Balance
Sept 29, 2016 15:38:40 GMT -5
Post by pimp on Sept 29, 2016 15:38:40 GMT -5
Balance
September 27, 2016
Punta Cana, Dominican Republic
Location: Rosario Family Residence
“Whippin’ and flippin’ I’m shippin’ the bricks. Gold in my teefuses. Gold on my wrist!” E.Rose was rapping along to the music playing in the kitchen. He was dicing up some veggies on the counter bumping pretty hard. The counter connected to the bar that ran right into the living room where I was: watching whatever this kiddie bullshit he had on for these kids. “I’m a reeeeeal savage. Boy I liiiiiiiiive lavish. Since a young killa I had piiiiiiiiill cabbage…”
“What the fuck are you listening too? What the fuck are teefuses? Pill cabbage? Ugh if I wanted this I could just go to Kucci’s house!”
Eric turned the music down. “Aye cuz this my shiznit I can bump whatever!” The swift sounds of his knife continue to beat against the cutting board as if there wasn’t a large tomato in between them. It almost scared me. “Teefuses is totally a cooler way to say teeth on the beat. He has gold teeth and a gold watch because ever since he was a youngster, he’s been making money off of selling various substances in pill-form. It’s really not hard to understand trap shit if you really want to. I’m too real to be in here blasting Patti LaBelle around this bitch.” He shoots me a smug grin before taking the cutting board, turning around and dumping the veggies in a pan full of oil. The sizzle began immediately.
“Oh no you don’t! Leave the Goddess Patti out of this! I’ll never forgive you for the time you turned the radio when Somebody Loves You Baby came on.” He just started to laugh. “I’m serious Eric! You need to stop getting these mixtapes from Dooder and Cooley. They suck.”
E.Rose shook his head. “They’re not their mixtapes. Just songs from random dudes they know all compiled together. Not like it’s them rapping. You heard lil homie’s trying out that Hollywood joint FGA’s affiliated with?” He turns around and stirs up the pot a bit before grabbing a container of pre-marinated short ribs out of the fridge.
“That’s the ORIGINAL definition of a mixtape, Eric. Not whatever these crappy rappers you like have turned the concept into.” I scoffed as I glanced over at the television. “And yeah of course I knew Dooder’s going to 3GW. Me, Nicky and Tino have been training him since PA opened, forgot?” Eric starts laughing recalling hearing the story of how Dooder wandered in the gym tripping on acid asking around for the leader of the Gang Green Monster Alien Slayer Corporation. Fucking idiot. “All I’m saying sweetie is if you get your music from the Gang Green General, it’s automatically garbage. That motherfucker ain’t even on this planet, booboo.” We both started laughing. “You should’ve seen the look on Ricky’s face as this guy was babbling on about how he’s the real life Danny Phantom and at any time he can transform into an ass-kicking ninja. Priceless.”
“Man that Ricky The Guard. Still hanging in there.” E.Rose shook his head smiling as he placed the short ribs in the slow cooker. “But I don’t know about The Doodster going back to Cali so soon right now. He’s been killing shit down here for like a good year plus now. Gutierrez ain’t gonna be happy about his top player going back to the states…and possibly being all over TV and shit. You don’t think you’re putting lil cuz at risk?”
I stopped and thought about it for a second. “It was Dooder who came to me and Nicky frustrated after a session talking about how he wanted more. He absorbs everything we teach like a sponge. I don’t even know how he’s so good at wrestling when he doesn’t even realize that wrestling’s what he’s doing. Just like I don’t understand his music. How does he even know what music is? How did he find Twitter? You too Eric. You sip more lean than Risky. Consume THC in just about everything you eat and drink. Yet you’re this functioning family man who works with hospitals and dispensaries and whatever else. HOW????” I felt myself starting to snap. “How in the fuck can you people be so good at what you guys do and yet condemn me for doing drugs every once in a while?”
The questions took Eric aback. He turned his back on me and started adding some seasonings to the pan. For a few moments he fell silent; his twin infants had fallen asleep on their blanket, giving me a chance to turn that kiddie shit off.
