Post by JohnCable on Oct 20, 2022 20:33:58 GMT -5
“I don't have to take this shit!” a very young John screams at an older man across a small sparsely furnished kitchen clinging to the ghost of the seventies. The slim metal legs holding up the acrylic topped table splashed with bubbles of pinks, oranges, and reds dotted sparsely with vibrant blue orbs placed 'just so' for balance shudders as John slams his balled fists down upon it, threatening to crash straight through to the floor with one more savage blow.
“I'm trying to help the best way I know how, and if you can't see that, then I know better then to try to convince you otherwise, but unless you've got a better idea on how to save the gym, then I don't have much of a choice.” John screams at the man as he leans across the table, his dark hair falling in tendrils about his face.
Hank, his brow furrowed beneath his scraggly mop of graying mane, and his bushy eyebrows scrunched forward like thick caterpillars resting above his dark eyes, looks up at John across the kitchen, a nonplussed disappointment etched in his stony face.
“You done throwin' a fit now, huh? You done telling me after all these years you gonna just toss your whole career out the damned window... everything we done, everything you worked so hard for... just so you can make some money? All of it... everything... just for a wad a money?” Hank says tiredly, his voice barely steady, frustration and fear filling his tone with desperation.
“Dad, unless you got another plan to get the money to pay off the property tax on the gym, then I need to do this. I'm not about to stand by and watch you lose this place when I can make the money in one night. I'm not gonna do it.” he states, calmer now, but steady in his decision, his voice even and pleading.
“Your contracts are very clear about exclusivity in the ring. These cage fights are dangerous at best... deadly at the worst. The last thing you need to do is go fight in some underground fight club and get hurt so close to getting what you've worked your whole life for, and for what? This shed? This little hole in the wall?” Hank counters, sadness erasing the scowl, the frown deepening and his shoulders slumping as he waves his hands around the kitchen to emphasize how little they would really be losing.
“Dad... seriously. This place is your legacy! You have decades of history in this gym, in this house... this is the only home I've known in years... and I am not just going to be OK with giving it up when I have a choice to do something about it. Nothing is going to happen if I go fight a couple of drunks one night for some rich assholes in a warehouse somewhere. It's not like it's going to be televised, or even advertised!” John tries to reason with the old man, desperate to plead his case.
“I said no. I meant no. I will not have you risk everything for this old chunk a the past. If we lose it, then we lose it. Once you start making the big bucks, you can buy me a nice new gym anyway.” Hank tries to joke with him to lighten the mood, but to no avail.
“For fuck sake, Dad! You are the most hard headed man I have ever met! I'm doing this, whether you like it or not. I can't just let you lose everything... and I won't” John yells at him, exasperated in his determination to do nothing to change their fate.
With that, John opens the narrow white door to the staircase outside, and storms off down the long flight of stairs to the gym below, across the floor between the rings and machines, and through the rickety screen door at the end of the hallway before the scene fades to black.
“Born Johnathan Montreux, orphaned at the young age of nine and adopted as Johnathan Winthrope, by world renown former golden gloves boxer and trainer, Hank Winthrope. John was a promising young boxer on the verge of emerging on the professional scene as a talented prodigy, his future promising and full of hope, yet now faces charges of manslaughter after a deadly night of illegal cage fighting, a major drug bust, and murder from a warehouse in the River District tonight.” a man's voice says from a television in a storefront window.
“We have new information about the ongoing coverage of the deadly evening here in downtown last night. Seventeen people now confirmed dead, with another two-hundred and seventy-four injured in the aftermath of an illegal fighting ring run by a known community figurehead here in Jacksonville with ties to organized criminal activities.” the news anchor continues with the grisly details of the night just passed.
A deep crimson fluid moves slowly across a gray concrete backdrop. As the scarlet pool overtakes more and more of the gray, the perspective floats higher and higher until tight curls of raven colored hair can be seen soaking in the red puddle beneath against the concrete. As the scene moves further and further up and away, a pale white hand of soft alabaster tones comes into view, the fingers splayed across the puddle and smeared in the bright red blood up to the wrist, and across the forearm to the elbow.
There on the floor of what was John's dressing room that night, lay the corpse of Vivian, a young woman with a full life of opportunities ahead of her, gone far too early. They had recently gotten engaged after quite a few months together, and had been happy.
