Post by FPV on Oct 9, 2016 13:39:16 GMT -5
FPV PROMO #3: Don't Drink The Kool-Aid
It wasn't good enough.
Here I was, having made it to the final 8 in the WAR match, a spot most other people in the locker room would've killed for. Surely that should've been enough to put these new guys on notice, right? While Jeff Purse and Sarah Twilight went out there and continued their collective tour of disappointing the WCF Galaxy, I went out there and immediately hit three people with a Headshot: Odin Balfore, Kevin Bishop, and Jay Omega. I wasn't fucking around that night. Not even the surprise Roy Speede return was enough to deter me, and I ended the night with three eliminations and an hour and forty-nine minutes in the match. Only three people got more eliminations then I did. Surely that would have been enough to satisfy me, right?
It wasn't. Not by a long shot.
Was it the fact the two of my eliminations were handed to me on a silver platter? Was it that my elimination was just one step in Odin Balfore's road to the elimination record? Or was it just the fact that there was seven other men that people can now point and say "were better then me"?
Personally I don't give a damn what the answer was. The conclusion was the same. My performance wasn't up to my standards. It might seem silly to say, placing as high as I did, but even then, I know I could've done better. It would be the same if I had made the final four, I would be telling myself "If only you could've survived just a little bit longer and gotten runner up." It was just my nature.
After a few minutes sitting back in the locker room, and having changed out of my wrestling gear and back into the jeans and hoodie I came into the building with, I got up and started looking around the Gorilla Position, eventually finding Hank Brown, doing his part to make sure everything was going as planned.
It wasn't good enough.
Here I was, having made it to the final 8 in the WAR match, a spot most other people in the locker room would've killed for. Surely that should've been enough to put these new guys on notice, right? While Jeff Purse and Sarah Twilight went out there and continued their collective tour of disappointing the WCF Galaxy, I went out there and immediately hit three people with a Headshot: Odin Balfore, Kevin Bishop, and Jay Omega. I wasn't fucking around that night. Not even the surprise Roy Speede return was enough to deter me, and I ended the night with three eliminations and an hour and forty-nine minutes in the match. Only three people got more eliminations then I did. Surely that would have been enough to satisfy me, right?
It wasn't. Not by a long shot.
Was it the fact the two of my eliminations were handed to me on a silver platter? Was it that my elimination was just one step in Odin Balfore's road to the elimination record? Or was it just the fact that there was seven other men that people can now point and say "were better then me"?
Personally I don't give a damn what the answer was. The conclusion was the same. My performance wasn't up to my standards. It might seem silly to say, placing as high as I did, but even then, I know I could've done better. It would be the same if I had made the final four, I would be telling myself "If only you could've survived just a little bit longer and gotten runner up." It was just my nature.
After a few minutes sitting back in the locker room, and having changed out of my wrestling gear and back into the jeans and hoodie I came into the building with, I got up and started looking around the Gorilla Position, eventually finding Hank Brown, doing his part to make sure everything was going as planned.
FPV: Hank, where's Seth?
Hank Brown: Shit, probably icing his chin down in his office after that Headshot you gave him.
FPV: Good.
And without saying anything else I walked off, looking for the aforementioned office. Hank tried to call something out to me, but I didn't pay it any attention. I was too focused on the task at hand. After a few minutes of looking around, I found it. Plain ole' door halfway opened to where I could hear inside. There wasn't any type of sign to indicate it was Seth's office, but judging by his pained voice inside I could tell this was it. I pushed the door open all the way and stepped inside. Hank was right, my Headshot must've done a number on poor ole' Seth. He was clutching his jaw in agony, and when he laid his eyes on me it was like he had seen a ghost.
Seth: What the fuck do you want Venable? You better not be here to hold me up for money Jarrett-style. You've already caused me enough pain tonight.
FPV: No Seth, I want a full-time contract. I'm back for good.
I must've caught him by surprise, because he didn't say anything else for a good few seconds. He just stared at me curiously.
Seth: ...really? I only had you down for a one time only appearance, why the change of heart?
FPV: Lemme put it to you like this, Seth. Imagine you're in my shoes, and WAR XV ends up for one reason or another becoming the final WCF event you ever appear in. Think about the performance I put in there, do you think that that's a performance worthy enough to retire on?
