Post by The Last Real Man on Sept 15, 2016 19:47:27 GMT -5
August 26th, 2016
Los Angeles, California
“The final police report was filed under disorderly conduct, and disturbing the peace. I was able to pull some strings and get it down from assault and battery,” Vince relayed the good news. I didn't need anymore special distinctions on an already decorated criminal record. “Luckily I was able to reach out to a few guys on the precinct out there, and call in on a few favors. Worst you'll be looking at is a fine and possibly some community service. You dodged a bullet.”
“Listen Vinny, I appreciate you looking out for me. It's good to know I can still count on you after all this time.” Vince was an old pal of mine back in my movie star -- well, aspiring but ultimately failed movie star phase. Back in 2008 I was on a set for a serious role, a drama, which was a sharp contrast to the shoot em’ up bang bang C rate straight to DVD action flicks I'd been doing up to that point. I was under a lot of pressure at the time, so of course, I needed to take the edge off. There was a woman down here, Claire, she was the best at that, at relieving stress. For three hundred she'd having you feeling like a million bucks. But one night she cancelled on me last minute, claiming a client threw an offer at her that she couldn't refuse. Naturally, I investigated, and drove down to the hotel she normally conducted her business at. I just so happened to walk in on a beat cop getting a rather expensive blowjob. The fool was still in full uniform and all. Since then he’d been indebt to me, helping to keep me from getting into any serious binds just as long as I kept quiet about his hobby.
“What're friends for,” he said, slapping me on the shoulder. The pleasantries were fake. I knew he hated my guts, and for good reason, but for someone with aspirations to run for mayor in the coming years, it behooved him to appease certain individuals like myself with the capital and celebrity to sway voters in his direction. Dancing with the devil has its perks. “Just try to stay out of trouble, and lay low for a for a while. I can't keep stepping in every time you slip up. It looks bad and people will start talking.”
“I’ll keep that in mind chap. Give the wife my regards. Tell her she’ll have to send you over with a slice of that delicious Pecan pie next time.”
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September 5th, 2016
Honolulu, Hawaii
“You feel good about yourself after what you did, jerk,” as Goodrich and I made our way out into the parking lot, I heard somebody jawing off, probably some disgruntled Bond fan who couldn't believe I’d gone to such lengths to dispatch him. Honestly, I couldn't believe it either, how easy it was for me to flip that switch and go to that dark place. I’d been able to keep my two personas apart for sometime now -- Johnny Cannon and John Richards, but they were overlapping again. I’d been seeing red, so much red. Losing the World Title, and possibly losing my son, it was proving too difficult to cope.
“There’ll be no autographs tonight. You're not flipping my signature for coin online, go get yourself a real job, schmuck,” I spat back, as Quinn tossed my gym bag into the trunk. I wasn't in the best of moods, and I still had the adrenaline pumping from the match. In my current state of mind, any little thing could send me over the edge. Some dumbass mark picking a fight with me was the last thing I needed at the moment.
“Autograph? Yeah right. My son hates your guts,” I looked over now. As expected, some middle aged mom with the Popstar haircut was chewing me out, you know the ones that listen to Ariana Grande and act half their age to seem cool to their son’s friends. Those are the only fans a guy like Chris Bond attracts after all.
“What are you thinking,” Quinn said, somewhat alarmed as he saw me getting ready to approach them. “You said you’ll stay out of trouble, John. Come on, let's go.” I did say that, and I wholeheartedly intended to keep my word, but you know when you make grand gestures like that trouble seems to go out of its way to find you. That's where self control comes in, but who has time for that? If I did, I wouldn't be in my current predicament. But I'm not much for hindsight. All I'm looking at right now is the prospect of adjusting someone's attitude. Yeah, it’ll likely end with another police report, but there are pros and cons to every action.
“It’ll only be a minute, Quinn. Pull up your panties,” I flagged him off as I walked over to her. I kneeled down in front of her son, looking him right in the eyes. At that moment I didn't feel the urge to fight anyone. It was something about the boy that quelled my anger. Looking at him, he was no more than six, maybe seven years old, yet for some reason he reminded me of William. “Let me tell you a sad truth about life, son. Your mum won't always be around to protect you, and keep you safe. And when you grow up, you’ll find that everyone and everything you love will turn against you, and end up hating you. Nothing will go like you want it to.”
“When I grow up I'm going to get big and strong and be a cool wrestler like Chris Bond and beat up bad guys like you,” he replied.”
“Tommy,” his mind said, shielding him now. I looked at the both of them and couldn't help but smile. I remember myself at his age. Possessing that fiery optimism and hope. Little did I know then it was all bullshit.
“Listen, Tommy, I’m not a bad guy. I've just made a lot of mistakes, and I've had to do a lot of bad things for good reasons. Enjoy your youth while you have it, son, because when you get to be as old as me and you realize how terrible life really is, you’ll miss how easy you had it,” I confessed, patting him on his shaggy dome. “Life is but a dream until you wake up one day to see it’s all fucking shit, and that you've done all the things and become all the things that you said you wouldn't, and it sickens you so much that you can't even look at yourself in the mirror,” I stood up now, noticing the collective shock on their faces. As I lit a cig and walked off. “Don't grow up, son.”