In hopes to goad John to greater depths of violence, his opponent that night in the cage, the hired muscle of the mob boss in charge, took it upon himself to send a message to the Beast. The message was received... and when the response came, no one could have prepared for the fallout that followed.
Bodies lay strewn across the ring and the stands. A swath of destruction that rolled from the backstage area across the arena and up to the throne high above the masses where the King of Crime ruled over his Colosseum of debauchery and hedonism a grisly warning of the danger.
The wrath of the Beast had been unleashed in its full fury... and that night... John unlocked the cage he had imprisoned his demon with for ages... and from the shadows, emerged the bloodthirsty tormentor of vengeance and rage. He stalked through the building as an apex predator... tearing those who stood before him to shreds with a frenzied rage that left only blood and pain in its wake. As the man who took Vivian's life lay dying on the floor, blood gushing from his neck, torn free of his body with bare hands of the Beast, he clutches at the hole in his neck, desperately trying to hold his life inside of him as his eyes dart back and forth frantically, hoping for anyone to try to save him his fate. No help came... but the wrath of the Beast continued on until everyone involved in the tragedy suffered upon him found their fate at his hands... bloodied and weary afterwards, he slumped to the floor in the middle of the ring, and stayed there for what seemed like ages before they came. The police burst in through all the doors at once, swarming into the arena and sweeping swiftly to either side to clear the room of threats. Soon enough, they realized there was only one person in the room left alive... and one by one, they trained their firearms on the man in the ring... the boy... the Beast. He had lived in fear for his adopted father and his fiance for too long, and Vivian being taken away from him just to make him fight harder... on top of the threat of Hank's safety... It was too much. John wasn't willing to risk not one more person in his life to the violence of these men... and he would face the punishment if he must, but he did what he had to do. Now it was time to wait... and rest.
“Slowly... Get on your stomach and put your hands out to your sides!” one of the armed and armored men shouts at him as the scene fades to black.
“Breaking news in the Johnathan Winthrope case as a fairly surprising verdict has come down today here in Jacksonville.” A man's voice came over a car radio stuck in rush hour traffic in the I-95 corridor coming out of Downtown Jacksonville.
“In what can only be called an upset victory for Mr. Winthrope, he has been found not guilty by the jury today, on all charges. In an emotional closing statement, the Honorable Winston Driscoll made the following statement: What you will deal with in the days and years to come will be hard to handle, and there will be times when the memories of what has happened in the last few weeks will be overwhelming and difficult to bear. I urge you, while you have been found not guilty by a jury of your peers, for your own benefit, seek counseling. Seek mental health professionals, and maybe anger management classes to help you deal with these emotions. I am sorry for your loss, sir, but you can make a better future for yourself, and should. This is a second chance, son... don't waste it.” the news anchor quotes over the airwaves before the scene fades to black.
“But... why?” John asks, the words low and grating, uncertainty and doubt heavy in his tone.
“Well, 'Charitable Donation Event' for starters... and that is literally what we do here... at YOUR company...” the Citizen answers from behind his large dark mahogany desk that used to be John's a few very long years ago. The sarcasm seemed a little thick, and was more than a tad bit condescending.
“And for another thing... you haven't been doing very many fundraisers in the last few years. While we still have plenty of monetarily viable charity resources, they have never functioned like they did when you were still the only face of the company. We need... no... YOU need... to get back out there and rekindle the charitable spirit of our donors and making some new friends wouldn't hurt either.” he continues bluntly.
“If it's a donation they need, just write a check to St. Jude's and do a stage bit for it at the show. I don't need to go halfway around the world to...” John starts to attest to the trip, many reasons piling up in his brain to not go do the show, maybe call in a celebrity favor to show up and award the check on behalf of the Foundation and call it a year already. He had so many more important things going on that he could be spending his time on accomplishing. This could easily be handled by the Board and the Funding Department.
“John. Seriously... what's up with you?” the Citizen asks as he looks up at his long time friend across the room.
“What do you mean?” John asks as he turns around to finally face him at his old desk.
“You won the match at Cannabis Cup a few months ago, and it lit a fire under your ass to get back into the ring full time again. In the entire time I have known you, I have never seen you come up with ANY reason not to go fight someone anywhere for little to no reason... let alone for charity! What the hell is wrong with you? Seriously.” the Citizen asks him, concern deep in his voice, and genuinely interested in what makes this fight different than any other.
