cause an aneurysm upon its very revelation. It just so happens that until now, nobody has had to be the proverbial penis in Cap’s punchbowl. So, for that I’m #SorryNotSorry.
I hate having to be the one to beat up the slow kid, it’s like junior high all over again.
Also; if someone could let me know who Joe Smarts is, that would be terrific. I was feeling kind of special after Seth made me a referee last week. I didn’t know we were just struggling for staff in that department. Should’ve said something brah’ I know a guy, hmu:
0800-THI5-5L4M-15-8ALL5
Captain Darwin
I look at his profile once more on the screen of my Galaxy S7, I wasn't mistaken. This guy was actually real. Part of me had been hoping I'd just withdrawing, or that they mixed my meds with Wade's again for a cheap laugh, but no - this was actually happening. Captain Pantheon was a living, breathing thing just like you or I. Furthermore, on top of this insult to a brand that should be charging this man a franchising fee for using their very name - I was going to have to wrestle him.
The hotel room had gotten trashed last night. There was debris fucking everywhere man, I mean this looked like a methden after dark. I hadn't travelled a lot since getting elected, I hadn't needed to until lately, but with great power - comes great responsibility. Or something like that. Anyway, the room looked like something from Pearl Harbour so I'd done what any self-serving junkie would do: I shot another dose into my favorite vein, wrapped the shower curtain around my neck and scaled the fire escape. I remembered to stuff my video camera into the front of my pants of course, cause this shit is canon.
I like to think that to anyone looking on, I might have vaguely resembled a sharply dressed, Dominican Bruce Wayne. In reality though, I was just a drunk junkie in a shower curtain, fumbling his way to the roof of a three story chain motel in Philadelphia. This inner-city skag was powerful stuff though; I felt super enough at the time. Taking perch, I sat for a moment, my shapely buttocks on the very edge of the building's flat roof.
My cape. Yes, cape - flows in the cool wind of a Winter's night, and I stand tall, casting a triumphant silhouette in the skyline as I stand tall over what little of the surrounding area I can see from such a pitiful height, the wind now blowing the cheap plastic shower-curtain back so that it slaps me in the side of the face a few times before I finally settle it. I’m not going to lie, it was cold as fuck, I didn’t really think this one over, I didn’t need to.
My need to set the scene satisfied, I take a few paces forwards - placing the camera on top of an out-of-service extractor fan before hitting record and starting what I hoped would be a short, bitter and fairly straight forward shoot promo on Captain Pantheon to get to production in the morning. Lights, camera, try not to die!
“Faster than a slavering child, more useless than a chocolate kettle… Is it a window licker? Is it in pain? No! It’s Captaaaaaaiiiinnnnn Paaaannnnntheeeeon!!!”
I clock a pretty fucking heroic looking pose and flex for the camera. Losing interest in this whole thing immediately however, I rip the cape from my neck, take a seat with my legs folded and speak with less interest than a child dragged to a museum exhibit.
"Am I the only one who thinks that when a masked wrestler from Japan shows up, their story should be that their mother was pregnant during the Hiroshima bombings and the baby was born all fucking funky looking and shit, blamed America and went out for revenge by playing a scourge in one of it's favourite past-times? That is exactly what I wish you were Cap, and it makes me very sad that this just isn't the case.
What you are instead is a weak-willed, semi-skilled sponge who's skated by with ease while the A-team takes a vacation. You are a substitute player at best; second circle corps. Now go take a seat on the shelf for a while with the rest of the hacks who can't keep pace with the real ticket-sellers. At least you’ll get a good parking space, just remember your little blue window decal with the wheelchair on it.
I thought it was cute at first, when I got back - your whole Special Needs Superhero thing.
In truth I guess it just reminded me of that whole Connor the Crusher thing in that place we don't address. Sorry, I'll be the one to say it, but sick kids and professional wrestling don't mix anymore. I'm not touching your weird looking daughter, I don't care if she's dying, I care if it's contagious, and where the closest exit is located. Leave that shit to the midcard and the kind-hearted souls slumming it in the independents.
