Post by Johnny Bacchus on Nov 7, 2021 2:07:51 GMT -5
Even though he hated having his eyes covered, Johnny had acquiesced to Kat’s insistence. “So help me God,” he muttered as she led him carefully up the stairs, “if I fall, you’re paying for my Uber to Kaiser.” His roommate scoffed, holding his shoulder tightly as they took it step by step. “And cross the picket line? Not a good look.” At the landing, Kat guided him down the hallway, stopping in front of the door to their apartment. After guiding him in, she loosened the bandana tied around his face. Light flooded back into Johnny’s eyes, causing him to wince, and the bellow of “Surprise!” nearly caused him to topple back. A familiar and massive arm caught him around the shoulders, pushing him back to his feet. “Easy there, King,” said Fritterz, giving Johnny a moment to come to grips with his surroundings. They’d all gathered in the living room: Fat Miles, Jenn, Kat, Alex, and Fritterz. It had been several months since he’d been home, and very little had changed – the picture of Ash Blake taped to the wall now had several more swastikas drawn on it, and the dent Fritterz’s head had made at Garvey’s hand was patched and repainted – save the absence of the familiar, ragged couch he’d known as home. In its place, a worn but in good condition pull-out couch with new sheets greeted him. “It’s not much, man,” said Alex as he stepped forward to give Johnny a tight hug, “but it’s the least we could do for what you’ve done for us.” Fat Miles already had his Twitch stream going, his phone held on the end of a selfie stick as he squeezed in next to wrap an arm around Johnny’s shoulders. “Lemme tell you something about this guy,” Miles said to the camera, bringing a sheepish looking Johnny into frame, “This guy is why I can do this full-time. This is why our buddy Alex is in school full-time again. It’s why our other buddy Fritterz can get physical therapy he needs. Every single fight purse and most of his sponsorship money going to help others, while he sleeps on a couch.” Miles turned, looking Johnny in the eyes before planting a fat, wet kiss on his forehead. “This man changes lives.” After being released from the embrace, Johnny turned to look down at the pull-out couch, a small smile of disbelief parting his lips. “You didn’t have to do this,” he said. “C’mon, J,” said Jenn as she came to his side, “at the least, you earned it. You crushed those bastards.” Johnny shook his head, the smile fading as he put a hand up. “No, I didn’t. We beat them. All of us. If anything, Dan deserves the pull-out couch more than me. That’s his moment.” “Quit being so fuckin’ modest,” Jenn scoffed as she punched him in the shoulder, “You savin’ it for swinging your dick around after you win this shit?” “Yeah,” Johnny said, his voice trailing as he looked up to the defaced picture of Ash Blake, “Something like that.” The room fell quiet for a moment. And it was immediately shattered by the sound of a door being thrown open and an almost forgotten voice rising above the others. “Is Johnny home?!” Eyes turned as the usually closed door at the far end of the living space stood ajar, a lithe woman in a tight but flowing dress and wide-brimmed sunhat standing in the frame. Her smile lit her handsome Persian features as she walked on heeled sandals across the room, a bottle of Condigo tequila in her hand. The shock at her presence could barely be registered before she’d pulled Johnny in for a tight hug, the bottle thumping against his back. “It’s so good to see you,” Chelsea said as she squeezed him, “I even got you a present.” As Johnny took the bottle, he looked up at her dumbfounded. “Good to see you, too, Chels…” he muttered, before quickly adding, “Thank you.” “Let’s celebrate tonight. It’s so good to have you back!” the woman exclaimed, pulling him in for another hug. Over her shoulder, Johnny’s eyes registered Jenn scoffing and rolling her eyes. Fact of the matter is you got me all twisted here. You’re right on some counts of your assessment of my posture towards you, but like everything that comes out of that poured-plastic mug of yours, it’s so drenched in smug delusion and unwarranted self-importance that it’s practically unrecognizable, like a white sock that got thrown in with the reds. You’re clever, but you mistake that for being intelligent, so I’m gonna try to do this at a high school reading-level – but you can start by contextualizing my tone towards the Spider Woman versus you, King Rat. I’m trying to figure out the exact word I’d use to describe my feelings towards you. You certainly don’t crack “loathing”, let alone “hate”, and even “contempt” and “disdain” feel a little too portentous (not pretentious – that’s a different thing. Sorry, I promised I’d keep this at a High School reading-level). I think “mockery” is better. About three months ago, I wrote up a little Vermin List to mock Denzel Porter, and here it your entry, right there at Number One: 1. Carter Shaw – The King Rat of Philidor Holdings. A conniving, detestable scavenger with an insufferably smug smile and punchable face. Shaw believes himself to be at his position through sheer athletic prowess alone, and to some degree he’s correct. But this obfuscates the path of carnage and treachery in his wake. Anyone who offers this man anything resembling respect or trust is an absolute dullard and probably on this list or a prime candidate for the next one. Enjoy it, buddy. It’s the only Number One you’re gonna be for a long time. You’re right, Shaw – I do want to punch you in the face. Everything from your dimple chin to that giraffe neck to the way you meticulously curate a stubble makes me daydream about how funny it would be to mush that hockey nose of