“I'm not coming up with reasons NOT to fight... but maybe just not THIS fight, you know? I mean, what does this fight do for Slater and I in the long run?” John asks, honestly wondering what the rewards here are that a simple donation couldn't do.
“Wow. I think you ARE getting old... for fuck sake.” the Citizen exclaims as he stands up at his desk and makes his way to a small shelf at the end of the room.
“Man, fuck you. I'm at the top of my game, and for MY age, that's saying a lot. Seriously, what does fighting the lesser Montouri and his model wife do for the legacy of the Glorious New Breed? Tristan and I have taken down real talent in our time together, and I just do...” John says as he makes his way over to a chair by the desk before the Citizen interrupts him.
“What legacy? The legacy of the GLORIOUS New Breed as a tag team amounts to a total hill of beans! Individually, you both are multi-term World Champions in your own right, and each of you have a slew of other accolades that reach from here to New York. You are wildly successful in your own endeavors, both in AND out of the ring... but as a Tag Team... there is absolutely nothing of greatness or merit to show for it... so why not at least do the charity work???” the Citizen snaps at him harshly.
“Well, damn... why don't you tell me how you really feel, huh?” John quips, his feelings a little hurt.
“John... really... it's like you're afraid of the fi...” the Citizen continues before being cut by John.
“I damn sure ain't afraid of Pimple King and his Barbie Wife. If I'm afraid of anything... It's hurting that asshole so bad he ends up needing to borrow my mask collection. I don't think he could stand the internal issues being ugly all of a sudden would bring him. To be honest, I don't think either of them would survive the transition period. They're so hung up on their looks and their silver spoon lifestyle that I'm willing to bet my own prize money that they want to represent some plastic surgeon charity fund helping those less fortunate get their lips and tits done in LA somewhere.” the man jokes, truly disgusted with the way Paul and Michelle carry themselves.
“Well then what the fuck is wrong with you, John? If it ain't these guys in Hawaii, then what's going on?” the Citizen asks again, still very concerned with his friends unwillingness to fight THIS fight in particular.
“Dude... it's just a waste of time. These two kids are in way over their heads... they aren't even in the same talent pool, here. Paulie thinks calling me old and ugly are the best digs he can drop on me, AND, while he may think I'm old and out of shape, what's he going to say when a fifty-two year old destroys him in front of the millions watching around the world, all while making it look like he was smacking a couple of three year old's around in the ring. His biggest concern is getting a pimple and worrying about the smell in his van, and her only concern should be taking care of those kids at home instead of running her mouth online. Lord knows if he were to have to deal with them on his own it would end up being a Network series called Meet the Montouri's where he jet-sets around the world while the nanny takes care of the kids. Honestly, I haven't seen anything from either of the Montouri's that shows me for a second they even know what makes a good dad. I feel bad for their kids.” John explains, shaking his head in disgust at the treatment pmont gives his kids and the woman who cares for them in his employ. Contempt creeps down his spine, tickling his rage with his audacity.
“See... that right there! That would have been enough for you to fly around the world three times just to parachute into the man's chest from orbit and smash him into the sands of Waikiki with both feet! Just his arrogance and shit attitude dealing with his employees and his children would have driven you to hunt that man down and beat him within an inch of his life and then force him to apologize for being a dick! You would've shown up to his house weekly to ask his wife and kids if he had been mean to them that week, and if he had been, God help the boy... so... seriously? You, Johnathan 'the Beast' Cable... a man I have known for more than two decades... really not interested in beating the crap out of a self centered egotistical tool bag of a dip shit father and husband who's life goal is to be named 'Influencer of the Year' and the 'Prettiest Princess in All the Land' all in one season of Jersey Shore? Something else is going on, and I need to know what it is. Where's your head at?” he asked John bluntly.
“I'm focused on my match at Brawl... and I should be. It's far more important right now than this Tag Match in Waikiki. I came back full time because the WGWF re-opened, and I finally had another chance to right some wrongs in my life, but this match doesn't work towards that goal at all. Honestly, this feels more like Slater wants to get into a high profile match and show off, and that's not really heading me towards my goal of being the WGWF World Heavyweight Champ again, you know?” he answers softly.
