Post by Deleted on Sept 30, 2012 1:42:35 GMT -5
Waylon Cash stands in his brightly lit bathroom, surrounded by white tile, and white walls. He stares into the mirror, as his own bald reflection stares back. He runs a bony hand over his smooth scalp, as a tear gathers in the corner of his left eye, and threatens to roll down his cheek. Suddenly, Roxxanne Savage squeezes herself into the tiny space, and throws her arms around her fiance.
Roxxy:You gonna sit here and stare at your shiny head all day, or are you gonna spend some time with me?
Cash lets out a deep sigh, and leans backward against the wall.
Waylon:The funny part is, it ain't even about the hair. I tried to save him hon. I tried so damn hard. I'da done it too, if it weren't for that fuckin' pest of a manager of his.
Roxxanne leans her head on his shoulder, and squeezes him tightly.
Roxxy:I know hon. I was there. You can't let that distract you though. You gotta focus on your World title match at WAR.
Waylon crosses his arms in front of him, and traces the lines between the tiny, white tiles with his eyes. Her cheek against his arm was a momentary comfort, in a turbulent time. Gingerly, he slips his arm around her waist, and holds her tightly to his torso. As their lips meet, the troubles that plague Waylon's mind wash away, and are replaced by a wave of ecstasy. He slides a hand over her side, and squeezes her right ass cheek playfully. She swats his hand away, with a twinkle in her eye.
Roxxy:You knock that off.
Suddenly, the burly, irritated voice of Trent Page comes from the other room.
Trent:Yeah. Knock it off. You got a world title match to worry about, and women weaken legs.
Waylon mocks his friend, by mouthing the last three words of the speech, and rolling his eyes.
Waylon:Any other wore out sports myths you wanna throw at me? Maybe you wanna make me gargle some raw eggs, or punch some beef ribs.
Trent: Laugh all you want, asshole. My methods get results. Besides, you gotta get outside, I got a surprise for you.
Waylon cocks his head to the side, and makes his way through the living room. As he steps outside, he is bathed in the light of the Georgia sun, as it hangs high overhead. The Hellbilly's eyes scan his yard, to find a shirtless Trent Page. He is standing next to a shorter man, dressed in a baggy hockey jersey, and a pair of camouflage shorts. His face is painted in the manner of a Native American warrior. A smile comes to Waylon's face as he lays eyes on the old friend.
Waylon:Isaiah, you old yankee S.O.B. How the hell are ya?
Isaiah chuckles, as Waylon steps across the withering lawn, and embraces him in a hug.
Isaiah:I'm doin' good, homie. Been hittin' some switches, makin' things happen.
Waylon:What are you doin' all the way down here?
Isaiah:I been workin' with a local company. They got me wrestling, and taking tickets. You remember what it's like for us little nobodies on the indy circuit.
Waylon:You know, you'd have a good job if you could learn to keep your mouth shut.
Isaiah:We ain't goin' there, homie. Don't worry about me anyway. You're the reason I'm here. You need to get your ass in shape.
Trent: Here's the way I see it: you are, once again, going up against two of the most talented wrestlers in the company. Now FPV, you're on his level. You're both brawlers, you've traded wins. It's Fly you gotta worry about. He can do it all. He's a boss level mother fucker.
Waylon:Why are you tellin' me a buncha shit I already know?
Trent smacks Waylon in the back of the head. Waylon rubs the sore spot, while cursing under his breath.
Trent:Don't be a smart ass. What Isaiah and I are gonna do is throw it all at you. We're gonna start with Isaiah, because both of your opponents can move like motherfuckers. These aren't big, slow jackasses like Odin or Bliv. These are quick guys, so you gotta be quicker.
Waylon:Is it all about greasy, fast speed?
Trent:I swear to god, one more Rocky reference and I will beat the piss out of you. Considering the state of your hair, you might wanna listen to me on this one. You weren't quick enough to beat Tek, how the hell do you expect to beat either of your opponents this week?
Waylon:Blake inter-
Trent:I don't wanna fuckin' hear it! You shoulda beat Tek in two minutes! Blake shouldn't have even been an issue! If you expect to take out the two top talents in the company with an attitude like that, you're outta your mind.
Waylon runs his hand over his freshly shaven head, and nods.
Waylon:You're right, boss. FPV and I know each other front to back at this point. It's Fly I can't seem to finish off. It's like the sumbitch is on another level.
Trent:That's why we're doing this. What you're gonna do is go back and forth between fighting the two of us. We're not gonna let up until you can't move anymore. At that point, you'll get a five minute break, and we'll start again. You got it?
