Post by Bacchus. on Oct 20, 2022 18:12:42 GMT -5
Johnny didn’t hear the bell ring. He didn’t hear the boos of the crowd or Daniel Fehl’s music playing victoriously. He didn’t hear the chants of “Thank you, Johnny” as he walked up the ramp, and he didn’t hear Corey Black’s music hit or the reaction of the crowd as their attention shifted and his departure was quietly brushed aside by the egos and agendas of opportunistic narcissists. He didn’t talk to anyone in the back after he passed through the curtains, and outside of Lissie joining his side and lacing her fingers with side, he didn’t acknowledge any of his now former coworkers. He had nothing to say to any of them. He didn’t care to get insincere comfort from King Shit or to reply to taunts from Gerard Angelo or Jill Park. He didn’t want to have an exit interview with Torture or get some slap on the back “the door is always open for you to return in the future” corporate spiel bullshit from Alexander Pasternak. When the door to the arena closed behind him, the chapter on his life closed as well – all that remained was he and Lissie Hope, hands gripping one another, walking through the chilly October air to the AMC AMX parked out in the lot. The silence of the night hung between them – and this suited Johnny just fine, as there was little he had to say in the immediate moment. With the engine turned on, the radio began to play a familiar tune from the Oldies station. Yes, I’ve got heartaches by the number, Troubles by the score, Every day you love me less, Each day I love you more… The engine revved loudly to an audience of two – the parking lot was deserted as the show went on inside. As they wound through the streets and back to the hotel, Lissie reached over to place her hand on his. “I can’t imagine how you feel,” Lissie said quietly, her voice quavering with emotions. Johnny replied with a shrug, his eyes locked firmly on the road ahead. His reply came automatically, his mind still blank and numb like an overpoweringly loud static buried his thoughts. “It is what it is,” Johnny remarked, “Everyone who wanted me gone had their wish granted. They’ll continue to feed on one another like starved jackals until the whole company is reduced to a charnel pit, where the champion is the one-eyed man leading the blinded and castrated in a rat-infested canyon. There’s a bigger world out there, Tiger – there’s so much still to accomplish, and there’s so much beyond Action Wrestling. They can have it; I’ll go into the exile they’ve driven me into. I only hope I can rid myself of any fleas I may’ve acquired lying down with those dogs.” A tear slid down her cheek. His words were stoic and monotonous – though his dialogue was quintessentially Johnny Bacchus, the fire and passion in his tone was absent. Her hand tightened on his. “I don’t want to lose you,” she said with a choked back sob. His hand turned to grasp hers, and his eyes left the road only to look at her. “You won’t,” he said firmly, “We’re much deeper than some fucking company.” It elicited a small smile through her grief, and her free hand came to wipe her cheek as he looked back at the road. “So what now?” she asked, “Are you returning to school? Finishing your BA?” “Dunno,” he replied, as the radio continued, “Life’s kinda funny for me.” Yes, I’ve got heartaches by the number, “But whatever happens?” A love that I can’t win, “I’ll take the ticket.” But the day that I stop counting is… “And take the ride.” …The day my whole world ends! 🎶 I’m going to say something harsh to start this off, Holdy Locks. Because while I get that your love life is tough right now, you’re in desperate need of a little tough love. I apologize in advance for any big words I may use in the following little diatribe; I’m sure you’re only capable of reading at a Seventh Grade-level if there’s anything I’ve gleaned over the miserable past year I’ve been forced to occupy an overlap in orbits with you. But in this industry so full of blind sycophants and submental egomaniacs, it’s easy to find yourself trapped in a circlejerk and grotesquely overestimating your abilities. In terms you’d understand, “when you invite one person to your skybox, you’ll get invited to theirs – this does not make you a VIP”. Similarly, when you spend all your time and money at the Velvet Rabbit, overpaying for lap dances, it’s only courtesy for those same girls to come tip your chunky monkey-ass doing the Truffle Shuffle on a pole – this does not mean you’re a sex symbol. Maybe Serenity Holmes, for all her juvenile philistinism, likes watching all the tattooed faces on your chest jiggle like a caffeinated shoggoth, but there’s a reason I’ve put more bitches on the mattress – both in the bedroom and in the ring – than you’ve even imagined in your dumbest “Me and My Cousin High Fived While Banging Kate Upton” fantasies. You think you’re hot shit. You think you know violence and inspire fear. You see yourself as a highrolling, forged-in-fire, casanova monster who takes and breaks whatever he wants – championship reigns, hearts, bones, whatever. You wanted this match. Be careful what you wish for, Holden. Because I’m granting it. There’s plenty of contrasts we could make between the two of us – you’re a 6’5”, 300 lb monster who’s inked over every scar on his body and grown a beard to conceal the bruises on his chin. I’m a sub-6-foot, just over 200 lb little femboy. You supposedly live for this – you spend hours tweeting threats and grim reaper pictures like a pissed off suburbanite failson who punches holes in