“Tony. You may or may not like what I’m about to say, but it’s something that needs to be said.” He turns the heat down on the stove before turning back to face me. “I cook. Always loved cooking. Always loved eating, watching other people cook. Playing around with my own recipes all that shit. I’ve never had a problem with just being looked at as a cook. Even with all the bodies I’ve dropped. Dope we’ve moved. All that old Moltisanti shit we did. That’s over and I have a family now and I’ve never been happier to just say…I cook. We have passion.”
“Oh and I don’t have passion?”
“Nope. You’re good at so much shit bro. So much shit. Fashion. Hair. Nails. Wrestling. Reeeeaaaaalllllllyyyyy good at wrestling. You’re good at so many things that could give you so much self-fulfillment to the point where the drugs don’t even affect you. But no. They affect you and turn you into a monster because you’re driven by greed and evil. Even more so now. Santos is supposed to be here to keep us balanced between good and bad. That’s why we have him AND The Goats. They’re our angels. But you’ve allowed Santos to takeover Kiko and Riki in your life and submit to him.” He starts shaking his head. “That’s a whole different discussion entirely. You have this wall, Tony. You don’t want to be labeled as anything. You’re not happy being a successful entrepreneur who wrestles. Too busy wanting to be a fucking gangster. I mean I play around with crip shit but you seriously think you’re Scarface or like Superfly. Vino’s dead. We’re not the fucking mafia anymore, and you’re the ONLY one who can’t let any of this shit go. It’s why you’re so standoffish with Damon STILL when he was our FRIEND before any this war shit started. Omega Psi Phi and Kappa Delta Rho threw the biggest inter-frat rager back in Fall ’09.”
That was a pretty fucking historic party.
“Point is Tony, at some point, you have to move on. You know damn well wrestling is something you’ve always loved. I remember sneaking and catching you watching shit when we were kids. I remember that kid Reggie Geoffries from 3rd grade homeroom.” My eyes got bigger as a rush of memories came at me at once. “He would always wear those Crunch The Cruncher shirts with the lunchbox and kids always made fun of him for it. But one day during recess you stole his lunchbox. No one knew it was you but me. That’s because you hid it under my bed! You just never wanted people to make fun of you for liking wrestling. Just like now. You don’t want any of those stuck up faggots you deal with in the high end fashion world to know you’re a wrestler, no less a pretty good one. You hate wrestling fans, for what? Because they just want you to show off your talent that everyone knows you have instead of always taking the easy way out? They’re dying for you to win that fucking title, but it ain’t ever gonna happen until you let all this bullshit baggage go and just fly. Oh and stop pushing your friends away too. That could help.”
E.Rose just looked down and shrugged his shoulders before turning back to check on his pan. I didn’t have any words. I slowly took my gaze off of him and peeked down to the young ones who were still sound asleep. I got up from the couch. “I should probably go…when Gia gets here she’s probably going to say something to piss me off. So I’ll leave in peace to avoid that…”
“Gia doesn’t hate you Tony…” I gave a Eric an unconvinced look. “Alright maybe she does. But she respects your place in my life, brother. That’s all that matters. Oh! Before you go…” He came around the side of the kitchen out to the living room facing me. “How’d that…situation go with your boy?”
I smirked.
“Oh don’t worry that’s all taken care of now. I just need you to give me Karl The Butcher’s number.” I shot E.Rose a wink.
He smiled. “I’ll text you cuz. See ya tomorrow at Gutierrez’s Dojo.”
“Gutierrez this. Gutierrez that. When am I finally meeting this unknown ass motherfucker?” Eric started laughing.
“Soon.”
I am sick of my name being dragged though the mud.
Sunshine Scandalous Tony Carmine has gone from being the most feared man in FGA to…well no I’m still the most feared man in FGA. Howeeeeever, all of my precious filthy little peasants out there are starting to become more and more treasonous. They’re starting to rebel against The New Kings. They’re starting to believe that they actually have a fucking option on whether or not to bow down to us.