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September 15th, 2016
Los Angeles, California
“I don't know what you want, John,” Kharissa was on the other end of an uncomfortable phone call. Thirty minutes of back and forth. The last thing I needed before boarding a flight.
“I want my son, Rissa. That's what I fucking want,” I shouted, navigating my way through first class.
“Yeah, well I don't think that can happen right now. I don't think I want you around him, not while you're like this, especially after what you did. We can't be around you. You're not yourself.”
“Listen if you think I'm going to let you take my son away from me and that I won't do anything about it you're a fucking idiot,” i responded, ignoring the eyes and the eavesdroppers surrounding me, “you can go FUCK yourself!”
“What'd she say now,” Quinn asked as I hung up the phone and sat down by the window, glaring at clouds.
“She's talking about taking William down to live with that fucking witch, can you believe that bullshit, Quinn? She's going to take my son from ME? She's trying to keep him from me, Quinn.” I was in disbelief. I was aghast. I was incensed. I was feeling a lot of emotions, none of them were good. I just wanted to punch something, hard
“I know, John,” he said, as he turned over, “you have a right to be frustrated, I would be if I were in your shoes. But if I were you I'd also channel those frustrations into something good. You're not going to get William back right now on this plane. You're also not going to get him back this weekend. However, what you can do is get back the FGA World Championship, and you can do that by working your way back up the ladder by beating the hell out of Ruby Tyler.”
“Fuck off. I never lost. He pinned Tony, not me. They owe me my number one contender's match. I shouldn't have to wait for something that I bloody deserve.”
“No you shouldn't,” he assured me, “but while you are, it'd be wise to make some business transactions to level the playing field and make your transition to a two time World Champion a seamless one.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“It's already in motion.” He said.
“What? Who?”
“You know, the usual suspects and all, the guys you call for situations like these. I've got a couple blokes in mind that'll do anything for a dollar. We’ll go over everything when we land. I'll have to get in touch with Diamond as well. Even Carmine.”
“Yeah, you do that.”
“The New Kings didn't work so hard to seize power in FGA just to hand it over to Zero and Chandler. We’re going to get it back, John,” he guaranteed. “We’re going to get it all back.”
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The scene begins with Johnny Cannon sitting by himself at a poker table, smoking on a fat cigar, as he wears a blood stained tuxedo - the one he recently dawned at First Wave against Chris Bond when he busted his forehead open, requiring him to receive several stitches.
“I’m going to get right to the point here, Ruby. I'm not in the mood to beat around the bush. Quite frankly I'm pissed the fuck off, and I feel like shit,” he confesses. “I feel like shit because Mako’s walking around wearing my crown. I feel like shit because my son’s mother is trying to ruin my life.” He admits. “And then to top it all off I find my illustrious name next to yours on the card for this upcoming Vertigo,” he scoffs angrily. “Me, a world class talent, against Ruby Tyler, a world class cunt. ”
“Ruby, the only talent that you have is bitching, and you're not even the best at that. But since we’re on the topic, I think it's funny how you falsely accused Zero, Tony and myself for being handed opportunities -- because the moment you and your domestic abuser, slash Man Crush Monday, slash whatever stupid fucking relationship goals you simple minded fucking Millennials glorify -- when you got the chance to actually assert your dominance in the Tag Division and prove that you weren't all fur coats and no knickers and actually give us a legitimate reason to care about anything you say you failed.” He says harshly, puffing on his cigar.
“It's because you're a failure. You're just Kevin’s annoying sidekick. His loud muff. And nobody likes a loud muff. The thing is if he dropped you tomorrow he’d still be a former FGA World Champion -- of course one that nobody remembers, or gives a fuck about -- you on the other hand, what would you be? Just someone who doesn't respect their jaw because you keep running it, saying things that’ll get you punched in it,” he claims. “You keep writing checks you can't cash. It's because you're not as good as you think you are, which is a recurring trait with a lot of you whippersnappers who insult me and those who actually take themselves seriously as professionals when you have the audacity to call yourselves wrestlers. You're not a wrestler, you're a bathroom break. An intermission. A channel changer.”
“But you know one thing I sympathize with you over? People giving you crap because you used to compete in EXODUS. I had to deal with that too,” he reveals. “The thing is, I don't understand why they continue to shit on you, and hold that against you, because the only reason I even know you worked there before is because they keep bringing it up. I mean it's not like you actually accomplished anything worthwhile there. But now that I think about it, I get it. I get why they piss on you for it -- it's because you inherited that sense of entitlement that came from our old stomping grounds too. Even I had it, however, the difference between the two of us is that mine was warranted. I was actually somebody there. You? Not so much. And that in and of itself tells us all we need to know about your abilities - or lack thereof, because the EXODUS you were apart of was watered down compared to the cutthroat talent goldmine it was during my two year stint there when I completed the Triple Crown.”