Seth: I mean, you did pretty good all things considered.
FPV: Well "pretty good" isn't good enough for me. I need to do better, I ALWAYS need to do better, and with this roster we got right now, I think I can pull it off.
Seth let out a long sigh. I could sense he wasn't going to enjoy having me on the roster again, but knew I could draw a crowd.
Seth: Okay Frank. We'll get a contract set up once the PPV goes off the air, once everyone's calmed down.
FPV: Good. And I have one more request, if you don't mind.
Seth's exasperation changed to annoyance. With as quick as I was starting to get under his skin, I might has well have been holding him up for money.
Seth: Where do you think you're getting off, telling me all of a sudden what to do? You may be a vet, I can't deny that, but after we get this contract signed you're going to be my employee, and you do what I tell you to do or else I pink slip your ass without a second thought.
FPV: I get that Seth, I really do. But don't think that after all the times you've screwed me over, what with sticking me right at number one at WAR all those years ago, to turning on me when it was apparent the DoT was going to collapse, don't you think it's time I get to have my way every now and again? Huh?
An awkward silence.
Seth: Fine. What do you want?
FPV: I want Kevin Bishop the Slam after WAR.
Seth: If you think I'm gonna give you an immediate title shot you've got another thing coming. I can do a non-title match, but nothing more.
FPV: That's fine. I'll happily earn my title shot after I break Bishop's undefeated streak.
He scoffed, then nodded. He probably thought my chances with Bishop were slim.
Seth: Good luck with that, babygurl.
I cannot for the life of me tell you why, but just the simple use of that stupid word "babygurl" brought back hazy memories, memories of hot dogs and people dressed in drag. Memories that were better left untouched. I could've said something back, but I chose to just smile at him.
FPV: Thanks. I'll be back to sign this bitch.
No more words were exchanged as I stepped out of Seth's office. Once I was out of earshot though, I muttered something under my breath.
FPV: Boudle.
The renovations were all coming along rather nicely. My first order of business was to remove the giant gaudy "T o T" letters from above the windows. How anyone was ever able to convince me that shit looked good I'll never know. The green letters would probably be replaced with a more sensible sign advertising "Frank Patrick Venable's as of right now unnamed Coffee Shop." I've never been a creative one for names, as the old ToT Nightclub can attest. I told myself I'd think of something clever soon enough.
I was inside, amongst the clean up crew who were balls deep into the demo process. Everything that I didn't want in this new establishment was going right to a burn pile somewhere. As the crew of about 7 or so people took care of that, I was rummaging through some boxes I had gotten out of storage of some old memorabilia. I needed something to decorate the walls that would set this new place apart, and it was better then letting this stuff just sit and collect dust. Some old pictures and knick-knacks. I already put all my replica WCF belts on the wall right behind the main counter area where the bar used to be. My two Tag titles at the bottom, the two U.S titles on top, the two People's Titles on top of those, and at the very top my one World Title. Looked real nice. Better then I could've hoped for.
I went through picture after picture in the box, trying to decide which ones to ram and hang up. The pile of pics I already decided to use included one of me in my WCF debut in Baton Rouge, a picture of my match against Phillip Baines (a loss that still haunts me to this day) and an action shot of me giving some poor jobber a Headshot. Yet as I continued going through these pictures, I started getting more pictures during my time in different stables. One of me and The Team of Treachery standing tall on Slam, one of me just barely keeping the DoT together, a nice big group shot of me, Roy Speede, Steve Orbit, Waylon Cash and Sarah Twilight backstage as Genesis. Of those four, Sarah was now a bitter, washed up enemy of mine, Cash went crazy on some cocaine binges, and Roy and Steve were only around every now and again.
