Post by The Last Real Man on Nov 10, 2016 20:16:15 GMT -5
October 28th, 2016
Hollywood, California
“Did you just drive here,” Goodrich asked me. It was seven, or eight in the morning, I could be fucking sure. I’d been hammered all night. I’d been hopped up on xanax. I’d been high off that magic dust. I wasn't doing and taking anything that would alleviate the stress and the pain I was feeling - but nothing worked. My body just burned through all the drugs like a corrosive agent, like a potent acid.
I’d cried all the tears I could cry. I screamed until my voice became hoarse.
“Long night,” he asked, nudging me on the shoulder as I plodded into the apartment, looking like I’d been through the wire, like I had journeyed to the center of the Earth and finally returned, “that's what you need, you’ve been upright lately, and under tremendous pressure. You need to unwind. A little R&R will do you good, get you read to qualify for the Wild Card Lottery.”
“She left,” I murmured, dropping my keys and an empty bottle of Everclear onto the floor.
“What’d you say?”
“She took him,” I said, not even looking at him, not even looking at anything. I felt like a perfect picture in a broken frame - out of touch and out of place. I felt a numbness come over me, as if nothing was real. It felt like a dream, like the threads holding reality and fantasy together had suddenly been snapped, and I was trapped in limbo. I was there standing on the room. I knew Goodrich was there, I could hear Steven A. Smith ranting on ESPN, I could smell the coffee brewing in the Espresso machine - I was there in the room but I wasn't there.
“What happened,” he asked, as he squeezed my shoulder, a look of concern coming over him as he looked over me, “when, how?”
“She just took him, Quinn. She took him,” I said, my voice cracking, as the emotions started to get a hold of me. My eyes which were once a barren wasteland were overcoming the drought, rain beginning to fall onto the soil. I could feel tears forming in my dilates pupils. My heart had already crumbled to pieces, but I could feel it reformed, just to break again. I was in hell. “She left a voicemail. She didn't even say goodbye. She didn't even give me a chance to hold him one more time, to look into his eyes.”
“I already know,” he said, as I he turned away, beginning to walk off. I stopped for a moment, confused by what he meant. I felt like he was hiding something. Like he was keeping secrets, and I hate secrets.”
“How would you know, Quinn, how would you fucking know? Tell me how, how in the bloody hell would you fucking know. I'm telling you Kharissa left the fucking country with my son, and you're telling me you already know? How do you know already know, Quinn? Huh? You some fucking psychic now? Is that what?”
“I know because I'm the one who told her to go,” he said with a straight face. I was waiting for a smile to form on his pasty white features, I was waiting for him to say it was a bad joke and a terrible misguided effort to try and cheer me up. But Ashton Kutcher wasn't making any appearances. He wasn't hiding behind a curtain.
“What the fuck did you just say to me,” I asked, i could barely get it out my mind was running circles trying to decipher what he meant, trying to compute exactly what I just heard. It didn't make sense to me.
“She asked me what I thought she should do. She was conflicted, John. She wasn't sure if she should stay, because she thought she was becoming a distraction to you. She knew you were going off the reservation again, so I made the call.”
The room was silent. You could hear a pin drop. Steven A’s voice was suddenly muffled and sniffed out. I could hear my heart beating. I could hear Quinn’s confession echoing in the back of my mind. I could hear the gears in my head grinding as they tried to come to grips with the information I just received.
“Fuck off,” I replied. I couldn't believe it. I refused to, “get the fuck out my face with that rubbish. Don't fuck with me, Quinnton. This is my fucking life we’re talking about.”
“I know, and I wouldn't play about something like that. My job is to have your best interests in mind. I'm your friend AND your manager, and I have to do what's best for you as both my friend and my client. And right now what’s best for you is to stay focused, and recapture the FGA World Title. You don't have time to play house with your ex-fiancé. If you won't get your priorities in order, I - ”
I couldn't hear the last thing he said. By then my fist was already kissing his jaw. By then I had already tackled through the glass table in the living room. By then I was already hammering down right hands
“JOHN-”
Faintly, I heard him pleading to me, but his cries were distorted by my knuckles blistering his lips.
