Post by Kash on Sept 26, 2014 0:23:40 GMT -5
“WHAT?!”
Meet Kathryn. As hot as she is, her temper is even hotter. Probably one of the nicest women you’d ever meet, and just as frightening when her mood changes. She fights dirty and she takes no shit, but there aren’t many things that will get this kind of reaction from her. So it’s safe to assume that whatever we just walked into had to have come as a shock to her.
So, what caused her little outburst? Well, it all started with this guy…
This is Randall. Randall doesn’t say much when he’s enjoying his McCain Superfries… wait, that was a commercial in the 80s and it was a kid named Jay… scratch that.
Randall was a WRESTLER, not a sports-entertainer like they call the guys today. A warrior of the mat, a fighter in the independent circuits when they were truly independent. He would recall fondly the days of sleeping in his car, barely making enough money to pay for the gas he used to get to the arena. Having to eat dry Kraft Dinner out of the box because he couldn’t afford milk and margarine. Okay, that might be stretching it just because KD is actually more expensive than it should be, for fuck’s sake.
Come on, now, focus. These people don’t know you, get out there and sell yourself.
In the early 2000s, Randall left the indies for a relatively successful career in many larger federations, claiming main-event statuses and amassing numerous championships along the way. In late-2012, Randall walked away from the sport, citing injuries accumulated from close to two decades in the sport. A right knee that sounded like popcorn when he walked. A back whose upper disks fused together from compression, many a blow to the head with anything from a typical punch, to chairs, to dumpsters, being piledriven into wrestling mats and concrete floors.
It’s safe to assume Randall liked it rough. Too rough at times, and it showed.
Randall typically drove alone, preferring the quiet time away from the locker room. Most of the guys assumed Randall was too “old-school” for them. Truth was, Randall had his demons as, surely, others in that locker room did as well. However, Randall was also very proud, and he’d refuse to allow anyone else to know of his own weaknesses. Randall “partied like a rock star” as one colleague called it. Drunk, stoned, trashing hotel rooms, groupies. It’s been rumored that Randall once spent over one hundred thousand dollars in one weekend, by himself.
The business Randall loved was starting to kill him. The guys in the locker room were afraid to work with him because they never knew what condition he would be in. Bookers would suggest Randall “retire” so he can go to rehab. However, the more downtime Randall would be given, the more he indulged.
By 2010, Randall was all but finished. Bloated from the booze, mentally unstable, his in-ring work suffered greatly until he was forced into a treatment facility in California, where he met Kathryn. Kathryn was doing an internship at the facility, and while she would tell you she was attracted to Randall at the beginning, Randall wasn’t too quick to reciprocate. It took Kathryn’s intervention into a suicide attempt that finally woke Randall up. Since then, they have been inseparable. Randall eventually went back to work, until injuries plagued him and he walked away from the business forever.
Randall would use his money from wrestling and open a live music bar in downtown Ottawa, his hometown. Randall’s Roadhouse. Seemingly happy with his lesser fame booking both local and international acts to perform on his stage, five words would change everything.
“I want to go back.”
The scene opens in the home of Randall and Kathryn Kash. Randall is in the bedroom, rifling through his closet. Kathryn has just come out of the shower, her hair and body wrapped in white towels. Randall looks at some of his old wrestling gear, and smirks.
“But why?”
Kathryn sits down on the corner of the bed, frustrated.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“I definitely won’t understand if you don’t explain it.”
You remember that bit about her temper I alluded to earlier? This is how it starts, with sarcasm. Randall knows it’s coming, and knows not to dismiss it. He sighs.
“I miss the roar of the crowd, stepping through that curtain, knowing I am going to go out and put on a physical show in front of thousands of screaming fans.”
“You get that at the Roadhouse.”
Randall is starting to get agitated as well, like he’s feeling like he needs to ask permission. It’s never been his way, why start now?
“It’s not the same, Kat, and you know it. I hit that gym on a daily basis, getting myself in shape… did you know they told me recently I am in the best shape I have ever been? I’ve recuperated from the surgeries, bounced back better than ever. And yet, night after night, I go out on a different kind of stage and host music. Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do, but I miss the road.”