Waylon nods, resigning himself to his fate, as he peels the white tank top from his torso. He tosses the garment aside, and cracks his knuckles, before circling Isaiah. The men spend the next two hours fighting viciously, with few breaks. As soon as Waylon manages to pin Isaiah, Trent is on him. Once Trent is down, Isaiah is recharged. Sweat drips down the Hellbilly's back and chest, as blades of grass cling to his skin. The fracas leaves Waylon drained, and bleeding from the mouth. Once Trent allows the exercise to stop, Cash collapses to the ground, and stares up at the large, fluffy clouds than hang above him. His ribcage rises, and falls rapidly, as he struggles to bring oxygen into his lungs. The ache in the wrestler's muscles is great, and he barely has the strength left to lift his head off of the ground. Trent, short of breath himself, stands over his friend, and offers an impressed chuckle.
Trent:Not bad. Most people can't go more than an hour. Imagine what you could do if you didn't smoke.
Waylon:Speaking of which...
Waylon searches his pockets. It doesn't take long for him to withdraw a demolished pack of cigarettes. Cash find the one salvageable stick, and slides it between his lips. His other hand wraps itself around a cheap, plastic lighter, and uses it to turn the end of the cigarette a glowing orange. Cash inhales deeply, and savors the flavor, as the smoke leaves his lungs. His nerves ease, and his muscles relax slightly due to the nicotine now pulsing through his blood stream.
Trent:We're gonna have to do a couple of those this week.
Waylon:You must be out your damn mind!
Trent:This isn't a joke, Waylon! FPV and Johnny Fly represent the best WCF has to offer. If you can beat them, WCF will be your personal playground. If you can beat FPV, and Fly, there's nothing that can stop you. Do you want to get to WAR, and lose because you didn't do everything you could? Waylon, I know you're better than both of them. You know you're better than both of them, but if you wan to show the world that fact, you're gonna have to be in top physical condition. They're gonna have to see a better Waylon Cash than anyone's ever seen before! You've won world titles, but on Sunday, you're gonna have to DESERVE one.
The words swim around in Waylon's head for a moment, as he takes another drag from his cigarette. He blows a few smoke rings into the air, as he crosses one bare foot over the other.
Waylon:Of course, if I can get them to beat the shit out of each other...
Trent:These aren't a couple of indy league morons. They're to smart for that shit. Besides, after all the shit you've been talking, I wouldn't be surprised if Fly comes straight for you. I keep telling you to stay off of Twitter. It's only gonna get you in trouble.
Waylon nods, before smashing his cigarette into the ground, and gingerly bringing himself to his feet. Cash limps across the grass, toward the shiny, purple Lincoln across the way.
Trent:Don't ignore me, asshole.
Waylon:I hear ya! I'm outta cigs though. Gonna run into town quick.
Cash rolls his eyes, as he throws open the door to his vehicle, and slides into the leather padding of the driver's seat. With a twist of his hand, he brigns the car to life, and begins his journey towards civilization. Beautiful evergreen trees fly by, wind whips Waylon's hair around his head, and the sun beats down, all to the sounds of the Jimmie Hendrix Experience. The whole time, Trent's words almost mock him.
Waylon:Deserve it... what the fuck is he even talkin' about? I'm Waylon god damn Cash.
This indignant line is the only one uttered aloud, from the violent argument going on in his head. He is so involved in his own thoughts, he barely notices when the car comes to a stop in front of the gas station. Slowly, he climbs out, and begins to step across the pavement, toward the front door. Before he can get inside, a large figure, hidden by a trench coat, approaches him. This burly man is holding in his hands a tattered notebook, and a nub of a golf pencil.
Man: Waylon Cash! How are you today?
The man's energy throws Waylon off, leaving him speechless for a second.
Waylon:Good, I guess... can I help you?
Man:I'm Drew Lepley. I'm a reporter for the local penny rag. It would be an amazing step for my career if I could get a few words with you.
Cash eyes the man with suspicion, btu shrugs his shoulders, and leans against the brick wall at the front of the building.
Waylon:Sure, why not?
Drew: Thank you so much! Could I just get your thoughts on FPV?
Waylon:Franky and I have gone back and forth a few times. He's one hell of a fighter, that's for sure. It's a challenge every time I step into the ring with him. I got a lot of respect for that man. Here's the thing though, just 'cuz I got respect for the man, doesn't mean I'm above cavin' his skull in. I'm a man on the warpath, and I don't give a damn if it's my grandma, if anyone gets in between me and my belt, they're gonna get hurt. That goes for FPV, and it goes double for Johnny Fly.