I hear Dustin Beaver is doing children’s party appearances for fifty-five dollars per venue. I reckon you could make seventy if you marketed yourself right. If that fails you could always pick up that dropped ball and work a never-ending program with the delightful Updegraff brothers over in UCI; I also hear there’s good vending machine money in that booking, have at it man - you see, there’s always options for a struggling wrestler in need of a warm meal.
"
I take a seat on the very lip of the motel’s roof, my legs dangling over the building so that they sit level with an awning embroidered with the logo and slogan of the Sleepeeze chain of pop-up rooms. The steam bellows out of air conditioning and heating vents at varied intervals across the roof, This proves to cast a contrast to the night sky which is sparsely scattered with twinkling, shimmering stars.
“You see Captain, I can think of no more fitting end to your lacklustre career than losing this match to me and fading away into obscurity, never to be seen or heard from again.. Don’t worry though, I’ll keep that championship warm for you; it’d probably be a more conventional way to keep an eye on Thievin’ Steven after-all. I’ve not really got the heart for vigorous scouting anymore, I’m sorry to report.
That’s not to say I’m not going to feel bad about taking you out, I’ve got a conscience at the end of the day and it’s not like you’ve been a real thorn in anyone’s side. When I really think about it, I guess you’ve been more of a mild irritation - like thrush, or a leaky faucet that drips through the night in a quiet house, forcing it’s occupant to urinate more so than they would were it fixed. So there’s no need to panic, I’m not going scramble your egg like I did to Gemini, a simple kick to the dome should suffice in your case."
I straighten up my seated position and wolf whistle, my vantage point over the streets of Philadelphia allowing me a cheap laugh as passers by below look around aimlessly for this sound’s point of origin, feeling like an invisible, watchful eye when they can’t see me.
“Cap’ there’s not a lot of shit in this industry I can’t relate to after fourteen years on the road but a grown man in a latex suit that carries out his life as an ode to a group of people better than he’ll ever be is nothing short of mind-boggling. I’m not saying stop what you’re doing and go all Universal Soldier - just maybe aim a little lower. The world needs curtain-jerkers, and a lowly face to put over young heels is a highly desirably commodity in the indy circuit.
You know, I’m not a stranger to your work. I’ve watched a lot of your matches and interviews - as many of them as I could sit through without sleeping or self-harming anyway. The comedy isn’t lost on me entirely, it’s just that I don’t value it as highly as the people around me. You’re a funny guy - who really gives a fuck? How in any plane of existence does that qualify you to lace up some boots and carry gold in a sport that I’ve given the better part of my life to?"
A woman has her purse snatched on the streets below where my feet hang. For the briefest moment, I consider shouting out, even giving chase to the mugger. My body doesn’t move though, this ice-box in my chest feeling no inclination to fight the forces of evil.
“I’ve grown tired of sharing the spotlight with those who simply won’t get out of the way, and it’s this category that I’m afraid you’ve fallen into. Too good to terminate, too bad to really do anything with. It’s unfortunate, but shit… we got a lot of laughs out of Ultimate Destroyer over the years. Maybe that’s your calling too? Three matches up the card being butchered by some dick on the up and up.
I don’t really understand the old man with the beard either, I mean don’t get me wrong; if I was you I’d be taking every bit of help offered to me too but is this guy even helping? I find him to be annoying - a shadow that follows you around muttering recycled quotes and passing them off as wisdom. If you really need that in your life then why not hook up with Gravedigger after I’m done with him next week? I’m sure that crafty old cunt has a thing or two to teach.
I’m sorry Captain, in advance for everything I’m about to do to you. There’s no room for heroes anymore though I’m afraid. So the next time you find yourself standing atop a building, staring like a hero into the horizon…"
I stand, one hand flexed firmly on my hip, the other extended. Tonight Matthew, I’m fuccin’ Batman.
“Jump.”