“WAIT-”
My hands were now around his throat. I could see his eyes bulging out of their sockets. I was losing it, control. My whole life was predicated on it. Since I was an adolescent I’d always been in the driver's seat. It was my obsession. But slowly I’d lost if all. My life as I knew it had been taken from me. I was beginning to break.
“ARGGGGGHHH!” I yelled out as he drove his fingers into my eyes dispensation. Before I knew if he was on top of me, holding me down.
“CALM DOWN, JOHN!”
“YOU SON OF A BITCH,” I spat, struggling to break from my restraints. “GET OFF ME!”
“You think I did this because I wanted to? I did this for you! I did this because you're sick. You don't think I've noticed? You don't think I see this,” he said, as he wiped the cocaine residue off my nostrils, “you’ve been using again, you’ve been drinking more often, you’ve been losing your edge and your sanity. You’re not well, and you’re not fit to be a father. Do you want William to see you like this? Do you want this to be the image of his father, an addict?”
“Get the fuck out,” I ordered, finally pushing the boulder off my chest as climbed to my feet.
“John listen -”,
“I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT QUINNTON!”
I’d never screamed at Goodrich like that before. We had fights in the pasta. We’d traded blows before, all friends do. This was different. I felt betrayed. I felt a knife in my back.
“I do this for you, John,” he said, looking me in eye, “because I love you man.”
*************************************************************************
“It should be me,” says Johnny Cannon as the scene cuts in. We see The British Mamba looking visually vexed, and beside himself, an unraveled tie hanging around his neck, his Oxford shirt wide open with a few buttons missing, and his bloody tuxedo beginning to fade, “nobody else deserves it.”
“I hate it,” confessed Cannon, as he clutches a bottle of Jack Daniels, with a few empty ones laying right beside him, “I hate the fact that my livelihood and aspirations hinged on my ability to turn roadkill into chicken parmesan. Im not Jesus. I can't turn water into wine, I can only drink it. Therefore, the fact that I was forced to have to coexist with Kevin Hardaway of all people for an opportunity to compete for a World Championship that I never lost was utterly fucking ridiculous, and speaks volumes to the degrees of which FGA brass are willing to go to screw me over.”
“Oh it's a conspiracy,” claims Cannon, as he stares at his bottle melancholically, “there's no doubt in my mind about it. There's no doubt in my mind that the suits and ties have it out for me. Maybe it's because my suits and ties are better than theirs. Maybe it's because I’ve earned more money in my life than they could ever make even if they lived two lifetimes. I don’t know. Maybe it's because I refuse to spread my cheeks and lift my sack. I refuse to suck their cocks, or let them rape me for the sake of being a company man.”
“Those are the only logical explanations, because anyone with common sense will tell you that I am the real FGA World Champion. Zero McHannon never defeated me for the title. He never pinned me, he never submitted me. History dictates, and remembers that Sunshine Scandalous Tony Carmine was on the receiving end of a Zero Tolerance. McHannon merely exploited the numbers game. At Above and Beyond I had a 33 percent chance of victory, which worked in his favor - because every time we step into the ring with each other on equal footing - I'm talking mono e mono, I beat him 100 percent of the time because Zero McHannon CAN’T beat me. I've knocked him the fuck out TWO times. I’d do it a third but he’s already run out of town to be the big fish in the kiddy pool. The funny thing is he still ended up drowning in shallow water,” he smiles, “watching him get humbled at Decay was so good I wish I would’ve paid for the show. But it wasn't worth it. They lacked the star power.”
