Post by FPV on Jan 27, 2017 18:50:42 GMT -5
FPV PROMO #14 - Run The Jewels
PART ONE: DOWN
My, my, y'all
I coulda died, y'all
A couple times I took my eyes off the prize, y'all
I know a few people pray for my demise, y'all
But like cream, I had to rise, I had to rise, y'all
I coulda died, y'all
A couple times I took my eyes off the prize, y'all
I know a few people pray for my demise, y'all
But like cream, I had to rise, I had to rise, y'all
My bells were ringing harder then Big Ben after that #Krewe vs. Brotherhood "match." In hindsight I should've predicted those guys wouldn't want a good honest match one week before Bish and I both inevitably put on star performances at Rise Up. Softening me up before that ladder match at Rise Up, especially with a briefcase shot like the one Sanchez gave me, was a deliberate tactic. And thankfully, one that failed.
It had been a few months since I had had to go to Dr. Joe for something, the last time being when I was still suffering the effects of that heart punch Lester Parish gave me in October. Since then, I had been a bastion of good health, at least by WCF standards. Shit, even when people were predicting how bad I'd fuck myself up at One I walked out of that show with nary a scratch. With concussion concerns these days though (not to mention the lingering pain from that XIII match), I could understand why the Doc would want to see me.
Bishop walked with me into the good doctor's office. Dr. Joe Velasquez had to have been one of the most organized people I've ever met. On his desk in front of him was a neatly stacked pile of paperwork which he was currently working on. To the left was a manila folder with a few more papers in it, and on the right of everything was an unlit desk lamp. Only things pertinent to work were on there, no knick knacks to really speak of. Hanging on the walls of the office in sensible frames were his various degrees and certificates, all perfectly aligned and centered. Joe had always given me Jeff Purse vibes, and this time was no exception.
Dr. Joe saw us enter and flashed his eyes away from his work and gave us his undivided attention. Despite his noticiable Puerto Rican accent, his English was perfect, polite and professional.
It had been a few months since I had had to go to Dr. Joe for something, the last time being when I was still suffering the effects of that heart punch Lester Parish gave me in October. Since then, I had been a bastion of good health, at least by WCF standards. Shit, even when people were predicting how bad I'd fuck myself up at One I walked out of that show with nary a scratch. With concussion concerns these days though (not to mention the lingering pain from that XIII match), I could understand why the Doc would want to see me.
Bishop walked with me into the good doctor's office. Dr. Joe Velasquez had to have been one of the most organized people I've ever met. On his desk in front of him was a neatly stacked pile of paperwork which he was currently working on. To the left was a manila folder with a few more papers in it, and on the right of everything was an unlit desk lamp. Only things pertinent to work were on there, no knick knacks to really speak of. Hanging on the walls of the office in sensible frames were his various degrees and certificates, all perfectly aligned and centered. Joe had always given me Jeff Purse vibes, and this time was no exception.
Dr. Joe saw us enter and flashed his eyes away from his work and gave us his undivided attention. Despite his noticiable Puerto Rican accent, his English was perfect, polite and professional.
Dr. Joe: Ah, Mr. Venable. Good to see you again. You too, Mr. Bishop.
FPV: Pleasure's all ours Doc.
Dr. Joe: Please have a seat, both of you.
Bishop and I took our seats in front of him. He opened up the folder (presumably my dossier) to his left and began looking over the papers in it.
Dr. Joe: So the problem you're here for today is head trauma, am I hearing correctly.
FPV: Yup. I personally don't feel anything right now, but I'd rather be safe then sorry.
Dr. Joe: Of course, of course. Tell me Mr. Venable, how did you get this head injury?
FPV: I was hit over the head with a metal briefcase by David Sanchez. Knocked me out for a bit.
In the blink of an eye, Joe's face drained of color and some sort of fear must have over taken him.
Kevin Bishop: Is there something wrong?
Dr. Joe: Oh no, nothing wrong. I just need to make sure, it was David Sanchez that attacked you?
FPV: Mmmhmmm.
Dr. Joe: I see...
He then proceeded to scribble some notes onto his paper. It was odd, how quickly his composure left him. What would usually be a few slow strokes of his pen became quick and frantic slashes onto the paper. It had to have been something about Sanchez, that was the only logical answer. OF course I didn't want to cause a scene by asking, so I held my tongue.
Dr. Joe: Of course my advice as a physician would be to hold off on any strenuous activity until more tests can be done. But knowing how you wrestlers operate I'm sure if I told you that you'd ignore me and continue training.
FPV: Heh, I've been your client for too long I guess.
Dr. Joe: Indeed.
FPV: Tell me doc, do you speak any French?
Dr. Joe: I have a passing knowledge of it, but I don't see why that's at all relevant to any potential concussions you might have suffered, sir.
FPV: Well, do you happen to know what the word "tetu" means.
Dr. Joe: It means "stubborn," just as how you'll probably act towards any advice I give you.
FPV: True. But it also means "hard headed..."
With a bit of a boyish grin on my face, I jokingly knocked on my skull for a bit, as if to show how durable it was.
FPV:...and if nothing else, I'm as hard headed as a motherfucker, haha.
Dr. Joe: Very cute, Mr. Venable. All jokes aside I WILL need to see you again for in-depth tests and the like. Let's say Thursday at this same time. What you do between now and then...I suppose that's for you to decide. Just be careful, okay?
FPV: Will do, doc. I'll see you on Thursday then.
After leaving the good doctor's office, Bishop pulled me aside.
Kevin Bishop: I couldn't have been the only one to have felt that.
