Post by The Last Real Man on Mar 4, 2016 20:58:16 GMT -5
As the scene begins we open up to a cloud of white smoke which covers the entire picture frame. Finally, as the smoke clears and fades out the image of one Johnny Cannon becomes clearer. The Brit is seated at a wooden table, backdropped by nothing but a white wall filled with various paintings. Beside him rests a bottle of Belvedere, while a lit cigar sits in his fingertips. The British Mamba is clad in a grey turtleneck, complemented by a black blazer, slacks, and a pair of Oxfords, looking like a villain straight out of a classic espionage film.
“I haven’t felt like myself lately…” starts the Brit as he puffs his cigar in reflection. “I’ve been trying to avoid the inevitable, been trying to ignore certain feelings and thoughts, but recently I’ve had to face a cold hard truth about myself and to be honest, the writing has been on the wall for some time now.”
“I’m broken.” He says almostly nonchalantly. “I don’t mean broken in the cliched sense that so many people nowadays wear like it's a feather in their goddamn cap, nor do I say it to sound menacing like all the wrestling tough guys who follow whatever handbook’s been written by the Jimmy Page’s of the world. I’m speaking simply as a human being who is incapable of putting anyone’s needs and feelings ahead of my own.”
“I don’t remember exactly when it happened, but there was a moment and point in my life where my ability to make personal and emotional connections and attachments vanished. It was stripped from me. Those emotions were sacrificed in the name of clarity for the sake of opening doors and chasing dreams, and that vision became so narrow that I couldn’t see past my basic desires,” he confesses. “But that’s been my strength, my unapologetic selfishness, and my refusal to let anything stop me from living the life I covet - not friends, family or love. It’s got me to where I am today. Made me who I am.”
“But since the start of last year I've felt myself slipping, and that feeling has been magnified over these past few months as I’ve struggled with a crisis of conscience and identity,” he explains, taking another long pull from his cigar before ashing it out. “And this dilemma has been brought on by different circumstances in my personal life, like the unplanned birth of my son, and my not-so-private relationship with Misha LeCavalier.” With a sigh Cannon opens the Belvedere, staring at the bottle rather contemplatively. “And because of them and the impact and influence they’ve had on me, I’ve tried to reprogram myself. I’ve worked to become a better man and father, but the balance between my desire to do good, and my tendency to do wrong has become so disproportionate that it’s become clear how impossible it is for me to change.”
“Some of us are just too set in our ways to undo the noose around our necks,” he says as he gently pulls at his turtleneck. “And that’s my reality, but it’s one I’ve been running from in recent times,” he elaborates before wetting his whistle. “I’ve been listening to people around me, people I trust who’ve told me that I have to set a better example for my son so that he’ll grow up with a proper role model. And I’ve tried to do just that. I’ve tried to override my natural instincts, and make better choices. I’ve tried to do what people want me to do, tried to live life according to their thoughts and opinions of me but I can’t keep lying to myself anymore. I can’t keep running from who I am.”
“So I’m done.” He says gravely, as he guzzles some more vodka.
“I’m done pretending like people’s expectations of me mean more to me than my own because they don't. I don’t give a bloody damn what any of you think about me.” He says, taking another gulp.
“I’m done trying to be the man people want me to be. I’m done trying to do the right thing to appease everyone. I’m done forcing myself to conform to the norm to make everyone feel better about themselves. I’m done biting my tongue, and being politically correct as to not to offend anyone. I’ve been trying to walk a righteous path, but I’m not a righteous man. I stopped talking to God around the same time he stopped answering the phone,” he declares. “I’ve let the devil get a hold of me,” he claims, glaring at his drink in disgust, “sold my soul because it wasn’t worth anything to me. You can’t quantify good intentions. You can’t buy things with humility and humanity. There’s no place in today’s world for good people, because the most important things in life are money, power and respect and you’ve gotta do a lot of bad things to get them.”
“You’ve gotta get your hands dirty.
“Gotta get your hands bloody.”
