Revolution. (8,999 words.)
Oct 31, 2021 13:55:06 GMT -5
Lissie Hope, John Black, and 4 more like this
Post by Downfall on Oct 31, 2021 13:55:06 GMT -5
Dion had been humming slightly to himself for the last hour; it was that little kind of thing that would itch behind his eyeballs.
"Dion, dummy up," he said, tersely, as they got out of the Corvette.
"Sorry, Daniel, I can't stop thinking the lyrics to that song - you know the one by the Scorpions that hit big around the time of the Berlin Wall? 'The Winds of Change?'" And his voice raised an octave to do a karaoke line from the song. "Follow the Moskova, down to Gorky Park, listenin' to the winds... of change -"
"Dion. I thought we agreed, after Japan, we were not doing karaoke again."
He blinked the memory back, but could not dispel the cherry-stone of worry deep in his gut, the dissatisfied black that was calling to him and reminding him of this familiarity. There was a thread of thought that occurred to him, then, on the persistence of evil.
Philidor. James Nightingale. Jason. All the way down the line. Over half of his life had been given to either fighting this type of darkness, or joining with it.
Either way, as they walked down the hallway, he felt it with him.
Dion started humming again, prompting him to flash his partner a warning look, stopping it. "Sorry."
"It's just that... meeting in an old mortuary?" Dion said, with some unease, giving voice at least to how Daniel felt deep down. "What kind of meeting-place is this to talk about our dealings with Philidor?"
He scanned the signs above the door and the arrow keys mapping out sectors of the hospital hanging overhead. "I think," Daniel said slowly, "that the kid has something in mind." And that was all, but he didn't elaborate.
"Are you nervous about it?" Dion asked, with some softness to indicate that it would be okay if he opened up about his feelings.
"I'm ready for this to end," he replied with a sigh. Inasmuch as it ever could end. Who was to say that, even if 'the battle for AW's soul' ended in Philidor going down, the persistence of evil wouldn't find a way to win out. But he couldn't stop thinking about it. Every time he closed his eyes lately, he was reminded of walking through a wasteland, and stepping up to a flight of stairs that was running red with sticky blood.
So maybe if you're going to combat that, you need something more archetypal. That's a point for Johnny, he allowed.
"Still, no matter what happens, we needed to meet with them, present a united front."
He didn't even have time to retort to Dion. Because he was not expecting Bacchus to meet them, wearing a white coat, chain-smoking like a 1950's doctor, for full effect. His voice hitched. Dion, however, broke into a grin.
"I like this," Dion said, "this guy knows how to commit."
He grew serious, face asserting itself into his stony, gunslinger's mask. "Alright, Bacchus, it's your play here... what are we here for?"
Bacchus looked him in the eye. "Well, there’s paperwork, a lovely little seminar, and also, you’re my Jesus. Any questions?"
There was a pregnant pause in the cold tile of the mortuary for a moment, and then his eyes narrowed. "What?"
Since we ARE in the spookiest part of the year, I figured a spooky greek myth would be appropriate. Pay attention, Philidor; this pertains to you.
Nyx, one of the primordial goddesses of the night, had three daughters, Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. The weaver, the alloter, and the severer. These sisters would look at the child that was born and determine their fate. Clotho would spin the thread, creating the foundation of a person’s fate. Lachesis would then provide the thread with the person’s destiny, their lot in life if you will. Atropos determined how one’s life would end, and with her shears, would cut the thread of life. They were widely regarded as being beyond the control of anyone, including the gods. They were simply inevitable; after all, not many can claim to be able to escape their own fate.
See, I agonized over how I’d make this more interesting with you lot. In the year that you have disappointed us with your presence, the lead has been on “how great it is to belong to Philidor” and “being the order” to the chaos in front of you. It was funny how clever you all thought you were, especially with that second part. I have made it a personal mission to explain to people just exactly what instituting “order” looks like in a realm of “chaos,” and the fact remains not much has really changed in the year that you’ve been here. You haven’t really brought the order you promised, and instead embraced the chaos of this place.
Sure, your presence has been felt at the top, but you barely made a dent anywhere else.
Sure, you have a arguably “talented” pool of competitors, but not one was built by your hand.
And sure, one could argue that you definitely embody the evil corporate entity look, but if I wanted a dollar store Weyland-Yutani I’d buy a bootleg copy of Alien.
Since not that many people pay attention to anything I say or do, I can make the clever jabs that others really can’t, because you’ve already written them off after beating them once or twice. But I’m not here to be clever; right now, I’m going to say the one thing I know will piss you guys off.
You don’t intimidate me. Never have, never will.
I know, its a shocker, right? The one guy you don’t really care all that much about in this fight (aside from maybe Neo, but we’ll get to him later) isn’t afraid of who you are and what you represent. Its pretty plain to see to anyone who is a careful observer. And what have I observed?
In the past year, you’ve had a number of personnel changes. The group seemed fine to start with; recently minted All-In holder Shaw, Ash the”secret leader,” The Adlers and HR Department rounding out the core group that, truth be told, hadn’t changed all that much. Then you had Noris, who was quickly dismissed after losing out to Max Daemon; Vayden, whose career can be summarized as “given more handouts than a trick-or-treater on Halloween,” just kind of...stopped being there; Lissie Hope and [redacted] who started (and failed, I might add) to publicize you in a much larger way, and finally Neo, who again, we’ll get to later.
In that same amount of time, Philidor has acquired the World, US, Hardcore, Television, and All Access titles. All very impressive to look at; the problem is, aside from the World title reigns (where you placed a large focus of protection on your asset), not many of those reigns lasted beyond two months; hardly what I would consider a dominating force. There also wasn’t much you were doing in terms of building up these divisions, choosing instead to play the good little heel faction and protect assets at all costs. And the harder you tried to keep them, the more often you’d lose them.
In all the time I’ve spent observing Philidor, not once did I see an attempt to try and build each other up. You all talked a big game about bringing order and having a stable that would embody what Philidor represented, but then you bring in a guy like Neo, who we’ll get to later, and just completely botch shaping him to your specifications. Hell, you couldn’t even manage to turn Lissie Hope toward your vision. What, you guys run out of secret corporate-approved holiday punch?
The easy road would be to say that Philidor is an unsuccessful cult. I should know; I’ve been in a cult before. But at least with The Brotherhood we embraced all our success, not just the major victories. Even then, though, Philidor isn’t an unsuccessful cult.
Philidor is a Ponzi scheme wearing the skin of an unsuccessful cult.
Its okay guys; if we wanted corporate cosplay, we’d tune in to The Office. At least with that show, we know its dry by design. Nothing and nobody better exemplifies this fact than Neo, and at long last, I’ll finally get to him.
Neo is-actually I should probably mention Jim Mud, since you guys don’t seem to want to anymore. He consistently delivered and pretty much had Cruiserclash around his finger, and yet you guys did nothing to acknowledge that fact. Its pretty hard for one person to hold an entire show hostage, and he did just that. Wasn’t that your guys’ plan with Clash? And how well did that work out for you?
See, these are all reasons why I’ve never been afraid of what Philidor was or represented. Bacchus might wax poetic about how evil you guys are, but the truth is we should just be waxing pathetic. Which brings us to Neo.
Dude, you picked the absolute worst people to saddle up with if you actually think they’ll help you with your career. I can’t say anything mean to you, I can only give you my pity. You’re like a guy whose buddies told him “no really, putting your life savings in crypto is totally gonna pay off,” then wake up the next morning to find your savings all gone and a novelty Elon Musk coffee mug sitting at your front doorstep. Frankly, you’re the only person worth saving in all this; Lissie had her chance and decided that remaining broken and barely scotch-taped back together by Blake and her 401kronies was better for her psyche than actually realizing that she never needed them to get better. Take the chance now; realize that Philidor is nothing more than a scam and walk away from them. You can be your own man, free to do what’s best for you, not for them.
The only thing that’s best for Philidor, here and now, is to actively fight against them and shut them down. Sure, we’ve been doing that for months, but Bacchus has been the only one who has seriously wanted to dismantle them. Granted, so have I, but I lacked the clout for it. I was just a dude who obsessed over tortilla chips and fought tooth and nail for an undesirable Havoc Rumble spot.. Quirky Dionysus, a dude who makes a career out of making everything, including himself, into a joke.
...I mean really, did anyone else find it incredibly odd that I’d obsess over stuff like chips? The longest running Philidor joke, pointing out the obvious irony that any blue chip company wouldn’t really bother operating in the shadows the way they do.
...Maybe the joke went over peoples’ heads. That’s fine; so did a lot of those cryptic messages Philidor sent out. That’s right; people were, in fact, paying attention to those. Near the end, though, it ended up just being me. It’s how I knew you’d predictably sign a person who has more trust issues than a middle-aged man who can’t decide if his fart is really a fart. So, what exactly IS the deal with Majestique? How well did Spiral work out for you? You still got that property management business in New York? I keep trying to look into it these days, but its the funniest thing; your site is completely gone! No mention of your new gym initiative, no mention of your dossiers that make The HR Department seem like they’re wearing the skin of humans, hiding only a chitinous exoskeleton underneath. Just a domain for sale image and a lot of wasted dreams.
It was only a matter of time before people would actually come together to deal with the Philidor problem. All that was needed was the right combination of people to do it. Bacchus, who is leading the charge, Corey Black, who put up with their ranks the most and needing vengeance. But who else would’ve been a good fit? What would I, Dionysus, bring to the table to convince these two that I’d be worth being a part of all this.
Simple. Downfall, the ace in the hole. Several months of careful planning and building rapport with the man who left a blemish on Ash’s record have led to this moment, where our first real chance at eliminating the Philidor problem can finally come to fruition.
See Ash, there’s a problem with the choice of phrase “We’re in the empire business.” Empires fall.
Show me a tragedy; I’ll turn it into a comedy.
"I side with Daniel on this one," Dion put in, bemused, "...What?"
"Pretty simple, actually," Bacchus said, and the manic fervor of the young punk asserted itself into the direct, militaristic gusto of a general in an old war movie. Dion and Daniel exchanged looks with their eyebrows knitted, not sure how to take this.
Johnny jabbed a finger right in Daniel's face. "Ash Blake. This guy knows how to put her down. When it comes down to it in Hellimination, he's gonna be our best hope of taking her head off."