Make no mistake about it, just because the Scandalous One has made mistakes doesn’t change the course of direction we’ve put the company on. Last Vertigo was just one step towards putting all of my critics to rest. One by one. Piece by piece. We’re going to break all of you bitches in half, but that’s not even the worst part. The worst part about it is, people are now starting to diminish everything I’ve ever accomplished here just because Zero got one over one me on one single night. There’s a very small list of people who have pinned the Scandalous One in that ring. An even smaller list of people who are still here today and even SMALLER list of motherfuckers who are still worth a shit.
Dom Harter doesn’t fall into that top percentile, but he’s in the middle. Which is quite fitting for his career. Dom used to be a lesser version of the Scandalous One once upon a time. Backstabbing. Greedy. A natural tendency to lead others to relevance and championships. Dommy Cakes wasn’t always this so-so performer competing against other so-so performers, toiling away in the shuffle. At one point you could even say the bad mama-jamba was on top!
There was a time when The Murder was the most dangerous force in sports. There was a time when Dom’s name rang bells. He was the man that everyone was putting their stock behind. I remember being off the scene after leaving XWA while Kenny was in PDW and all I heard was Dom this. Dom that. Dom’s fucking this bitch. Dom’s fucking that bitch. Dom’s winning titles. Dom’s losing titles. Dom’s taking his ball and going the fuck home. I for one was clamoring to see what all the hype was. After all if this guy could hang with talent like Kucci and he’s like the same age as me? Maybe I did have a chance to make it after all.
That’s right everyone. Dom Harter, in a way, influenced The Scandalous One to stop dipping my feet in the waters and dive into wrestling balls deep. So the next time any of you pathetic ass pieces of shit in the locker room have a problem with me, direct all blame to frosty flake tips. It’s remarkable, Dom, how I could give you a running start in this game and now look at you…trailing. Struggling to get that edge you used to have. Struggling to find a place on Vertigo when The New Kings, Zero and Chandler is all anyone gives a shit about. Struggling to live out a sick fantasy to violate every female in the business. Can’t come to grips with the fact that it’s over: you’re holding on. Bitches and titles. You’re going to get as many as you can before you either drop dead in the ring or drop dead from the almighty GERM aren’t you?
The Story of Dom Harter, ladies and gentleman. A man so superficial and so desperate for glory and affection that he’s willing to deceive people, orchestrate tragedies and complicate the lives of those around him. You’re not fooling anyone Dom. I can read you like an open book. I can read despair in your eyes every week in the locker room. Dimming lights. Fading hunger. You don’t have it like you used to, because you don’t fucking want it anymore. You never wanted to be the big man on campus. You could never handle the pressure. You just wanted to be the overachieving nerd with all the awards and accolades. There’s a place where people like you always end up and it’s called obscurity. Irrelevance. Allow me to show you the way this weekend, Dommy. It’s about time you finally ride off into the Sunset because no one wants to see you anymore. You don’t even want to see you anymore.
Let me give you a little bit of SSTC Facts. Honey, it could’ve been anyone next to the name of the Scandalous One and this shit would be the main event. Facts. I haven’t competed since Above and Beyond where, admittedly, I failed. RARE Facts. However, the fact that a hard fought loss hasn’t stopped the Oh So Gorgeous Galvanizing Gangster of Love from being the number one marquee attraction is no surprise. I was and still am the prettiest, flashiest and most talented. I was and still am the motherfucking SUN. FACTS! The brightest star you can see bitch, and don’t you forget it. Dom, for the last year I’ve had to sit back and listen to you wave your measly fluke win over me in front of every opponent you’ve gotten in the ring with. I’ve had to listen to you say you made “short work” of the Scandalous One. You Canadians are some funny little American wannabes aren’t ya?
That’s why I told you I was so excited for the match. Usually the normal bottom feeding fodder the Scandalous One gets, I’m apathetic towards. But this. This is a chance to show you that you damn sure aren’t facing the same Sunshine Scandalous Tony Carmine from my FIRST Pride title reign…that I never got my rematch for but that’s water under the bridge since these days you couldn’t touch gold if it was latched on to TCB’s fishclit. Fucking pussy. Why don’t you tell those peasants you mingle with on the regular how you beating me a year ago means shit? Since then, I went on to bigger and better things while you were fucking off with the likes of Mia Scott. But I think they know that. They know what I’m capable of, yet they still underestimate me for falling short of the crown jewel. But they don’t underestimate you do they, Dommy? Nope. You’re really good a winning titles, but no one wants to talk about how you can’t keep one for more than a piss break.