Drew:There's the other thing I wanted to ask you about. You talk a lot about respect, but you don;t seem to have much for the World Champion.
Waylon:I respect johnny. I just don't like the piece of shit. Funny thing is, I couldn't tell ya why. It might be his smile, or his attitude, but there's just something about him I can't stand. It doesn't matter if I like him, 'cuz after Sunday, all that'll be left of him is a big, red smear on the canvas. Not only will Johnny Fly not walk out of WAR as the WCF champion... I reckon he ain't gonna walk out, period.
Waylon suddenly notices that the reporter's notebook is still completely blank.
Waylon:Hey, ain't you gonna write any of this down?
Drew seems confused by the question at first. Eventually, a smile creeps across his face.
Drew:Not really.
the man suddenly drops his pencil and notebook, before reaching into one of his coat pockets, and skillfully removing a butterfly knife. As it spins around Drew's hand, the glint of the steel in the sunlight sends Waylon's heart racing. The attacker brandishes the weapon menacingly, with a crazy gleam in his eye.
Waylon:Alright now, calm down. I'd really like it if I could go one month without my life bein' in danger.
Drew:Just shut up, and gimme your wallet!
Waylon can only nod, and reach for his pocket. This motion clearly spooks Drew, as he lunges out to stab Cash. The wrestler barely dodges the blow, and rips the knife from the man's hand in one smooth motion. Now, it is the attacker's eyes that hold fear, as Waylon aims the point of the blade at his chest. A voice, small at first, begins to speak up form the back of Waylon's mind.
Voice:People like him are the scum of the Earth! They prey on anyone they can find, feeding from the very bottom. Kill him. Put him out of everyone's misery. He deserves it.
Waylon's face contorts, as his inner debate grows. Just as it looks darkest for the mugger, Waylon sees the fear on his face, and his shoulders go limp. The blade drop to the ground, as Cash looks upon the man with empathy.
Waylon:What did you wanna be?
Drew's look gradually goes from one of fear, to one of complete confusion.
Drew:Huh?
Waylon:I mean when you were a boy. You obviously didn't wanna be holdin' people up in front of a damn Texaco for a living. What did you wanna be?
The question confuses the man further, but for some reason, he decides to answer.
Drew:Truth be told, I always wanted to be a wrestler.
A short chuckle escapes Waylon's throat.
Waylon:I think I might be able to help you...
Roxxy:You gonna sit here and stare at your shiny head all day, or are you gonna spend some time with me?
Cash lets out a deep sigh, and leans backward against the wall.
Waylon:The funny part is, it ain't even about the hair. I tried to save him hon. I tried so damn hard. I'da done it too, if it weren't for that fuckin' pest of a manager of his.
Roxxanne leans her head on his shoulder, and squeezes him tightly.
Roxxy:I know hon. I was there. You can't let that distract you though. You gotta focus on your World title match at WAR.
Waylon crosses his arms in front of him, and traces the lines between the tiny, white tiles with his eyes. Her cheek against his arm was a momentary comfort, in a turbulent time. Gingerly, he slips his arm around her waist, and holds her tightly to his torso. As their lips meet, the troubles that plague Waylon's mind wash away, and are replaced by a wave of ecstasy. He slides a hand over her side, and squeezes her right ass cheek playfully. She swats his hand away, with a twinkle in her eye.
Roxxy:You knock that off.
Suddenly, the burly, irritated voice of Trent Page comes from the other room.
Trent:Yeah. Knock it off. You got a world title match to worry about, and women weaken legs.
Waylon mocks his friend, by mouthing the last three words of the speech, and rolling his eyes.
Waylon:Any other wore out sports myths you wanna throw at me? Maybe you wanna make me gargle some raw eggs, or punch some beef ribs.
Trent: Laugh all you want, asshole. My methods get results. Besides, you gotta get outside, I got a surprise for you.
Waylon cocks his head to the side, and makes his way through the living room. As he steps outside, he is bathed in the light of the Georgia sun, as it hangs high overhead. The Hellbilly's eyes scan his yard, to find a shirtless Trent Page. He is standing next to a shorter man, dressed in a baggy hockey jersey, and a pair of camouflage shorts. His face is painted in the manner of a Native American warrior. A smile comes to Waylon's face as he lays eyes on the old friend.
Waylon:Isaiah, you old yankee S.O.B. How the hell are ya?