There's silence there, in the mortuary, and then both of them talk over each other.
"Look I think you're oversimplifying -" "I mean that's flattering and nice and all but -" " -He never pinned Ash Blake, he just escaped a cage match and - " "-But really I mean I've spent the last few months avoiding bringing up my victories over Blake because I didn't want that to be the only thing I hang my hat on and -"
Bacchus waves his hands, irritably. "In this order, not important. Bullshit. Bullshit. And not important."
"It's just," Dion says, arms folded, "Daniel's my partner, and he's done a lot for my career, but... I do feel a little bit like I'm just the comic relief, if you're hanging all hope on him to be the last man standing."
Daniel lets out a frustrated grunt, "Dion... you aren't the comic relief. You've contributed more to this team than anyone. You're here because you were the one on the trail of figuring out the Philidor puzzles before anyone else. And I don't buy that I'm the last hope of this team, either."
"Maybe not the last hope of bringing them all down," Bacchus pipes up, as if to alleviate the tension, "I hope we're all still standing when it comes to laying in the final blow to bring these fucks down. But when it comes down between this mf and Ash Blake..."
Squinting, and assessing Johnny with his eyes, he asks, "What is it between you and Blake, anyway?"
His eyes move to Downfall's, meeting his gaze. "Ash Blake has taken a lot from me." His words were tinged with meaning that shows it's more than just a streak or a belt he's speaking of, and his expression is now more vulnerable. "And for whatever reason, you and her have this connection where you both know how to hurt each other the most. That's the energy we need."
Daniel raises his eyebrow, and retorts. "This has all the energy of bringing down the Queen Bee of high school... This about a girl, then?" Although, in his deeper heart, he had to say that, were he twenty years younger and not so jaded, he would have fought to defend someone close to him with just as much fervor, gone to such extremes.
Johnny cracked a smile, almost as if they were simpatico, then chuckled and said, bluntly, "No." Then he moved on. "We're still waiting for Corey to show up, but -"
"I'm here," rumbled the ominous voice of the King, and they all looked over their shoulders as he arrived from a door on the other side of the room, from another hallway.
"Well," Dion said, "Avengers assemble, or - ?"
"Hell yes, now we can begin," Johnny's manic energy was back in force, and he strode in long, purposeful steps over to the steel cabinet, and he opened it with a showman's flourish. However, when Johnny looked back, Downfall and Corey Black were face to face.
There was a rise in the electric atmosphere, momentarily, as the two old veterans stood nearly at eye level.
Daniel's lip peeled back in his churlish smirk. "The King of All Wrestlers," is all he said. Black laughed a bit to himself. Both were smiling. Johnny's face froze in an awkward grimace. But still, neither man made an overtly aggressive action.
"Daniel," Black said, at last, in acknowledgement. And finally, the ice broke a bit, and the two reached to bump fists.
"If you're done, we can begin," Johnny said, impatiently. And he pulled out a slab.
"Jonathan," Black rumbled, eyes slitted, "What the hell is this?"
"A man. Or was. 54-years-old – by no means a spring chicken but plenty of life left. Cause of death: liver cancer. Insidious little beast – hard to detect and spreads quickly. Sound familiar?” Bacchus said as he looked around at the other three. “There is a tumor, festering in the brain and deep in the guts of this company, and I've gathered us here to ask the question: is this body worth saving?"
Emotions played on each man's face as Johnny looked to each of them, from consideration on Dion's, to pensive and thinking about his dad's cancer on Daniel's, to Corey's outright derision. Bacchus continues.
"Because this match; Hellimination is going to be the surgery, and we're all here to play our parts. It will not be an easy surgery, and if it goes wrong, the cancer could continue to spread and overtake the entire body. So I ask you again, the surgeon, the anesthesiologist... is this body worth saving?"
There's a pause then, as Johnny lets his words sink in. Corey breaks it; rolls his eyes, scoffs. "This is pretentious."
Johnny snaps back, "I'm sorry, do you have any ideas?"
"Is cutting up a corpse gonna prevent Ash from almost taking your eye out with a broken baseball bat?"
"Oh, we wanna talk about failures? After you loaded a Walter-shaped bullet into Blake's gun and got whipped by her three times?"
"I am not going to be questioned by a smarmy little punk like you -"
"ENOUGH!" Downfall breaks in.
Downfall moves between Black and Bacchus, preventing them from yelling into each other's faces. "We need cooler heads to prevail, and we do need to be on the same page. So Black - my king, if you will please allow Dion to escort you."
Black sneers dangerously at Daniel, but he moves over with Dion. Daniel turns to Johnny. "And you... come on, kid... let's talk about this."
You can’t escape the pain, can you, Lissie?
The achievements, the accolades, the adoration – even the addictions. It wasn’t and isn’t enough, is it? No matter how many times you change your hair, you’re still looking at the same person in the mirror. In a lavish Harvey Marx-tailored costume on a big night, you still feel exposed and naked. Every light in the world can’t brighten the darkness within you. Every win is proceeded by a greater failure. Brushing your teeth and washing your face won’t hide the smell of puked alcohol or the stain of tears on your cheeks.
You’re a lost girl.
I’m not taunting you or twisting the knife – I’m not Dandy DiVito or JC Keeton. Then again, I don’t think I should have to defend my tone or intentions: if there’s one thing you should know by now, whether it was while I dragged myself down a ramp after an ugly loss or skin-to-skin with you in a Des Moines hotel room, it’s that I’m exactly who I’ve said I was. I don’t care if you trust me – there’s no more denying you can believe me, even if you don’t believe in me.
I apologize, but I can’t stand to see you this way.
Truthfully, I have no idea what to say to you at this point. We’ve said our pieces, and plenty of ink has been spilled about us. Perhaps the gossip columns would let lie any questions of sexual tension if they knew of that last tango in Des Moines, but that’s going to be our secret. Is there an “us” – how fucking contrived and quick to fire up the rumor mill that would be. I don’t care much for grand ideas like rivalries and nemeses; to be even more truthful, if I never had to see you again after this week, I’d be more than content. I just wish you didn’t mean so much to me once. I still find no satisfaction in this, I’m simply far less hesitant this time.
Because this is greater than “us”. You wanted to make it our private dance, but that was never my ambition or desire. I’d hoped you’d get a grip or come to your senses and step aside, but I’m not sure that’s an option for you anymore. Well – it is, but I’m not sure it’s one you have on the table. And that’s fair. I think I’ve given up on fighting Lissie Hope for Lissie Hope’s soul. You can only expend so much energy on someone who won’t acknowledge it. And so, this isn’t about you: this is about everyone who can be saved.
When you come across a drowning person, you can’t dive in after them. They’ll only drag you down. They have to save themself. And if you want to wear the black hat, don’t allow me to stop you any longer.
There was a passage I remember from a Chuck Klosterman book about the nature of villain in the cultural mind that’s always stuck with me: the “villain” is the person who knows the most and cares the least. It’s a useful little litmus test: of the Bush Administration jackals, there’s a particular loathing for Dick Cheney as he’s not a dullard like Dubya nor a well-meaning pussy like Colin Powell. Your middle-manager has been so effective in tarring Corey Black by (rightfully) pointing out his own prognosis of Walter being cast aside for greater manpower. We can also find a certain loathing for someone like John Thomas, who has such an intimate knowledge of the inner-working and backstage politics of our business but will gleefully praise a sexist murderer’s ring work or will report reputation-staining gossip for website traffic.
I hold all of them in contempt. And I enjoy crushing bastards.
But looking at the group I’m about to stand against – the group you stand alongside – I’ve been particularly perplexed by just who I think the real villain is. I can write off paid muscle like Garvey and Neo readily – nobody would confuse them as “knowing the most”. I also don’t think I’d go so far as to award the crown to King Rat, no matter what a craven little serpent he is. And as for That Thing? Something tells me it’s not a fair competition with It’s inclusion.
I’m sure you’d cry foul that I’m even whittling it down to a final two with your inclusion; after all, isn’t your defining characteristic that you care so goddamn much? And this is where I’m hung up – that’s gone through my head, and it’s easy to believe you actually care, unlike the Stepford Smile-platitudes from your compatriot.
But Lissie Hope doesn’t actually care. Not unless it’s caring about Lissie Hope.
The Black Hat doesn’t fit you, Lissie: nobody quite takes your smug smile or sneering entrance music seriously. The Woman in the Black Hat isn’t supposed to be reduced to a nervous wreck at the Twitter roasting of her idiot boyfriend or snubbed over a cruise ship match. Hell, maybe if you’d spent a little less time trying to make a Denzel Porter vanity list, you’d have won more matches this past year. Everyone can see there’s nothing you want more than a blank check of love and adoration – Lissie Hope winning on her terms and accepted for them.
You care. You care a lot.
But in reality? You don’t. Because Lissie Hope doesn’t care about any of the people around her. Lissie Hope cares about Lissie Hope. And that’s not caring.
I doubt you know the machinery of your association – you don’t seem the type to go on a friend date for lunch with Neo or do a painting class with Peter Garvey. You’re pretty loose-lipped, so I doubt any VPs are giving you calls for special assignments. But you know enough. You’re a dense person, but you’re not stupid. You simply choose to ignore it for your own personal growth. The ends justify the means, and you’ll step on every head you need to get to the top, shoveling everybody into the Moloch engine that powers your company car with the rearview mirror removed.
And as you struggle to swim? You’d shove any attempt at rescue underwater if it would grant you one more breath.
Do you know more than Ash? No. But what matters is you know enough. And you absolutely care the least.
Maybe you’re selfishly glad that Kat is reentering your circle. Maybe your knee jerk reaction is to think she made the right choice. But at the back of your mind, you know this naive fresh competitor who’s coming off a loss is closing her eyes to the red flags and putting trust in you. And you’ll stay awake at night knowing that you’re also ignoring how incredibly familiar this feels and how it doesn’t quiet sit well with you.
But it’ll click the first time she steps into the Philidor locker room and That Thing’s eyes fall on her. You’ll spend every hour obsessively following her tweets praying she won’t step out of line and it won’t happen again. Because once again a fly ignored the open maw of the trap in favor of its beautiful colors and sweet aromas. And you know how it will end again.
Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see. To a point. But just as it takes more muscles to smile than frown, I wonder how long you can squeeze your eyes shut. How hard is the strain beginning to feel?
We don’t think of Jerry Sandusky as the villain of his eponymous sex scandal as much as Joe Paterno because the monsters are self-evident. Of course the child molester is the demon of the story – of course he’s the epitome of evil. But Paterno knew. And Paterno cared more about his legacy than the safety and security of others. And that is why Joe Paterno is the villain. I don’t hold standards for That Thing or your middle-manager; their diabolical nature is compulsory. But you know. And you care more about your career and own feelings of self-worth than the safety and security of others.
You do not care about Howard Black.
You do not care about Mae Ashby.
You do not care about Adelaide Ainsworth.
You do not care about Katherine Hastings.
Unless you do the right thing.
This is probably fruitless, but the reversal of our candors is not lost on me. When I marched down that ramp at Execution, I saw you slink to the corner and away from the melee. Last week, I saw you step out of my way as I charged That Thing. I see your hesitation – and you can see my lack of it. So this is my final warning.
You cannot scrub away the blood already stained on your hands – that, you have to live with that until it fades. But you can prevent more. At Hellimination, I’m no longer holding a line – I’m leading my charge.
You can die by the sword – or you can get the hell out of my way.
As the two of them stood side by side in the hallway, Daniel's expression softened. Underneath all the shit-talk and the cartoony Twitter lifesblood, he saw something of a young boy who first made a trip to Japan with a cachet of Rancid tapes in his backpack when he was eighteen. So, that prompted him to speak first.
"Look, I appreciate what you've done and this is - big. It takes balls to stand in the street and swing on a cop, and it takes balls to stand up to an evil corporation and think you can win."
Johnny laughed. "Flattery will get you everywhere with me."
He sobered, "But I want you to think about this. I know my answer, because this's a question Ive been pondering on my own. But for you. Johnny. If it comes down to it. If this is a last stand. Are you prepared to go down swinging against evil?"
Johnny's face turned to steel, it was... disconcerting to see his own world-weary rage in the eyes of someone so young.
Johnny pauses, his eyes going down. He lets out a long sigh before looking up.
“I wouldn’t have brought you guys here if I wasn’t. Shitty little revolutionary wannabe I’d be, yeah? We know how the story ends if we don’t: the good guys die, and the bad guys win. They’re close – this can be a death rattle or a resurgence. It’s gotta be the former. It’s gotta.”
A pause, then, "What if you can't kill it? What if it's just a reflection of a part of you?"
His eyes flash at Daniel. "It’s in all of us. Philidor’s a symptom – not a cause. This whole world is full of people who’d jump on the Philidor wagon if they got a chance. I’m not under any false pretenses that eliminating them gets us Fully-Automated Luxury Gay Space Communism… but it’s a start. A statement. If we can carve out a corner, we can dig deeper.”
Daniel laughs at that. "You're just the kind of idealistic-stupid punk kids in my day would aspire to."
"I went to Berkeley, thank you very much." But then, Johnny looks him in the eye with earnestness and hunger in his expression. "…And that’s why I need you, Dan. You have her number. The rest of us don’t. You’re my ace in the hole. So my question is: are you ready?”
He breathes for a second, and then grunts. Laconically, he nods his head back in to the mortuary, to the body.
"Come on, kid. Let's get this tumor out."
"My name has never left Carter Shaw's consciousness. Living rent free inside his head for over a year now. Ever since the day I put down the mongrel and the Action Wrestling world was formally introduced to Philidor Holdings. The boots were laid, the message was sent.
I've been on the front lines of this.. is it even an insurrection? You know what, it doesn't matter. To me, Philidor Holdings has been a dark shadow over the last year of my life. Everywhere I turn, every move I try to make, I'm cut off by one of them popping up from the depths like a greasy log of fecal matter that just won't flush down onto the sewer where a true bitch ass Rat King belongs.
Do you see what happens when the odds are remotely even, Carter? You're left with drooping trousers because someone took ya belt. And then the big bad and your goons take the easy way out, snap Graham's ankle in half and expect The King to just sit back and lounge on a cruise? Nah motherfucker, I've been off dealing with actual clowns for two months and now it's time to stick the dagger in the curse's heart, driving that shit to hell where it never should have left.
I get it though, you get the one, two, three on someone like me and it's pretty incredible - let alone at my own show - in Norway. That, for me, was it. That's when I knew you were really lost, Carter. You couldn't even stand up to the guy you wronged like a man. I own my mistakes. Kaiju Collins took his first steps since the incident a few weeks ago and it was incredible. Carter Shaw doubles down. From day one, the consequences of your actions have caused harm to himself and others.
Mama's house wasn't burned down because Carter won a match.
You've always tried to be the underdog, the good guy but that shit hasn't ever landed. Fuck, you're such a rat bitch I even question if your upbringing what you say it is. When you got to the point that you'd proven yourself capable of pulling wins against some of the elite in Action Wrestling, you cracked. The heat was too much to bear and you needed that boost. You needed Philidor Holdings to put yourself truly on the map. You needed Philidor Holdings to become World Champion. You needed Philidor Holdings to keep the World Championship.
You needed Philidor Holdings to beat me. So you won at XIII, alright. Can you win at my other creation?
Sit down Carter, because I have something to tell you. In 2006, I beat Steve Carr for three wishes. That was the genesis of XIII.. and Hellimination. This is also my baby. My way for two groups of people to settle things once and for all. For fifteen years it has been doing just that. Hellimination is a means to an end. All our war until only a few are left. Maybe just one. But those at the end - they represent all those that fought. Everyone that steps between the ropes for a match like this had better be goddamn sure they are fighting for the right reasons.
Philidor Holdings needed bodies to be relevant. It's a vicious cycle I will take great pleasure in dismantling with the rest of the boys. People that won't shove a knife in my back to pad their bank account, right Lissie Hope?
It's about this time I'd say it's just business, but I think we all know it's personal. I have NEVER been so outrageously stifled in my career. Even back to the days of the Team of Treachery or The Dark Side, no group has ever walked over me and continually shoved a sock in my mouth. I wish I was impressed instead of disappointed. On paper, it reads like a fiction. The kind of shit you can only hope for, real competition. A few people that have finally unlocked the secret to beat the King of All Wrestlers.
When in reality, it's stolen valor. It's not something to be proud of, it's something you should look in the mirror and hate yourself for. All of you. If you're not fighting Philidor Holdings at Spookyclash, you were an accessory to their iron will. You stood idly by and let these deviants throw their goons and weight around to bend the narrative to their own benefit. From management down to the ring crew, you're all responsible. I've been calling for this day to happen for over a year.
I teamed with a fucking mongrel to snuff the flame before it got too hot.
I failed, but I fucking tried. That's more than I can say for most of the company.
It truly says a lot.
But J. Bacc, Downfall and Dion - we put aside whatever fickle beef we have because the goal is bigger than that. WE have seen the endgame in the trajectory that we're headed and we're going to be the meteor that slaps that shit onto a one way course for the sun. It won't burn out and fizzle like a defective firework - it's going to be a full Fourth of July display of blood and mayhem.
Where will you be when Philidor Holdings is eradicated from Action Wrestling?
I'll be right where I always was.
The front fucking lines.
That was just about enough for The King, as he shakes his head and turns to head out through the double doors.He kicks the middle of them, sending the doors nearly off their hinges. Dion looks at Downfall, not exactly amused. "I got this," Dion says, as he dips back and begins following.
"Listen, you know this is the way to go," Dion shouts at Black. "You of all people should realize it will take us united.."
Corey stops in his tracks and turns, his finger goes directly into Dion's chest. "I've done this before Dion, I've put myself out there just to be let down. He just can't help but let himself sneak those little barbs in there."
"Remind you of someone?" Dion says, with a sly smile.
Corey's eyes turn from fire to contemplation. Dion continues, "look man, I've been around you longer than those other guys, and while we haven't ever exactly seen eye to eye, I think we both know this is our best chance at doing something about Philidor. So 'smarmy little punk' in there told you something you've known for a year, what's that going to change? You've said worse to better and you know it."
"I did once tell Jonny Fly that I'd burn down his mansion for the fun of it because he ate the last of the Hot Fries," Corey thinks back on out loud.
"And that wasn't even a conscious decision, you did what you thought you had to do to prevail and it didn't work. This is your second chance, how many second chances do you really get?" Dion asks.
"Me? As many as I want, I book my own show," Corey shrugs off like it's common.
Dion shakes his head, "okay but this is bigger than that. This is a collection of four people that have all the tools. And we're right here. We're so close. A donut crumb away from doing what you've been squaking about since Clash 100. So get your head in the game, let Bacchus be Bacchus. You should appreciate the fact that he won't change his demeanor just because he's talking to you. He's calm. He's ready. We're all ready."
"Alright. This time, I believe you, Dion," Corey says, walking passed and heading back for the operating room.
"Hey, before we go back in there - how was it?" Dion asks, walking faster to catch up.
"How was what?" Corey responds.
"Taking out those clowns," Dion says, big smile on his face.
"About as good as when we got rid of those other ones, Dion," Corey remarks, pushing the door back open.
With a steady hand, the scalpel was scraping the tumor away.
I wanted you to appreciate why I threw my name in the ring for this, Ash.
It isn't, as you're probably smugly surmising, that Johnny came running to me thinking me some secret weapon against Ash Blake.
Nor have I made my intentions all along to be front and center of this battle for the company's soul... no.
My concerns up until a month ago, lay in teaming with Dion, and making this team work smoothly. Because I wasn't playing your game. I wasn't hanging my legacy solely on what I did to you, and I decide who's cage I'm in. Not you.
But it came to me in that capacity; it wasn't just enough to wait around in anxiety for the instant one of your brain donors decided they should add the Tag belts to their collection and enter our yard.
We could not afford to be reactive, passive, and wait. And our concern over our domain was secondary.
But, and I can say this honestly and with as little cheese as I can: the entire road I've undertaken since I started to question why I was part of the Lost Breed; the entire bond between Dion and I centered around me learning to stand up and do the right thing for the right reasons.
That's why when Johnny needed us at his back on Clash, I didn't hesitate anymore. It's time for me to do the right thing, for the right reason.
Because this thing between you and I, ain't about who's won between us.