I feel disrespected Dommy. You hurt my feelings because I don’t feel like you want to win this match in a strike towards toppling my empire. You don’t want to be the brave soldier to lead the fight against The New Kings. Nope. Your big plans are…the Mid-Atlantic title (HAHA) and another accomplishment to wave in the face of the next unworthy Plain Jane, but you don’t realize that this business is done with you. You were supposed to be the future; but you peaked too fast, and now you’re on a downward slope. That was even before my rise to the top, so as much as I’d like to, I can’t even take credit for being the reason you fell the fuck off. Only a mediocre talent can make Dan Herrera look main event. Only a mediocre talent can force me to give a shit about Dizzy Anders. Only a mediocre talent fails to teach their pupil how to properly navigate this business, leaving the job to someone else. Annie’s learned more from getting her ass kicked by me than she ever did from your tutelage. Facts.
So what the fuck are you still doing here Dom? Not enough meaningless trophies and belt plaques on your mantle? Awww is someone still trying to secure a FUTURE??? How poetic. You still have places to go and people to beat huh babe? I see you stepped into HKW like a kid in a candy store. More spotlight, tournaments and titles you don’t deserve. It’s as if you’re some kind of amateur who still has shit to prove or something. Wait ya, that’s because you are. You toned it down briefly and watched a slew of hungry cats pass you right by and it killed you. It KILLS you that you’ve beaten me, and yet I’m at the helm of all things must-see. While I may not have been responsible for knocking you off the ladder, I’ll be responsible for you keeping you down for good. Ask your old pal Drake when I send you right next to that lunatic in the gutter. Lick each other’s wounds. Reminisce about times where Sunshine wasn’t around to make you look like discount Chandler Scott under those limelights (only more desperate for attention.) You’re defined by a superficial laundry list with no substance behind any of his accomplishments: just like every unknown Twitwrestler claiming 20-plus championships. You don’t stand quite where you think in this business anymore Dom. The board is full and you leave the Scandalous One no choice but to drop you like every ball you’ve ever held in your life. Welcome to obscurity, sweetie.
It’s always quality over quantity. Facts Only.
September 27, 2016
Punta Cana, Dominican Republic
Location: Rosario Family Residence
“Whippin’ and flippin’ I’m shippin’ the bricks. Gold in my teefuses. Gold on my wrist!” E.Rose was rapping along to the music playing in the kitchen. He was dicing up some veggies on the counter bumping pretty hard. The counter connected to the bar that ran right into the living room where I was: watching whatever this kiddie bullshit he had on for these kids. “I’m a reeeeeal savage. Boy I liiiiiiiiive lavish. Since a young killa I had piiiiiiiiill cabbage…”
“What the fuck are you listening too? What the fuck are teefuses? Pill cabbage? Ugh if I wanted this I could just go to Kucci’s house!”
Eric turned the music down. “Aye cuz this my shiznit I can bump whatever!” The swift sounds of his knife continue to beat against the cutting board as if there wasn’t a large tomato in between them. It almost scared me. “Teefuses is totally a cooler way to say teeth on the beat. He has gold teeth and a gold watch because ever since he was a youngster, he’s been making money off of selling various substances in pill-form. It’s really not hard to understand trap shit if you really want to. I’m too real to be in here blasting Patti LaBelle around this bitch.” He shoots me a smug grin before taking the cutting board, turning around and dumping the veggies in a pan full of oil. The sizzle began immediately.
“Oh no you don’t! Leave the Goddess Patti out of this! I’ll never forgive you for the time you turned the radio when Somebody Loves You Baby came on.” He just started to laugh. “I’m serious Eric! You need to stop getting these mixtapes from Dooder and Cooley. They suck.”
E.Rose shook his head. “They’re not their mixtapes. Just songs from random dudes they know all compiled together. Not like it’s them rapping. You heard lil homie’s trying out that Hollywood joint FGA’s affiliated with?” He turns around and stirs up the pot a bit before grabbing a container of pre-marinated short ribs out of the fridge.