drywall when his mom grounds him for smoking pot in the house – I shitpost nonsense and play grabass with my more popular girlfriend rather than taking anyone seriously. And yet, no matter how affirmatively you proclaim your thirst for blood or brashly you assert your strengths, we all know the loudest voice in the room is the weakest. From one wake-and-bake stoner to another, if you put down the blunt for a couple hours, maybe you’d have a more accurate assessment of yourself. You see a ferocious omnipredator. But I see a dancing bear. And here, finally, is my tough love for you: You are. Without a doubt. The stupidest person in this industry. You once proclaimed yourself a leader and me a follower – I’ve watched you latch yourself on like a leech to Gerard Angelo, sucking him for blood and clout as you grew fat and incompetent, running face first into Joey Scala like a fucking Road Runner short. I’ve seen you swim in the wake of Chris Page and feed on his scraps like a mutant remora, convinced that being attached to a shark made you one as well. Holden Ross isn’t a monster – Holden Ross is a lonely puppy in a Spirit Halloween devil costume who keeps following his masters, even after they unhooked his collar in the field and told him to get lost. Holden Ross is the man who kissed JD Driftwood’s ass and begged for his respect – Holden Ross received his head shoved in a toilet and called out for being the simpering little bitch he is, in kind. Holden Ross does not want fear or accolades. Holden Ross wants to be pet on the head and told he’s a good ol’ pal. That’s why every tweet storm he’ll fire off begins with “I AM THE DEVIL INCARNATE. I AM ABBADON. I AM HE WHO LURKS IN THE DARK,” and eventually becomes, “SUP COOL PIMPS, I GOT A SKYBOX AND A HOTEL SUITE, WHO WANTS TO COME OVER TO SMOKE SOME BLUNTS AND EAT WINGS WITH YA BOY.” I have bled for this industry, Holden. I’ve burned bridges without blinking, and I’ve put my neck on the line to do the right thing and prove I’m the best. I’ve held belts you couldn’t sniff, and I’ve had reigns all your combine couldn’t top. I strutted into CU:LT with a mic in my hand and a chip on my shoulder, and in my second match, I took a man with a winless record, tuned him like a fucking fiddle, and played a tune that won the Double Homicide Titles that eluded you twice. You should thank your lucky stars that Downfall forced me out of Action Wrestling. So long as I’m around, you get nothing. I’m sure you’re surprised this isn’t more in line with my Twitter affectations. After all, up until this point, I’ve just been playing Bugs Bunny with you. But it’s almost Halloween, Holden. So now? I’m going Jeffrey Dahmer. And after all – why scrape the bottom for a joke when you can top the one across the ring from you? Olive Adler answered Johnny’s knock, her expression one of pleased surprise – or rather, as pleased as Olive allowed herself to express. “And here I thought you were the candy man,” she remarked, opening the door to him. “Don’t get strung out,” he replied in kind, offering her a side hug as he entered the apartment, “She awake?” “Yeah, she’s over in the living room,” Olive answered as they walked down the hall, “I’m sure she’ll be surprised to see you.” “How’s she doing? Healing okay?” Olive offered a noncommittal shrug. “She’s slept more in the past month than she has since I’ve known her.” The television buzzed in the background, and when Johnny entered, he immediately recognized it as a rerun of Action Wrestling Clash – the same Clash where Insurgentsia had lost the Tag Titles to King Shit. Ash sat with her leg in a cast, propped up on the coffee table, several empty bottles of water scattered as a shrine to her lethargy. Johnny sat next to her, eying the rubbish before looking at her. When she didn’t look back, he looked to the TV, watching as CJ Phoenix batted Ash’s injured ear. “This is giving me some nostalgia,” he joked; she remained silent. “It’s fucked up we’re here,” he continued, “I expected some hostility, but I didn’t expect such ferocity and adversity from all sides. That’s on me. I’ll take blame for that.” He paused, and she looked over at him. He looked back at her. “I’m sorry, Ashley,” he said frankly. She canted her head at him. “You’ve nothing to apologize for, Jonathan,” she said quietly, their eyes meeting, “Nor atone.” They looked back at the television, as Spencer Adams reached up to claw the stitches out of Johnny’s head wound he’d received a few weeks before at the hands of Daniel Fehl’s crowbar. “Is this the end of it?” Ash asked, her eyes glued to the screen, “Did we fail?” “No,” replied Johnny affirmatively, his eyes following hers, “They can set us back. But we’ll never allow them to make us fail. They still don’t understand what’s at stake.” There’s a part of me that feels I shouldn’t even waste the time and effort on this – at the end of the day, you’re little more than an annoying, yapping chihuahua. I know that I could punt you halfway across the arena the moment you get too boring or a touch too aggressive, 300 lbs or not. I don’t want to kick a dog, Holden – I want to pet the dog. Truth be told, I too enjoy smoking blunts and throwing hotel parties; if you weren’t the drooling thug to every wannabe Dick Dastardly in this industry, we’d probably even get along. Of course, it’s too late for that. Not because I can’t simply roll my eyes and handwave all your past transgressions, but because you’d never take the blow to your pride of forgiving my petty mockeries. I’ve been in this business a scant