“John... dude... every chance to get into the ring is good practice for a bigger fight. You of all people know that. Besides... Why shouldn't Tristan want to be involved in a high profile match with you? You know what his goal is right now, don't you?” the Citizen asks, wondering now if John had been in contact with his partner in the last week or so.
“To show off to the world how good he is without having to sign a contract for a weekly show. Sounds like the same old shit from the same old man who fucked me over to get a shot at the World Title himself instead of a man who's supposed to be my loyal friend now and my stalwart Tag Team Partner.” John replies, salty at the past he and his partner share, and doubting the bond with the recent lack of contact from his teammate since the Cup win a few months ago.
“I mean... yes, but it's more than that, and I think you're letting your feelings get in the way here a bit. Slater can't/won't sign up with the XWF because of the past you all share there, and he doesn't want to sign up for the WGWF because he has already decided that your friendship is worth more than that damn belt you dumbass. If he signs up, he's gonna wanna go for it too, and he knows what the damn thing means to you, so he just doesn't sign a contract with Page. Honestly, where the hell else is he gonna go and enjoy his time or feel like the Titles are worth the effort to hold'em?” the Citizen asks as he looks through his bookshelf with his back towards John.
“I mean... I guess...” John starts, fumbling on the words, never really thinking about it like that before.
“You guess?” the Citizen starts, turning to stare at him through the mask on his face. “You are the dumbest smart guy I've ever met. For as intellectually superior as you keep thinking you are, sometimes the dumbest shit comes out of your mouth. You're ridiculous.” he laughs at him as the scene fades to black.
The whole point to this event is the charity right? The giving of funding and advertising for those fundraisers who struggle to raise enough to end their agendized causes. To raise awareness of the plight of those less fortunate?
Well to that end, the New Breed Foundation will be working to finally end the suffering of a couple of royal clowns while raising money for the kids at St. Jude's, and I can't help but think the Rigg's probably feel like we're unrated talent, far beneath their crowned reputation as royalty among the Elites. Peasants and Pissants beneath the gold encrusted toes of their royal Highness'. I would say they would feel like we're overrated, but without a rating, it's hard to be seen as more worthy than you're ranked, and I'm pretty sure they won't be dusting off the old VCR to watch any of our old ring tapes... way before their time and all.
It's truly a shame, you know...
To walk towards your destiny, head held high, and unbeknownst to you... it's the end of the road... the once and for all... the happily ever afterwards.
Tristan and I don't need to brag about our extensive runs as Champions, or tout our careers or parts thereof for clout. Our deeds and accolades speak for themselves... and the both of you are about to be judged... and to be found wanting.
Slater has been hungry to reclaim his lost glory of old for a long time, and without a home ring to call his, Tristan's eager to make a name for himself on the Supershow Circuit. He didn't rectify our past and reach out to fix our friendship for nothing... he knew what he wanted, and how to get it.
Make no mistake... Tristan is my friend, and we have learned to know each other better than anyone else on the planet for better than a decade. That's a long time on the road, both traveling together, and facing off across that ring. Slater knew what he wanted in a partner when he picked me... and he knew exactly what he was getting.
Slater wanted a warrior by his side, a Beast of a man who is unafraid of any challenge, any man... any nightmare of our fever dreams... and he got one in me. No man can stand across that ring from the Beast unscathed, and while I may be beatable on occasion, no one does it without remembering the fight they went through at the end of the day every single time they look in the mirror.
I am a monster... an apex predator haunting your every waking nightmare inside that ring... and climbing through those ropes on any given Monday can be a tough task for the most determined of opponents, getting in their with me motivated to rip you apart limb from limb... that's a fools errand and a suicide mission. Slater is a technical Legend who has little compunction about twisting your arms and legs off and leaving you laying in a pool of your own blood. He needs very little motivation to test himself, and I need even less.
While you're wasting your energies on plastic surgeries and Brazilian Butt Lifts, The Glorious New Breed will be fighting for St. Jude's Children's Hospitals... fighting to save the lives of millions of children every year to fatal diseases and illnesses. I feel like I could help that agenda along by starting with Paulie right there in Waikiki. Give him a few lessons in discipline and maybe even a few parenting tips while I'm at it… all the while forging the GLORIOUS New Breeds legacy as the greatest Independant Tag Team in the history of Wrestling.