“And as I look at my hands, I see a lot of both,” he says, holding his hands up as they tremble before him. “These hands are the most dangerous hands in the world. You’ve all seen what they’re capable of. They’ve shortened careers and have taken away livelihoods. But their power has been volatile and unhinged until recently.”
“And it wasn’t until recently that it all became clear to me.” He confesses. “I thought I had turned the corner, but my vices tightened their vicegrip around my heart, and finally the goddamn thing turned black.”
“But I like black. It looks good on me, but you know I’m multi-faceted. I just made the turtleneck sexy again.” He says nonchalantly.
“Someone told me that I was a free spirit that needed to be set free,” he picks right back up where he left off, his tone serious like it was at the start, “Perhaps I’ve been a caged bird all this time. Well if so, the key to my freedom must lie in these fists,” he says coldly, as he slams his fists down on the table. “Because it's with these hands that I’ve caused so much pain, so much anguish, both for myself and those around me. Its with these hands that I’ve lit the fuse to my own bomb, self-destructing in the most beautiful ways possible. I feel like I’ve been digging my own grave lately, and a few weeks ago, I finally went under.”
“Johnny Karma may have read my eulogy in Canada, but Johnny Cannon died long ago.”
“I’m something else now,” he claims, chugging some more vodka before wiping it off his lips with a backhand.
“I’m angry…”
“I’m pissed off…”
“At myself… for letting it come to this. For getting sidetracked from what’s important. And the only thing that’s important to me is sitting at the pinnacle. Success over everything. Fortune over everything. WINNING OVER EVERYTHING!” He stresses.
“As I look around at the landscape, I’m overcome with feelings of enmity, and contempt, pointed INTERNALLY… directed at MYSELF because I KNOW… I FUCKING KNOW I’m the BEST WRESTLER ALIVE!” He snaps, springing up from his throne, Belvedere swinging left and right. “And I’ve allowed these pretenders to ascend to heights reserved for men of my likeness…”
REAL MEN!!!!” He yells, apparently flying off the handle.
“I’m the REALEST! I’m the ONLY thing that’s REAL in a counterfeit world full of fake feelings and even faker people. I’m GENUINE. I’m authentic! Even when I didn’t know who I was becoming, I NEVER stopped being who I am..”
“A NINE MILLIMETER WITH ONE LEFT IN THE BLOODY CHAMBER!”
“But a real man doesn’t point the gun at the world… ..” Cannon suddenly tosses his hooch at the wall, watching it chatter, “no he points it at himself first,” the British Mamba suddenly digs under the table, his hands going where the camera cannot, until they return with said firearm, “so here goes…” Cannon places the barrel right up against his head, then doesn’t hesitate as he pulls the trigger. Nothing.
“Kevin Hardaway,” Cannon says, almost soberly as he takes a deep breath, the gun hanging precariously in his right hand. “This weekend, I’ll be pointing the gun at you”, he declares, as he points his firearm at the camera, before laying it down on the table, “and you really picked the wrong time to come back to town you stupid son of a bitch. I may have one bullet left in this gun, but don’t for a second think I don’t have more where that came from. Don’t ANY of you think for a second that I’ve fired all of my best shots because that’s the farthest thing from the truth.”
“And the truth is… I’m reloaded.” He proclaims with a crooked smile.
“And you look like like the perfect canvas to start painting some new Picasso’s on,” he states, “and my brush strokes gonna leave you full of lead…” he glances down at the gun. “And that’s fine, because I know you can take a punch, or a chairshot.”
“I do my homework.” He winks.
“And my research tells me you’re a bad motherfucker.” He admits.
“But I’m the baddest motherfucker on the planet.” He boasts.
“And I’m coming to fuck you up. And you’re a masochist, and that’s lovely and all, you know other people are into other things, but me? I’m a real man, and a simple man…” He says in his most smoothest voices.
“I like cash...”
“Women who say yes too fast...”
“And kicking ass.” He declares pridefully.
