[GB] CONSEQUENCE AND DESTINY.
Oct 14, 2021 13:01:44 GMT -5
Lissie Hope, Trey Bouchet, and 4 more like this
Post by Graham Baker on Oct 14, 2021 13:01:44 GMT -5
Why is it that we only gather at goodbyes?
Graham Baker pondered the question as he shuffled down a crowded London street, stuffed into a two-piece suit that, despite the best efforts of his tailor, could barely contain his immense bulk. Baker kept his head low, a cap pulled over his head to try and conceal his face from any would-be observers as he eventually made his way to the funeral home-and pushed through the door. He hastily scrawled his name in a guest book as he became acutely aware of the silence, the eyes peering at his bulk.
Many of the people here, of course, hadn’t seen The Guillotine since his drastic physical transformation, the scars that threatened to spread out from their hiding places beneath his suit jacket to his exposed flesh, the absence of joy behind his eyes. A few, after taking moments of recognition, said their welcomes. Baker returned them, compulsively. He made his way into the line of observances, waiting patiently as each individual said their final farewells to the glimmering black casket at the front of the room. With each step closer, Baker felt a tinge of something welling up in his chest, threatening to burst forth from his lungs.
Guilt.
After a lifetime, he finally made his way to the front. His eyes scanned over the open casket, those familiar features, ones that Graham had inherited. His eyes and heart are overwhelmed by childhood memories, a collection of ‘firsts’ that feel so distant, thirty years on, that Baker can scarcely remember the moments and, moreso, recall the feelings. He tries to recall the last time that he saw his family alive, but nothing comes to mind. He tries to recall the last time he sent a call home for that purpose, but nothing comes to mind. So absorbed in his world, Baker has naught to blame but himself for these inactions, nothing to say but a sorry that’ll hit ears that no longer hear, that never will again.
Furious bile rises in his throat, the bile that usually accompanies some form of great loss, the bubbling and boiling that sears his vocal chords, but he chokes it down. The self-directed rage can last until he's left, gone back to the flat with an insurance policy that'll cover however many walls he destroys. For now, ground and center, eyes low, relax. Deep breaths, one after the other, in and out. Slowly, the bile fades. Slowly, the burning subsides, and Graham is left alone with his thoughts, his memories
He placed his hand on the body’s, keeping it still before wrapping it around fingers that once held his own, holding them in place for just a moment until they feel slightly warmer, and clenched it tightly. He closed his eyes to prevent those so-rare tears from coming to the surface.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Hold it together.
Confronted by the direct consequences of the life that he had chosen for himself, The Guillotine found himself doubtful-for once. The days he’d missed, years spent away from home, near-dead on a canvas in Topeka or Tokyo, holding gold high, resting in hospital beds and bleeding through sheets...it was worth it, sure. He’d had a legend to carve, but what was he missing? What had he lost? What conversations would he never get to have?
And on the other hand...what could he gain from losing the rest? From sinking fully into this muck?
He released the hand, and as his eyes opened again-he realized it.
Everything to lose. Everything to gain.
What a fucking gambit.
-
“This is our future, Lissie. Run forever, eat right, take care of yourself and still end as worm food.”
Baker still sits in the same funeral home, but it’s empty. Devoid of life in most formats, save for the hulking frame of the Guillotine looming at the front of the room. That black, polished casket sits next to Baker, the key difference being that it’s now closed. Graham rests his hand on it as he leans a shitty wooden chair back against it.
“With missteps I’ve made, I’ll admit them. I figured Uprising would be our final encounter, the last engagement the two of us had, my recompense from months of eating scraps from your feet, my proving ground. Win or lose, you and I would have our fair fight, you and I would go toe-to-toe, you and I would finally figure out which one of us was right when they said they were the best.
Unfortunately, like everything you touch, it was ruined. Philidor’s venom, unfortunately, rests too deeply in your veins. You can’t pull a fair fight. You can’t keep your word. You can’t hang evenly even if you know you can do better. The easy way out’s always too enticing, isn’t it? The shortest path to victory’s always the one you choose, eh?” Baker snorts. “I don’t really blame you. Someone like you, burning the candle from both ends-you’ve gotta make the most of the minimal time you’ve got left, the clock running down. Livers can’t last forever under that onslaught, lungs coated with tar, heart beating sporadically. Cirrhosis is a hell of a way to go, surely, but it’ll be worth it with the false gold you hold between your hands, won’t it?”
Baker’s eyes focus directly on the camera as he continues.