“I'm trying to help the best way I know how, and if you can't see that, then I know better then to try to convince you otherwise, but unless you've got a better idea on how to save the gym, then I don't have much of a choice.” John screams at the man as he leans across the table, his dark hair falling in tendrils about his face.
Hank, his brow furrowed beneath his scraggly mop of graying mane, and his bushy eyebrows scrunched forward like thick caterpillars resting above his dark eyes, looks up at John across the kitchen, a nonplussed disappointment etched in his stony face.
“You done throwin' a fit now, huh? You done telling me after all these years you gonna just toss your whole career out the damned window... everything we done, everything you worked so hard for... just so you can make some money? All of it... everything... just for a wad a money?” Hank says tiredly, his voice barely steady, frustration and fear filling his tone with desperation.
“Dad, unless you got another plan to get the money to pay off the property tax on the gym, then I need to do this. I'm not about to stand by and watch you lose this place when I can make the money in one night. I'm not gonna do it.” he states, calmer now, but steady in his decision, his voice even and pleading.
“Your contracts are very clear about exclusivity in the ring. These cage fights are dangerous at best... deadly at the worst. The last thing you need to do is go fight in some underground fight club and get hurt so close to getting what you've worked your whole life for, and for what? This shed? This little hole in the wall?” Hank counters, sadness erasing the scowl, the frown deepening and his shoulders slumping as he waves his hands around the kitchen to emphasize how little they would really be losing.
“Dad... seriously. This place is your legacy! You have decades of history in this gym, in this house... this is the only home I've known in years... and I am not just going to be OK with giving it up when I have a choice to do something about it. Nothing is going to happen if I go fight a couple of drunks one night for some rich assholes in a warehouse somewhere. It's not like it's going to be televised, or even advertised!” John tries to reason with the old man, desperate to plead his case.
“I said no. I meant no. I will not have you risk everything for this old chunk a the past. If we lose it, then we lose it. Once you start making the big bucks, you can buy me a nice new gym anyway.” Hank tries to joke with him to lighten the mood, but to no avail.
“For fuck sake, Dad! You are the most hard headed man I have ever met! I'm doing this, whether you like it or not. I can't just let you lose everything... and I won't” John yells at him, exasperated in his determination to do nothing to change their fate.
With that, John opens the narrow white door to the staircase outside, and storms off down the long flight of stairs to the gym below, across the floor between the rings and machines, and through the rickety screen door at the end of the hallway before the scene fades to black.
* * * * *
“Born Johnathan Montreux, orphaned at the young age of nine and adopted as Johnathan Winthrope, by world renown former golden gloves boxer and trainer, Hank Winthrope. John was a promising young boxer on the verge of emerging on the professional scene as a talented prodigy, his future promising and full of hope, yet now faces charges of manslaughter after a deadly night of illegal cage fighting, a major drug bust, and murder from a warehouse in the River District tonight.” a man's voice says from a television in a storefront window.
“We have new information about the ongoing coverage of the deadly evening here in downtown last night. Seventeen people now confirmed dead, with another two-hundred and seventy-four injured in the aftermath of an illegal fighting ring run by a known community figurehead here in Jacksonville with ties to organized criminal activities.” the news anchor continues with the grisly details of the night just passed.
* * * * *
A deep crimson fluid moves slowly across a gray concrete backdrop. As the scarlet pool overtakes more and more of the gray, the perspective floats higher and higher until tight curls of raven colored hair can be seen soaking in the red puddle beneath against the concrete. As the scene moves further and further up and away, a pale white hand of soft alabaster tones comes into view, the fingers splayed across the puddle and smeared in the bright red blood up to the wrist, and across the forearm to the elbow.
There on the floor of what was John's dressing room that night, lay the corpse of Vivian, a young woman with a full life of opportunities ahead of her, gone far too early. They had recently gotten engaged after quite a few months together, and had been happy.
In hopes to goad John to greater depths of violence, his opponent that night in the cage, the hired muscle of the mob boss in charge, took it upon himself to send a message to the Beast. The message was received... and when the response came, no one could have prepared for the fallout that followed.