FPV: How weird he got after I mention Sanch? I felt it too.
Kevin Bishop: Agreed, it's so weird seeing Dr. Velasquez so uneasy. Every time I've gone to him for a check up, he's always seemed so unflappable. I wonder, what could it be about that bastard Sanchez that scares him so bad.
FPV: Whatever it is, I'll figure it out when I come here on Thursday. For now though, let's get back to the compound. I've got some fucking training to do.
Bishop could only chuckle at my eagerness to start training as we entered Bishop's Chevy Impala.
Kevin Bishop: A little confident, are we Franklin?
FPV: This is my biggest match I've had in a while. I'd be a fool if I weren't.
And with a turn of the key, we were off.
PART TWO: CALL TICKETRON
Beggin' your pardon, Run the Jewels live at the garden
(Li-li-li-li-li-live from the garden)
(Li-li-li-li-li-live from the garden)
David Sanchez: Once upon a time there was David Sanchez, and then there was everybody else.
I clicked the pause button on YouTube and stared at the frozen face of one David Sanchez.
FPV: My my my. Truly the words of a federation defining promo.
Morning was just about to begin as the sun began to shine through the windows of The People's Grounds. I had begun to enjoy this little period before I opened up shop; it gave me the opportunity to get some much needed words out of my head and onto the internet. Laptop in front of me, I sat at one of the many tables scattered across the room, my gaze ready, steady and unflinching towards my goal.
Destroy David Sanchez.
Destroy David Sanchez.
FPV: Hello David. I will fully admit that I wish I could've started this character assassination of you without using up one of my biggest shots in the first round. Considering the promo we're talking about here though, I felt compelled to start things of with that. Don't worry, I'll get to all your other indiscretions soon enough.
What else could I be talking about but that insane piece of promo work known as "Dirty Epic." When I call this piece a federation defining promo, I ain't mincing words. This little piece will be one of those that go down in history, along with everything Jonny Fly ever did (which Flash subsequently jacked from.) Though that news article insisting people were placed under suicide watch because of it is about the biggest exaggeration this side of TMZ I've ever seen, the fact remains that you got a fucking intense reaction out of it.
Andre Holmes, the man currently fighting an intense war of words with Crazy J over the Hardcore Belt, was so stunned he was reduced to only the most base of reactions. A reference to the film series, and a reference to racism. A war of words that sure fucking wasn't.
Corey Black, perhaps the greatest WCF wrestler of all time, currently blazing a fucking trail of corpses on his retirement tour, and your own stable mate, and he gave the old "YOU GONNA SUCK MY DICK" cop out. Those words are the closest thing to a concession of defeat you'll ever get from him. Motherfucker pulled a Hillary and conceded to you.
Anon Y. Mous, what was once an intriguing storyline, and Eric Price, a wily vet like myself, sent into pure catatonic silence.
Even Odin Balfore, one of the best of the best and one of only two people to pin me since I've come back, wasn't able to come up with something on that promo's level, even though he gave you your toughest challenge.
Then after all that dust settles, we go to December 18th, 2016. L-l-l-live From Met Life. David Sanchez cements his place on the roster by grabbing the Final Destination briefcase. All thanks to that one little promo.
It's a brilliant strategy. Psyche your opponents out so hard they have no idea what to do with themselves once it's time to step between those ropes. Shit, it got you that contract and a rocket right to the main event picture. But Sanch, there's a downside to that little plan of yours.
It only works once.
Now that you've pulled the biggest piece of artillery you have in your arsenal, you're drained. Everyone knows what to expect out of you from now on. Shit, if anything the expectations have been raised way to high for you to achieve. You like to say "It All Falls Down." Just imagine how far down YOUR fall is going to be when everything eventually crumbles from underneath you. You've wasted your peak, man. Me? I'm just reaching it. When they look at you, all they think is "Man, imagine if after all that effort to get that fuckin briefcase he put it up for grabs and ended up losing it. What a fuccboi! Dude should've known better. And we pegged this guy as the heir apparent to the World Title? How fucking stupid were we?" Then they see me, and all they think is "Man, a win from Franky would be fucking huge and put him right back in that main event picture."
Night and day, man.
That should've been your defining moment. Pure achievement, total victory, unmolested by any post match shenanigans. But in what seems to be a running theme in your life, things just had to go awry after the end of the match. I know getting laid out by Gravedigger probably doesn't compare to getting exiled from the UCI just as you were hitting your stride, or your wife leaving you, or choking so fucking hard at WAR in 2015 while you rose to prominence, or being forced to fight dangerous animals at a young age while dirty foreigners called you "Savage." I'm just saying, you could have handled that post match a bit more gracefully.
How sad. How sad that at his age, that son of a puta Gravedigger was able to get the jump on you like it was nothing. You had no fucking idea it was happening either. The man raped your achievement raw dog and you just let it happen.
You.
Just.
Let.
It.
Happen.
Fucking pathetic if you ask me. You even had to go so far as to waste a XIII match on him just to get your momentum back when you could've been enjoying the night off like I know you lazy Pantheon fucks love to do, rather then put your body on the line for no reason. God knows Gravedigger didn't deserve the effort.
I checked the clock hanging on the wall. 7:00 AM on the dot. I sighed and looked right back into the camera. I picked up a piece of paper to my left for the camera to see. It was a plane ticket directly to Chicago, Illinois.
FPV: I wish I could spend more time roasting you Sanchez, but unfortunately I've got a flight to catch. Call it...humanitarian work. I'll leave you with this: that beating MS-13 gave you at One?
It'll pale in comparison to what I do to you at Rise Up. Bet.
