Post by Dean Wolf on Nov 25, 2018 6:56:38 GMT -5
WCF Studios
November 23, 2018
DW Wolf is standing in front of a blue backdrop, waiting to record a promo for this Monday’s match against Kennedy Matthews. Production people walk around him, getting everything ready for the shoot. A woman walks over to him and tries to apply some make-up, but he shoos her away.
Producer: Alright, everybody! Let’s get this thing going! DW, make sure you’re standing on the “x” when he start rolling.
Wolf rolls his eyes but does what’s requested of him. He looks down at the “x” made out of duct tape on the ground and stands right on it. This is the last place he wants to be right now. The only thing he could really think about for the last few weeks was his Dad telling him that he was dead to him. It was on his mind 24 hours a day, and since he was a loner and didn’t get out much (except to wrestle), he had nothing to distract him from those horrible words. Even wrestling couldn’t get him out of his funk long enough to forget.
It didn’t help that recent events in the WCF were pissing him off. Scott Slayer showed him no respect when he slapped Wolf across the face after Wolf offered his hand in the spirit of sportsmanship. Then, in the ensuing brawl, Slayer threw ring steps at Wolf, which dinged him in the finger. After he and Slayer were pulled apart, Wolf had X-rays done by the WCF medical staff, which concluded that steps caused the pointer finger on his right hand to be fractured.
The week after that, Slayer caused Wolf to lose his Infinity Stone to Kennedy Matthews. If that wasn’t bad enough, the Royally Slayed couple beat on him after the match. They may have put him out for a few weeks if it hadn’t been for Teo Blaze.
Not even beating James Wolf at Helloween cheered him up or gave him any source of relief from the concerns of his personal life.
His dad was good at cutting people with his words, and Wolf couldn’t shake the last thing his dad said to him.
Now he had to stand in a television studio and deal with production people who were telling him to do this and that and taking their sweet ass time getting everything ready so that he could sell his tag match against Kennedy Matthews and Scott Slayer. He just wanted to come in, say a few things on camera, and leave. He didn’t want to have to deal with all this bullshit.
Producer: You okay Wolf?
Wolf was wearing his distress all over his face. He couldn’t hide it. He was never good at that. It also annoyed him when people pointed it out.
DW Wolf: Yeah, just start rolling.
Producer: Well, I think we’re ready. Alright, everyone! We’re starting! Quiet on the set! Here we go. In 5, 4, 3…
He holds up two fingers, then one, and finally points at Wolf.
DW Wolf: You know, Scott Slayer, I just...
His mind wasn’t into this promo.
DW Wolf: Can we start over?
Producer: Yeah, yeah. No problem.
He counts down Wolf again.
DW Wolf: Slayer and Matthews, I’ve been…
He angrily sighs.
Jesus fucking Christ. Why is this so fucking hard? It’s a fucking promo! All I have to do is tell Slayer and Matthews that I’m going to kick their asses!
Producer: Wolf, you sure you’re alright?
No.
DW Wolf: I told you that I was. I just need to stop stumbling over my fucking words. Count me down again.
The producer counts him down.
DW Wolf: Kennedy…
In addition to being stressed out about his personal life, he’s now stressed out over this promo. He puts his hands on his hips and slowly paces in a circle trying to collect himself.
Come on. Just get this fucking over with!
Producer: Hey, Wolf…
DW Wolf: If you fucking ask me one more time if I’m alright, I’m going to knock you the fuck out!
Everybody in the studio stands frozen in fear. It was just like the time he clotheslines Zach Davis at the end of an interview. It pissed Wolf off that everyone was looking at him trepidatiously. He was really trying hard to be a different person. He didn’t want to be in a bad mood all the time. He didn’t want to lash out at people anymore. Those were things his dad did, and the more Wolf thought about it, the more he came to realize that he didn’t just take on those traits when he decided to stop taking people’s shit in high school. These were traits that he inherited from his father. The transformation he went thought in high school just augmented these faults in his character. In this moment, he wanted to be intimidating, but to psych out his opponent, not scare the production people who were just trying to get his intensity across to the viewer at home.
Wolf collected himself one more time before looking up at the producer who was now on the verge of shitting his pants.
DW Wolf: Count me down again.
Producer: Y-you got it. 5…
Fucking Dad being a prick. I just wanted to try and make things right and he fucking says that shit to me.
4…
Then I got dickhead Scott Slayer fucking disrespecting me on TV.
3…
Then he costs me the Torture Stone.
The producer holds up two fingers.
And I’ve got to deal with all these fucking TV people bugging the shit out of me all day.
The producer holds up one finger.
Fuck this fucking whole goddamn world!
Now he was ready to spit fire.
The producer points at him.