It's always been about your sneering callousness about my worth as a human and your insincere mantra that you could've made me into something better.
And that's the entire act with you, Ashley. That's the gimmick, as my dad's old-timey territory buddies would say.
Philidor lives as if you're the heroes and everyone who opposes you is dragged through the mud, their sticky pasts and thorny dark sides picked at and recontextualized so that they're painted as low as the scum on your boots.
No opposition's ever been safe from your judgement.
But what about you, Ash?
You can claim moral high ground for every bit of success you've ever had. But you lack the insight to what really makes - me, Dion, Corey, Bacchus, any of us work.
No surprise, this past year you've battled all four of us, yet even when you've won, you haven't done enough work to make us fall as far as you claimed.
And you have put down Corey Black multiple times.
-In vengeance, for injuring Noris Cranley.
-In moralistic, indignant outrage for daring to team with a murderer like Walter to put your big guns down the last time it was Philidor versus a dream team.
-In pique, for trying to claim YOUR crown.
You claim to have systematically broken and dismantled him.
Did you? Because the Corey Black that I know picked himself back up every single time, no matter how badly the beatings went.
No matter if you pinned him clean or had to have Jim Mud interfere - exactly how you won the belt.
I'm sorry, is that white hat you profess to wear over the company that we keep supposed to look so tarnished?
Regardless, you did not bring down Black. You never did.
He may not have succeeded in taking back the title, but he never stopped dogging Philidor - he could even have brought your golden goose Carter down at Uprising were it not for a diversion and a clown problem.
And you didn't break Johnny Bacchus.
For all of the talk about "affording credibility" to your opposition, it strikes me that you gave him more than you took. Your entire case was that his potshots at you were beneath your notice, his revolutionary talk was that of a child and it wouldn't matter in the end because he was outmatched against you.
If your aim was to make yourself look absolutely weak and useless, unable to take Johnny on through your own power, and needing muscle to back you up, then congratulations, another successful endeavor.
But when it comes down to the you-n'-me of it all, Ashley?
This goes back to the Philidor-vs-the-World series where I last encountered you, and you rhapsodized about how much I needed the win over you.
And how you trapped me in a cage of my own making, by being the one that chased your record.
Ooh, yeah, girl, run that game.
It almost sounds convincing. Not quite; just a hair off from credible, enough that people might glance at that line, nod their head in acquiescence only to scrunch their eyebrows for just one moment in giving it some thought.
That's always been the Philidor manner of spin, though. No matter the setback, you lot always gotta present the public facade that this is According To Plan.
Even when you're not the vital component in that plan's fruition.
Even when you're on the outside looking in.
You sensed the moment it became patently obvious that you were not vital to Philidor's continued direction the instant in the Evolution main event when you dived to break up a pin to stop Carter from getting the three-count, and ever after, when he strolled out there and soaked in the light and basked as their centerpiece, you stewed in the background, doing nothing.
Did you sacrifice that, too?
Did you willingly give up that spot to "trap [Carter] in a cage of his own making?"...
Because if that was the truth, you wouldn't have added your name to the pack in that Uprising seven-way at all.
Yeah, turns out, all along, you've only ever been full of shit.
And that's why our dichotomy is so fascinating to me, because I've also been just as shady but I owned every second of it... You fool yourself and every single second you've stayed as middle management, you've only compounded your own growing emptiness.
I took one look at you twelve months ago and marked you, baby.
Your entire premise is just based around wanting somebody to really see you. To really understand you.
That's why the cutting, cerebral analyst shingle always comes off so thorny, yet so brittle.
'Cause at the end of the day, every single nugget I've found out about your backstory made me chuckle at just how ordinary and small and weak the core of Ash Blake is; How utterly sad her life had to be to make her think that Philidor of all entities was a home.
Shy little girl, daughter of a failson wastrel and a greasy spoon waitress, who needed to escape her go-nowhere environment so she did what many twenty-year olds are wont to do; They buy in.
They give the best years of their life to a company that views them as transposable commodity, allow themselves to be used, 'cause they delude themselves that the grind is worth it. You aren't a patch on a thousand business-bro sigma males on Instagram.
You're smart enough to rise up the ranks, but you're also stupid enough to believe that they see enough value in you that you'll keep your spot forever.
And that's where you and I differ, and ultimately why I hold you in nothing but contempt.
'Cause everything Philidor's made, of you, of Carter, is empty. Meaningless. It's not for the greater good.
It's not for the redemption of this company's soul, or making AW a better place.
All you are is a lickspittle in the service of pathetic, mundane evil. Drones working for pedantic, shallow and useless corporate overseers.
You're acquisition of power for the sake of gaining power; all your righteous preening's ever been is the dogma of someone gone so native that they actually buy in.
Everything I've ever built's been flawed.
Tainted, by my own dealings with men who have the same stupid fixation on gaining power as your leash-holders... but at the end of the day, everything I've made: on down the line to my Inner Circle, which outlasted your damn Philidor like you're a drop in the bucket, to the Lost Breed, to me and Dion... has been family.
Dysfunctional, yes. But never interchangeable.
So tell me that you nothing me, Ashley. Condescend to me. Tell me that I'm a speck who's beneath you. Tell me I'm a failure, who's always the architect of his own *downfall*...
And I'll tell you why you can't stand the damn sight of me.
Because you look across the ring at me, this golem of scrap metal, this stitched-together gunslinger, and see something more authentic than she's ever allowed herself to be in her life.
You've made your entire AW tenure... hell your entire MYSTIQUE, about being the shrinking violet, the one they never saw, the one nobody can touch.
You made your entire run for a calendar year about how nobody could pierce your mystery enough to figure you out.
And that is because there isn't anything to figure out.
In that sense it completely tracks why you wanted to be the Hardcore champion, why you were "Coming for" Johnny all of a sudden; Because in the Hardcore division your modus operandi is hidden behind a grace that you can have all the assistance you need.
But what happens when you're not enough again?
Well, if the past history of you losing two titles is anything to go by, you'll go dark, fade into the background while the company fronts another model who spews the same bullshit you do.
Happened with Carter usurping you.
Happened with Neo, who reads as an even-less-realized version of your pop-psych snark.
And that is the central failing of the Philidor.
You have mouthpieces, you have spokesmen. At any particular time it looks like you, like Garvey, like Saltair or like the Devil himself are speaking for the group.
But you aren't encouraged to follow your own path, to be your own person.
No matter what, the good of the company reigns over all and you serve at their capricious whim.
Well, I'm tired of us being beholden to you.
And I realize that in your mind, even loss isn't anything you can't restructure from; nah, you'd just go dark for another few months until people nearly forgot while some other peon takes your place.
And if it was just me in there I would be comfortable in making my last stand just so I could put you down. But that's the best part of it.
One man doesn't win against Philidor in the long run, because of the aforementioned golden parachute game that keeps you looking stiff-upper-lip. But time and again it's proven that when people stand together, when the unlikeliest of allies form a wall, you break yourselves against the stones and retreat like the tide.
You've only succeeded in a singles capacity when you're facing opposition that's divided, with people scrambling to pick up the win for themselves, you take advantage.
But as a team you've fallen apart every time there's a big ask, against a mob united enough to put you down.
This's been so long in coming, you've stepped on too many necks and wounded too many people that I've understood that Johnny is right. We can't allow you the persistence of your "greater good", the blackening of this company's name in your relentless march of ugly commercial acquisition.
And if I'm the one they're looking to to bring it all down, because I was the first one to give you that black eye then so be it. I'll wear that badge proudly. It's the right thing, for the right reason.
Not to sate my ego. Not to usurp your streak.
You are meeting us in my fucking element, into my world. And you KNOW exactly what happened when I pushed myself to that place, where I came for your head.
This time, I'm chasing down every member of Philidor with the same vigor, the same relentless energy, the same will to punch through every wall until I get to the end, that brought Vanguard to the Tag titles. That took me to the final six of Havoc. That brought your streak to an end.
That will bring... Philidor, to an end.
If it's all come down to this...
It's all just coming down.
There is a specter haunting Action Wrestling – it is the specter of revolution. In the wake of turmoil and creeping tyranny by hostile outsiders, it has become evident that reformation and resistance is no longer tenable. We sit on the precipice of existential threats: we are trapped in the belly of a terrible machine, and the machine is slowly bleeding to death. Our prescription is revolution, and to the first end of revolution, there is but one action: the exorcism of Philidor Holdings.
Our backgrounds are diverse, and our motivations differ. Nonetheless, we of the insurgency are united in our means and ends. The four of us speak for none but ourselves. We have all read, revised, and ratified as whole the following proclamation:
I. We are not “Team Bacchus”. Johnny Bacchus is but one of four. We are an allegiance of utility and equality. We hold no cult of personality and are of no formal structure of leadership or hierarchy. None of us are the head of the snake. None of us are the heart or soul of the insurgency.
II. We are not “Team AW”. We are not sponsored, co-signed, or organized through Action Wrestling. Action Wrestling is a company, so we can feel no patriotism toward it.
III. Furthermore, it is a company whose own mismanagement and nonfeasance has created the conditions necessitating actions as dramatic as ours. It would be pointless to fight on the behalf of a company unwilling or resistant to reform. Instead, we fight on our own volition and will, with the explicit and sole purpose of Philidor Holdings’s elimination. Of how Action Wrestling chooses to conduct itself in the wake of our success, we absolve ourselves as a union. How our constituents conduct themselves is of their own private concern.
IV. While we see Philidor Holdings as not a cause but a symptom of this mismanagement and nonfeasance, it does not mitigate, let alone exculpate, Philidor Holdings of his malfeasance. Our enemy has been subtle and insidious in its machinations. It has employed conspiracy, obfuscation, and technicality to conceal itself from recourse. We see our insurgency as necessary extralegal action to repress a creep towards irreparable autocracy.
V. There can be no compromise nor negotiation. Our enemy does not operate in good faith, and we will not devote time or resources towards avenues we judge futile.
VI. The humiliation and elimination of our enemy is necessary. There can be no alternate outcome.
We call upon all in agreement to stand with us in solidarity. In the wake of our victory, we call on watchful eyes, calm minds, and resolute hands to ensure no recurrence.
And to our enemy, we quote the following: “We have no compassion and we ask no compassion from you. When our turn comes, we shall not make excuses for the terror.”