“But in the Agganis arena I’m going to do more than kick your ass. I’m going to make you wish you stayed unemployed because I’m going to throw you in the bloody meat grinder.”
I’m going to throw you on your head.”
“Then I’m going to knee you in the head.”
“And then I’m going to KICK you in the head.”
He looks right into the camera now, blue eyes full of fire.
“And I’m going to knock you the fuck out….” he says...
And I Just Need To Feel Good
March 4th, 2016
Boston
... as the camera fades to black. You don’t know what it took to get me out there to do that fucking shoot.
“That was gold,” Goodrich is already on his schtick, making everything a chance to pipe me up, and give some words of encouragement. “I just hope you actually believe the words you just said.”
As we walk off the set, I set off right for another drink. I’ll take something much harder this time; hennessy. It’s been one of those weeks. Months. Fuck it, it’s been a rough fucking year. The year isn’t a even a year yet. It’s still February. Wait. Its actually March.
Fuck.
“If I say it I fucking believe it. You know that.” I spit back at Quinn, then get my hand on that Hennessy.”
“Is your head back in the game now?”
“My mind's in a million fucking places right now…” I tell him, looking off as the crew starts taking down all the props and what not. All that money spent for 15 minutes. All that money spent on Kevin Hardaway.
I was supposed to be the Pride Champion right now.
I was supposed to do a lot of things.
“She finally left huh?”
He knew. Not like I was hiding it well though. The wounds still too fresh. I sip some Henny and it pours right out the hold in my chest.
The waters ruining these Versace shoes.
“How’d it go down?”
“Fucking tabloids,” I scoffed. “Who knew I was so popular,” I tell him. No really, who knew? I sure didn’t. Fame from fighting in a cage and doing a few action film cameos faded off a while ago. Even the smell of San Diego’s worn off.
This aroma smells like good liquor, and women whose names I can’t seem to fucking remember. Apparently, she didn’t like the cologne anymore.
And for a second I thought she might be the one.
“You know what, I need to blow off some fucking steam. I won’t be in any shape to drive tonight so you take her for a spin.” I command him, tossing the key to the Cede’s to him. She left me Tuesday, and I was driving a new whip Friday.
Bought it with money I shouldn’t have spent.
But it felt good. So fucking good.
And I need to feel good right now.
“Matter of fact. Call him. We need to talk some more business.”
“I haven’t felt like myself lately…” starts the Brit as he puffs his cigar in reflection. “I’ve been trying to avoid the inevitable, been trying to ignore certain feelings and thoughts, but recently I’ve had to face a cold hard truth about myself and to be honest, the writing has been on the wall for some time now.”
“I’m broken.” He says almostly nonchalantly. “I don’t mean broken in the cliched sense that so many people nowadays wear like it's a feather in their goddamn cap, nor do I say it to sound menacing like all the wrestling tough guys who follow whatever handbook’s been written by the Jimmy Page’s of the world. I’m speaking simply as a human being who is incapable of putting anyone’s needs and feelings ahead of my own.”
“I don’t remember exactly when it happened, but there was a moment and point in my life where my ability to make personal and emotional connections and attachments vanished. It was stripped from me. Those emotions were sacrificed in the name of clarity for the sake of opening doors and chasing dreams, and that vision became so narrow that I couldn’t see past my basic desires,” he confesses. “But that’s been my strength, my unapologetic selfishness, and my refusal to let anything stop me from living the life I covet - not friends, family or love. It’s got me to where I am today. Made me who I am.”
“But since the start of last year I've felt myself slipping, and that feeling has been magnified over these past few months as I’ve struggled with a crisis of conscience and identity,” he explains, taking another long pull from his cigar before ashing it out. “And this dilemma has been brought on by different circumstances in my personal life, like the unplanned birth of my son, and my not-so-private relationship with Misha LeCavalier.” With a sigh Cannon opens the Belvedere, staring at the bottle rather contemplatively. “And because of them and the impact and influence they’ve had on me, I’ve tried to reprogram myself. I’ve worked to become a better man and father, but the balance between my desire to do good, and my tendency to do wrong has become so disproportionate that it’s become clear how impossible it is for me to change.”