“That’s the ORIGINAL definition of a mixtape, Eric. Not whatever these crappy rappers you like have turned the concept into.” I scoffed as I glanced over at the television. “And yeah of course I knew Dooder’s going to 3GW. Me, Nicky and Tino have been training him since PA opened, forgot?” Eric starts laughing recalling hearing the story of how Dooder wandered in the gym tripping on acid asking around for the leader of the Gang Green Monster Alien Slayer Corporation. Fucking idiot. “All I’m saying sweetie is if you get your music from the Gang Green General, it’s automatically garbage. That motherfucker ain’t even on this planet, booboo.” We both started laughing. “You should’ve seen the look on Ricky’s face as this guy was babbling on about how he’s the real life Danny Phantom and at any time he can transform into an ass-kicking ninja. Priceless.”
“Man that Ricky The Guard. Still hanging in there.” E.Rose shook his head smiling as he placed the short ribs in the slow cooker. “But I don’t know about The Doodster going back to Cali so soon right now. He’s been killing shit down here for like a good year plus now. Gutierrez ain’t gonna be happy about his top player going back to the states…and possibly being all over TV and shit. You don’t think you’re putting lil cuz at risk?”
I stopped and thought about it for a second. “It was Dooder who came to me and Nicky frustrated after a session talking about how he wanted more. He absorbs everything we teach like a sponge. I don’t even know how he’s so good at wrestling when he doesn’t even realize that wrestling’s what he’s doing. Just like I don’t understand his music. How does he even know what music is? How did he find Twitter? You too Eric. You sip more lean than Risky. Consume THC in just about everything you eat and drink. Yet you’re this functioning family man who works with hospitals and dispensaries and whatever else. HOW????” I felt myself starting to snap. “How in the fuck can you people be so good at what you guys do and yet condemn me for doing drugs every once in a while?”
The questions took Eric aback. He turned his back on me and started adding some seasonings to the pan. For a few moments he fell silent; his twin infants had fallen asleep on their blanket, giving me a chance to turn that kiddie shit off.
“Tony. You may or may not like what I’m about to say, but it’s something that needs to be said.” He turns the heat down on the stove before turning back to face me. “I cook. Always loved cooking. Always loved eating, watching other people cook. Playing around with my own recipes all that shit. I’ve never had a problem with just being looked at as a cook. Even with all the bodies I’ve dropped. Dope we’ve moved. All that old Moltisanti shit we did. That’s over and I have a family now and I’ve never been happier to just say…I cook. We have passion.”
“Oh and I don’t have passion?”
“Nope. You’re good at so much shit bro. So much shit. Fashion. Hair. Nails. Wrestling. Reeeeaaaaalllllllyyyyy good at wrestling. You’re good at so many things that could give you so much self-fulfillment to the point where the drugs don’t even affect you. But no. They affect you and turn you into a monster because you’re driven by greed and evil. Even more so now. Santos is supposed to be here to keep us balanced between good and bad. That’s why we have him AND The Goats. They’re our angels. But you’ve allowed Santos to takeover Kiko and Riki in your life and submit to him.” He starts shaking his head. “That’s a whole different discussion entirely. You have this wall, Tony. You don’t want to be labeled as anything. You’re not happy being a successful entrepreneur who wrestles. Too busy wanting to be a fucking gangster. I mean I play around with crip shit but you seriously think you’re Scarface or like Superfly. Vino’s dead. We’re not the fucking mafia anymore, and you’re the ONLY one who can’t let any of this shit go. It’s why you’re so standoffish with Damon STILL when he was our FRIEND before any this war shit started. Omega Psi Phi and Kappa Delta Rho threw the biggest inter-frat rager back in Fall ’09.”
That was a pretty fucking historic party.