Signed,
Daniel Fehl
Dionysus Necurat
Johnathan Backus
Corey Black
"Dion, dummy up," he said, tersely, as they got out of the Corvette.
"Sorry, Daniel, I can't stop thinking the lyrics to that song - you know the one by the Scorpions that hit big around the time of the Berlin Wall? 'The Winds of Change?'" And his voice raised an octave to do a karaoke line from the song. "Follow the Moskova, down to Gorky Park, listenin' to the winds... of change -"
"Dion. I thought we agreed, after Japan, we were not doing karaoke again."
He blinked the memory back, but could not dispel the cherry-stone of worry deep in his gut, the dissatisfied black that was calling to him and reminding him of this familiarity. There was a thread of thought that occurred to him, then, on the persistence of evil.
Philidor. James Nightingale. Jason. All the way down the line. Over half of his life had been given to either fighting this type of darkness, or joining with it.
Either way, as they walked down the hallway, he felt it with him.
Dion started humming again, prompting him to flash his partner a warning look, stopping it. "Sorry."
"It's just that... meeting in an old mortuary?" Dion said, with some unease, giving voice at least to how Daniel felt deep down. "What kind of meeting-place is this to talk about our dealings with Philidor?"
He scanned the signs above the door and the arrow keys mapping out sectors of the hospital hanging overhead. "I think," Daniel said slowly, "that the kid has something in mind." And that was all, but he didn't elaborate.
"Are you nervous about it?" Dion asked, with some softness to indicate that it would be okay if he opened up about his feelings.
"I'm ready for this to end," he replied with a sigh. Inasmuch as it ever could end. Who was to say that, even if 'the battle for AW's soul' ended in Philidor going down, the persistence of evil wouldn't find a way to win out. But he couldn't stop thinking about it. Every time he closed his eyes lately, he was reminded of walking through a wasteland, and stepping up to a flight of stairs that was running red with sticky blood.
So maybe if you're going to combat that, you need something more archetypal. That's a point for Johnny, he allowed.
"Still, no matter what happens, we needed to meet with them, present a united front."
He didn't even have time to retort to Dion. Because he was not expecting Bacchus to meet them, wearing a white coat, chain-smoking like a 1950's doctor, for full effect. His voice hitched. Dion, however, broke into a grin.
"I like this," Dion said, "this guy knows how to commit."
He grew serious, face asserting itself into his stony, gunslinger's mask. "Alright, Bacchus, it's your play here... what are we here for?"
Bacchus looked him in the eye. "Well, there’s paperwork, a lovely little seminar, and also, you’re my Jesus. Any questions?"
There was a pregnant pause in the cold tile of the mortuary for a moment, and then his eyes narrowed. "What?"
Since we ARE in the spookiest part of the year, I figured a spooky greek myth would be appropriate. Pay attention, Philidor; this pertains to you.
Nyx, one of the primordial goddesses of the night, had three daughters, Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. The weaver, the alloter, and the severer. These sisters would look at the child that was born and determine their fate. Clotho would spin the thread, creating the foundation of a person’s fate. Lachesis would then provide the thread with the person’s destiny, their lot in life if you will. Atropos determined how one’s life would end, and with her shears, would cut the thread of life. They were widely regarded as being beyond the control of anyone, including the gods. They were simply inevitable; after all, not many can claim to be able to escape their own fate.
See, I agonized over how I’d make this more interesting with you lot. In the year that you have disappointed us with your presence, the lead has been on “how great it is to belong to Philidor” and “being the order” to the chaos in front of you. It was funny how clever you all thought you were, especially with that second part. I have made it a personal mission to explain to people just exactly what instituting “order” looks like in a realm of “chaos,” and the fact remains not much has really changed in the year that you’ve been here. You haven’t really brought the order you promised, and instead embraced the chaos of this place.
Sure, your presence has been felt at the top, but you barely made a dent anywhere else.
Sure, you have a arguably “talented” pool of competitors, but not one was built by your hand.
And sure, one could argue that you definitely embody the evil corporate entity look, but if I wanted a dollar store Weyland-Yutani I’d buy a bootleg copy of Alien.
Since not that many people pay attention to anything I say or do, I can make the clever jabs that others really can’t, because you’ve already written them off after beating them once or twice. But I’m not here to be clever; right now, I’m going to say the one thing I know will piss you guys off.
You don’t intimidate me. Never have, never will.
I know, its a shocker, right? The one guy you don’t really care all that much about in this fight (aside from maybe Neo, but we’ll get to him later) isn’t afraid of who you are and what you represent. Its pretty plain to see to anyone who is a careful observer. And what have I observed?
In the past year, you’ve had a number of personnel changes. The group seemed fine to start with; recently minted All-In holder Shaw, Ash the”secret leader,” The Adlers and HR Department rounding out the core group that, truth be told, hadn’t changed all that much. Then you had Noris, who was quickly dismissed after losing out to Max Daemon; Vayden, whose career can be summarized as “given more handouts than a trick-or-treater on Halloween,” just kind of...stopped being there; Lissie Hope and [redacted] who started (and failed, I might add) to publicize you in a much larger way, and finally Neo, who again, we’ll get to later.
In that same amount of time, Philidor has acquired the World, US, Hardcore, Television, and All Access titles. All very impressive to look at; the problem is, aside from the World title reigns (where you placed a large focus of protection on your asset), not many of those reigns lasted beyond two months; hardly what I would consider a dominating force. There also wasn’t much you were doing in terms of building up these divisions, choosing instead to play the good little heel faction and protect assets at all costs. And the harder you tried to keep them, the more often you’d lose them.
In all the time I’ve spent observing Philidor, not once did I see an attempt to try and build each other up. You all talked a big game about bringing order and having a stable that would embody what Philidor represented, but then you bring in a guy like Neo, who we’ll get to later, and just completely botch shaping him to your specifications. Hell, you couldn’t even manage to turn Lissie Hope toward your vision. What, you guys run out of secret corporate-approved holiday punch?
The easy road would be to say that Philidor is an unsuccessful cult. I should know; I’ve been in a cult before. But at least with The Brotherhood we embraced all our success, not just the major victories. Even then, though, Philidor isn’t an unsuccessful cult.
Philidor is a Ponzi scheme wearing the skin of an unsuccessful cult.
Its okay guys; if we wanted corporate cosplay, we’d tune in to The Office. At least with that show, we know its dry by design. Nothing and nobody better exemplifies this fact than Neo, and at long last, I’ll finally get to him.
Neo is-actually I should probably mention Jim Mud, since you guys don’t seem to want to anymore. He consistently delivered and pretty much had Cruiserclash around his finger, and yet you guys did nothing to acknowledge that fact. Its pretty hard for one person to hold an entire show hostage, and he did just that. Wasn’t that your guys’ plan with Clash? And how well did that work out for you?
See, these are all reasons why I’ve never been afraid of what Philidor was or represented. Bacchus might wax poetic about how evil you guys are, but the truth is we should just be waxing pathetic. Which brings us to Neo.
Dude, you picked the absolute worst people to saddle up with if you actually think they’ll help you with your career. I can’t say anything mean to you, I can only give you my pity. You’re like a guy whose buddies told him “no really, putting your life savings in crypto is totally gonna pay off,” then wake up the next morning to find your savings all gone and a novelty Elon Musk coffee mug sitting at your front doorstep. Frankly, you’re the only person worth saving in all this; Lissie had her chance and decided that remaining broken and barely scotch-taped back together by Blake and her 401kronies was better for her psyche than actually realizing that she never needed them to get better. Take the chance now; realize that Philidor is nothing more than a scam and walk away from them. You can be your own man, free to do what’s best for you, not for them.
The only thing that’s best for Philidor, here and now, is to actively fight against them and shut them down. Sure, we’ve been doing that for months, but Bacchus has been the only one who has seriously wanted to dismantle them. Granted, so have I, but I lacked the clout for it. I was just a dude who obsessed over tortilla chips and fought tooth and nail for an undesirable Havoc Rumble spot.. Quirky Dionysus, a dude who makes a career out of making everything, including himself, into a joke.
...I mean really, did anyone else find it incredibly odd that I’d obsess over stuff like chips? The longest running Philidor joke, pointing out the obvious irony that any blue chip company wouldn’t really bother operating in the shadows the way they do.
...Maybe the joke went over peoples’ heads. That’s fine; so did a lot of those cryptic messages Philidor sent out. That’s right; people were, in fact, paying attention to those. Near the end, though, it ended up just being me. It’s how I knew you’d predictably sign a person who has more trust issues than a middle-aged man who can’t decide if his fart is really a fart. So, what exactly IS the deal with Majestique? How well did Spiral work out for you? You still got that property management business in New York? I keep trying to look into it these days, but its the funniest thing; your site is completely gone! No mention of your new gym initiative, no mention of your dossiers that make The HR Department seem like they’re wearing the skin of humans, hiding only a chitinous exoskeleton underneath. Just a domain for sale image and a lot of wasted dreams.
It was only a matter of time before people would actually come together to deal with the Philidor problem. All that was needed was the right combination of people to do it. Bacchus, who is leading the charge, Corey Black, who put up with their ranks the most and needing vengeance. But who else would’ve been a good fit? What would I, Dionysus, bring to the table to convince these two that I’d be worth being a part of all this.
Simple. Downfall, the ace in the hole. Several months of careful planning and building rapport with the man who left a blemish on Ash’s record have led to this moment, where our first real chance at eliminating the Philidor problem can finally come to fruition.
See Ash, there’s a problem with the choice of phrase “We’re in the empire business.” Empires fall.
Show me a tragedy; I’ll turn it into a comedy.
"I side with Daniel on this one," Dion put in, bemused, "...What?"
"Pretty simple, actually," Bacchus said, and the manic fervor of the young punk asserted itself into the direct, militaristic gusto of a general in an old war movie. Dion and Daniel exchanged looks with their eyebrows knitted, not sure how to take this.
Johnny jabbed a finger right in Daniel's face. "Ash Blake. This guy knows how to put her down. When it comes down to it in Hellimination, he's gonna be our best hope of taking her head off."
There's silence there, in the mortuary, and then both of them talk over each other.