Bodies lay strewn across the ring and the stands. A swath of destruction that rolled from the backstage area across the arena and up to the throne high above the masses where the King of Crime ruled over his Colosseum of debauchery and hedonism a grisly warning of the danger.
The wrath of the Beast had been unleashed in its full fury... and that night... John unlocked the cage he had imprisoned his demon with for ages... and from the shadows, emerged the bloodthirsty tormentor of vengeance and rage. He stalked through the building as an apex predator... tearing those who stood before him to shreds with a frenzied rage that left only blood and pain in its wake. As the man who took Vivian's life lay dying on the floor, blood gushing from his neck, torn free of his body with bare hands of the Beast, he clutches at the hole in his neck, desperately trying to hold his life inside of him as his eyes dart back and forth frantically, hoping for anyone to try to save him his fate. No help came... but the wrath of the Beast continued on until everyone involved in the tragedy suffered upon him found their fate at his hands... bloodied and weary afterwards, he slumped to the floor in the middle of the ring, and stayed there for what seemed like ages before they came. The police burst in through all the doors at once, swarming into the arena and sweeping swiftly to either side to clear the room of threats. Soon enough, they realized there was only one person in the room left alive... and one by one, they trained their firearms on the man in the ring... the boy... the Beast. He had lived in fear for his adopted father and his fiance for too long, and Vivian being taken away from him just to make him fight harder... on top of the threat of Hank's safety... It was too much. John wasn't willing to risk not one more person in his life to the violence of these men... and he would face the punishment if he must, but he did what he had to do. Now it was time to wait... and rest.
“Slowly... Get on your stomach and put your hands out to your sides!” one of the armed and armored men shouts at him as the scene fades to black.
* * * * *
“Breaking news in the Johnathan Winthrope case as a fairly surprising verdict has come down today here in Jacksonville.” A man's voice came over a car radio stuck in rush hour traffic in the I-95 corridor coming out of Downtown Jacksonville.
“In what can only be called an upset victory for Mr. Winthrope, he has been found not guilty by the jury today, on all charges. In an emotional closing statement, the Honorable Winston Driscoll made the following statement: What you will deal with in the days and years to come will be hard to handle, and there will be times when the memories of what has happened in the last few weeks will be overwhelming and difficult to bear. I urge you, while you have been found not guilty by a jury of your peers, for your own benefit, seek counseling. Seek mental health professionals, and maybe anger management classes to help you deal with these emotions. I am sorry for your loss, sir, but you can make a better future for yourself, and should. This is a second chance, son... don't waste it.” the news anchor quotes over the airwaves before the scene fades to black.
* * * * *
“But... why?” John asks, the words low and grating, uncertainty and doubt heavy in his tone.
“Well, 'Charitable Donation Event' for starters... and that is literally what we do here... at YOUR company...” the Citizen answers from behind his large dark mahogany desk that used to be John's a few very long years ago. The sarcasm seemed a little thick, and was more than a tad bit condescending.
“And for another thing... you haven't been doing very many fundraisers in the last few years. While we still have plenty of monetarily viable charity resources, they have never functioned like they did when you were still the only face of the company. We need... no... YOU need... to get back out there and rekindle the charitable spirit of our donors and making some new friends wouldn't hurt either.” he continues bluntly.
“If it's a donation they need, just write a check to St. Jude's and do a stage bit for it at the show. I don't need to go halfway around the world to...” John starts to attest to the trip, many reasons piling up in his brain to not go do the show, maybe call in a celebrity favor to show up and award the check on behalf of the Foundation and call it a year already. He had so many more important things going on that he could be spending his time on accomplishing. This could easily be handled by the Board and the Funding Department.
“John. Seriously... what's up with you?” the Citizen asks as he looks up at his long time friend across the room.
“What do you mean?” John asks as he turns around to finally face him at his old desk.
“You won the match at Cannabis Cup a few months ago, and it lit a fire under your ass to get back into the ring full time again. In the entire time I have known you, I have never seen you come up with ANY reason not to go fight someone anywhere for little to no reason... let alone for charity! What the hell is wrong with you? Seriously.” the Citizen asks him, concern deep in his voice, and genuinely interested in what makes this fight different than any other.
“I'm not coming up with reasons NOT to fight... but maybe just not THIS fight, you know? I mean, what does this fight do for Slater and I in the long run?” John asks, honestly wondering what the rewards here are that a simple donation couldn't do.