“Point is Tony, at some point, you have to move on. You know damn well wrestling is something you’ve always loved. I remember sneaking and catching you watching shit when we were kids. I remember that kid Reggie Geoffries from 3rd grade homeroom.” My eyes got bigger as a rush of memories came at me at once. “He would always wear those Crunch The Cruncher shirts with the lunchbox and kids always made fun of him for it. But one day during recess you stole his lunchbox. No one knew it was you but me. That’s because you hid it under my bed! You just never wanted people to make fun of you for liking wrestling. Just like now. You don’t want any of those stuck up faggots you deal with in the high end fashion world to know you’re a wrestler, no less a pretty good one. You hate wrestling fans, for what? Because they just want you to show off your talent that everyone knows you have instead of always taking the easy way out? They’re dying for you to win that fucking title, but it ain’t ever gonna happen until you let all this bullshit baggage go and just fly. Oh and stop pushing your friends away too. That could help.”
E.Rose just looked down and shrugged his shoulders before turning back to check on his pan. I didn’t have any words. I slowly took my gaze off of him and peeked down to the young ones who were still sound asleep. I got up from the couch. “I should probably go…when Gia gets here she’s probably going to say something to piss me off. So I’ll leave in peace to avoid that…”
“Gia doesn’t hate you Tony…” I gave a Eric an unconvinced look. “Alright maybe she does. But she respects your place in my life, brother. That’s all that matters. Oh! Before you go…” He came around the side of the kitchen out to the living room facing me. “How’d that…situation go with your boy?”
I smirked.
My former best friend and Strava’s former lead stylist, Chauncey, had been waking up in the middle of the night with cold sweats for the last four months. Ever since he saw me at Target a little while ago, he was desperate to leave Miami. However, he was broke. He no longer had a job at the salon. The incident at Target forced him to leave that job after only being employed three weeks. The kilos he was able to retrieve from the Sassy Three’s heist were gone and there was nothing he could do to get them back.
Chauncey knew it was only a matter of time before one of us found him. The family he had left in Miami were estranged since they didn’t approve of his lifestyle. They were a strict Baptist family. “No love for a faggot” his father told him last. All he ever wanted was to do hair and he was finally getting paid well for doing just that. Now it was all over, and he was too scared to look elsewhere for work in the area.
Depressing situations. What was worse is that he had been silently suffering from HIV. Chauncey was on his couch looking down at the letter attached to his blood test results. The only word that stood out to him one the paper was “POSITIVE.” His eyes began to well up as Chauncey ran his hands through his dreadlocks, which had gone weeks without being properly groomed.
But suddenly there was a knock on the door…Chauncey looked up, and every feeling of fear left his body. He knew it was time. Chauncey got up and slowly made his way to the front door of the apartment (in the hoodest of Miami hoods in Broward County.) Chauncey didn’t bother looking through the peephole, it was probably covered anyways. He didn’t bother asking who was at the door. It would be a lie. He unlocked and pulled the knob. RicHomiez, Bank$quiat and Flex were standing there. Not even masked.
“What’s good my nigga?”
Chauncey looked up at both men before looking down to see them holding fully automatic 9mm pistols. He just sighed. “Let’s just get this over with. Just tell Tony that I said thanks for ruining my life…FUCK HIM!” Flex and Bank$ both started to laugh before looking at each other briefly. Bank$ turned back to Chauncy and blew him a kiss.
“Sunshine already told us to fuck you first.” Bank$ and Flex both start shooting into the apartment, laying Chauncey down. They didn’t stop shooting until dogs barked and the entire clip was emptied.
“Mhmm…lil bitch.”
Chauncey knew it was only a matter of time before one of us found him. The family he had left in Miami were estranged since they didn’t approve of his lifestyle. They were a strict Baptist family. “No love for a faggot” his father told him last. All he ever wanted was to do hair and he was finally getting paid well for doing just that. Now it was all over, and he was too scared to look elsewhere for work in the area.
Depressing situations. What was worse is that he had been silently suffering from HIV. Chauncey was on his couch looking down at the letter attached to his blood test results. The only word that stood out to him one the paper was “POSITIVE.” His eyes began to well up as Chauncey ran his hands through his dreadlocks, which had gone weeks without being properly groomed.