"Look I think you're oversimplifying -" "I mean that's flattering and nice and all but -" " -He never pinned Ash Blake, he just escaped a cage match and - " "-But really I mean I've spent the last few months avoiding bringing up my victories over Blake because I didn't want that to be the only thing I hang my hat on and -"
Bacchus waves his hands, irritably. "In this order, not important. Bullshit. Bullshit. And not important."
"It's just," Dion says, arms folded, "Daniel's my partner, and he's done a lot for my career, but... I do feel a little bit like I'm just the comic relief, if you're hanging all hope on him to be the last man standing."
Daniel lets out a frustrated grunt, "Dion... you aren't the comic relief. You've contributed more to this team than anyone. You're here because you were the one on the trail of figuring out the Philidor puzzles before anyone else. And I don't buy that I'm the last hope of this team, either."
"Maybe not the last hope of bringing them all down," Bacchus pipes up, as if to alleviate the tension, "I hope we're all still standing when it comes to laying in the final blow to bring these fucks down. But when it comes down between this mf and Ash Blake..."
Squinting, and assessing Johnny with his eyes, he asks, "What is it between you and Blake, anyway?"
His eyes move to Downfall's, meeting his gaze. "Ash Blake has taken a lot from me." His words were tinged with meaning that shows it's more than just a streak or a belt he's speaking of, and his expression is now more vulnerable. "And for whatever reason, you and her have this connection where you both know how to hurt each other the most. That's the energy we need."
Daniel raises his eyebrow, and retorts. "This has all the energy of bringing down the Queen Bee of high school... This about a girl, then?" Although, in his deeper heart, he had to say that, were he twenty years younger and not so jaded, he would have fought to defend someone close to him with just as much fervor, gone to such extremes.
Johnny cracked a smile, almost as if they were simpatico, then chuckled and said, bluntly, "No." Then he moved on. "We're still waiting for Corey to show up, but -"
"I'm here," rumbled the ominous voice of the King, and they all looked over their shoulders as he arrived from a door on the other side of the room, from another hallway.
"Well," Dion said, "Avengers assemble, or - ?"
"Hell yes, now we can begin," Johnny's manic energy was back in force, and he strode in long, purposeful steps over to the steel cabinet, and he opened it with a showman's flourish. However, when Johnny looked back, Downfall and Corey Black were face to face.
There was a rise in the electric atmosphere, momentarily, as the two old veterans stood nearly at eye level.
Daniel's lip peeled back in his churlish smirk. "The King of All Wrestlers," is all he said. Black laughed a bit to himself. Both were smiling. Johnny's face froze in an awkward grimace. But still, neither man made an overtly aggressive action.
"Daniel," Black said, at last, in acknowledgement. And finally, the ice broke a bit, and the two reached to bump fists.
"If you're done, we can begin," Johnny said, impatiently. And he pulled out a slab.
"Jonathan," Black rumbled, eyes slitted, "What the hell is this?"
"A man. Or was. 54-years-old – by no means a spring chicken but plenty of life left. Cause of death: liver cancer. Insidious little beast – hard to detect and spreads quickly. Sound familiar?” Bacchus said as he looked around at the other three. “There is a tumor, festering in the brain and deep in the guts of this company, and I've gathered us here to ask the question: is this body worth saving?"
Emotions played on each man's face as Johnny looked to each of them, from consideration on Dion's, to pensive and thinking about his dad's cancer on Daniel's, to Corey's outright derision. Bacchus continues.
"Because this match; Hellimination is going to be the surgery, and we're all here to play our parts. It will not be an easy surgery, and if it goes wrong, the cancer could continue to spread and overtake the entire body. So I ask you again, the surgeon, the anesthesiologist... is this body worth saving?"
There's a pause then, as Johnny lets his words sink in. Corey breaks it; rolls his eyes, scoffs. "This is pretentious."
Johnny snaps back, "I'm sorry, do you have any ideas?"
"Is cutting up a corpse gonna prevent Ash from almost taking your eye out with a broken baseball bat?"
"Oh, we wanna talk about failures? After you loaded a Walter-shaped bullet into Blake's gun and got whipped by her three times?"
"I am not going to be questioned by a smarmy little punk like you -"
"ENOUGH!" Downfall breaks in.
Downfall moves between Black and Bacchus, preventing them from yelling into each other's faces. "We need cooler heads to prevail, and we do need to be on the same page. So Black - my king, if you will please allow Dion to escort you."
Black sneers dangerously at Daniel, but he moves over with Dion. Daniel turns to Johnny. "And you... come on, kid... let's talk about this."
You can’t escape the pain, can you, Lissie?
The achievements, the accolades, the adoration – even the addictions. It wasn’t and isn’t enough, is it? No matter how many times you change your hair, you’re still looking at the same person in the mirror. In a lavish Harvey Marx-tailored costume on a big night, you still feel exposed and naked. Every light in the world can’t brighten the darkness within you. Every win is proceeded by a greater failure. Brushing your teeth and washing your face won’t hide the smell of puked alcohol or the stain of tears on your cheeks.
You’re a lost girl.
I’m not taunting you or twisting the knife – I’m not Dandy DiVito or JC Keeton. Then again, I don’t think I should have to defend my tone or intentions: if there’s one thing you should know by now, whether it was while I dragged myself down a ramp after an ugly loss or skin-to-skin with you in a Des Moines hotel room, it’s that I’m exactly who I’ve said I was. I don’t care if you trust me – there’s no more denying you can believe me, even if you don’t believe in me.
I apologize, but I can’t stand to see you this way.
Truthfully, I have no idea what to say to you at this point. We’ve said our pieces, and plenty of ink has been spilled about us. Perhaps the gossip columns would let lie any questions of sexual tension if they knew of that last tango in Des Moines, but that’s going to be our secret. Is there an “us” – how fucking contrived and quick to fire up the rumor mill that would be. I don’t care much for grand ideas like rivalries and nemeses; to be even more truthful, if I never had to see you again after this week, I’d be more than content. I just wish you didn’t mean so much to me once. I still find no satisfaction in this, I’m simply far less hesitant this time.
Because this is greater than “us”. You wanted to make it our private dance, but that was never my ambition or desire. I’d hoped you’d get a grip or come to your senses and step aside, but I’m not sure that’s an option for you anymore. Well – it is, but I’m not sure it’s one you have on the table. And that’s fair. I think I’ve given up on fighting Lissie Hope for Lissie Hope’s soul. You can only expend so much energy on someone who won’t acknowledge it. And so, this isn’t about you: this is about everyone who can be saved.
When you come across a drowning person, you can’t dive in after them. They’ll only drag you down. They have to save themself. And if you want to wear the black hat, don’t allow me to stop you any longer.
There was a passage I remember from a Chuck Klosterman book about the nature of villain in the cultural mind that’s always stuck with me: the “villain” is the person who knows the most and cares the least. It’s a useful little litmus test: of the Bush Administration jackals, there’s a particular loathing for Dick Cheney as he’s not a dullard like Dubya nor a well-meaning pussy like Colin Powell. Your middle-manager has been so effective in tarring Corey Black by (rightfully) pointing out his own prognosis of Walter being cast aside for greater manpower. We can also find a certain loathing for someone like John Thomas, who has such an intimate knowledge of the inner-working and backstage politics of our business but will gleefully praise a sexist murderer’s ring work or will report reputation-staining gossip for website traffic.
I hold all of them in contempt. And I enjoy crushing bastards.
But looking at the group I’m about to stand against – the group you stand alongside – I’ve been particularly perplexed by just who I think the real villain is. I can write off paid muscle like Garvey and Neo readily – nobody would confuse them as “knowing the most”. I also don’t think I’d go so far as to award the crown to King Rat, no matter what a craven little serpent he is. And as for That Thing? Something tells me it’s not a fair competition with It’s inclusion.
I’m sure you’d cry foul that I’m even whittling it down to a final two with your inclusion; after all, isn’t your defining characteristic that you care so goddamn much? And this is where I’m hung up – that’s gone through my head, and it’s easy to believe you actually care, unlike the Stepford Smile-platitudes from your compatriot.
But Lissie Hope doesn’t actually care. Not unless it’s caring about Lissie Hope.
The Black Hat doesn’t fit you, Lissie: nobody quite takes your smug smile or sneering entrance music seriously. The Woman in the Black Hat isn’t supposed to be reduced to a nervous wreck at the Twitter roasting of her idiot boyfriend or snubbed over a cruise ship match. Hell, maybe if you’d spent a little less time trying to make a Denzel Porter vanity list, you’d have won more matches this past year. Everyone can see there’s nothing you want more than a blank check of love and adoration – Lissie Hope winning on her terms and accepted for them.
You care. You care a lot.
But in reality? You don’t. Because Lissie Hope doesn’t care about any of the people around her. Lissie Hope cares about Lissie Hope. And that’s not caring.
I doubt you know the machinery of your association – you don’t seem the type to go on a friend date for lunch with Neo or do a painting class with Peter Garvey. You’re pretty loose-lipped, so I doubt any VPs are giving you calls for special assignments. But you know enough. You’re a dense person, but you’re not stupid. You simply choose to ignore it for your own personal growth. The ends justify the means, and you’ll step on every head you need to get to the top, shoveling everybody into the Moloch engine that powers your company car with the rearview mirror removed.
And as you struggle to swim? You’d shove any attempt at rescue underwater if it would grant you one more breath.
Do you know more than Ash? No. But what matters is you know enough. And you absolutely care the least.
Maybe you’re selfishly glad that Kat is reentering your circle. Maybe your knee jerk reaction is to think she made the right choice. But at the back of your mind, you know this naive fresh competitor who’s coming off a loss is closing her eyes to the red flags and putting trust in you. And you’ll stay awake at night knowing that you’re also ignoring how incredibly familiar this feels and how it doesn’t quiet sit well with you.
But it’ll click the first time she steps into the Philidor locker room and That Thing’s eyes fall on her. You’ll spend every hour obsessively following her tweets praying she won’t step out of line and it won’t happen again. Because once again a fly ignored the open maw of the trap in favor of its beautiful colors and sweet aromas. And you know how it will end again.
Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see. To a point. But just as it takes more muscles to smile than frown, I wonder how long you can squeeze your eyes shut. How hard is the strain beginning to feel?