PART THREE: DON'T GET CAPTURED
Hello from a Little Shop of Horrors
Ski mask like a Phantom of the Opera
Go cold like the land of Chicago
Child soldiers sprayin' the chopper
But you don't give a fuck, that's them though
'Til a peasant put a pistol in your window
Ski mask like a Phantom of the Opera
Go cold like the land of Chicago
Child soldiers sprayin' the chopper
But you don't give a fuck, that's them though
'Til a peasant put a pistol in your window
My God. The city was even more worse off then I imagined.
I tried to dress as inconspicuously as possible, oversized black hoodie, baggy jeans, pitch dark aviator shades and a Cubs Hat. My goal with these clothes was to make myself seem much larger then I actually am. The risk of someone recognizing me was a bit too much for my liking. I had come here for very serious reasons, having a fan bum rush me for a picture or an autograph would just open up a can of worms. Now thankfully no one seemed to really notice me, and if they did, they probably didn't care. They would have been too busy marching sluggishly to their destination, eyes down and a look of sadness on their faces. I think I may have even seen one woman openly cry as I passed her by.
People speak ill of the new president Donald Trump what seems to be once every few seconds. They speak of resistance to his policies, to truly loving one another and tolerating each other despite our vast differences. Trumps word’s spring people towards action. The Women’s March in D.C proved that.
But Sanchez? His words have driven his people towards apathy and despair. This did not look like one of the major cities in the United States, there was no hustle and bustle of the nightlife in the heart of the city. Just a few pedestrians, a car once every few minutes, and a ton of grey smog. Somewhere off in the distance, sirens wailed. Whether they were police sirens, ambulance sirens or fire truck sirens, I had no idea, and regardless of what they were, it all meant the same to me. Even New Orleans, a city in the running for “murder capital of the nation” alongside this one, has an aura of fun and debauchery around it. This city is death, pure and simple.
How could this have happened? Wasn’t this the city that had JUST celebrated a triumphant World Series win not but a few months ago. Shouldn’t the streets have some life to them?
Then I remembered this city had a man like David Sanchez as mayor (a man focused so much intently on his career as a wrestler that I assumed he barely spends much time at all in the city he supposedly “runs”) and I didn’t think anything else of the question.
Like all good tyrants, Sanchez’s rise to power didn’t seem to come in the form of a democratic election. In fact no one seems to know he came into power. He just…did. Once upon a time David Sanchez was not mayor, and then he was. Trump should be counting his lucky stars he even had a legion of people loud enough to vote him into the White House. I got the feeling walking the streets if Sanchez had an approval rating, it would be 0%.
Just then, as I was making my way to city hall, I was stopped dead in my tracks by the cold barrel of a gun, wielded by a famished looking man. His hands were shaking, and he looked terrified.
I tried to dress as inconspicuously as possible, oversized black hoodie, baggy jeans, pitch dark aviator shades and a Cubs Hat. My goal with these clothes was to make myself seem much larger then I actually am. The risk of someone recognizing me was a bit too much for my liking. I had come here for very serious reasons, having a fan bum rush me for a picture or an autograph would just open up a can of worms. Now thankfully no one seemed to really notice me, and if they did, they probably didn't care. They would have been too busy marching sluggishly to their destination, eyes down and a look of sadness on their faces. I think I may have even seen one woman openly cry as I passed her by.
People speak ill of the new president Donald Trump what seems to be once every few seconds. They speak of resistance to his policies, to truly loving one another and tolerating each other despite our vast differences. Trumps word’s spring people towards action. The Women’s March in D.C proved that.
But Sanchez? His words have driven his people towards apathy and despair. This did not look like one of the major cities in the United States, there was no hustle and bustle of the nightlife in the heart of the city. Just a few pedestrians, a car once every few minutes, and a ton of grey smog. Somewhere off in the distance, sirens wailed. Whether they were police sirens, ambulance sirens or fire truck sirens, I had no idea, and regardless of what they were, it all meant the same to me. Even New Orleans, a city in the running for “murder capital of the nation” alongside this one, has an aura of fun and debauchery around it. This city is death, pure and simple.
How could this have happened? Wasn’t this the city that had JUST celebrated a triumphant World Series win not but a few months ago. Shouldn’t the streets have some life to them?
Then I remembered this city had a man like David Sanchez as mayor (a man focused so much intently on his career as a wrestler that I assumed he barely spends much time at all in the city he supposedly “runs”) and I didn’t think anything else of the question.
Like all good tyrants, Sanchez’s rise to power didn’t seem to come in the form of a democratic election. In fact no one seems to know he came into power. He just…did. Once upon a time David Sanchez was not mayor, and then he was. Trump should be counting his lucky stars he even had a legion of people loud enough to vote him into the White House. I got the feeling walking the streets if Sanchez had an approval rating, it would be 0%.
Just then, as I was making my way to city hall, I was stopped dead in my tracks by the cold barrel of a gun, wielded by a famished looking man. His hands were shaking, and he looked terrified.
Mugger: Gimme your money sir. I don’t want to shoot, just give me your money.
I didn’t budge an inch.
FPV: Put the gun down. There’s no need for violence.
His hands began trembling even harder as he began to approach me.
Mugger: I have nothing man. I haven’t eaten in days. Please sir…I really need the cash.
FPV: Come one step closer and you will not like what happens.