I had spent long enough reminiscing on this picture, I flipped it back down only to find another group photo, this one of Cryogenix, the stable that lasted only two weeks or so. Myself, Corey Black, Polar Phantasm, Jeff Purse, Steve Orbit and Jayson Price. To see Corey and Jayson this past Sunday take all the respect I had for them and throw it out the window for one more attempt at a glorious Pantheon run, it just made me sad. Jayson realizing his inner demons and checking himself into rehab, only to come back on a whim just as fucked up as ever was honestly pathetic. And Corey, in the middle of probably his hottest run in ages, to just go back on everything he said about the previous Pantheon...jesus, man. Then looking at Purse, seeing the shape he's in with his wife and kid and how much turmoil he was putting on his family by continuing to step into the ring, the thought crossed my mind to call him up and try to convince him just to give it up for good. And Polar...shit, I still have no idea where he disappeared to this time. The one guy I could probably legit call my best friend in this business, and every time I try to hype a return with him he just fucks off somewhere else. So much for the WCF dream team this was supposed to be. I still have "C4" tattooed on my body. I should probably consider getting that thing removed.
I looked at one last picture, and this one hurt the most. It was from the 2012 edition of Blast, the night I won my first and so far only World Title. I was so proud of myself that night. All my years of hard work in this business, finally paid off. Yet surrounding me in the shot are Logan, Seth Lerch and Gravedigger. My biggest accomplishment ever, and it was over shadowed by petty stable bullshit. I sighed, and as I looked over to the WCF World Championship belt hanging on the wall above all my other titles, I made an emphatic statement about these wrestling stables.
I was inside, amongst the clean up crew who were balls deep into the demo process. Everything that I didn't want in this new establishment was going right to a burn pile somewhere. As the crew of about 7 or so people took care of that, I was rummaging through some boxes I had gotten out of storage of some old memorabilia. I needed something to decorate the walls that would set this new place apart, and it was better then letting this stuff just sit and collect dust. Some old pictures and knick-knacks. I already put all my replica WCF belts on the wall right behind the main counter area where the bar used to be. My two Tag titles at the bottom, the two U.S titles on top, the two People's Titles on top of those, and at the very top my one World Title. Looked real nice. Better then I could've hoped for.
I went through picture after picture in the box, trying to decide which ones to ram and hang up. The pile of pics I already decided to use included one of me in my WCF debut in Baton Rouge, a picture of my match against Phillip Baines (a loss that still haunts me to this day) and an action shot of me giving some poor jobber a Headshot. Yet as I continued going through these pictures, I started getting more pictures during my time in different stables. One of me and The Team of Treachery standing tall on Slam, one of me just barely keeping the DoT together, a nice big group shot of me, Roy Speede, Steve Orbit, Waylon Cash and Sarah Twilight backstage as Genesis. Of those four, Sarah was now a bitter, washed up enemy of mine, Cash went crazy on some cocaine binges, and Roy and Steve were only around every now and again.
I had spent long enough reminiscing on this picture, I flipped it back down only to find another group photo, this one of Cryogenix, the stable that lasted only two weeks or so. Myself, Corey Black, Polar Phantasm, Jeff Purse, Steve Orbit and Jayson Price. To see Corey and Jayson this past Sunday take all the respect I had for them and throw it out the window for one more attempt at a glorious Pantheon run, it just made me sad. Jayson realizing his inner demons and checking himself into rehab, only to come back on a whim just as fucked up as ever was honestly pathetic. And Corey, in the middle of probably his hottest run in ages, to just go back on everything he said about the previous Pantheon...jesus, man. Then looking at Purse, seeing the shape he's in with his wife and kid and how much turmoil he was putting on his family by continuing to step into the ring, the thought crossed my mind to call him up and try to convince him just to give it up for good. And Polar...shit, I still have no idea where he disappeared to this time. The one guy I could probably legit call my best friend in this business, and every time I try to hype a return with him he just fucks off somewhere else. So much for the WCF dream team this was supposed to be. I still have "C4" tattooed on my body. I should probably consider getting that thing removed.
I looked at one last picture, and this one hurt the most. It was from the 2012 edition of Blast, the night I won my first and so far only World Title. I was so proud of myself that night. All my years of hard work in this business, finally paid off. Yet surrounding me in the shot are Logan, Seth Lerch and Gravedigger. My biggest accomplishment ever, and it was over shadowed by petty stable bullshit. I sighed, and as I looked over to the WCF World Championship belt hanging on the wall above all my other titles, I made an emphatic statement about these wrestling stables.