We don’t think of Jerry Sandusky as the villain of his eponymous sex scandal as much as Joe Paterno because the monsters are self-evident. Of course the child molester is the demon of the story – of course he’s the epitome of evil. But Paterno knew. And Paterno cared more about his legacy than the safety and security of others. And that is why Joe Paterno is the villain. I don’t hold standards for That Thing or your middle-manager; their diabolical nature is compulsory. But you know. And you care more about your career and own feelings of self-worth than the safety and security of others.
You do not care about Howard Black.
You do not care about Mae Ashby.
You do not care about Adelaide Ainsworth.
You do not care about Katherine Hastings.
Unless you do the right thing.
This is probably fruitless, but the reversal of our candors is not lost on me. When I marched down that ramp at Execution, I saw you slink to the corner and away from the melee. Last week, I saw you step out of my way as I charged That Thing. I see your hesitation – and you can see my lack of it. So this is my final warning.
You cannot scrub away the blood already stained on your hands – that, you have to live with that until it fades. But you can prevent more. At Hellimination, I’m no longer holding a line – I’m leading my charge.
You can die by the sword – or you can get the hell out of my way.
As the two of them stood side by side in the hallway, Daniel's expression softened. Underneath all the shit-talk and the cartoony Twitter lifesblood, he saw something of a young boy who first made a trip to Japan with a cachet of Rancid tapes in his backpack when he was eighteen. So, that prompted him to speak first.
"Look, I appreciate what you've done and this is - big. It takes balls to stand in the street and swing on a cop, and it takes balls to stand up to an evil corporation and think you can win."
Johnny laughed. "Flattery will get you everywhere with me."
He sobered, "But I want you to think about this. I know my answer, because this's a question Ive been pondering on my own. But for you. Johnny. If it comes down to it. If this is a last stand. Are you prepared to go down swinging against evil?"
Johnny's face turned to steel, it was... disconcerting to see his own world-weary rage in the eyes of someone so young.
Johnny pauses, his eyes going down. He lets out a long sigh before looking up.
“I wouldn’t have brought you guys here if I wasn’t. Shitty little revolutionary wannabe I’d be, yeah? We know how the story ends if we don’t: the good guys die, and the bad guys win. They’re close – this can be a death rattle or a resurgence. It’s gotta be the former. It’s gotta.”
A pause, then, "What if you can't kill it? What if it's just a reflection of a part of you?"
His eyes flash at Daniel. "It’s in all of us. Philidor’s a symptom – not a cause. This whole world is full of people who’d jump on the Philidor wagon if they got a chance. I’m not under any false pretenses that eliminating them gets us Fully-Automated Luxury Gay Space Communism… but it’s a start. A statement. If we can carve out a corner, we can dig deeper.”
Daniel laughs at that. "You're just the kind of idealistic-stupid punk kids in my day would aspire to."
"I went to Berkeley, thank you very much." But then, Johnny looks him in the eye with earnestness and hunger in his expression. "…And that’s why I need you, Dan. You have her number. The rest of us don’t. You’re my ace in the hole. So my question is: are you ready?”
He breathes for a second, and then grunts. Laconically, he nods his head back in to the mortuary, to the body.
"Come on, kid. Let's get this tumor out."
"My name has never left Carter Shaw's consciousness. Living rent free inside his head for over a year now. Ever since the day I put down the mongrel and the Action Wrestling world was formally introduced to Philidor Holdings. The boots were laid, the message was sent.
I've been on the front lines of this.. is it even an insurrection? You know what, it doesn't matter. To me, Philidor Holdings has been a dark shadow over the last year of my life. Everywhere I turn, every move I try to make, I'm cut off by one of them popping up from the depths like a greasy log of fecal matter that just won't flush down onto the sewer where a true bitch ass Rat King belongs.
Do you see what happens when the odds are remotely even, Carter? You're left with drooping trousers because someone took ya belt. And then the big bad and your goons take the easy way out, snap Graham's ankle in half and expect The King to just sit back and lounge on a cruise? Nah motherfucker, I've been off dealing with actual clowns for two months and now it's time to stick the dagger in the curse's heart, driving that shit to hell where it never should have left.
I get it though, you get the one, two, three on someone like me and it's pretty incredible - let alone at my own show - in Norway. That, for me, was it. That's when I knew you were really lost, Carter. You couldn't even stand up to the guy you wronged like a man. I own my mistakes. Kaiju Collins took his first steps since the incident a few weeks ago and it was incredible. Carter Shaw doubles down. From day one, the consequences of your actions have caused harm to himself and others.
Mama's house wasn't burned down because Carter won a match.
You've always tried to be the underdog, the good guy but that shit hasn't ever landed. Fuck, you're such a rat bitch I even question if your upbringing what you say it is. When you got to the point that you'd proven yourself capable of pulling wins against some of the elite in Action Wrestling, you cracked. The heat was too much to bear and you needed that boost. You needed Philidor Holdings to put yourself truly on the map. You needed Philidor Holdings to become World Champion. You needed Philidor Holdings to keep the World Championship.
You needed Philidor Holdings to beat me. So you won at XIII, alright. Can you win at my other creation?
Sit down Carter, because I have something to tell you. In 2006, I beat Steve Carr for three wishes. That was the genesis of XIII.. and Hellimination. This is also my baby. My way for two groups of people to settle things once and for all. For fifteen years it has been doing just that. Hellimination is a means to an end. All our war until only a few are left. Maybe just one. But those at the end - they represent all those that fought. Everyone that steps between the ropes for a match like this had better be goddamn sure they are fighting for the right reasons.
Philidor Holdings needed bodies to be relevant. It's a vicious cycle I will take great pleasure in dismantling with the rest of the boys. People that won't shove a knife in my back to pad their bank account, right Lissie Hope?
It's about this time I'd say it's just business, but I think we all know it's personal. I have NEVER been so outrageously stifled in my career. Even back to the days of the Team of Treachery or The Dark Side, no group has ever walked over me and continually shoved a sock in my mouth. I wish I was impressed instead of disappointed. On paper, it reads like a fiction. The kind of shit you can only hope for, real competition. A few people that have finally unlocked the secret to beat the King of All Wrestlers.
When in reality, it's stolen valor. It's not something to be proud of, it's something you should look in the mirror and hate yourself for. All of you. If you're not fighting Philidor Holdings at Spookyclash, you were an accessory to their iron will. You stood idly by and let these deviants throw their goons and weight around to bend the narrative to their own benefit. From management down to the ring crew, you're all responsible. I've been calling for this day to happen for over a year.
I teamed with a fucking mongrel to snuff the flame before it got too hot.
I failed, but I fucking tried. That's more than I can say for most of the company.
It truly says a lot.
But J. Bacc, Downfall and Dion - we put aside whatever fickle beef we have because the goal is bigger than that. WE have seen the endgame in the trajectory that we're headed and we're going to be the meteor that slaps that shit onto a one way course for the sun. It won't burn out and fizzle like a defective firework - it's going to be a full Fourth of July display of blood and mayhem.
Where will you be when Philidor Holdings is eradicated from Action Wrestling?
I'll be right where I always was.
The front fucking lines.
That was just about enough for The King, as he shakes his head and turns to head out through the double doors.He kicks the middle of them, sending the doors nearly off their hinges. Dion looks at Downfall, not exactly amused. "I got this," Dion says, as he dips back and begins following.
"Listen, you know this is the way to go," Dion shouts at Black. "You of all people should realize it will take us united.."
Corey stops in his tracks and turns, his finger goes directly into Dion's chest. "I've done this before Dion, I've put myself out there just to be let down. He just can't help but let himself sneak those little barbs in there."
"Remind you of someone?" Dion says, with a sly smile.
Corey's eyes turn from fire to contemplation. Dion continues, "look man, I've been around you longer than those other guys, and while we haven't ever exactly seen eye to eye, I think we both know this is our best chance at doing something about Philidor. So 'smarmy little punk' in there told you something you've known for a year, what's that going to change? You've said worse to better and you know it."
"I did once tell Jonny Fly that I'd burn down his mansion for the fun of it because he ate the last of the Hot Fries," Corey thinks back on out loud.
"And that wasn't even a conscious decision, you did what you thought you had to do to prevail and it didn't work. This is your second chance, how many second chances do you really get?" Dion asks.
"Me? As many as I want, I book my own show," Corey shrugs off like it's common.
Dion shakes his head, "okay but this is bigger than that. This is a collection of four people that have all the tools. And we're right here. We're so close. A donut crumb away from doing what you've been squaking about since Clash 100. So get your head in the game, let Bacchus be Bacchus. You should appreciate the fact that he won't change his demeanor just because he's talking to you. He's calm. He's ready. We're all ready."
"Alright. This time, I believe you, Dion," Corey says, walking passed and heading back for the operating room.
"Hey, before we go back in there - how was it?" Dion asks, walking faster to catch up.
"How was what?" Corey responds.
"Taking out those clowns," Dion says, big smile on his face.
"About as good as when we got rid of those other ones, Dion," Corey remarks, pushing the door back open.
With a steady hand, the scalpel was scraping the tumor away.
I wanted you to appreciate why I threw my name in the ring for this, Ash.
It isn't, as you're probably smugly surmising, that Johnny came running to me thinking me some secret weapon against Ash Blake.
Nor have I made my intentions all along to be front and center of this battle for the company's soul... no.
My concerns up until a month ago, lay in teaming with Dion, and making this team work smoothly. Because I wasn't playing your game. I wasn't hanging my legacy solely on what I did to you, and I decide who's cage I'm in. Not you.
But it came to me in that capacity; it wasn't just enough to wait around in anxiety for the instant one of your brain donors decided they should add the Tag belts to their collection and enter our yard.
We could not afford to be reactive, passive, and wait. And our concern over our domain was secondary.
But, and I can say this honestly and with as little cheese as I can: the entire road I've undertaken since I started to question why I was part of the Lost Breed; the entire bond between Dion and I centered around me learning to stand up and do the right thing for the right reasons.
That's why when Johnny needed us at his back on Clash, I didn't hesitate anymore. It's time for me to do the right thing, for the right reason.
Because this thing between you and I, ain't about who's won between us.
It's always been about your sneering callousness about my worth as a human and your insincere mantra that you could've made me into something better.