two years, but there’s a commonality amongst all the enemies I’ve made: your souls are bitchmade. Covering yourself in lacerations, callous your knuckles, and bust every tooth in your mouth out – your skin paper thin and your stomach for true hostility is weak. It’s easy to dislike me, Holden: I don’t care if the serpents and lizards who infest this business like me or not. You’re not going to win much clout with the boys in the back by kissing my butt or trying to shark clout off me – I know a bitch when I see one and say it freely. But I’ve watched you do backflips to justify Gerard Angelo put you out to pasture, and I’ve seen you inarticulately fumble for an excuse as to why Chris Page had more faith in conscripting an enemy in CU:LT than risk you getting stuck in a barrel of molasses when gold is on the line. I’ve watched Lissie Hope stick a finger in your face and laugh at you, while you nervously pretend you’re in on the joke. You’re a fucking coward, Holden Ross – all those physical gifts, and the only person you’ll ever lash out at is someone you think you can punch down on. You utter fucking imbecile, Holden – to think that I’m a Joey Scala or an Andre Holmes. You arrogant joke, Holden – to posture yourself as an indomitable avatar of violence against a man who held the Action Wrestling Hardcore Championship you can’t even have a transitional reign with. You poor Bastard, Holden – I’m going to shatter your fucking world before an audience of your peers. This industry means everything to me. Every time I look out at that crowd and I hear it roar, I think about when I was one of those people watching people like you in this ring, with a dream in my heart that I could one day be among you. I’ve spent the past two years of my career refusing to compromise, refusing to explain myself, and refusing to politick or play nice because I know that I’m the best. And the only people who deny that haven’t seen me or are in denial. You wanna know what it’s like to be truly feared, Holden? It’s not when people tremble at the sight of you – it’s when your opponent howls with rage and throws everything they have to keep you down and away for good. Because they know so long as you’re allowed to go on, their ceiling is the bottom of my boot. You are not my swan song, Holden. You are not my curtain call or my ultimate fate. You are the end of Act 2, where I send a message to the world and ride off into the sunset, leaving three words on their minds: To. Be. Continued. On a card full of industry juggernauts like James and Atara Raven, Corey Black, Tara Fenix, and Larry Tact, our match is going to be the one on people’s minds as they leave the arena on Night Two and reflect on this event. But those people won’t be thinking “That Holden Ross guy, I knew there was a reason he gets endorsed by so many respected industry vets – it was a solid endorsement.” Instead, they’ll be thinking: “Where the fuck has that Johnny Bacchus kid been this whole time? And when he returns, who the hell’s face is he going to paint next?” They say it’s good form to go out on your back in this industry. But Holden? I’ve never been one to play by the rules, and I’ve never had much respect for reactionary traditions. This will be my last match in quite some time, but on my way out the door? I’m going to use your face as the welcome mat I wipe my boots off on. And even if I leave my boots in the ring? I’ll be leaving them up your ass and you face down for ten. What more can I say? Well? Toodle-oo for now. Think of me while I’m gone. Bitch. 😘 The music was blaring just beyond the curtains, and Johnny stared out at the roaring crowd in quiet contemplation. It wasn’t like his final match in Action Wrestling, where the audience’s mouths seemed uniformly open in silent screams though no sound processed in his mind – the sounds and lights were intense to the point of pain as his mind spun. All that kept him grounded was the feeling of Lissie’s hand in his, squeezing affectionately as he looked on in a fog. “You’ll miss it when it’s gone,” remarked a voice from behind, snapping Johnny from his trance. He turned to greet the source – a tall, lean man with Italian features who now stared out at the crowd with a wry smile. “Trust me.” The man turned his attention from the curtain back to Johnny, offering his hand with a polite smile. Hesitantly, Johnny took it for a firm shake. “I’ve been watching you,” the man continued, his accent unmistakably New Yorker, “You’ve got a left like a pistol and a kick like a fuccin’ shotgun,” he said complimentary before pausing, “But you’re sloppy. You’ve clever, and your brain’s gotten you out of places that lose matches for dumber men. But that only goes so far untrained – that’s why you’re here, rather than there.” The man reached into his coat pocket, withdrawing a business card and offering it out. “I’m sure you’re thinkin’ about going back to school. That’s all fine, but if you change your mind? Give me a call. Meanwhile, try to beat some clarity into this clearly neuro-divergent man, who also needs a solid diet and fitness plan.” It wasn’t until the man that Johnny looked over at Lissie; it was only then he noticed her wide-eyed expression and agape mouth. His eyebrow raised as she looked over at him and then back to the stranger, who passed into the back corridors and out of sight. “Do you know who that was?” she asked, her voice soft. “He looked familiar,” Johnny muttered as he turned over the business card. Gold lettering looked up at him. Joseph Malignaggi The World |