Mugger: Please man…anything…
He disobeyed me and took a step closer towards me. I readied my leg…
Mugger: PLEASE…
B O O M ! H E A D S H O T
The poor bastard didn’t stand a chance. He really did look like his finger was getting ready pull the trigger, yet I could tell where he was aiming that he would’ve missed dearly due to the unsteadiness of his hands. My foot, however, was as accurate as can be. It connected with his skeletal chin as if it had been made to go there, as the man was knocked out and fall backwards.
Goddamit. Why did it have to come to this? I told him didn’t have to end in violence. This would’ve blown my cover entirely, but thankfully if there was anyone looking they didn’t care enough to say anything, and the air remained undisturbed save for the smog. Before I left, I reached into my pocket, took my wallet out, and slipped a twenty into the man’s own pocket. It may have been out of pity, but that pity would help this poor man out immensely when he came too. I then continued towards my destination.
I was almost certain Sanchez was not within City Hall in Chicago, as he should be. Knowing him he was probably off training for Rise Up at some secret Pantheon location. Oh if only how he could see this city crumble in his absence. No one was within the immediate area, leaving me all by my lonesome. The architecture of the building was gorgeous, as you would expect a city hall to be. I felt bad that I would disturb it like I was going to, but this needed to be said.
My hands found themselves within the giant front pocket of the hoodie. Out of it, I took a can of red spray paint. After a few good shakes of the can, I stopped at the front door. A message needed to be said about this horrible, horrible man. Perhaps I could’ve chosen my words better, but this was the most effective way to get under Sanchez’s skin. In bold red letters, I sprayed.
Goddamit. Why did it have to come to this? I told him didn’t have to end in violence. This would’ve blown my cover entirely, but thankfully if there was anyone looking they didn’t care enough to say anything, and the air remained undisturbed save for the smog. Before I left, I reached into my pocket, took my wallet out, and slipped a twenty into the man’s own pocket. It may have been out of pity, but that pity would help this poor man out immensely when he came too. I then continued towards my destination.
I was almost certain Sanchez was not within City Hall in Chicago, as he should be. Knowing him he was probably off training for Rise Up at some secret Pantheon location. Oh if only how he could see this city crumble in his absence. No one was within the immediate area, leaving me all by my lonesome. The architecture of the building was gorgeous, as you would expect a city hall to be. I felt bad that I would disturb it like I was going to, but this needed to be said.
My hands found themselves within the giant front pocket of the hoodie. Out of it, I took a can of red spray paint. After a few good shakes of the can, I stopped at the front door. A message needed to be said about this horrible, horrible man. Perhaps I could’ve chosen my words better, but this was the most effective way to get under Sanchez’s skin. In bold red letters, I sprayed.
NANAKIA.
PART FOUR: THIEVES! (SCREAMED THE GHOST)
Mist hung low like a prayer from a tyrant
Sky became black like the stars aren't aligning
So many years of this violence
Now we're surrounded by the souls of the dead and defiant
Saying "Look what you've done, you designed it"
When the bough breaks, hear the wraith scream, "Riot!"
Sky became black like the stars aren't aligning
So many years of this violence
Now we're surrounded by the souls of the dead and defiant
Saying "Look what you've done, you designed it"
When the bough breaks, hear the wraith scream, "Riot!"
Much like the rest of the city, the Greyhound bus I took back to Philadelphia was deserted. Only two people were aboard, myself and the bus driver. It must've been 3 AM or close to it by this point. I had been riding for a few hours, judging by my previous trip the past day I'd say Philly was getting close. I could've driven to Chicago myself, but I did not want to risk getting my Harley stolen or destroyed.
I turned my gaze from out the window to look at the driver. He seemed lost in hiss own world, listening to the radio. He wouldn't pay attention to what I had to say.
I turned my gaze from out the window to look at the driver. He seemed lost in hiss own world, listening to the radio. He wouldn't pay attention to what I had to say.
FPV: I was stupid. Stupid and ignorant. I knew things were bad, but jeez was I underestimating just how bad. I've been to Chicago many times, performing for the WCF and the indies. The rabid scene there has always made wrestling there a very exciting prospect. Rowdy fans, the smarkiest of smarks, all gathered together in one place. If the hate you, shit they'll let you know homie. But if they love you? They won't shut up about you for years to come. They don't merely "like" certain wrestlers, they LOVE them.
I saw none of that love, none of that excitement out there tonight. Only depression.
I gotta wonder if you can proud of yourself, Sanchez. Wonder if you think neglecting the citizens you're supposed to "serve and lead" like an unwanted puppy is the way to go. How long will it be until you starve that puppy till it ain't nothing but skin and bones (though knowing you, I'm sure you'd prefer bashing it's poor skull in.) While you're out playing pro wrestler around the entire fucking globe, people in your own city will die everyday under your rule. What about when May comes around, when you'll be in Mexico for an entire month? You gonna run an entire city from a smartphone? Get the fuck outta here.
I run a small time coffee shop on the side when I'm not grappling. It's just a small moneymaking venture, but I make it work, because I've got a team to take care of the place when I'm not there. It also doesn't hurt that my people only come to me to get their caffeine fix or to go on a nice little date and don't come to me looking to fix their problems as citizens of an entire city. If you're going to be mayor of a city, it shouldn't be as just another business venture. You gotta take it seriously, and put all your effort into it. I know for damn sure I ain't cut out to be mayor of anything, shit I don't even know how the ole' Gadfaddah Cairo was able to lord over his own country for as long as he did. Well lemme tell you, you may be a lot of things Sanchez, but you ain't no Cairo.