“Some of us are just too set in our ways to undo the noose around our necks,” he says as he gently pulls at his turtleneck. “And that’s my reality, but it’s one I’ve been running from in recent times,” he elaborates before wetting his whistle. “I’ve been listening to people around me, people I trust who’ve told me that I have to set a better example for my son so that he’ll grow up with a proper role model. And I’ve tried to do just that. I’ve tried to override my natural instincts, and make better choices. I’ve tried to do what people want me to do, tried to live life according to their thoughts and opinions of me but I can’t keep lying to myself anymore. I can’t keep running from who I am.”
“So I’m done.” He says gravely, as he guzzles some more vodka.
“I’m done pretending like people’s expectations of me mean more to me than my own because they don't. I don’t give a bloody damn what any of you think about me.” He says, taking another gulp.
“I’m done trying to be the man people want me to be. I’m done trying to do the right thing to appease everyone. I’m done forcing myself to conform to the norm to make everyone feel better about themselves. I’m done biting my tongue, and being politically correct as to not to offend anyone. I’ve been trying to walk a righteous path, but I’m not a righteous man. I stopped talking to God around the same time he stopped answering the phone,” he declares. “I’ve let the devil get a hold of me,” he claims, glaring at his drink in disgust, “sold my soul because it wasn’t worth anything to me. You can’t quantify good intentions. You can’t buy things with humility and humanity. There’s no place in today’s world for good people, because the most important things in life are money, power and respect and you’ve gotta do a lot of bad things to get them.”
“You’ve gotta get your hands dirty.
“Gotta get your hands bloody.”
“And as I look at my hands, I see a lot of both,” he says, holding his hands up as they tremble before him. “These hands are the most dangerous hands in the world. You’ve all seen what they’re capable of. They’ve shortened careers and have taken away livelihoods. But their power has been volatile and unhinged until recently.”
“And it wasn’t until recently that it all became clear to me.” He confesses. “I thought I had turned the corner, but my vices tightened their vicegrip around my heart, and finally the goddamn thing turned black.”
“But I like black. It looks good on me, but you know I’m multi-faceted. I just made the turtleneck sexy again.” He says nonchalantly.
“Someone told me that I was a free spirit that needed to be set free,” he picks right back up where he left off, his tone serious like it was at the start, “Perhaps I’ve been a caged bird all this time. Well if so, the key to my freedom must lie in these fists,” he says coldly, as he slams his fists down on the table. “Because it's with these hands that I’ve caused so much pain, so much anguish, both for myself and those around me. Its with these hands that I’ve lit the fuse to my own bomb, self-destructing in the most beautiful ways possible. I feel like I’ve been digging my own grave lately, and a few weeks ago, I finally went under.”
“Johnny Karma may have read my eulogy in Canada, but Johnny Cannon died long ago.”
“I’m something else now,” he claims, chugging some more vodka before wiping it off his lips with a backhand.
“I’m angry…”
“I’m pissed off…”
“At myself… for letting it come to this. For getting sidetracked from what’s important. And the only thing that’s important to me is sitting at the pinnacle. Success over everything. Fortune over everything. WINNING OVER EVERYTHING!” He stresses.
“As I look around at the landscape, I’m overcome with feelings of enmity, and contempt, pointed INTERNALLY… directed at MYSELF because I KNOW… I FUCKING KNOW I’m the BEST WRESTLER ALIVE!” He snaps, springing up from his throne, Belvedere swinging left and right. “And I’ve allowed these pretenders to ascend to heights reserved for men of my likeness…”
REAL MEN!!!!” He yells, apparently flying off the handle.
“I’m the REALEST! I’m the ONLY thing that’s REAL in a counterfeit world full of fake feelings and even faker people. I’m GENUINE. I’m authentic! Even when I didn’t know who I was becoming, I NEVER stopped being who I am..”