DW Wolf: Slayer, you must be the dumbest motherfucker that I’ve ever met in my life. Do you know who I am? Do you know my history? Have you seen what I’ve done in the Sixth Dimension? Have you seen what I’ve done in the WCF? You must not have because if you had, you wouldn’t be doing all the dumb shit you’ve been doing these past two weeks.
This whole thing between you and I didn’t start off as something that was vitriolic. This whole thing started off with me simply saying to you that I wanted you to give me 100% at Payback, because even though I was going to beat you, I wanted to beat you at your best. And even after saying all that, I walked up to you, looked you in the eye, and offered my hand in the spirit of sportsmanship because all I wanted at Payback was a great match out of you.
But you, for some unknown reason, decided that instead of taking the better tact and shaking my hand, you were gonna smack me right across the face. Are you that fucking stupid? Are you that fucking dumb that you thought that that was the right move to make? Son, I’m the Hardcore Champion for a reason. I am the best hardcore wrestler in the WCF right now. I’m one of the best wrestlers period right now; and I didn’t get my title by taking it easy on people. I I got it by beating the shit out of Stephen Singh and hitting him with a clothesline so devastating that it knocked his ass out for the three count. I didn’t have to defend my title against James Wolf, but I kept up my hardcore credentials by running his body into each side of an electrified steel cage and then still cutting him down with The Kill!
If you saw that handshake offer as a sign of weakness, then you read my gesture in the completely wrong way. Now, instead of looking forward to having a competitive match with you, I’m looking forward to just damn near killing you! I don’t want to just fight you anymore. I don’t want to just wrestle you anymore. I want to kill you!
I swear to God, we might not make it to December 3, because in this tag team match that we’ve got upcoming on Slam, I might just kill you. Forget that fact that the TV Title and a bunch of Infinity Stones are on the line. Forget the fact that I would love to not see you holding that TV Title or any of Teo’s stones. I’m motivated by one thing: hurting you.
You talk about being an anarchist, you talk about being a guy who brings chaos to the ring. Son, you don’t know the chaos that you’ve brought upon yourself. You don’t know the Pandora’s box, the can of worms that you have opened up. You don’t know the kind of shit that you have stirred for yourself. You smacked me across the face. You cost me the Torture Stone. What are you going to do next? I would love to know what you have in store next for me. You gonna try to break my neck? You gonna try to end my career totally? You gonna try and take away my livelihood, the thing that keeps me alive? Huh? You gonna try and take food out of my mouth? Is that what you’re trying to do?! Are you trying to take the only thing that I have in life right now?! If that’s the case, I’m not just gonna do the same to you. I’m gonna take your fucking life, too!
And trust me, having that bitch by your side isn’t going to help you either. This whole alliance or relationship or whatever it is you’ve got between you two isn’t going to save you from me. Let me tell you something. Kennedy Matthews got away lucky last week. History will not repeat itself. It’s not gonna repeat itself this week and it won’t repeat itself at Payback. If she decides to step up to me again, I will finish the job that I started in the Torture Stone match. I will hit The Kill on her. I will cut her down. I won’t just throw her into the crowd like I did last week. No, next time, I’ll carry her up to the fucking balcony and throw her off of there, and if there isn’t anything to break her fall, then oh fucking well.
I know you’ve got a hard on for her. I know that me putting my hands on her scares the shit out of you. This Monday in this tag match, I don’t think you’re going to be totally focused. I think you’re worried that I’m going to get my hands on her and totally destroy her. I think that’s going to cause you to be distracted and cause you to not win the TV Title or the Infinity Stones.
And Kennedy, listen. You’ve got my Torture Stone and I commend you for capitalizing on what your boyfriend did to me, but just remember that you didn’t beat me on your own. If you were truly the better competitor on that night, you wouldn’t have needed Slayer to help you. This week, it may just come down to you and me. Slayer might be preoccupied with Teo kicking his ass and you and I will have to stand across the ring from each other. There won’t be any superkick or hook and ladder to stop me. I’m gonna take the leg that you used to stomp my face into the mat and I’m gonna break it. I’m gonna take that arm you used to put me in a facelock and drive my head into the mat for the God Save the Queen and I’m gonna break it. Then what are you gonna do? You’re gonna be half the person that you are. You’re gonna be half a queen.
And let’s talk about that queen bullshit for a second, okay? Nobody dubbed you the queen. You ain’t the queen of nothing yet. You ain’t the queen of the TV Title division anymore. Teo took that crown off of you. You ain’t the queen of the Hardcore division. Only one person rules over that division and that’s me. You and your boyfriend ain’t the monarchs of the tag division. That distinction belongs to The Monstimals. And you certainly ain’t the World Champion. Odin Balfore owns that, which makes him the King of the entire WCF. Considering all that, what the fuck are you the queen of? You’re just the queen of your own mind, and I seriously doubt you have any control over that, too, because you’ve let your mind wander and have all these flights of fancy. You’ve convinced yourself that you’re more special and more important than you are. You’ve convinced yourself that you can have anything you want at any time. You’ve convinced yourself that everyone else should bow down to you.