Nah, I'd say that old name NANAKIA of yours was accurate. Savage. In fact once you get back to City Hollow you might find a nice little present on your doorstep. Y'see, no matter how cultured you try to come across as, no matter how calm or stoic you like to present yourself, if what you did to Gemini Battle is any indication you'll always be savage. An animal who gives into his base emotions and lets his instincts to kill take over. A wolf in king's clothing.
That's another little bit of your obsession to look cultured, eh? The Hollow King moniker. You wanna talk kings, we can talk kings. I'd think King Richard III fits you quite well, wouldn't you say? A truly hideous looking muthafucka with no friends, but through some social maneuvering (a some good ole fashioned murder) winds up on the throne. Even if you haven't seen the play, everyone should know how this ends. A man named Henry Tudor leads a revolt and kills the king on his own turf. It's a really humiliating way to go too. "My horse! My horse! My kingdom for a horse!" Oh how the mighty fall, and how they fall hard.
Sanchez, I'm going to turn the 2300 Arena into my own personal Bosworth Field on Sunday. If no one else will, then I'll happily take the role of Henry Tudor and give you your just desserts. Kill you to the sound of the common folk rejoicing, grab that Final Destination briefcase like it was The Hollow Crown and ascend to Henry VII. It'll be the most drastic way to impeach someone from public office, but for you it'll be the only way to go.
After what I saw out there today, it's the only thing you deserve.
PART FIVE: THURSDAY IN THE DANGER ROOM
An eye for an eye, and a tooth for the tooth
Will leave us all mumbling and blind
So we stumble blind through depths of the dark
Looking for something divine
Life is a journey, to live is to suffer
And I have been suffering through mine
Will leave us all mumbling and blind
So we stumble blind through depths of the dark
Looking for something divine
Life is a journey, to live is to suffer
And I have been suffering through mine
Thursday came, and just as promised I found myself back in the office of Dr. Joe. This time though things felt way more tense. Dr. Joe's usual greeting of "Good to see you Mr. Venable" was replaced with a simple...
Dr. Joe: Mr. Venable. Have a seat.
I did as he said. As I took a quick look at his desk, something bothered me. The man's papers were more scattered across the table, slightly burying my dossier of info. He took it, opened it, and gazed at the papers within.
Dr. Joe: The tests we'll be doing today are going to take a while, so I hope you don't have any other plans for today.
FPV: Nope. Only this.
Dr. Joe: Good. Then let us get started.
From there the where testing began. To make a very long topic easy to understand, before I competed in the WAR match I had a Baseline Concussion Test done to show how I looked with no injuries whatsoever. Today I was given the same test, and the two results would be compared. While we were at it, we also decided to have a look at my back, and to see if that had any damage done to it after Jared gave me that Dolphin Driver at XIII. Thankfully, nothing seemed wrong on that front, against all odds. In fact I didn't appear to have any gave injuries at all. While I was sort of relieved to hear this, Dr. Joe's expression remained constant: worried.
He gave the results of the concussion tests one last look, nodded his head then began to scribble more notes into my papers.
Dr. Joe: Everything appears normal Mr. Venable. Perhaps that assertion that you're "hard headed" holds more merit then you knew.
FPV: Excellent. So that means I'm cleared to compete for Sunday, right?
An uncomfortable pause. Dr Joe seemed to only grow more worried.
Dr. Joe: I...suppose so.
His tone wasn't the least bit reassuring. Something was definitely up. I had to open my mouth and say something.
FPV: Okay Joe, be real with me here. I've never seen you so disorganized or distressed. There's something on your mind. And lemme guess: it's about Sanchez.
Joe suddenly got nervous. Did I strike some kind of nerve in him? His response was hurried and decisive.
Dr. Joe: I don't think it's appropriate for me to let my patients in on opinions such as this.
FPV: Joe, you know me. I wouldn't just blab this info out to the world. We can keep this info off the record
After thinking for a quick moment, the good doctor closed my folder and put it back on his desk before letting out a long sigh.
Dr. Joe: If you must know, yes it is about Sanchez. How did you know?
FPV: After I told you it was him who hit me the last time I was here, you got all nervous. Even Kevin could tell something was up.
Dr. Joe: I see. So it was that obvious then.
FPV: Yup.
Dr. Joe: Fine then. I'll let you in on...why this man grieves me so much, I suppose. I'm sure you're already aware of what happened the night of December 4th. God knows that brute David won't stop bragging about it.
FPV: December 4th...the night Gemini Battle was murdered.
That was when everything clicked in my head.
FPV: You were there then, when it happened. You tried treating Gemini, didn't you?
Dr. Joe: Correct. Once we found out what kind of situation was going on, we got there in the blink of an eye. By the time we arrived the referees were pulling Sanchez away from the Mr. Pierce's body. Right away everyone knew that it would have been an uphill battle. With the type of head trauma Mr. Pierce received, even if you had somehow managed to survive, your life would be changed forever. We did what we could at ringside, but it quickly became apparent we would be forced to get him to the back as soon as humanly possible. There was just too many people at ringside to fully concentrate...not to mention Sanchez standing over all of his, hurling venom at the crowd at the top of his lungs.
Dear God. I could only imagine the scene Dr. Joe was telling me, but even just retelling it sent shivers down my spine. I tried placing myself in the good doctor's shoes and just couldn't comprehend what type of stress this whole situation must have put on him.
Dr. Joe: So we got Mr. Pierce onto a stretcher and rolled him to the back as fast we could. We did the best with what we could. But Mr. Pierce was fading fast, and we very under equipped.
FPV: I'd imagine preparing for death wasn't on the agenda that night.