“A NINE MILLIMETER WITH ONE LEFT IN THE BLOODY CHAMBER!”
“But a real man doesn’t point the gun at the world… ..” Cannon suddenly tosses his hooch at the wall, watching it chatter, “no he points it at himself first,” the British Mamba suddenly digs under the table, his hands going where the camera cannot, until they return with said firearm, “so here goes…” Cannon places the barrel right up against his head, then doesn’t hesitate as he pulls the trigger. Nothing.
“Kevin Hardaway,” Cannon says, almost soberly as he takes a deep breath, the gun hanging precariously in his right hand. “This weekend, I’ll be pointing the gun at you”, he declares, as he points his firearm at the camera, before laying it down on the table, “and you really picked the wrong time to come back to town you stupid son of a bitch. I may have one bullet left in this gun, but don’t for a second think I don’t have more where that came from. Don’t ANY of you think for a second that I’ve fired all of my best shots because that’s the farthest thing from the truth.”
“And the truth is… I’m reloaded.” He proclaims with a crooked smile.
“And you look like like the perfect canvas to start painting some new Picasso’s on,” he states, “and my brush strokes gonna leave you full of lead…” he glances down at the gun. “And that’s fine, because I know you can take a punch, or a chairshot.”
“I do my homework.” He winks.
“And my research tells me you’re a bad motherfucker.” He admits.
“But I’m the baddest motherfucker on the planet.” He boasts.
“And I’m coming to fuck you up. And you’re a masochist, and that’s lovely and all, you know other people are into other things, but me? I’m a real man, and a simple man…” He says in his most smoothest voices.
“I like cash...”
“Women who say yes too fast...”
“And kicking ass.” He declares pridefully.
“But in the Agganis arena I’m going to do more than kick your ass. I’m going to make you wish you stayed unemployed because I’m going to throw you in the bloody meat grinder.”
I’m going to throw you on your head.”
“Then I’m going to knee you in the head.”
“And then I’m going to KICK you in the head.”
He looks right into the camera now, blue eyes full of fire.
“And I’m going to knock you the fuck out….” he says...
And I Just Need To Feel Good
March 4th, 2016
Boston
... as the camera fades to black. You don’t know what it took to get me out there to do that fucking shoot.
“That was gold,” Goodrich is already on his schtick, making everything a chance to pipe me up, and give some words of encouragement. “I just hope you actually believe the words you just said.”
As we walk off the set, I set off right for another drink. I’ll take something much harder this time; hennessy. It’s been one of those weeks. Months. Fuck it, it’s been a rough fucking year. The year isn’t a even a year yet. It’s still February. Wait. Its actually March.
Fuck.
“If I say it I fucking believe it. You know that.” I spit back at Quinn, then get my hand on that Hennessy.”
“Is your head back in the game now?”
“My mind's in a million fucking places right now…” I tell him, looking off as the crew starts taking down all the props and what not. All that money spent for 15 minutes. All that money spent on Kevin Hardaway.
I was supposed to be the Pride Champion right now.
I was supposed to do a lot of things.
“She finally left huh?”
He knew. Not like I was hiding it well though. The wounds still too fresh. I sip some Henny and it pours right out the hold in my chest.
The waters ruining these Versace shoes.
“How’d it go down?”
“Fucking tabloids,” I scoffed. “Who knew I was so popular,” I tell him. No really, who knew? I sure didn’t. Fame from fighting in a cage and doing a few action film cameos faded off a while ago. Even the smell of San Diego’s worn off.
This aroma smells like good liquor, and women whose names I can’t seem to fucking remember. Apparently, she didn’t like the cologne anymore.
And for a second I thought she might be the one.
“You know what, I need to blow off some fucking steam. I won’t be in any shape to drive tonight so you take her for a spin.” I command him, tossing the key to the Cede’s to him. She left me Tuesday, and I was driving a new whip Friday.
Bought it with money I shouldn’t have spent.
But it felt good. So fucking good.
And I need to feel good right now.
“Matter of fact. Call him. We need to talk some more business.”