“The shame is, we can’t take any of this shit with us when we die. Legacy used to be important to me, too, until I realized that the footprints we leave on this Earth are as small and temporary as the time we spend here. You think anyone in twenty or thirty years is gonna remember all that you did, Lissie? You think that the world will mourn your passing because of all of the shit you carried on your shoulders or ‘round your waist? They won’t. They’ll forget you as quickly as they’ll forget me, as quickly as they’ve forgotten everyone who came before us. You’ll turn your nose up at this, of course, as you’re wont to do, and say that you’re different, that the path you’re carving is everlasting or…some shit like that, but you know in your heart it’s true. You know, despite the bravado, the posturing that you’re a good person-a sentiment that I doubt even you believes-that everything you do now will be lost to the shifting sands of time.
It’s where you and I differ, despite me formerly saying how similar the two of us were. I’ve come to terms with what I am and why I do what I do. I’ve understood what the thing that I am has to do to survive. I can still look at myself in the mirror without wincing, without tears or pain.
I doubt you can do the same.”
Baker flicks something off of one of his fingers as he continues.
“The key difference between the two of us, Lissie, is that I gave up on the idea that Graham Baker is a good person a long time ago. I stopped trying to be the good guy that came into CruiserClash and promised to carry it on his back, I stopped trying to be one of the Man Made Gods that would bring justice and balance and…whatever else to this company. I stopped taking time to grimace through the pain my body felt to make time for the fans, because I knew in my soul it was all bullshit anyway. People in our industry pretend that we need their energy shining down upon us like some jury-rigged photosynthesis to keep us going, but I’ve kept my engine running just fine without them.
You’re like that too, eh?
Don’t deny it-I know that you want those photo opportunities, those autograph signings. You were quick to hoist that United States Championship on your shoulder, claim yourself triple crown, taking the opportunity to remind the world that you’d held Action Wrestling on your shoulders despite being one of the people wrapping your hands around its’ throat. It must’ve hurt when I didn’t pull that punch about replacing the name of the company with the name of your company, considering how quick you changed tune online. It’s why you try to take the moral high-ground against every opponent, try to bury me beneath your feet, try to make it look like Lissie Hope is the pinnacle of this industry! Lissie Hope, who pals around with people like Cassidy Adler. Lissie Hope, who denies that she needed help to win a match...that she took help to win. You’re no paragon, you’re closer to a pariah.
LOOK AT YOURSELF.
You’ve spent weeks since Uprising degrading my allies, myself, the matches I wrestle in and the companies I wrestle for. Shining beacon, good girl Lissie Hope, grabbing the shovel and dumping tons and tons of soil upon the people below you in this industry, the people who are working to improve this shit like you CLAIM to be. Not so nice, eh? Not so kind, eh? A rising tide raises all ships, or whatever saying people like to throw around, but you’re compelled to tank all of this, to make it all sink to your level so that your many-armed puppet-masters can take...whatever it is they’re looking for, really. Your moral high-ground strategy doesn’t work so well when you’ve emplaced yourself as the head of a many-necked hydra, as the driving force for a corporate catastrophe running wild on this roster and everyone below it. You’ve tried to make me into the villain, here, Lissie, and I admire the strategy. I admire how you’ve tried to be in control, taking pages out of Ash Blake’s playbook, like mother, like daughter, but it won’t work quite so well when we get into the nitty gritty of it. Others may take issue with being called savages, being made to be selfish.
But me?
GRAHAM BAKER?!
I don’t have to lie to myself about what I am. I don’t have to lie about the fact that I’ve brutalized and battered my way to get exactly where I am. I beat Sam Kidsgrove within an inch of his life to make sure that he walked out of Glory empty-handed. I made sure he fought me in a one-sided bout in Tokyo, so that I could keep this belt on my shoulder. Even against Hilbert, or whatever the kid’s name was, I took advantage of his weakness and insecurity to dig into his heart and put him in the fucking dirt. Vile, sadistic tactics, but not only did they work, I was able to defend my belt on my fucking own. I didn’t need my girlfriend coming to ringside and dragging someone out of the ring, I didn’t need distractions from another person every time a bout started to go the wrong way-I steeled myself, and I fought through it. I know there are no heavenly lights or pearly gates awaiting me at the end of my life, only fire and brimstone to stay my feet, but I’ve made peace with that. I know the hole I dug, and I’m ready and willing to lie in it.
ARE YOU?
Because I don’t think you are, Lissie, I still think you’re deluded. I think you’re lying to yourself, lying to everyone. You took umbrage with me calling you a disappointment, saying I had ‘no right’ because you’d never disappointed me, but this goes beyond just the two of us, even beyond Johnny and Mae and Cass and Addy and everyone else. You’ve let down the entire world pulling for you, just as I claimed last time, because you couldn’t keep your nose clean of powder, your mouth clear of drink for long enough to show THE WORLD that the Lissie Hope here was one that would rise above what had held her down, that you would become that role model that you PRETEND to be each and every day. You want to take the high ground, but you can’t even realize that you’re digging a grave for yourself long enough to drop the fucking shovel. You can’t understand that every action, every word, every tweet that leaves that brain of yours and steps out into the living world puts you six inches deeper.