“You didn't have to measure yourself against Andreas Lasiewicz, Heather Halliwell, Sally Talfourd and the Christian Kane's of the world. You know, living legends, household names, and decorated champions. No wonder they folded; you couldn't even make a name for yourself against people who’re currently working at Starbucks because they can't get any jobs in the industry, because they couldn't fucking cut it. And you think you're on my level? You think you deserve more respect?” He questions, as he ashes the cigar.
“You think you should be positioned higher in FGA, but for what I ask? Because you and the American Horror Story won some tag titles in a company nobody watched which closed in the same month it opened? What the fuck have you done Ruby? What have you accomplished since you've been in my company? NOTHING! And you have the unmitigated gall to accuse me of being given handouts, and easy roads -- but I guess it would seem that way to someone who lies on their resume while mine simply tells the truth about me. And you want to know the truth, Ruby? The truth is while you’ll probably make jokes and asinine comments to get under my skin about me no longer having the FGA World Championship -- which I didn't lose by the way -- you’ll skip over the fact that I actually won it which is something you could only do if you booked it that way on your wrestling simulator, because virtual reality is the only reality where that'll ever fucking happen.”
“The truth is you’ll probably say I'm not really a King, and recycle all the rubbish Fujiko Mine, and Johnny Karma have said about me, whilst skipping over the fact that I've actually won big matches, and have headlined Pay Per Views. The truth is you’ll probably try to examine my character, talking about all the bad things I've ever done and how that somehow makes me unworthy of being at the top of this company, sidestepping the simple fact that NONE of that shit matters. It doesn't matter if you help elderly women across the street or steal their purses as your pastime to pass the time-- the only thing that matters in this business is what you can do inside a squared circle, and when it comes down to it while you're struggling with trying to be all you can be, I'm effortlessly being me which is better than YOU in every conceivable fashion!” He claims.
“I'm Johnny fucking Cannon. My name is known everywhere in this business. If I leave FGA today, they won't be able to replace my presence. If you leave no one will notice, no one will care, and no one will even talk about your absence. They’ll easily fill your spot with an enhancement talent, or some average joe they pulled off the street. If I show up somewhere else like, let's say HKW tomorrow, I’ll immediately be one of their biggest draws. That's not conjecture, that's a fact based on a reputation that precedes me which I’ve WORKED for day after day after day! You can't say the same. Yet you continue to mention my name in the same sentence as yours, as if it belongs there. Where do you get off?”
“Let’s make something abundantly fucking clear, Ruby; you and I don't belong in the ring together. You don't measure up to me, cause you're fighting out of your weight class. The reason you keep seeing the same faces sit at the top of FGA and NOT your own is because you simply tweet about it and we just be out. We back up the talk, while that's all you are. You're all talk and no show. All steak and no sizzle. And deep down you know it. Deep down you know what's going to happen to you this Saturday in the 1st Bank Arena, in Bloomfield, Colorado. But just in case you need a reminder, let me give you a quick outline: I'm going to walk to that ring wearing my usual Tuxedo, Oxford and slacks, I'll be drinking my favorite vodka, Belvedere -- and when I'm finished I'm going to get into the ring, and after the bell rings I’m going to do to you what I did to Evangelista and Chris Bond, and when I'm done beating the seven shades of shit out of you, you're going to wish you could undo those last twenty minutes of your pathetic fucking life!” He guarantees.
“What awaits you is not a wrestling match. Ms. Tyler what awaits you is a fight -- the biggest fight you will ever have in your career, and when you stand across that ring from the Baddest Man on the Planet and look into my eyes you’ll know that it's a fight that you cannot win,” he promises.
“Foolish pride won't allow you to admit it. You can downplay what's on the horizon if you want to. It won't change anything. You can talk about this being your chance to prove yourself, and all that other bullshit. Talk about humbling me, and this, that and third, it’ll be nothing more than your stupidity masquerading as courage. But you know something, I hope you're not the pushover I believe you to be. I honestly do. When you talk your tough talk about how it’ll “take more than that to keep you down” -- I honestly hope it does because I want to be entertained. I want you to make this worthwhile. I want to enjoy this,” he says with a clear thirst for blood in his voice.
“Every single time I hit you in the head and feel your skull shift from the impact, every time my elbows, my forearms, my knees, and my boots clash against your cranium, every time I drive you into the canvas and hear your bones breaking as you scream in agony while your eyes glaze over from the pain -- I pray that you have a lot of fight in you because I'm going to thoroughly enjoy beating it out of you as I proceed to tear you limb from limb to show you exactly what happens to mere PEASANTS, mere PLEBEIANS who think they can stand on equal footing with KINGS!”
“Ruby,” he says, bringing his hands forward, “I can visualize your blood on my hands”, he says so nonchalantly that it's downright frightening, as he balls up a fist and licks his knuckle, “you taste exquisite, love. I can't wait for the real thing.”
“I can't wait to knock you the fuck out.”
Fade.