Kathryn looks at Randall, and she can see that look in his eye. The look of the Black Wolf. Cold, calculating, bloodthirsty.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to make a few calls. I’m not going to go back and work with Greg Anthony again, we both know how much that took out of me, I want something new, a completely different challenge. If nothing stirs up my juices, then I won’t do it. We’re obviously not in need of money, so I don’t need the paycheck.”
Kathryn walks up behind Randall as he continues to stare into his closet, puts her arms around his waist and kisses his shoulder.
“I just worry about you, is all. You know I would never stop you from doing what you wanted, nor would I want to. Go let the wolf out.”
*****
“Randall Kash, line 2”
Meet Nicolas Sharp, Randall’s agent of the last five years. Found at the brink of bankruptcy and foreclosure, Randall gave Sharp a deal he couldn’t refuse. Randall would pay off Sharp’s debts if he became Sharp’s sole client, and it’s paid off dividends. What started with wrestling contracts became brokering musical acts for the Roadhouse. Sharp became agent, accountant, and manager, and is paid very well for his services. So when Randall comes a-calling…
“What’s up, boss?”
“I need a favor, Nicky.”
“You know you can count on me.”
“I know, I know. Listen, I want you to look into wrestling stuff for me. I think I’m ready for another run.”
“You sure? What does K think about it?”
“She doesn’t like it, but she also knows she can’t stop me.”
“Well, I DO have something. I was sitting on it because I wasn’t sure how you would take the thought of me keeping your wrestling opportunities open. It’s something called War XIII”
“Sounds… interesting.”
“Sounded like something up your alley. Big battle royal type of deal. Look at it as taking on everyone all at once.”
“What’s the competition like?”
“Let me say this. I’ve seen you in your prime, taking on the Nick Kellys and the Eddie Stitchards, and based on what I’ve seen from some of the other potential contenders, it’ll be a challenge. I’m not going to lie.”
“That good, huh?”
“It’d be safe to say there is a wide gambit of talent and athleticism. I think you’d have your work cut out for you.”
“I like it. Thanks.”
Randall turns around to find Kathryn standing in the doorway, a pained look on her face.
“When are you leaving?”
*****
I’ve heard it said that war, like charity, begins at home. I can relate to that. I’ve had a rough life, and I’ll admit it’s shaped who I am. Abusive father, neglectful mother, I was a sheltered child until I left school. While most kids skipped school to go anywhere, I went to school so I wouldn’t be home. I didn’t study much, but I liked the safe haven I had for 7-8 hours a day. And girls? Yeah, didn’t do well in that department either, not for a long time. I wasn’t very social then, not much different than now. So, what changed me?
Grunge.
Nirvana.
Alice In Chains.
Soundgarden.
Mother Love Bone.
Pearl Jam.
It was the cumulative sound of an oppressed youth screaming back. All of a sudden, we were armed. We became our own army, decked out in plaid shirts, Doc Martens, and ripped jeans. Our rifles were detuned guitars. And I traded all of that in for battle fatigues, rucksacks, and a McMillan TAC-50.
(Yes, yes, tell them about the war, Randall.)
Due to an unusually high accuracy rate, I was sent to Afghanistan as a sniper in 1991; just barely out of high school, dropped into a foreign land, miles from home. I was in the middle of a war zone and was calmer and more content than I had ever been to that point. I watched men… actual men, years older than I with many more years of experience, show true fear and become overwhelmed. Some even killed themselves because they couldn’t handle where they were. I can see why. Never knowing if the next bullet or bomb has you in its sights, seeing people lose limbs and lives around you. And yet, none of that phased me. It actually made me... smile.
When I returned home a year later, I didn’t have a home. My parents had disowned me, tossing all of my possessions out and systematically removing me from their lives and memories. I went on a path of self-destruction, and ultimately reconstruction. I lost complete years of my life submerged in alcohol and drugs. While I was overseas, I had a friend invest the last of my money in whatever he chose. I was gambling on not coming back. I would gamble a lot as you’ll soon learn. When I returned, I’d made a lot of money, I won’t divulge how much, but it’s safe to say I could have lived off it comfortably the rest of my life… had I not drank, snorted or injected it away.