“Star power I've provided to FGA, only to be constantly overlooked, and undermined by management. I’ve been the only sure thing in this company,” he claims, as he sips his beer. “Unlike Cordy Stevenson, I've never had to take time off for injury,” he says with an air quote, “or you know, vacation time in the Bahamas to reevaluate my career options because I couldn't get over the hump. Unlike Izzy Anders, I didn't have to stage a fake kidnapping in an effort to make myself interesting because I had the longest MAL title reign in company history and people still didn't know who the fuck I was,” he says harshly. “Unlike Annie Dupree, I didn't have to break bad to make myself seem a little bit more edgier, thinking it’ll make me more marketable than the career midcarder I'm destined to be,” he says. “And most certainly unlike Anthony Carmine, I haven't flamed out in a hundred big matches, and cried about a lack of opportunities, only to continuously be given them for no apparent fucking reason other than me being associated with the big names.”
“And I am that big name,” he brags, “of the four people competing for the vacant FGA World Championship at the Five Year Anniversary Show, I’m the ONLY one who’s actually been to the top of the mountain, and I did it in my first try. I beat this entire company for my one opportunity. I didn't get put in every fucking tournament and cup, just to lose to Chandler Scott in the Finals. They didn't gift wrap me my own tag team partner in this Wild Card Tournament. They didn't put me up against inferior competition either. They handicapped me with a fucking air biscuit, and told me to make due,” he says angrily, as he chugs more JD.
“And I did that. Like I've always done, I've gone out and done what's been asked of me, and have shattered expectations. Every time I'm on the card I'm expected to put on a spectacle, and then I go out there and steal the show. I did that two weeks ago. A fortnight ago I was leaps and bounds the best wrestler that night, but what do I have to show for it,” he inquired, as he digs his fingernails into the table, “I have a date with Molly Reid, and that's one sentence I never thought I'd say in my fucking life. “
“Molly Reid, you're the punchline to a horrendous joke, and everyone else seems to think it's funny, but I'm not laughing. I don't find it funny that my contractually guaranteed rematch for the FGA World Championship has been dismissed and ignored. I don't find it funny that I’ve gone undefeated, unpinned, unsubmitted, hell I haven't even been disqualified in a one on one match since March - I've EVISCERATED, ELIMINATED, and ERADICATED, each and every one of you sorry motherfuckers who's stepped in the ring with me - YET my match goes on BEFORE Chris fucking Strike’s, a man who doesn't even wrestle for FGA, a man I BEAT in the Summer. And they have the nerve to call it a “Special Attraction Match” as if I'm not the BIGGEST attraction in this company. No Molly, I don't find it funny that four people who have no business being in the World Title picture will be competing for MY spot. For MY belt!”
“In fact, it pisses me off,” he says, as he tosses the bottle across the room, “it irritates me, that despite all the revenue I’ve brought into this company, despite all the exposure FGA has gained because of my name being associated with it, they’ve rewarded me with constant slaps in the face. I am a real man, and a real man commands respect. And when he is not given it, and is instead mocked, and disrespected, he responds accordingly,” he says, gritting his teeth furiously, “so in response to the circumstances that I’ve been faced with, Molly when you step into the squared circle against me at the Boardwalk Hall, in Atlantic City, I’m going to break you.”
“The Pride Championship has given you unwarranted confidence, Molly. Since you knocked off Fujiko, you think for whatever reason that you’re one of the top dogs in FGA now. Darling, you're just a bitch, and I know technically that's the same species, but in reality it's not. I'm not anything you've ever experienced. Your toughest matches are breezes for me. Your best performances are equivalent to the ones I mail in. You and I are NOT the same. You're just another number that isn't equal to me. I'm indivisible. I’m the ONE.” He proclaims.
“It's Johnny Cannon,” he says, raising his hand up over his head to illustrate his point, “and then there's you, and everyone else,” he claims, as he drops his hands down to the table. “Notice the gap? That's ground you’ll never make up, no matter how hard you try, because some of us are just born to be second rate. Some of us are just born to be on the outside looking in. Some of us are just born to live our lives banging on the door, never being answered - while I was born to KICK the door down, and knock whoever is standing in my way the FUCK out!”