Isaiah chuckles, as Waylon steps across the withering lawn, and embraces him in a hug.
Isaiah:I'm doin' good, homie. Been hittin' some switches, makin' things happen.
Waylon:What are you doin' all the way down here?
Isaiah:I been workin' with a local company. They got me wrestling, and taking tickets. You remember what it's like for us little nobodies on the indy circuit.
Waylon:You know, you'd have a good job if you could learn to keep your mouth shut.
Isaiah:We ain't goin' there, homie. Don't worry about me anyway. You're the reason I'm here. You need to get your ass in shape.
Trent: Here's the way I see it: you are, once again, going up against two of the most talented wrestlers in the company. Now FPV, you're on his level. You're both brawlers, you've traded wins. It's Fly you gotta worry about. He can do it all. He's a boss level mother fucker.
Waylon:Why are you tellin' me a buncha shit I already know?
Trent smacks Waylon in the back of the head. Waylon rubs the sore spot, while cursing under his breath.
Trent:Don't be a smart ass. What Isaiah and I are gonna do is throw it all at you. We're gonna start with Isaiah, because both of your opponents can move like motherfuckers. These aren't big, slow jackasses like Odin or Bliv. These are quick guys, so you gotta be quicker.
Waylon:Is it all about greasy, fast speed?
Trent:I swear to god, one more Rocky reference and I will beat the piss out of you. Considering the state of your hair, you might wanna listen to me on this one. You weren't quick enough to beat Tek, how the hell do you expect to beat either of your opponents this week?
Waylon:Blake inter-
Trent:I don't wanna fuckin' hear it! You shoulda beat Tek in two minutes! Blake shouldn't have even been an issue! If you expect to take out the two top talents in the company with an attitude like that, you're outta your mind.
Waylon runs his hand over his freshly shaven head, and nods.
Waylon:You're right, boss. FPV and I know each other front to back at this point. It's Fly I can't seem to finish off. It's like the sumbitch is on another level.
Trent:That's why we're doing this. What you're gonna do is go back and forth between fighting the two of us. We're not gonna let up until you can't move anymore. At that point, you'll get a five minute break, and we'll start again. You got it?
Waylon nods, resigning himself to his fate, as he peels the white tank top from his torso. He tosses the garment aside, and cracks his knuckles, before circling Isaiah. The men spend the next two hours fighting viciously, with few breaks. As soon as Waylon manages to pin Isaiah, Trent is on him. Once Trent is down, Isaiah is recharged. Sweat drips down the Hellbilly's back and chest, as blades of grass cling to his skin. The fracas leaves Waylon drained, and bleeding from the mouth. Once Trent allows the exercise to stop, Cash collapses to the ground, and stares up at the large, fluffy clouds than hang above him. His ribcage rises, and falls rapidly, as he struggles to bring oxygen into his lungs. The ache in the wrestler's muscles is great, and he barely has the strength left to lift his head off of the ground. Trent, short of breath himself, stands over his friend, and offers an impressed chuckle.
Trent:Not bad. Most people can't go more than an hour. Imagine what you could do if you didn't smoke.
Waylon:Speaking of which...
Waylon searches his pockets. It doesn't take long for him to withdraw a demolished pack of cigarettes. Cash find the one salvageable stick, and slides it between his lips. His other hand wraps itself around a cheap, plastic lighter, and uses it to turn the end of the cigarette a glowing orange. Cash inhales deeply, and savors the flavor, as the smoke leaves his lungs. His nerves ease, and his muscles relax slightly due to the nicotine now pulsing through his blood stream.
Trent:We're gonna have to do a couple of those this week.
Waylon:You must be out your damn mind!
Trent:This isn't a joke, Waylon! FPV and Johnny Fly represent the best WCF has to offer. If you can beat them, WCF will be your personal playground. If you can beat FPV, and Fly, there's nothing that can stop you. Do you want to get to WAR, and lose because you didn't do everything you could? Waylon, I know you're better than both of them. You know you're better than both of them, but if you wan to show the world that fact, you're gonna have to be in top physical condition. They're gonna have to see a better Waylon Cash than anyone's ever seen before! You've won world titles, but on Sunday, you're gonna have to DESERVE one.
The words swim around in Waylon's head for a moment, as he takes another drag from his cigarette. He blows a few smoke rings into the air, as he crosses one bare foot over the other.
Waylon:Of course, if I can get them to beat the shit out of each other...
Trent:These aren't a couple of indy league morons. They're to smart for that shit. Besides, after all the shit you've been talking, I wouldn't be surprised if Fly comes straight for you. I keep telling you to stay off of Twitter. It's only gonna get you in trouble.