(And how you found ME, Randall. Come on, you know you want to let me out…)
After a five-year adventure of inviting death to every party, and him no-showing, I figured maybe I should do something different. So I started training. Now, you can see I’m not a chiseled Adonis, that’s never been my thing. But I can look at myself in a mirror and see the work I put in to get myself in my best shape. Hell, I even still drink… a lot. It don’t hurt nobody except myself, I guess, but that’s what I do.
Now, I’d always been a wrestling fan growing up, hell thought it was cool when I first saw Randy Savage. I thought it was great that there was somebody with my name on television kicking ass with a beautiful woman by his side. I decided then that’s what I wanted to do. Be a wrestler like Randy Savage, and have a beautiful woman like Elizabeth. Hell, I wanted Liz. Who didn’t?
(If I have to stay in this cage any longer, I will fucking bite you. Why are you doing this to me?!)
So, years later I’m training, I’m getting size, getting cut, money’s winding down a little… I need a job. So what does an alcoholic ex-military jacked-up sociopath do? He becomes a bouncer at a high-end establishment. I can’t get into too many specifics of the job; I signed a nondisclosure agreement and I also still do the occasional higher-end events. I’m really good at what I do which is why 15 years after I left, they welcomed me back eagerly.
One night back in the late 90s, I get approached by a shady-looking guy and get asked if I had considered getting into professional wrestling. I laughed it off at first because I didn’t think the guy was serious. Within 6 months, I left my bouncing gig, had toured the world with the Immortal Wrestling Guild and stood on top of that company as its World Champion. I took to the sport very quickly, and had and still have a high pain threshold. My wrestling career spanned many different companies, with variable success. I won’t sit here and tell you I’m unbeatable. Nobody’s unbeatable, everybody has a weakness, and anybody who tells you different is a liar. You just might have to work really hard to find mine.
(Ugh, you’ve gone soft. Step the fuck aside and let the people see who you REALLY are.)
So the question becomes… with the life I had, the career I had, with all my accomplishments, why come back to the sport? The easy answer is… I miss it. I miss the roar of the crowd, I miss the electricity in the air, the organized chaos in the locker room, the adrenaline from the other wrestlers. Every person in this match, in this company, is here for that very reason. We’re a different breed, and this business… this is our playground.
(Just because the people watching you can’t see it, you’re slipping. I’m almost out…)
MOVE THE FUCK OVER AND LET ME DO THE TALKING!
SOOOOOOOOOooooooo… as Baldy was trying to say is that when it comes to war, I’ve been at fucking war ALL… MY FUCKING… LIFE! I bet there aren’t many of you who has seen what true war looks like. Save the tears for 9/11 shit, I’m talking REAL war. Have you ever been on a battlefield? NO! Have you ever looked down a barrel of a rifle, had a target in your sights, and it WASN’T a fucking video game? NO! I HAVE… and I loved it. Fucking Baldy’s talking about being calm and content… BULLSHIT! I was bouncing like a 4-year-old kid on Christmas Day, and fucking ECSTATIC every time a bullet hit its mark, every time a bomb landed on a fucking school. You couldn’t CHISEL the fucking smile off my face!
As for that glossed-over “five-year adventure”, what Baldy was trying to avoid was the fact that while he was jacked up on whatever he could find, he was also taking out people for money. The money was great, the chicks were fine, the heroin was pure, and life was fucing great… until he was arrested. Gotta love the lawyer he got, they blamed it on post-traumatic stress disorder, spent 12 months in hospital doing shit tons of tests, they found him crazy, puts him on meds, and no longer considered him cured. Hey Baldy, you’re fucking welcome for that!
Seeing as I’m calling BULLSHIT on things, let’s go to the bouncing gig. To hear Randy tell it, he was a big cheese in some fancy club. Guy fucking started as a fucking janitor, cleaning puke. It wasn’t until a fight happened to break out that ol’ Randy stepped in, and it was THEN he became ONE of the bouncers. Sure, fine, he ended up the head bouncer there, and yeah, they call him back for large parties and shit, but it wasn’t all glammed up like you would think.