But suddenly there was a knock on the door…Chauncey looked up, and every feeling of fear left his body. He knew it was time. Chauncey got up and slowly made his way to the front door of the apartment (in the hoodest of Miami hoods in Broward County.) Chauncey didn’t bother looking through the peephole, it was probably covered anyways. He didn’t bother asking who was at the door. It would be a lie. He unlocked and pulled the knob. RicHomiez, Bank$quiat and Flex were standing there. Not even masked.
“What’s good my nigga?”
Chauncey looked up at both men before looking down to see them holding fully automatic 9mm pistols. He just sighed. “Let’s just get this over with. Just tell Tony that I said thanks for ruining my life…FUCK HIM!” Flex and Bank$ both started to laugh before looking at each other briefly. Bank$ turned back to Chauncy and blew him a kiss.
“Sunshine already told us to fuck you first.” Bank$ and Flex both start shooting into the apartment, laying Chauncey down. They didn’t stop shooting until dogs barked and the entire clip was emptied.
“Mhmm…lil bitch.”
“Oh don’t worry that’s all taken care of now. I just need you to give me Karl The Butcher’s number.” I shot E.Rose a wink.
He smiled. “I’ll text you cuz. See ya tomorrow at Gutierrez’s Dojo.”
“Gutierrez this. Gutierrez that. When am I finally meeting this unknown ass motherfucker?” Eric started laughing.
“Soon.”
I am sick of my name being dragged though the mud.
Sunshine Scandalous Tony Carmine has gone from being the most feared man in FGA to…well no I’m still the most feared man in FGA. Howeeeeever, all of my precious filthy little peasants out there are starting to become more and more treasonous. They’re starting to rebel against The New Kings. They’re starting to believe that they actually have a fucking option on whether or not to bow down to us.
Make no mistake about it, just because the Scandalous One has made mistakes doesn’t change the course of direction we’ve put the company on. Last Vertigo was just one step towards putting all of my critics to rest. One by one. Piece by piece. We’re going to break all of you bitches in half, but that’s not even the worst part. The worst part about it is, people are now starting to diminish everything I’ve ever accomplished here just because Zero got one over one me on one single night. There’s a very small list of people who have pinned the Scandalous One in that ring. An even smaller list of people who are still here today and even SMALLER list of motherfuckers who are still worth a shit.
Dom Harter doesn’t fall into that top percentile, but he’s in the middle. Which is quite fitting for his career. Dom used to be a lesser version of the Scandalous One once upon a time. Backstabbing. Greedy. A natural tendency to lead others to relevance and championships. Dommy Cakes wasn’t always this so-so performer competing against other so-so performers, toiling away in the shuffle. At one point you could even say the bad mama-jamba was on top!
There was a time when The Murder was the most dangerous force in sports. There was a time when Dom’s name rang bells. He was the man that everyone was putting their stock behind. I remember being off the scene after leaving XWA while Kenny was in PDW and all I heard was Dom this. Dom that. Dom’s fucking this bitch. Dom’s fucking that bitch. Dom’s winning titles. Dom’s losing titles. Dom’s taking his ball and going the fuck home. I for one was clamoring to see what all the hype was. After all if this guy could hang with talent like Kucci and he’s like the same age as me? Maybe I did have a chance to make it after all.
That’s right everyone. Dom Harter, in a way, influenced The Scandalous One to stop dipping my feet in the waters and dive into wrestling balls deep. So the next time any of you pathetic ass pieces of shit in the locker room have a problem with me, direct all blame to frosty flake tips. It’s remarkable, Dom, how I could give you a running start in this game and now look at you…trailing. Struggling to get that edge you used to have. Struggling to find a place on Vertigo when The New Kings, Zero and Chandler is all anyone gives a shit about. Struggling to live out a sick fantasy to violate every female in the business. Can’t come to grips with the fact that it’s over: you’re holding on. Bitches and titles. You’re going to get as many as you can before you either drop dead in the ring or drop dead from the almighty GERM aren’t you?