“That's how I became the man I am. No gimmicks. No handouts,” he claims, “I made myself into a household name. I didn't bitch and moan for opportunities, I didn't marry the boss, I didn't buddy up with the cool kids backstage, I didn't sell out to market tee shirts to the terminally ill, and I’m not management’s puppet. I'm just The Baddest Man On The Planet! I'm just the man that walked into FGA and changed the guard. Look at what happened when I arrived a summer ago. The level of competition has increased. I elevated everyone's game. I raised the bar, and gave you people something to aspire to be,” he suggests, “I gave you people someone to model yourselves after because I'm a model of consistency. I consistently wrestle the best matches, I consistently sell out arenas. I consistently prove myself to be better than EVERYONE!”
“All you’ve proven to be is a boring, uncharismatic, generic white chick,” he says coldly, “And like Terry Crews this Saturday I'm going to put you in a wheelchair. And you can thank Leonard Asherman, and the rest of the FGA Championship committee, because they’re the ones that have signed your death sentence,” he says vindictively, “they’re the people I’ll direct your loved ones to when they ask me why? Why did you beat her like a tired cliche? And it’s because they're the ones who've backed me into this corner. They're the ones who’ve angered the beast. They’re the ones who’ve angered the monster. And they’re the ones who've set me on this course.”
“Molly Reid, this isn’t the biggest match of your life, it's the biggest gamble. Unfortunately for you, Lady Luck will not be on your side because she already packed her bags and headed for the hills. She couldn't survive in the new FGA - the FGA I created when I changed the guard. Quite frankly I don't blame her; that's because there's not a soul walking God’s green Earth right now that wants to step in the ring with me, because they know they won't be leaving the same way they came in. They’ll be leaving on gurneys, and in ambulances straight to the unemployment line because I END careers. Look at what I did to Chris Bond! Evangelista as we know her is no more! She's out there wrestling in bingo halls or for loose change. That's what I do to people, Molly. I do bad things, Molly,” he says as he stares at his hands, beginning to wash them over his face, “I’ve never claimed to be a good man, only a real man, but right now I'm becoming a man unhinged, and unleashed.”
“I don't wrestle, Molly. I fight. I fuck people sideways. I rip your heart out, chew it up, then spit it back in your face as you draw out the lasts breaths of your worthless fucking life. I channel all my rage, all my anger, and all my frustrations into these hands,” he says as he begins to ball his hands into fists, “and with these hands I tear your apart limb from limb until your brain can no longer assimilate the damage you’ve sustained because it's too much to compute, because I'm too much to deal with.”
“I'm in a bad place right now. I’ve lost everything I’ve worked for. My life behind closed door is in shambles. The people around me are disappearing, and I've been going through peaks and valleys. I haven't felt this way before, I haven't felt this emptiness in my stomach, in my chest. I feel like a jigsaw puzzle with a missing piece. I feel incomplete, he says candidly as he holds his hand over his heart, “without the FGA World Championship I feel like you, Molly. Like a spoke on the wheel, like just another name on the roster, like one of the hundred hopefuls that have stepped through this company’s revolving doors, leaving just as quickly as they entered because they didn't have it.”
“And I’m not you, Molly, because unlike you and everyone else I actually have it because I am it. I AM FGA. I am JOHNNY CANNON… and I USED TO BE THE FGA WORLD CHAMPION!”
“And that should count for something,” he stresses, “that should count for EVERYTHING, because I've given everything to this business. I've given everything to this company, and here I stand before you with NOTHING to show for it! I have NOTHING! I feel like NOTHING,” he says, as he holds his head down in shame, “but a man with nothing, well that's a dangerous man,” he says, as he lifts his head up, staring daggers at the camera, “a predator who's hungry, is dangerous. And the Mamba, well he’s STARVING. He’s got venom dropping from his fangs and blood salivating on his tongue. And there's only one thing that can satisfy him. However, this Saturday he’ll have to satisfy on an appetizer,” he says with murderous intent.
“This Saturday I’m coming for blood, Molly. I'm coming for your head. I'm coming to knock you the FUCK out.”
END.