FPV: Never again.
Kool Aid has never been my drink of choice. Perhaps I was always just enamored by other sorts of drinks, like Coca-Cola, Pepsi, and eventually energy drinks like Red Bull and (my beloved) Monster energy. Or perhaps it was because of it's connotations with the 1978 Jonestown massacre. Either way, drinking it down in the inner sanctum, sprawled out on the couch and relaxed, I knew it wasn't going to be anything I'd drink on a regular basis. I quickly finished the drink off just to have it gone, and laid the empty cup down on the end table to my side. This wasn't the most orthodox start to any wrestling shoot, but in this context it worked.
FPV: November 1978. Guyana, South America. There was a man named Jim Jones. A very charismatic man, so charismatic in fact, that he cultivated a group of people to this out of the way place in South America under the pretense of religion and other activities. Called themselves The People's Temple of the Disciples of Christ. Now Jim did fairly well as the leader of these people, until he got word a few of them had begun to leave what people began to call "Jonestown." So in perhaps the biggest overreaction in mankind history, Jim Jones decided to lace a Kool-Aid like soft drink mix with a bunch of wonderful things, like Valium, choral hydrate, Phenergan, and of course, cyanide. He mixed it up and told his flock to drink it. What happened at that pace in 1978 was the single greatest deliberate loss of American life before the 9/11 attacks.
All because some whack job told some people to drink Kool-Aid.
Which brings me to a man I've been interacting with on a more regular basis every day, it seems. Kevin Bishop. Y'know Kevin, all those times I've praised you for your in-ring work, it comes right from the heart. By separating the in ring technician from the man outside the ring, I see nothing but pure ability. And I'm sure if asked you'd say the same about me. But let's forget all of that for a minute, shall we. Let's bring this down to something that troubles me deeply. The Brotherhood.
I'm not surprised at all someone like yourself would start a stable, Kevin. After all, how's a man like yourself supposed to change the world if he doesn't have a few good lackeys by his side to aid him. And what a selection you've gotten yourself. Damian Kaine, Dion Necurat, Psychopomp. All superstars on the rise. Great little batch for you to absolutely bury, no?
Y'see Kevin, I'm no stranger to these stables that pop up in the WCF. I've been in four of them myself. And lemme tell you right now Kev, it ain't gonna end well. You honestly think you're helping these guys out, do you? You think that by asssociating these guys with yourself, that you're going to elevate them to new heights. How fucking wrong you are, my friend. Cause when the casual fan will think of the Brotherhood, they're gonna think "Oh, that's Bishop and his cronies." Not "Oh, that Bishop, Pomp, Dion and Damian, what a great team they are!" The Brotherhood is first and formost a Kevin Bishop exhibition and nothing more. Just a title to add to your resume.
Let's think of something recent to help drive this point home, shall we? Beach Krewe. What a fucking shitty little stable those guys were. In that group, there was a plain as fucking day hierarchy. Guys like Jared Holmes? Wade Moor? Johnny Rabid? They all got preferential treatment. Now look at the guys that were always on the periphery. Kyle Kemp. Dustin Beaver. John Gable. Oblivion. See all the good being in Beach Krewe did to their careers? Shit, joining the Krewe fuckin killed all of Kyle Kemp's momentum. When he joined there was a buzz about him. As soon as he joined up, and ESPECIALLY when Jared basically told him to job out to him, all of that momentum went right down the fucking toilet. Now he isn't even in the fed anymore, go figure.
What you've essentially done is recruit three Kyle Kemp's to do all of your bidding. Which pains me even more when I look at those guys and realize what legit great guys they all are. Damian helping get his old friend that position as WCF Podcaster, not to mention fucking EVERYTHING Dion has done to help his mother following their motor accident. These guys deserve SO MUCH MORE then what they'll get in The Brotherhood.
And what will happen when one of them fucks up? Let's say Psychopomp forgets to tag in during a crucial Trios title defense (assuming you guys even when that belt.) What if Damian is getting fucking pummeled in the ring while Dion is knocked out on the outside. He's gotta make the tag to Damian, but he gets distracted by something shiny in the crowd and costs you guys the match. What are you gonna do, Kevin? Force feed them the Kool-Aid like Jim Jones? Are you going to be that shitty of a person? Considering some of the things you've said in private to The Brotherhood I wouldn't be surprised.