It was a lesson I tried to show you at Uprising, on your turf, in a match that favored you.
IT DIDN’T STICK.
But now? Now I’ve got a chance to teach you again in my domain. In an environment that favors my half of things, with your boyfriend and your counterparts far away from you, you’re a captive audience. An unwilling, but stuck, student. I know you’ve amassed bravado, you’ve pretended to put on a brave face and cover your face with a mask, but let me be entirely, fully clear about what’s going to happen between these four ropes, surrounded by four walls of insurmountable steel, an entire arsenal at our fingertips;
You are going to LEARN.
The sins you’ve committed, hateful acts you’ve brought to roost, they’re going to be repaid here. Every insult you’ve slung my way, every time you’ve tried to put yourself above others, you’ll be feeling the pain of that. There’s no WAY OUT but victory, no ending save for a bullet into my FUCKING HEAD, or whatever equivalent measure of force you can find to KEEP ME DOWN for long enough to throw yourself over my body for the three. There will be violence, and every SLUR you’ve thrown in the direction of Yamashi, of Williams and every other man and woman who came up with me in that place will be TAKEN OUT OF YOUR SKIN. You are in my world, and you will BLEED like me, you will SUFFER like me, you will feel pain on a level UN-FUCKING-IMAGINABLE, so hard that it’ll make the crushing loss you took to Frank, the one you took to MMG feel like NOTHING in comparison. Your mouth has sealed you in these four walls, your ego has thrown away the key, and now your body’s going to pay the PRICE.”
Baker pulls himself up on the casket, and runs his hand alongside it. He raps his fingers against the hard exterior.
“We’ve both known how this one’s going to end, Lissie, an unavoidable and immeasurably violent conflict. But I won’t threaten death against you here, because that’s too extreme, because threats of paralysis and skull-breaking have gotten me nowhere in the past, and you’ve already set yourself way on the path of the end. Consider this a final intervention, a last ditch effort to make you UNDERSTAND exactly what you’ve done and how deep you are. Consider this a chance to change your ways before you fall off the deep end entirely, that some of your friends are pulling for me to win this match so that you shake out of that waking sleep, that this may be your LAST SHOT to break the cycle before it BREAKS YOU. Violence is momentary, injury is temporary, but that path you’re heading down will end you FOREVER.
...and despite it all, the frustration and the agony…”
Baker grits his teeth.
“I don’t want to see you succumb to that.”
With an emphatic motion, Baker swings the casket open, and reveals, inside, Lissie’s body. Dressed in a black funerary gown, she stares blankly at the ceiling, a distant smile on her face. Baker’s face is wrought with a dark, hidden, indescribable emotion.
“...at Execution, both of us go into the cage intent on destruction. One will walk out, the other carried out...but both of us, forever changed. I hope, for your sake, you learn. I hope, for your sake, you change for the better.”
Baker’s face is grim.
“And I hope that this loss-loss of gold, loss of pride, loss of this match-I hope it does what it needs to.”
Baker makes a motion to slam the coffin shut-and we cut to black.
-
A shoulder breaks Graham’s trance, and he swings around to see a woman who’s features are so much like his own, too. Her face is puffy, eyes overwrought with tears-but still, they show a sign of surprise, a slight hint of worry, and a large volume of relief and pleasure.
“I’m so glad you came.” She says. Baker cracks a weak smile.
“Me too, ma. Me too.” He looks at the casket. “Wish I was around more, though, before...all of this.” Baker makes a hand motion toward the resting place, and the woman gives a nod in response. She looks away for a moment, and Graham puts a hand on her side as she looks back up, her eyes filling with tears once again.
“You still can. You can always come home. Call it a day, take over his business and...do something calmer.”
Her words hit Baker and immediately fade out, and Graham takes a moment too long to respond, drawing a negative look from the woman across from him. Trying to quickly recollect himself, he nods.
“Of course I can. And, I will.” Baker lies. “Just...not yet. I need a bit more time.”
Another momentary pause.
“I believe you.” She lies back. They’re both aware of where they stand in this conversation, where their honesties lie, and how much they really mean what they say. Baker breaks the abrupt silence by moving his hand from her side to her shoulder.
“I have to go.” He says. “I’ll be back soon.” He lies, again.
“I know you will.” She lies, again. “I love you.”
“I love you too, mom.” Baker cracks a smile, and heads for the door, back out into the rain and bustle, wishing for all of the world to fade into the nothingness that he entered from, the gentle disassociation, the derealized violence that denotes his life, pockets of warfare that keep him away.
It’s the path he’s chosen, the path he’s stuck on.
The only destiny he has left.