The Story of Dom Harter, ladies and gentleman. A man so superficial and so desperate for glory and affection that he’s willing to deceive people, orchestrate tragedies and complicate the lives of those around him. You’re not fooling anyone Dom. I can read you like an open book. I can read despair in your eyes every week in the locker room. Dimming lights. Fading hunger. You don’t have it like you used to, because you don’t fucking want it anymore. You never wanted to be the big man on campus. You could never handle the pressure. You just wanted to be the overachieving nerd with all the awards and accolades. There’s a place where people like you always end up and it’s called obscurity. Irrelevance. Allow me to show you the way this weekend, Dommy. It’s about time you finally ride off into the Sunset because no one wants to see you anymore. You don’t even want to see you anymore.
Let me give you a little bit of SSTC Facts. Honey, it could’ve been anyone next to the name of the Scandalous One and this shit would be the main event. Facts. I haven’t competed since Above and Beyond where, admittedly, I failed. RARE Facts. However, the fact that a hard fought loss hasn’t stopped the Oh So Gorgeous Galvanizing Gangster of Love from being the number one marquee attraction is no surprise. I was and still am the prettiest, flashiest and most talented. I was and still am the motherfucking SUN. FACTS! The brightest star you can see bitch, and don’t you forget it. Dom, for the last year I’ve had to sit back and listen to you wave your measly fluke win over me in front of every opponent you’ve gotten in the ring with. I’ve had to listen to you say you made “short work” of the Scandalous One. You Canadians are some funny little American wannabes aren’t ya?
That’s why I told you I was so excited for the match. Usually the normal bottom feeding fodder the Scandalous One gets, I’m apathetic towards. But this. This is a chance to show you that you damn sure aren’t facing the same Sunshine Scandalous Tony Carmine from my FIRST Pride title reign…that I never got my rematch for but that’s water under the bridge since these days you couldn’t touch gold if it was latched on to TCB’s fishclit. Fucking pussy. Why don’t you tell those peasants you mingle with on the regular how you beating me a year ago means shit? Since then, I went on to bigger and better things while you were fucking off with the likes of Mia Scott. But I think they know that. They know what I’m capable of, yet they still underestimate me for falling short of the crown jewel. But they don’t underestimate you do they, Dommy? Nope. You’re really good a winning titles, but no one wants to talk about how you can’t keep one for more than a piss break.
I feel disrespected Dommy. You hurt my feelings because I don’t feel like you want to win this match in a strike towards toppling my empire. You don’t want to be the brave soldier to lead the fight against The New Kings. Nope. Your big plans are…the Mid-Atlantic title (HAHA) and another accomplishment to wave in the face of the next unworthy Plain Jane, but you don’t realize that this business is done with you. You were supposed to be the future; but you peaked too fast, and now you’re on a downward slope. That was even before my rise to the top, so as much as I’d like to, I can’t even take credit for being the reason you fell the fuck off. Only a mediocre talent can make Dan Herrera look main event. Only a mediocre talent can force me to give a shit about Dizzy Anders. Only a mediocre talent fails to teach their pupil how to properly navigate this business, leaving the job to someone else. Annie’s learned more from getting her ass kicked by me than she ever did from your tutelage. Facts.
So what the fuck are you still doing here Dom? Not enough meaningless trophies and belt plaques on your mantle? Awww is someone still trying to secure a FUTURE??? How poetic. You still have places to go and people to beat huh babe? I see you stepped into HKW like a kid in a candy store. More spotlight, tournaments and titles you don’t deserve. It’s as if you’re some kind of amateur who still has shit to prove or something. Wait ya, that’s because you are. You toned it down briefly and watched a slew of hungry cats pass you right by and it killed you. It KILLS you that you’ve beaten me, and yet I’m at the helm of all things must-see. While I may not have been responsible for knocking you off the ladder, I’ll be responsible for you keeping you down for good. Ask your old pal Drake when I send you right next to that lunatic in the gutter. Lick each other’s wounds. Reminisce about times where Sunshine wasn’t around to make you look like discount Chandler Scott under those limelights (only more desperate for attention.) You’re defined by a superficial laundry list with no substance behind any of his accomplishments: just like every unknown Twitwrestler claiming 20-plus championships. You don’t stand quite where you think in this business anymore Dom. The board is full and you leave the Scandalous One no choice but to drop you like every ball you’ve ever held in your life. Welcome to obscurity, sweetie.
It’s always quality over quantity. Facts Only.