Dr. Joe: That's putting it lightly. The call was made to take him to Heart Hospital. God bless those ambulance drivers. They came *snaps fingers* just like that. I rode with the EMTs in the back, trying to talk with Mr. Pierce, to see if he was responding. I could feel us speeding through the streets, sirens blaring. The ride couldn't have been more then a few minutes, but it felt like hours. When we arrived, I helped to unload Mr. Pierce and rolled him right into the ER. From there I let the other, more prepared doctors tend to him, but I stayed the entire time. They did their best, and their praises should be sung to the high heavens Mr. Venable. But Mr. Pierce was just too far gone. Once it became apparent his condition would not improve, we had to stop. I was the one to make the call. Time of death was 11:42 P.M on December 4th, 2016. That date will live with me forever, Mr. Venable. The most stressful night of my life.
Joe inhaled a breath as deep as the ocean, then proceeded to get up from his chair, walking over to his diplomas and certificates hanging on the wall. It looked as though he was looking at his own reflection from the glass frames.
Dr. Joe: It's funny. I wasn't on duty the night Mr. McMorris fell to his death from the rafters. I considered myself lucky that day, and hoped I would never have to handle anything like that within my lifetime. Perhaps I shouldn't have counted my proverbial chickens before they hatched.
FPV: Jesus, Doc....
Dr. Joe: There's only been one other time I've even come close to feeling like I did last month, Mr. Venable.
I knew exactly what time he was talking about. The circular scars on my wrists served to remind me.
Dr. Joe: We got lucky with you. We had never had any sort of problem like this, a man literally nailed to a cross. But we managed to stabilize you, even if you had to fall into a coma. I thought "Well, this is it. I finally have my own dark story to tell the others when talking about our most dire cases. There's no way anyone could surpass this." And goddammit, did Sanchez surpass it. So now you should understand my reservations when clearing you to compete against Sanchez. I almost had to put you in a bodybag once Mr. Venable. I don't want to have to do it again this week.
FPV: I understand Doc. Really, I do.
Dr. Joe: Mmmmm.
A silence.
Dr. Joe: So you're going to ignore my warnings and go forward with this match anyways?
FPV: Of course.
Another long breath from Joe.
FPV: Doc, you must understand. I knew Gemini myself, hell he was the one I beat for that Television Title. I always admired and respected what he could do in the ring when he put his mind to it. I'm sure you're aware of the Ultimate Showdown match, right?
Dr. Joe: I am, yes.
FPV: Well let me tell you, it ain't easy at all. I've been in it before and have never done all that well in it. I didn't have the drive to win that match. But Gemini did. He pushed and pushed and pushed, and when everything was said and done, he stood tall. The WCF World title, the thing he had wanted for so long, was his. Hell, just look at his performance in this year's WAR match. Over 50 people, and the poor guy drew like #5. But he didn't let that stop him. He pushed and pushed and pushed, and made it all the way to damn near the end. Son of a bitch must've lasted over three hours. If nothing else, Gemini represented what anyone can do in the WCF if they just put their mind to it. Lemme ask you Doc, do you know the reason why Sanchez did what he did.
Dr. Joe: I tend not to delve that deep into my patients motivations, Mr. Venable. Quite frankly it's not really any of my business.
FPV: Well I can tell you why right now. There are two reasons why. One is greed. Sanchez wants that World Title so bad, just like Gem. He's willing to do anything for it, even murder apparently. But there's one problem. Poor Sanchez wasn't exactly in the World title picture. At that point in time it was dominated by guys like Thomas Bates, Corey Black, Joey Flash...and Gemini Battle. Flash already had his shot lined up at One, there was quite frankly no room for Sanchez to fit into that scene, but there were ways for him to backdoor his way in.
That match the two had was for a spot in the Final Destination match. Whoever holds that briefcase is guaranteed a World title match, wherever, whenever. Sanchez recognized that this was probably going to be his best and only shot into Title Contention so he did what he did that night. Then he went on to win Final Destination. Ever since then he's been carrying that briefcase around like a trophy, bragging about just how he managed to get it.
Dr. Joe: Why am I not surprised this had to do with gold. You professional wrestlers put worth in very strange places.
FPV: That's not all, though. I suspect he also did it because of jealously. The night Sanchez left the WCF in 2015, he was pinned by Gemini and lost his U.S Title. A week before December 4th, the big pinless streak Sanchez used to hype himself up was derailed, and who was the direct cause of that loss? Gemini fuckin' Battle. Y'see Sanchez wants to always be on top. Always wants to be victorious. Simply put, the guy is a shitty, sore winner. But when he loses? Oh, when he loses, he loses his goddamned MIND. I'll tell you this Doc, there are a lot of sore winners, and a lot of sore losers. But Sanchez? Sanchez is the sorest loser of them all. How anyone can dignify what he did that night is beyond me.
What I do know is this, that man is walking around like he's tough shit for killing a guy, and someone needs to bring him back down to earth. And if that person has to be me, then so be it. So yes, I'm competing on Sunday. And you know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna push, and push, and push, just like Gemini, and I'll take the best thing that ever happened to Sanchez. Bet.
Dr. Joe looked away from his own reflection and back to me, shaking his head as he sat back down in his chair.
Dr. Joe: Well...I suppose you've made up your mind, no reason to try and stop you. Just be careful, will you?
FPV: I will Doc. Promise.
I got up to walk out of the room, but before I could Dr. Joe stopped me.
Dr. Joe: And Frank...one more thing.
Strange, he never called me by my first name. I cocked my head back at him curiously.
Dr. Joe: Teach that bastard a lesson in humility, will you?
I smiled at the good doctor and nodded my head before finally exiting the room.