Waylon nods, before smashing his cigarette into the ground, and gingerly bringing himself to his feet. Cash limps across the grass, toward the shiny, purple Lincoln across the way.
Trent:Don't ignore me, asshole.
Waylon:I hear ya! I'm outta cigs though. Gonna run into town quick.
Cash rolls his eyes, as he throws open the door to his vehicle, and slides into the leather padding of the driver's seat. With a twist of his hand, he brigns the car to life, and begins his journey towards civilization. Beautiful evergreen trees fly by, wind whips Waylon's hair around his head, and the sun beats down, all to the sounds of the Jimmie Hendrix Experience. The whole time, Trent's words almost mock him.
Waylon:Deserve it... what the fuck is he even talkin' about? I'm Waylon god damn Cash.
This indignant line is the only one uttered aloud, from the violent argument going on in his head. He is so involved in his own thoughts, he barely notices when the car comes to a stop in front of the gas station. Slowly, he climbs out, and begins to step across the pavement, toward the front door. Before he can get inside, a large figure, hidden by a trench coat, approaches him. This burly man is holding in his hands a tattered notebook, and a nub of a golf pencil.
Man: Waylon Cash! How are you today?
The man's energy throws Waylon off, leaving him speechless for a second.
Waylon:Good, I guess... can I help you?
Man:I'm Drew Lepley. I'm a reporter for the local penny rag. It would be an amazing step for my career if I could get a few words with you.
Cash eyes the man with suspicion, btu shrugs his shoulders, and leans against the brick wall at the front of the building.
Waylon:Sure, why not?
Drew: Thank you so much! Could I just get your thoughts on FPV?
Waylon:Franky and I have gone back and forth a few times. He's one hell of a fighter, that's for sure. It's a challenge every time I step into the ring with him. I got a lot of respect for that man. Here's the thing though, just 'cuz I got respect for the man, doesn't mean I'm above cavin' his skull in. I'm a man on the warpath, and I don't give a damn if it's my grandma, if anyone gets in between me and my belt, they're gonna get hurt. That goes for FPV, and it goes double for Johnny Fly.
Drew:There's the other thing I wanted to ask you about. You talk a lot about respect, but you don;t seem to have much for the World Champion.
Waylon:I respect johnny. I just don't like the piece of shit. Funny thing is, I couldn't tell ya why. It might be his smile, or his attitude, but there's just something about him I can't stand. It doesn't matter if I like him, 'cuz after Sunday, all that'll be left of him is a big, red smear on the canvas. Not only will Johnny Fly not walk out of WAR as the WCF champion... I reckon he ain't gonna walk out, period.
Waylon suddenly notices that the reporter's notebook is still completely blank.
Waylon:Hey, ain't you gonna write any of this down?
Drew seems confused by the question at first. Eventually, a smile creeps across his face.
Drew:Not really.
the man suddenly drops his pencil and notebook, before reaching into one of his coat pockets, and skillfully removing a butterfly knife. As it spins around Drew's hand, the glint of the steel in the sunlight sends Waylon's heart racing. The attacker brandishes the weapon menacingly, with a crazy gleam in his eye.
Waylon:Alright now, calm down. I'd really like it if I could go one month without my life bein' in danger.
Drew:Just shut up, and gimme your wallet!
Waylon can only nod, and reach for his pocket. This motion clearly spooks Drew, as he lunges out to stab Cash. The wrestler barely dodges the blow, and rips the knife from the man's hand in one smooth motion. Now, it is the attacker's eyes that hold fear, as Waylon aims the point of the blade at his chest. A voice, small at first, begins to speak up form the back of Waylon's mind.
Voice:People like him are the scum of the Earth! They prey on anyone they can find, feeding from the very bottom. Kill him. Put him out of everyone's misery. He deserves it.
Waylon's face contorts, as his inner debate grows. Just as it looks darkest for the mugger, Waylon sees the fear on his face, and his shoulders go limp. The blade drop to the ground, as Cash looks upon the man with empathy.
Waylon:What did you wanna be?
Drew's look gradually goes from one of fear, to one of complete confusion.
Drew:Huh?
Waylon:I mean when you were a boy. You obviously didn't wanna be holdin' people up in front of a damn Texaco for a living. What did you wanna be?
The question confuses the man further, but for some reason, he decides to answer.
Drew:Truth be told, I always wanted to be a wrestler.
A short chuckle escapes Waylon's throat.
Waylon:I think I might be able to help you...