That’s not how any of this works. Maybe in whatever promotions you wrestled in in England, that’s how you became a success, but here in the WCF, here in AMERICA, you get to the top by working for it. You don’t just get to the top by saying that you’re already there. You actually have to work on getting there. You were on your way. You had success as the TV Champion. If you had the put the same drive towards holding that championship that you put towards dolling yourself up, taking selfies, and brainwashing everyone into thinking that you’re royalty, then maybe you could have held onto it. That didn’t happen, though. You’re head is stuck so far up your bleached asshole that Teo Blaze was able to take advantage and get the TV Title back.
If you truly think that you’re anything more than what you really are, then you have a mental illness and I’m the fucking doctor that’s going to cure you. I’m gonna have to cure your boyfriend, too, because he’s the only person besides yourself that believes you’re anything special. You’re leading him around by his balls and giving him the false impression that you actually give a shit about him. We’ve already established the fact that he’s a dumb fuck and that his preoccupation with you is ultimately going to be his downfall.
You might be able to dupe yourself and Slayer, but you’re looking at one guy that can’t be duped. I don’t bow down to anyone, especially you. I’ve already been down that road. I did bow down and subjugate myself to someone. When I was in the Core Institute, I worshiped the ground that Bernard Core walked on. I tried to model myself after him. I wore the same clothes as him. I regurgitated the same rhetoric as him. I carried out all his policies and all his orders. But what did it all get me in the end? Nothing. I became so wrapped up in his cult of personality that I stopped thinking for myself. I stopped doing what I loved for myself. I could have won the Sixth Dimension Tournament, but I picked up an “L” by forfeiting a match to him because I thought it was the right thing to do. He was the master and I was the servant. He was the king and I was the commoner. I had to sacrifice what was in my best interests for his glory. What did it get me? Nothing. It didn't make me a better wrestler. It didn’t make me a better person. It just made me his slave. I will never go back to being in that position again, which is why I refuse to acknowledge any jurisdiction that you think you have over me or anybody else here in the WCF. The only time I’ll bow if when I’m ducking a slap from you. Then I’ll stand straight up and punch you right the fucking mouth.
This isn’t the Age of Absolutism, Kennedy. You don’t have a divine right to anything. You don’t have a divine right to capture that TV Title. You don’t have a divine right to capture any more Infinity Stones. You have to earn those things. They won’t just be gifted to you, and frankly, neither you nor your boyfriend deserve to hold any of those things. Those things are reserved for people who show respect to this sport and its competitors, and the two of you don’t respect anything. I don’t even think the two of you have respect for each other. You see, Teo Blaze is someone I respect. He’s held the TV Title many times and defended it with honor. I don’t really care about him that much from a personal level, but I do care about champions carrying their gold with pride and I want to see a guy who carries that gold with pride holding on to it. I don’t really want to see it in the grubby little hands of you two fucks. The same goes for the Infinity Stones. The person who ultimately wins all six Stones will get a shot at the World Title, and the person who holds the World Title should be someone who carries it and defends it with honor. Teo can be that guy. I can be that guy. You two? People that slap others in the face? People that say “Bow down to the queen.” No fucking way. You don’t deserve shit.
I’ve got something to gain from this match, too. I could pin you, Kennedy, and get my Torture Stone back, and trust me, in defending Teo and his possessions from you, that just might happen; but whether Teo picks up the pin or I pick up the pin, my priority is stopping you from re-joining the ranks of the champions within this promotion. My priority is stopping Slayer from EVER holding a title within this promotion. I’ll be damned if you think I’m going to let either of you stand beside me as a fellow champion. Odin Balore I’ll stand next to and call him a fellow champion because he’s one of the best that’s ever wrestled in this fucking company. I’ll stand next to The Monstimals because those guys aren’t anyone to fuck around with. They’ve shown that they deserve to hold those titles. I’ll stand next to Teo Blaze because he’s a guy that’s been working hard in this fucking sport for years earning all sorts of accolades. People like to get on him because he hasn’t won the big one yet, but I fucking applaud him for going at it after all this time. I fucking applaud him for reinventing himself. I fucking applaud him making the best out of whatever situation he’s in.
But you two. You’re just a bunch of scumbags. You’re fucking nothing. You’re fucking amateur hour. You may have been good enough to make it to the WCF, but you two are fucking shitheads. If you think I’m going to let any of you walk around here carrying any titles or any more Stones, then you two must be joking. I’d laugh if I wasn’t so fucking angry.
You think you’re tough, Scott Slayer? You think slapping someone across the face when they try to show you respect makes you tough? No, that doesn’t make you tough. What makes you tough is proving yourself in a match in that ring.