PART SIX: KILL YOUR MASTERS
Choose the lesser of the evil people, and the devil still gon' win
It could all be over tomorrow, kill our masters and start again
It could all be over tomorrow, kill our masters and start again
Well Sanchez, I guess it's crunch time now. I hope you don't mind me ending this with a blog post. It's apparently the thing you Pantheon shits like to do when you don't want to dignify your opponent with a proper promo. You would know all about that method, wouldn't you?
I'll be straight wit' ya Sancho, when we agreed to make this little match happen at Rise Up, the only thing on my mind was that shiny little briefcase you've been carrying the past month. How could I not? Free title shot whenever the fuck I wanted it? Sign me up! I left that Slam last week planning everything I would do, every little thing I'd say in order to get that briefcase from your hands into mine.
But after putting some thought into everything, I can comfortably say that's not the only reason I want to win this match. Don't get me wrong, it's still a huge reason. But man, the chance to definitively and decisively humiliate you and put you down a couple hundred pegs...to me that sounds just as good a reward, if not BETTER, then that contract. The chance to dethrone The Hollow King, throw him in his own dungeon and then execute him for his crimes? I'm chomping at the bit just thinking about it. I know that's the second Shakespearean king I've compared you to, but there's a good reason.
Kings are miserable pieces of shit, and at the end they die.
Why don't you go over to Barnes and Noble, find a cheap copy of Richard II, and skip ahead to Act 4. Read it long and hard friendo, cause this Sunday's gonna be your very own decoronation scene. It's sure gonna be a deserved one, I can tell you that. You think just because you've managed to accrue 21 wins over here in WCF that you've already become some kind of living legend, deserving of praise from everyone? Lolololol. I hate to break it to you Sancho, aw hell you probably already know this, but nobody fucking likes you. You're mere presence is one giant buzzkill. Shit, even you're "buds" in Pantheon don't like being around you. What's that quote again? "Once upon a time there was David Sanchez, and then there was everybody else?" Good quote. Let's change it up a bit to explain what you're position is in Pantheon.
Once upon a time there was Joseph Malignaggi, and then there was everybody in Pantheon under his shadow.
You had to have known going into WAR XV that this new Pantheon was going to be nothing more than a star vehicle for Joey Flash and nothing more. Something to make him seem even more important in the landscape of the WCF then he already was. And you know what? It worked. When people talk about Pantheon, 95% of the time it's about how much of a beast Flash is. Everyone else is just a bit player, including yourself. When people are gonna think of Sanchez in the context of WCF history, all they'll see if this.
U.S Champ.
Final Destination winner.
Hellimination participant. (PINNED BY JASON CASH OF ALL PEOPLE LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL YOU OUGHTA BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF)
One of Joey Flash's lackeys.
...
That's it. That's literally it. Just because you got a nice winning record don't mean shit unless you back it up with all the other shit necessary for people to take notice. Joey Flash is like 52-5, but he's also got 3 World Titles, a TV Title, a Tag Team Title and a Trios Title. Oh, and a WAR victory. Compared to him you're a joke.
When I was forced to join the Brotherhood, the main thing people said was "Shit, this man's a Grand Slam winner, and he's stuck serving underneath Bishop? He's better then him by far." Then I went ahead and had the greatest Television Title reign in years. Slowly but surely I began to surpass Bishop, and now look at me, fighting for a shot at the World Title once again. I'm the undeniable Ace of my group. Even Bishop would probably tell you the same thing. Pantheon? Flash and only Flash. Simple as that.
Out of all the people in Pantheon, Joey Flash is the one who most completely accomplished his goal for One. #BK got Trios but won them off of a team incapable of keeping their titles for more then one defense, and also couldn't get that damn Hardcore title. ZMAC got PWNd by TB in the IT match, LOL. Jay Price couldn't even win a ROOKIE TITLE from Jason O' Neal, and he's supposed to be a future first ballot hall of famer? Fuckin' sad. Corey Black didn't even BOTHER trying in his match with you, and took a bit of a holiday ring wise. Only Flash truly achieved what he set out to do. Some might say you did too, winning Final Destination. But Sancho, I'm here to tell you something. Winning Final Destination was the biggest mistake you've ever made in your life.
The instant the briefcase was in your hands, you popped right the fuck onto Flash's radar. "smh this unseasoned fgt could pull a mutiny and take my shit from me. bettah keep an i on him make sure he remembers his place LOLOLOL". Despite the absolute garbage quality of his written English, the cat's smart enough not to believe any of your "Oh I'm not gonna cash in while you're champ sempai!" business. Really who would with a shady fuck like you? They'd instantly figure out you're bein' a fuccboi and keep their guard up tenfold. Let's say your run with the Final Destination briefcase is a stealth game, and your goal is to make it across a room without tipping off Joey Flash. You pretty much walked right into the room, let out a giant fucking sneeze you could've had under control, then dashed behind cover. In other words, you botched hard and tipped Flash off hard. But that's not the worst botch you pulled off.
Nah, that would be New Years Bash, homie. The main event. Gravedigger vs. Joey Flash with you as special guest ref. You get a little jumpy, grab the case, stare at Joey, yourself and the case before you make your move. I bet during that cycle of Flash/Shirt/Case you were thinking "MY god, it's my time to strike! My time to take what's mine! I'M GONNA BE WORLD CHAMP!" Until you charged and hit an MS-13 member right in the face...and got the attention of Flash, who stared daggers right into your very soul. And what did you do? Did you drop the case right then and there and continue with your business in the fight? Did you alleviate Flash's fears?