And that's the entire act with you, Ashley. That's the gimmick, as my dad's old-timey territory buddies would say.
Philidor lives as if you're the heroes and everyone who opposes you is dragged through the mud, their sticky pasts and thorny dark sides picked at and recontextualized so that they're painted as low as the scum on your boots.
No opposition's ever been safe from your judgement.
But what about you, Ash?
You can claim moral high ground for every bit of success you've ever had. But you lack the insight to what really makes - me, Dion, Corey, Bacchus, any of us work.
No surprise, this past year you've battled all four of us, yet even when you've won, you haven't done enough work to make us fall as far as you claimed.
And you have put down Corey Black multiple times.
-In vengeance, for injuring Noris Cranley.
-In moralistic, indignant outrage for daring to team with a murderer like Walter to put your big guns down the last time it was Philidor versus a dream team.
-In pique, for trying to claim YOUR crown.
You claim to have systematically broken and dismantled him.
Did you? Because the Corey Black that I know picked himself back up every single time, no matter how badly the beatings went.
No matter if you pinned him clean or had to have Jim Mud interfere - exactly how you won the belt.
I'm sorry, is that white hat you profess to wear over the company that we keep supposed to look so tarnished?
Regardless, you did not bring down Black. You never did.
He may not have succeeded in taking back the title, but he never stopped dogging Philidor - he could even have brought your golden goose Carter down at Uprising were it not for a diversion and a clown problem.
And you didn't break Johnny Bacchus.
For all of the talk about "affording credibility" to your opposition, it strikes me that you gave him more than you took. Your entire case was that his potshots at you were beneath your notice, his revolutionary talk was that of a child and it wouldn't matter in the end because he was outmatched against you.
If your aim was to make yourself look absolutely weak and useless, unable to take Johnny on through your own power, and needing muscle to back you up, then congratulations, another successful endeavor.
But when it comes down to the you-n'-me of it all, Ashley?
This goes back to the Philidor-vs-the-World series where I last encountered you, and you rhapsodized about how much I needed the win over you.
And how you trapped me in a cage of my own making, by being the one that chased your record.
Ooh, yeah, girl, run that game.
It almost sounds convincing. Not quite; just a hair off from credible, enough that people might glance at that line, nod their head in acquiescence only to scrunch their eyebrows for just one moment in giving it some thought.
That's always been the Philidor manner of spin, though. No matter the setback, you lot always gotta present the public facade that this is According To Plan.
Even when you're not the vital component in that plan's fruition.
Even when you're on the outside looking in.
You sensed the moment it became patently obvious that you were not vital to Philidor's continued direction the instant in the Evolution main event when you dived to break up a pin to stop Carter from getting the three-count, and ever after, when he strolled out there and soaked in the light and basked as their centerpiece, you stewed in the background, doing nothing.
Did you sacrifice that, too?
Did you willingly give up that spot to "trap [Carter] in a cage of his own making?"...
Because if that was the truth, you wouldn't have added your name to the pack in that Uprising seven-way at all.
Yeah, turns out, all along, you've only ever been full of shit.
And that's why our dichotomy is so fascinating to me, because I've also been just as shady but I owned every second of it... You fool yourself and every single second you've stayed as middle management, you've only compounded your own growing emptiness.
I took one look at you twelve months ago and marked you, baby.
Your entire premise is just based around wanting somebody to really see you. To really understand you.
That's why the cutting, cerebral analyst shingle always comes off so thorny, yet so brittle.
'Cause at the end of the day, every single nugget I've found out about your backstory made me chuckle at just how ordinary and small and weak the core of Ash Blake is; How utterly sad her life had to be to make her think that Philidor of all entities was a home.
Shy little girl, daughter of a failson wastrel and a greasy spoon waitress, who needed to escape her go-nowhere environment so she did what many twenty-year olds are wont to do; They buy in.
They give the best years of their life to a company that views them as transposable commodity, allow themselves to be used, 'cause they delude themselves that the grind is worth it. You aren't a patch on a thousand business-bro sigma males on Instagram.
You're smart enough to rise up the ranks, but you're also stupid enough to believe that they see enough value in you that you'll keep your spot forever.
And that's where you and I differ, and ultimately why I hold you in nothing but contempt.
'Cause everything Philidor's made, of you, of Carter, is empty. Meaningless. It's not for the greater good.
It's not for the redemption of this company's soul, or making AW a better place.
All you are is a lickspittle in the service of pathetic, mundane evil. Drones working for pedantic, shallow and useless corporate overseers.
You're acquisition of power for the sake of gaining power; all your righteous preening's ever been is the dogma of someone gone so native that they actually buy in.
Everything I've ever built's been flawed.
Tainted, by my own dealings with men who have the same stupid fixation on gaining power as your leash-holders... but at the end of the day, everything I've made: on down the line to my Inner Circle, which outlasted your damn Philidor like you're a drop in the bucket, to the Lost Breed, to me and Dion... has been family.
Dysfunctional, yes. But never interchangeable.
So tell me that you nothing me, Ashley. Condescend to me. Tell me that I'm a speck who's beneath you. Tell me I'm a failure, who's always the architect of his own *downfall*...
And I'll tell you why you can't stand the damn sight of me.
Because you look across the ring at me, this golem of scrap metal, this stitched-together gunslinger, and see something more authentic than she's ever allowed herself to be in her life.
You've made your entire AW tenure... hell your entire MYSTIQUE, about being the shrinking violet, the one they never saw, the one nobody can touch.
You made your entire run for a calendar year about how nobody could pierce your mystery enough to figure you out.
And that is because there isn't anything to figure out.
In that sense it completely tracks why you wanted to be the Hardcore champion, why you were "Coming for" Johnny all of a sudden; Because in the Hardcore division your modus operandi is hidden behind a grace that you can have all the assistance you need.
But what happens when you're not enough again?
Well, if the past history of you losing two titles is anything to go by, you'll go dark, fade into the background while the company fronts another model who spews the same bullshit you do.
Happened with Carter usurping you.
Happened with Neo, who reads as an even-less-realized version of your pop-psych snark.
And that is the central failing of the Philidor.
You have mouthpieces, you have spokesmen. At any particular time it looks like you, like Garvey, like Saltair or like the Devil himself are speaking for the group.
But you aren't encouraged to follow your own path, to be your own person.
No matter what, the good of the company reigns over all and you serve at their capricious whim.
Well, I'm tired of us being beholden to you.
And I realize that in your mind, even loss isn't anything you can't restructure from; nah, you'd just go dark for another few months until people nearly forgot while some other peon takes your place.
And if it was just me in there I would be comfortable in making my last stand just so I could put you down. But that's the best part of it.
One man doesn't win against Philidor in the long run, because of the aforementioned golden parachute game that keeps you looking stiff-upper-lip. But time and again it's proven that when people stand together, when the unlikeliest of allies form a wall, you break yourselves against the stones and retreat like the tide.
You've only succeeded in a singles capacity when you're facing opposition that's divided, with people scrambling to pick up the win for themselves, you take advantage.
But as a team you've fallen apart every time there's a big ask, against a mob united enough to put you down.
This's been so long in coming, you've stepped on too many necks and wounded too many people that I've understood that Johnny is right. We can't allow you the persistence of your "greater good", the blackening of this company's name in your relentless march of ugly commercial acquisition.
And if I'm the one they're looking to to bring it all down, because I was the first one to give you that black eye then so be it. I'll wear that badge proudly. It's the right thing, for the right reason.
Not to sate my ego. Not to usurp your streak.
You are meeting us in my fucking element, into my world. And you KNOW exactly what happened when I pushed myself to that place, where I came for your head.
This time, I'm chasing down every member of Philidor with the same vigor, the same relentless energy, the same will to punch through every wall until I get to the end, that brought Vanguard to the Tag titles. That took me to the final six of Havoc. That brought your streak to an end.
That will bring... Philidor, to an end.
If it's all come down to this...
It's all just coming down.
There is a specter haunting Action Wrestling – it is the specter of revolution. In the wake of turmoil and creeping tyranny by hostile outsiders, it has become evident that reformation and resistance is no longer tenable. We sit on the precipice of existential threats: we are trapped in the belly of a terrible machine, and the machine is slowly bleeding to death. Our prescription is revolution, and to the first end of revolution, there is but one action: the exorcism of Philidor Holdings.
Our backgrounds are diverse, and our motivations differ. Nonetheless, we of the insurgency are united in our means and ends. The four of us speak for none but ourselves. We have all read, revised, and ratified as whole the following proclamation:
I. We are not “Team Bacchus”. Johnny Bacchus is but one of four. We are an allegiance of utility and equality. We hold no cult of personality and are of no formal structure of leadership or hierarchy. None of us are the head of the snake. None of us are the heart or soul of the insurgency.
II. We are not “Team AW”. We are not sponsored, co-signed, or organized through Action Wrestling. Action Wrestling is a company, so we can feel no patriotism toward it.
III. Furthermore, it is a company whose own mismanagement and nonfeasance has created the conditions necessitating actions as dramatic as ours. It would be pointless to fight on the behalf of a company unwilling or resistant to reform. Instead, we fight on our own volition and will, with the explicit and sole purpose of Philidor Holdings’s elimination. Of how Action Wrestling chooses to conduct itself in the wake of our success, we absolve ourselves as a union. How our constituents conduct themselves is of their own private concern.
IV. While we see Philidor Holdings as not a cause but a symptom of this mismanagement and nonfeasance, it does not mitigate, let alone exculpate, Philidor Holdings of his malfeasance. Our enemy has been subtle and insidious in its machinations. It has employed conspiracy, obfuscation, and technicality to conceal itself from recourse. We see our insurgency as necessary extralegal action to repress a creep towards irreparable autocracy.
V. There can be no compromise nor negotiation. Our enemy does not operate in good faith, and we will not devote time or resources towards avenues we judge futile.
VI. The humiliation and elimination of our enemy is necessary. There can be no alternate outcome.
We call upon all in agreement to stand with us in solidarity. In the wake of our victory, we call on watchful eyes, calm minds, and resolute hands to ensure no recurrence.
And to our enemy, we quote the following: “We have no compassion and we ask no compassion from you. When our turn comes, we shall not make excuses for the terror.”
Signed,
Daniel Fehl
Dionysus Necurat
Johnathan Backus
Corey Black