Kennedy, you think you’re the queen? All queens fall at some point. The reigns of all monarchs eventually come to an end, even fake monarchs like you. Nobody gets to hold their crown forever. Either someone takes it from you, you collapse under the pressure and abdicate, or you just die. Either way, that fake crown that you have on your head? It ain’t staying there. All monarchs fall, and I’m gonna be the executioner that drops the blade down onto your neck.
You want to talk about Slayed Royally? In the next two weeks, when I knock you both out and leave you laying in a pool of your own blood in the middle of the ring, you two are gonna be Screwed Royally.
That’s when I’ll finally have a fucking laugh.
Wolf walks off camera.
Producer: Um, okay, cut! That was great, DW. If we could tr---
Wolf pushes the door to exit the studio open and slams it shut.
DW Wolf's Apartment
Port Jefferson Station, NY
Later That Day
Yesterday was Thanksgiving. DW Wolf was all by himself. Usually, he liked being alone, but he would have liked to have had his father around. He wondered what his dad was doing on Thanksgiving. He was probably by himself, too. He liked being left alone, too, but he probably didn’t want to spend time with his son like his son wanted to spend time with him. He hated his son. He despised his son. His son was dead to him.
And that’s all Wolf could think about.
My dad hates me.
My dad wishes I was dead.
And it’s all my fault.
That was the mantra that was going on in his head over and over and over again. It was like the new version of “Seek the wolf in thyself.”
My dad hates me.
My dad wishes I was dead.
And it’s all my fault.
My dad hates me.
My dad wishes I was dead.
And it’s all my fault.
My dad hates me.
My dad wishes I was dead.
And it’s all my fault.
Over and over and over again.
Now, in his apartment, by himself, no lights on, with the sun setting early like it does in late fall on Long Island, Wolf is chanting the mantra in his head one more time. Nothing can distract him. Nothing can make him forget. The curse of regret that has plagued him throughout his life is overcoming him. He can’t control it anymore.
He gets up and walks into his bedroom. He opens the closet, reaches onto the shelf and pulls down a small book. It’s his journal, the same journal that he used to write his hit lists as a kid when he decided to get revenge on all the classmates that tortured him. Later on, when he started going to counseling to prevent being expelled from school or being thrown in jail, he used the journal to write down his thoughts and feelings so that he could better articulate them when he had his weekly sessions. Even after he left counseling and started his wrestling career, he held on to it. Sometimes he wrote in it, but nothing special. His ability to express himself in writing was stifled when he stopped going to counseling. He found that expressing himself through violence and promos was much more effective and much more lucrative. When he joined the Core Institute and was focusing his energies on helping Bernard Core “fix” American education, he stopped writing in it altogether.
He takes the book and places it on his desk. He sits down, opens it up, and flips to the first unwritten page he finds. He picks up a pen and starts writing.
11-23-18
5:58 PM
My dad hates me.
My dad wishes I was dead.
And it’s all my fault.
He picks up the pen from the paper and ponders if there’s anything left to write. Then, without even thinking, the following words ooze from his brain, through his hand, and onto the paper:
I fucking hate myself.
I wish I were dead.
He quickly shuts the book, throws the pen to the side, and gets up. He grabs his jacket and puts it on, although considering what he’s going to do next, why would he worry about the cold?
He leaves his apartment building and walks north up Terryville Road.
I’m going to drink myself to death tonight. And even if it doesn’t kill me tonight, it’ll kill me eventually. Maybe I’ll drive drunk and drive off the fucking road. Maybe I’ll choke on my own vomit. Maybe I’ll fall into a hotel pool and drown. Maybe I’ll get cirrhosis of the liver and I’ll have liver failure and then I’ll die of sepsis. Whatever it is, there’s no turning back. It’s over for me. I’ve ruined any relationship I could ever have with anybody because of my own stupid fucking anger, because I’ve never been able to let anything go, because I’ve never been able to stop thinking about the past and everything that has ever hurt me. It has cost me love, family, friends, happiness. It has cost me everything.
He turns left onto Route 112.
Not even the WCF and the Hardcore Title are worth it at this point. I can’t handle all the shit that goes down in my job if I have nothing or no one at home to help me deal with it. I’ll just burnout and leave again. Maybe I’d end up going back to pills and booze anyway. Maybe I’d end up back in the Core Institute, but Core would probably make me a custodian this time, not the Dean of Discipline. Hell, I can be like my dear old dad. I already have his temper. Why not have his job and his unfulfilled dreams, too?
He enters a 7-11 and heads right for the fridge in the back that holds the beer. He swings the door open and looks down at the plethora of cans and bottles laid out before him.
Miller?
Bud?
Coors?
Why am I deliberating? I’m not drinking to enjoy this shit.
He reaches for the nearest 12 pack when someone calls out to him.
Dan?
DW looks to his right.
No way.