Lol nope, you just stood there like a deer in headlights, and locked eyes with Flash for seconds. BIG MISTAKE. Those brief seconds of hesitation were all Flash needed to confirm his suspicions. "tf dis fag doin? shit he wants my belt. oh well our partnership was okay while it lasted time to fuck him up for his insolence #zawarudo #bitezadusto #lol" If we're gonna continue this stealth game analogy you basically got up from cover, screamed out "HI I'M SANCHEZ I'M OVER HERE!", waited five seconds until you sure Flash knew where you were then ran away.
Yeah, needless to say if you cashed in on Flash he'd fuck you up six ways to Sunday, hit The World on you for your troubles and excommunicate you from Pantheon. Oops.
Let's not act like this debacle of a FD run is the only embarrassment of your career tho Sancho. Yours is a career filled with all these little disgraces that, lucky for you, most folk don't even give a fuck enough about to bring up. But I do. And boy am I gonna let you have it.
How bout we start all the way at the beginning. June 21, 2015. The debut of David Sanchez in the WCF. Truly this future icon of the main event scene (lol) would come out of the gates swinging with a decisive victory in his customary clusterfuck six-man tag match opener.
LOL NOPE you had your own small package reversed on you by Adam Blake for the loss. Just who is Adam Blake?
...
Exactly. Nooooooot a great way to start your WCF career there Sancho.
Moving on. I already brought this one up. Letting yourself get pinned by Jason Cash, the undeniable BOTTOM FEEDER of Zero Tolerance. Salem Shepard has got more eyes focused on him cause of his backstage drama (especially after last week with the police and shit) and Crazy J has an iron grip on the Hardcore Title. Jason Cash? Just a redneck who hates minorities. How fitting is it then that he got to pin one at Hellimination. I'd like to imagine he got a nice big old racism boner from it.
Let's go back to 2015 for this next one. WAR XIV. You're on the rise, people have their eye on you, you've got the U.S Title. You've carved out a nice little following, and because of all of those things, the public (shock and awe) have actually PICKED YOU AS A DARK HORSE FOR WAR! How exciting! Just imagine, you win WAR as U.S Champ and your stock automatically skyrockets! It would be the biggest victory of your young career and cement your place in WCF history. So how do you respond to this challenge?
You...uh...you got crushed by a fat guy.
Specifically you got crushed by Billy, a guy who's biggest accomplishment in the WCF is something to do with a "taco bowl." Even more specifically you got crushed by him after you tried to hit your move "Accept Reality" and just couldn't get it on, while at the same time allowing Billy to just use all of his weight to pin you.
The dark horse for WAR. Crushed to death by a walking heart attack. How can you fucking sleep at night, Sancho? That's the most embarrassing thing I think I've heard all week. Then the next week you lost the U.S Title to Gemini Battle then promptly fucked off for an entire year so you wouldn't have to live with the embarrassment of these two weeks.
But this last point I'd like to make...oh boy, I think you're personally gonna love this one Sancho. I know I do.
I'm sure by now we're all familiar with that epic "Pinless streak" Mr. Sancho bragged about for God knows how long. By the time it was all over, how long was it? 433 days? I know that's what Freddy said on the broadcast, but I went and did the math and it actually comes out to 414 days. I dunno what Freddy was smokin that night to give you 19 extra days but there you go. That's quite a long time to go without getting pinned. Quite impressive actually.
BUT HARK, WHAT'S THIS!? It turns out that Sanchez was actually NOT ON THE ACTIVE ROSTER FOR MOST OF THIS STREAK! SHOCK AND AWE, a wrestler extending a win record to look superior, who woulda thunk it? In fact, out of those 414 days Sanchez, you were away from the WCF for 364 days. Just ONE DAY OFF from a full year between matches. So why don't we be fair and just take that year off your record, since there was no way for you to defend your streak.
Now it comes out to exactly 50 days. How inadequate.
I could even cut this streak even shorter by counting that pin from Jason Cash in Hellimination, but you know what? I'm feeling generous. I'll let it stay at 50 days. Nice even number.
Now let's take a look at my record. I got pinned by Odin at WAR and made my non-WAR return the next week, so any pinless streak on my part would start then. I beat Kevin Bishop. No one was able to actually pin me for months while I held the Television Title, even when I lost my belt I was not the one pinned in the match. I finally took my next pinfall loss at XIII this January. The total length of that streak?
97 days.
So let's recap.
David Sanchez: 50 Days.
FPV: 97 Days.
FPV: 97 Days.
One more time.
David Sanchez: 50 Days.
FPV: 97 Days.
FPV: 97 Days.
One more time couldn't hurt!
David Sanchez: 50 Days.
FPV: 97 Days.
FPV: 97 Days.
HOW BOUT WE SAY IT AGAIN FOR THOSE IN THE BACK.
David Sanchez: 50 Days.
FPV: 97 Days.
FPV: 97 Days.
AND YKNOW WHAT?
LET'S DO IT
ONE.
MORE.
TIME.
JUST FOR YOU SANCHO.
JUST.
FOR.
YOU.
David Sanchez: 50 Days.
FPV: 97 Days.
How beautiful. This whole time you bragged on your pinless streak I was building my own, and then surpassed you. It's like I said before Sancho, even when you achieve big...there's always something to muck it up.
I'll leave it at that. I've done all the damage I need to. I'll see you on Sunday. I'll be waiting for the moment you give me the respect I deserve with a smile on my face. Au revoir .
(Authors Note: The preceding RP is dedicated to the amazing musical talents of Killer Mike and El-P of Run The Jewels. Stay Gold, fam.)