Soul Searching (Bond/Bronco vs. Hans/Liesl)
Aug 16, 2015 21:40:08 GMT -5
Post by Bondo on Aug 16, 2015 21:40:08 GMT -5
He sat up in bed, wincing from the pain he was feeling. The lacerations all over his body. The blood stains from the small wounds still seeping blood. The bruises that quickly formed across his back, his shoulders, his chest. His head felt like it was about explode. His eyes black and blue from the glass tubes and stiff shots of the one and only Laurel Anne Hardy.
But that match, that beautiful symphony of aggression and violence it wasn’t what was keeping him up. The pain that he was feeling, in all parts of his body, that wasn’t keeping him up either. It was their words. The words of the students he was entrusted with molding and shaping into the “champions of tomorrow”.
They called him a liar. They called him garbage. They questioned his ability to lead. But what hurt the must, what stung the most, was when they had said he never reached his full ability. They could point out his flaws: he was human, he had many. How could they demean everything he’s ever done in this business? How could they not see his true passion, his heart, his soul being poured into that very ring, especially when they bore witness to matches like the one he had against Laurel Anne Hardy? Or his contests with Chris Q in his quest for the FGA World Championship? How could they demonize his entire legacy because he chose Jason Bronco to be his tag-team partner for the Dynamic Duos? It wasn’t a slight at their talent or their potential. But he didn’t know how to tell them that. To show them that. They questioned his leadership and his job credentials. They questioned his abilities to train the next generation of the FGA roster.
He didn’t care about the Twitter Wars or how insecure these students were. His job was to help them work past their insecurities. Work past their sense of not being good enough. He threw his legs over the side of the bed and slowly walked to the bathroom. His bones ached and his muscles tensed. He felt like he had been crushed by a truck, but for the first time, in a very long time, he felt alive. He felt right.
As he stood in front of the mirror he saw a man, who was chipped and cracked and dented. But not broken. What he was doing now, training the next generation, teaching them to work hard and train hard and fight for their opportunities, he knew he was leaving behind a legacy more important than win-loss records or championship gold. He looked into his eyes and saw the heart and passion burning in the eyes of a man whose face was bruised and battered and scratched and scabbed, a man who put his everything into a match only a couple hundred of people were able to witness live. They paid their money to see them fight and win and lose and be the best damn professional wrestlers anywhere.
His students, the ones who demonize him. Those who call him a liar and a coward and lazy and garbage, they don’t see a man who bleeds and sweats for this business. They see a man who patronizes them, who holds them back from unlimited opportunities. They don’t respect him and they don’t fear him. But come 2nd Impact… they will come to learn firsthand that he is done apologizing. That he’s done protecting their egos and letting them play the role of a victim. They want to distrust and disrespect him, that’s fine. But it’s graduating day. They’re going to go toe-to-toe with one tough son of a bitch who’s done playing nice and who’s going to show them that while they have unlimited potential to be the biggest and baddest—they’re nowhere near ready for it yet. They’ve still got much to learn, and that this business can be cold and ruthless sometimes. They’re done beating him down for something they saw as a slight. They’re done berating him for his choices in the FGA. They’re going to find out what they’re dealing with. They’re going to get what they deserve.
He darts his eyes down for a moment, turning the faucet on and running some cold water over his war-torn face. As he looks up, the water running over his ragged and jagged face, glistening in the light, pooling in the bruised sockets of his eyes, he reminds himself that they're going to get exactly what they deserve:
“A good old-fashioned ass kicking.”
He lets out a malicious smile as he reaches for the towel, drying his face. He quietly walks to the door and flicks the light switch off, and he disappears into the dark, waiting arms of the night.
__________________
Word Count: 798
__________________
But that match, that beautiful symphony of aggression and violence it wasn’t what was keeping him up. The pain that he was feeling, in all parts of his body, that wasn’t keeping him up either. It was their words. The words of the students he was entrusted with molding and shaping into the “champions of tomorrow”.
They called him a liar. They called him garbage. They questioned his ability to lead. But what hurt the must, what stung the most, was when they had said he never reached his full ability. They could point out his flaws: he was human, he had many. How could they demean everything he’s ever done in this business? How could they not see his true passion, his heart, his soul being poured into that very ring, especially when they bore witness to matches like the one he had against Laurel Anne Hardy? Or his contests with Chris Q in his quest for the FGA World Championship? How could they demonize his entire legacy because he chose Jason Bronco to be his tag-team partner for the Dynamic Duos? It wasn’t a slight at their talent or their potential. But he didn’t know how to tell them that. To show them that. They questioned his leadership and his job credentials. They questioned his abilities to train the next generation of the FGA roster.
He didn’t care about the Twitter Wars or how insecure these students were. His job was to help them work past their insecurities. Work past their sense of not being good enough. He threw his legs over the side of the bed and slowly walked to the bathroom. His bones ached and his muscles tensed. He felt like he had been crushed by a truck, but for the first time, in a very long time, he felt alive. He felt right.
As he stood in front of the mirror he saw a man, who was chipped and cracked and dented. But not broken. What he was doing now, training the next generation, teaching them to work hard and train hard and fight for their opportunities, he knew he was leaving behind a legacy more important than win-loss records or championship gold. He looked into his eyes and saw the heart and passion burning in the eyes of a man whose face was bruised and battered and scratched and scabbed, a man who put his everything into a match only a couple hundred of people were able to witness live. They paid their money to see them fight and win and lose and be the best damn professional wrestlers anywhere.
His students, the ones who demonize him. Those who call him a liar and a coward and lazy and garbage, they don’t see a man who bleeds and sweats for this business. They see a man who patronizes them, who holds them back from unlimited opportunities. They don’t respect him and they don’t fear him. But come 2nd Impact… they will come to learn firsthand that he is done apologizing. That he’s done protecting their egos and letting them play the role of a victim. They want to distrust and disrespect him, that’s fine. But it’s graduating day. They’re going to go toe-to-toe with one tough son of a bitch who’s done playing nice and who’s going to show them that while they have unlimited potential to be the biggest and baddest—they’re nowhere near ready for it yet. They’ve still got much to learn, and that this business can be cold and ruthless sometimes. They’re done beating him down for something they saw as a slight. They’re done berating him for his choices in the FGA. They’re going to find out what they’re dealing with. They’re going to get what they deserve.
He darts his eyes down for a moment, turning the faucet on and running some cold water over his war-torn face. As he looks up, the water running over his ragged and jagged face, glistening in the light, pooling in the bruised sockets of his eyes, he reminds himself that they're going to get exactly what they deserve:
“A good old-fashioned ass kicking.”
He lets out a malicious smile as he reaches for the towel, drying his face. He quietly walks to the door and flicks the light switch off, and he disappears into the dark, waiting arms of the night.
__________________
Word Count: 798
__________________
OOC Note: I just wanted to wish you guys a ton of luck. I had to cut this down from 976 words to get it under the 800 word limit. You guys do this every show and it's not an easy thing to do. I wish you guys a ton of luck and I have had a blast telling this story with you all. Thanks for everything. 