I'm sorry I'm talking about this at length so much Kevin, I know how much you hate it when people call out your actions for what they are. I understand you're not as much of a vet as I am, and you haven't become as jaded as I have to the idea of stables. But here's something you may not know about me. All these stables that have popped up since 2012? You wanna know why the WCF suddenly became so stable heavy during that time? It was all because of ME. If I hadn't convinced Logan to reform the ToT, there would BE NO PANTHEON. There would be NO BEACH KREWE. There would BE NO ZERO TOLERANCE. And there sure as hell wouldn't be no BROTHERHOOD. All of these groups, in one way or another, are my doing. I'm The Catalyst of all of this. And every day a new stable pops up, I wonder if it was all worth it.
How bout we get down to the nitty gritty, Kevin? Let's get to the ring where shit really matters, huh? There's a reason I asked Seth for this match on Sunday. It's no secret that now that my plans to main event One have been foiled, that I'm gonna gun for that People's Title draped across your shoulder. I've talked at length about how much that title means to me, and to have the honor of becoming the first man to hold it three times would send me over the moon. Think about it, Torture hasn't held it three times. Jayson Price hasn't held it three times. Alex Richards hasn't held it three times. But right now, I have the opportunity to do what those three amazing competitors (well, TWO great competitors) couldn't do.
It won't be an easy task, though. Standing between me and that belt is a well earned undefeated 7-0 singles record. But that's not a problem for me. Cause Kevin, if you're any REAL champion of the People, then surely you've heard of a man named Steeltoe Joe, he's a man I know all too well. You see, before there was Scarecrow, before there was Teo Del Sol, there was Steeltoe Joe. The man won the People's Title on January 27th, 2013 and held onto it till fucking AUGUST 25TH. That's almost SEVEN MONTHS. He was the first man to hold onto that belt for an epic amount of time, and week in and week out people asked "Who will be the one to end this man's reign? Who can stop STJ?"
You're fucking looking at him right now.
I took on STJ at Revenge 2013 for that belt. He thought he had when he got me ready for the Steel Mill, but I got the better of him, hit him with dat "BOOOOOOM! HEADSHOT! and laid him out for the one, the two, and the goddamned three. And when that bell rang, all you could hear in the arena were "FRANKY!" chants.
In my head, right at that moment, the sounds of those deafening chants came back to me.
Crowd: FRANKY! FRANKY! FRANKY!! FRANKY!!!
I smile at the thought, before getting back to business.
FPV: Seven months that man held the belt, and in three seconds I toppled him once and for all. I put in the work to take him on, and I succeeded beyond everyone's expectations. I was the man who definitively ended that man's reign. Let's look at how you ended Teo's even longer reign. You can't in good faith say you "ended" Teo's reign. No, the reason you have that belt is because Teddy Blaze fucking allowed you to have that belt. You didn't beat him, shit HE PINNED YOU AND YOU WON HIS BELT. Logic gets fucked up sometimes in the WCF and this time was DEFINITELY one of them. You got lucky. I could call your entire reign a sham if I wanted to.
But there's no point in thinking about that any further. Here's the real issue, I'm face to face with a guy who's 7-o in singles matches. No one can take that accolade away from you. But listen here Kevin, if I can end the reign of a man who held the belt for seven months, imagine how easy it will be for me to end a simple month and a half streak of wins. It's happened before, and at Slam this week...
...it'll fuckin happen again.
(Epilogue: Somewhere in Seattle)
In a messy as all hell apartment in Seattle, a man was flipping through the channels on his TV. Over five hundred fucking channels and nothing good to watch. This was all he could really do. It's not like he could go outside and exercise. The fact that his ass was firmly planted in that wheelchair of his made sure of it.
After his finger got tired of holding down the up button, the man finally stopped flipping, and landed right on a sports network, which was running a news story on WCF WAR XV. And among the superstars featured in the segment, was one Frank Patrick Venable.
And at that moment, a silent rage overtook the man in the wheelchair.