“Wow. I think you ARE getting old... for fuck sake.” the Citizen exclaims as he stands up at his desk and makes his way to a small shelf at the end of the room.
“Man, fuck you. I'm at the top of my game, and for MY age, that's saying a lot. Seriously, what does fighting the lesser Montouri and his model wife do for the legacy of the Glorious New Breed? Tristan and I have taken down real talent in our time together, and I just do...” John says as he makes his way over to a chair by the desk before the Citizen interrupts him.
“What legacy? The legacy of the GLORIOUS New Breed as a tag team amounts to a total hill of beans! Individually, you both are multi-term World Champions in your own right, and each of you have a slew of other accolades that reach from here to New York. You are wildly successful in your own endeavors, both in AND out of the ring... but as a Tag Team... there is absolutely nothing of greatness or merit to show for it... so why not at least do the charity work???” the Citizen snaps at him harshly.
“Well, damn... why don't you tell me how you really feel, huh?” John quips, his feelings a little hurt.
“John... really... it's like you're afraid of the fi...” the Citizen continues before being cut by John.
“I damn sure ain't afraid of Pimple King and his Barbie Wife. If I'm afraid of anything... It's hurting that asshole so bad he ends up needing to borrow my mask collection. I don't think he could stand the internal issues being ugly all of a sudden would bring him. To be honest, I don't think either of them would survive the transition period. They're so hung up on their looks and their silver spoon lifestyle that I'm willing to bet my own prize money that they want to represent some plastic surgeon charity fund helping those less fortunate get their lips and tits done in LA somewhere.” the man jokes, truly disgusted with the way Paul and Michelle carry themselves.
“Well then what the fuck is wrong with you, John? If it ain't these guys in Hawaii, then what's going on?” the Citizen asks again, still very concerned with his friends unwillingness to fight THIS fight in particular.
“Dude... it's just a waste of time. These two kids are in way over their heads... they aren't even in the same talent pool, here. Paulie thinks calling me old and ugly are the best digs he can drop on me, AND, while he may think I'm old and out of shape, what's he going to say when a fifty-two year old destroys him in front of the millions watching around the world, all while making it look like he was smacking a couple of three year old's around in the ring. His biggest concern is getting a pimple and worrying about the smell in his van, and her only concern should be taking care of those kids at home instead of running her mouth online. Lord knows if he were to have to deal with them on his own it would end up being a Network series called Meet the Montouri's where he jet-sets around the world while the nanny takes care of the kids. Honestly, I haven't seen anything from either of the Montouri's that shows me for a second they even know what makes a good dad. I feel bad for their kids.” John explains, shaking his head in disgust at the treatment pmont gives his kids and the woman who cares for them in his employ. Contempt creeps down his spine, tickling his rage with his audacity.
“See... that right there! That would have been enough for you to fly around the world three times just to parachute into the man's chest from orbit and smash him into the sands of Waikiki with both feet! Just his arrogance and shit attitude dealing with his employees and his children would have driven you to hunt that man down and beat him within an inch of his life and then force him to apologize for being a dick! You would've shown up to his house weekly to ask his wife and kids if he had been mean to them that week, and if he had been, God help the boy... so... seriously? You, Johnathan 'the Beast' Cable... a man I have known for more than two decades... really not interested in beating the crap out of a self centered egotistical tool bag of a dip shit father and husband who's life goal is to be named 'Influencer of the Year' and the 'Prettiest Princess in All the Land' all in one season of Jersey Shore? Something else is going on, and I need to know what it is. Where's your head at?” he asked John bluntly.
“I'm focused on my match at Brawl... and I should be. It's far more important right now than this Tag Match in Waikiki. I came back full time because the WGWF re-opened, and I finally had another chance to right some wrongs in my life, but this match doesn't work towards that goal at all. Honestly, this feels more like Slater wants to get into a high profile match and show off, and that's not really heading me towards my goal of being the WGWF World Heavyweight Champ again, you know?” he answers softly.
“John... dude... every chance to get into the ring is good practice for a bigger fight. You of all people know that. Besides... Why shouldn't Tristan want to be involved in a high profile match with you? You know what his goal is right now, don't you?” the Citizen asks, wondering now if John had been in contact with his partner in the last week or so.