So what does all of this have to do with this match I came back for? Fact is, boys and girls and those who may not be sure… that’d be you, Logan, don’t want your androgynous ass left out here… hell, he might be somebody important, who the fuck knows or cares, I just go by what I hear. Hell, there was even some bitch running his mouth about how people should be focussed on his talent, because apparently COCKSUCKING is a talent in wrestling. Thank you Pat Fucking Patterson. The point I’m trying to make here, kids, is that just being in this match has me pumped up. I get to walk into a match and tear people apart. If that gets me another World Title shot in another wrestling company, so be it, I always have room for another championship. If I don’t win, I’ll have made my mark… even if it’s only on the side of some fuckers’ heads.
Now, before anybody tries to use it to their advantage, yeah, I’m probably the oldest guy in this match. Wait… wait… I just got word they are rolling Gravedigger out for this match. Phew, thought I’d be the old fart in this match. Gravedigger’s the only one I know who was around when dirt was invented. Folks, for the love of Me, I’m BEGGING you to try your luck. I want you to look at me as a “minor inconvenience”, “past my prime”, a “pushover”. I triple-dog dare you.
I look at the people who have already stepped up to the plate, had a little something they needed to get off their chest. Some of these guys… kids, really, should really move along and let the big boys play. Kaz, one word, Ritalin. GD, I won’t begrudge your age, hell I’m sure you and I would agree there are a lot of these young punks that deserve an ass-whipping, send them home to their mamas. I respect you, but you have to understand I’m not in this business to be in 2nd place, so I’ll be going through you any way I have to.
You SEE, kids, I’m going to give you a little free advice. ALWAYS take the biggest dog out, the rest of the mutts run away. Now, as much as there are a FEW guys in WCF who claim to be the “big dogs”, it gets even easier. See, you let them all duke it out, let all of those egos fly, then you step in, pick your moments, and when the dust settles, you’re standing tall and the rest are out. So, while you kids would look at current champs like Jay Omega or Chelsea Armstrong, I see nothing but opportunists who played the game to their advantage. Bravo, you two. Now step aside, it’d be in your best interests. OR you can doubt me and I’ll knock your ass out, your choice. In fact, even you two aren’t my focus. Not even the stupid ass who memorized clips of Wars of Humanity from the fucking History Channel; Smokehouse Joe, Joe the Plumber, Joe the Asshat, whatever the dumb fuck's name is, is in my crosshairs. Corey Black, step aside. I get you’re a medical miracle, brain-dead people should actually BE dead, yet unfortunately here you are thinking you’re somebody. You're not in my crosshairs. Hell, if it wasn't for the fact somebody slipped me $20 before I started this promo to say what I did about you, I wouldn't even know who the fuck you are, nor care.
No, if I want the biggest dog in WCF, there is only one person. And, kids, it isn’t because he’s really all that good; it’s in his contract that he has to win. He’s the Hogan of WCF, and I’m talking of course about Jonny Fly. I mean, really, look at that smug motherfucker and tell me you don’t want to knock the damn chicklets from his mouth with a rusty pair of pliers… one at a time. Fuck it, just rip them out with my bare hands, much more fun. That face that says he is completely bored with everyone who has said they will beat him and comes up short. That smirk that tells me he drank the fucking Koolaid of his own hype. Well, guess what fairy britches, you’re done. LOOK AT ME WHEN I TALK TO YOU, YOU LITTLE FUCK! Whether I win or lose, I want to see the Mighty Jonny Fruit Fly taken down, taken out. Hell, I don’t even have anything against you, except for the fact that I think you are a talentless fuck who probably got ahead solely from behind-the-scenes dealings, and honestly, I simply don’t like your face. So yeah, out you go.
As for the rest of you, really, give up now. You’ll be wasting your time, your energy, and frankly, I ain’t paying for everyone’s hospital bills. I’m coming armed, I’m coming in hot. I’m going to War, and you’re ALL… the enemy.