“To show off to the world how good he is without having to sign a contract for a weekly show. Sounds like the same old shit from the same old man who fucked me over to get a shot at the World Title himself instead of a man who's supposed to be my loyal friend now and my stalwart Tag Team Partner.” John replies, salty at the past he and his partner share, and doubting the bond with the recent lack of contact from his teammate since the Cup win a few months ago.
“I mean... yes, but it's more than that, and I think you're letting your feelings get in the way here a bit. Slater can't/won't sign up with the XWF because of the past you all share there, and he doesn't want to sign up for the WGWF because he has already decided that your friendship is worth more than that damn belt you dumbass. If he signs up, he's gonna wanna go for it too, and he knows what the damn thing means to you, so he just doesn't sign a contract with Page. Honestly, where the hell else is he gonna go and enjoy his time or feel like the Titles are worth the effort to hold'em?” the Citizen asks as he looks through his bookshelf with his back towards John.
“I mean... I guess...” John starts, fumbling on the words, never really thinking about it like that before.
“You guess?” the Citizen starts, turning to stare at him through the mask on his face. “You are the dumbest smart guy I've ever met. For as intellectually superior as you keep thinking you are, sometimes the dumbest shit comes out of your mouth. You're ridiculous.” he laughs at him as the scene fades to black.
* * * * *
The whole point to this event is the charity right? The giving of funding and advertising for those fundraisers who struggle to raise enough to end their agendized causes. To raise awareness of the plight of those less fortunate?
Well to that end, the New Breed Foundation will be working to finally end the suffering of a couple of royal clowns while raising money for the kids at St. Jude's, and I can't help but think the Rigg's probably feel like we're unrated talent, far beneath their crowned reputation as royalty among the Elites. Peasants and Pissants beneath the gold encrusted toes of their royal Highness'. I would say they would feel like we're overrated, but without a rating, it's hard to be seen as more worthy than you're ranked, and I'm pretty sure they won't be dusting off the old VCR to watch any of our old ring tapes... way before their time and all.
It's truly a shame, you know...
To walk towards your destiny, head held high, and unbeknownst to you... it's the end of the road... the once and for all... the happily ever afterwards.
Tristan and I don't need to brag about our extensive runs as Champions, or tout our careers or parts thereof for clout. Our deeds and accolades speak for themselves... and the both of you are about to be judged... and to be found wanting.
Slater has been hungry to reclaim his lost glory of old for a long time, and without a home ring to call his, Tristan's eager to make a name for himself on the Supershow Circuit. He didn't rectify our past and reach out to fix our friendship for nothing... he knew what he wanted, and how to get it.
Make no mistake... Tristan is my friend, and we have learned to know each other better than anyone else on the planet for better than a decade. That's a long time on the road, both traveling together, and facing off across that ring. Slater knew what he wanted in a partner when he picked me... and he knew exactly what he was getting.
Slater wanted a warrior by his side, a Beast of a man who is unafraid of any challenge, any man... any nightmare of our fever dreams... and he got one in me. No man can stand across that ring from the Beast unscathed, and while I may be beatable on occasion, no one does it without remembering the fight they went through at the end of the day every single time they look in the mirror.
I am a monster... an apex predator haunting your every waking nightmare inside that ring... and climbing through those ropes on any given Monday can be a tough task for the most determined of opponents, getting in their with me motivated to rip you apart limb from limb... that's a fools errand and a suicide mission. Slater is a technical Legend who has little compunction about twisting your arms and legs off and leaving you laying in a pool of your own blood. He needs very little motivation to test himself, and I need even less.
While you're wasting your energies on plastic surgeries and Brazilian Butt Lifts, The Glorious New Breed will be fighting for St. Jude's Children's Hospitals... fighting to save the lives of millions of children every year to fatal diseases and illnesses. I feel like I could help that agenda along by starting with Paulie right there in Waikiki. Give him a few lessons in discipline and maybe even a few parenting tips while I'm at it… all the while forging the GLORIOUS New Breeds legacy as the greatest Independant Tag Team in the history of Wrestling.
The more I think about this, the more I stew over how much of a waste of time this match seems to be, the more motivation I’m finding to show up and show out the only way the New Bred knows how... Gloriously.