yours back into your face. But where you got me all wrong is the why. I don’t feel strongly about you, Carti. One thing that’s always sort of tickled me since I showed up in the company back in February was how everyone lamented the person you’d become. Week after week, person after person, grieving your turn to Philidor Holdings like Obi-Wan screaming at Anakin. It’s gotta be boring for you, isn’t it? After all, we’re over a year removed from your ‘buying-in’. “Alas, Poor Carter. I knew him, Graham: a fellow of infinite skill, of most excellent potential.” Yawn. Throw three monkeys in a room with typewriters, and they’ll write a eulogy to “who Carter Shaw was.” But I wasn’t around for any of that, so pardon me if I don’t particularly give a shit about who you were. What I know is who you are. I hope this is a little refreshing – that someone other than Winnie the Pooh is going to take you at face value – but I call it like I see it. And I see a Rat. You’re not like Lissie: you like wearing the Black Hat. While she was cutting ribbons on gyms, you were making deals. You’re also not like Ash, who has let her own obsequiousness (shit, sorry, another college word. That means “servile”) handicap her career growth. Whether due to ambition, your semi-autonomous nature as a sponsored athlete rather than employee, sexism, or a combination of the three, you’ve climbed hot and fast to the top. And this is why I think it’s a waste of time to reflect on who you were: it’s evident that this is who you like to be. You can disagree with my choice of Rodentia imagery, but you’re not gonna disagree with my characterization. And this is why I’d never call you a sell-out. You’re not one. A sell-out implies you had nothing to lose except your principles. You did have something to lose: that briefcase you clutched like Willy Wonka’s golden ticket until the moment came. But in terms of principles? That’s why I won’t dignify you with the moniker of “sell-out” – that would imply you had any. What you are is craven. You didn’t need Philidor. You could’ve gone it alone; according to you, you had all the tools at your disposal. What does Philidor bring to the table that a sponsorship from Tap-Out or Adidas doesn’t? Maybe you were too stupid to do the research – maybe you were too naïve to read the fine print. But I don’t think that’s the reason. I think you signed with Philidor because going alone is hard. Going alone means failure is nobody’s fault but your own. So you hid yourself behind Philidor. You feathered your nest and let your freak flag fly. You don’t and have never given a shit about anyone besides yourself. You can recite the speech and keep up the façade, but talk is cheap, especially coming from you. Give whatever excuse you want: blame it on Garvey, blame it on DeWitt, credit it to some “masterplan” – you can’t say you’re standing for something greater than yourself when you scurry up the ramp, Garvey’s urging or not. You’re clever enough to know that your value is only as high as you can maintain an unimpeachable façade of invincibility: the First Blood match has already given you a convenient avenue to spin for your Tough Guy persona, and a count-out means you never had to have your shoulders pressed to the mat. But this week, Carti? It’s just me – and you – and the ring. Go call that ape to jump in. I fucking dare you. Harv taught me the Big Swing, and I always wanted to try hittin’ a mfer with another mfer. Because I have every intention of showing what you truly are this week. And what you are is not a Tough Guy: it’s a Rat. King Rat abandoning the burning ship to save himself. Don’t worry, Carti, this emperor has plenty of clothes on – they’re just not the ones you pretend to wear. And when I expose who you are, I’m not doing it for the people in the back or in the stands – they know who you are. I am exposing you to you. At the end of the day, you’ve always come across as less of a Smooth Operator™ and more of an MLM Grindset Bro. You can buy a designer suit from Macy’s, but an off-the-rack fit with no tailoring is swagger without style. Your posture is knuckle-dragging and clashing, like a gorilla in Hugo Boss, trotted out at some 1930’s circus to smoke a cigar for the delight of the audience. You’re clever and cunning, but that doesn’t make you intelligent – nobody thinks that besides maybe you. And yet, for as much you look like a kid playing dress-up as you pretend to be Secret Agent Man or a Wheeler and Dealer, I’ll concede that you’re King Rat, if only by comparison. David Sanchez? James Nightingale? Kyle Kemp? These are your ilk: cruel and stupid men who think a passing interest in chess and sociopathy are all the prerequisites for Super Villainy. There’s a reason the Lost Breed and Following went down in flames: they were always little Hindenburgs of poor construction, inflated by ego, and piloted by arsonists. David Sanchez was more Dick Dastardly than Frank Underwood – Nightingale was always Johnny the Homicidal Maniac who’d reading a few works of Goethe – Kyle Kemp was always more Suge Knight than Maharishi, as evident by your belt being around his waist after dropping the act. This is what we call “controlled opposition”. You can out-scheme a wannabe schemer. But when it came to an impulsive dullard like Winnie-boy? Well – you learned the hard way that it’s futile trying to outthink someone who doesn’t think at all. Everybody gangsta til they’re locked in a cage with a wolverine. Just think what a chimp will do. I apologize this may seem my usual bag, but it’s difficult for me to muster much acrimony for the third most interesting person in his faction. But while you’d have a punchable face, I’ll concede a point: I’m really only going to due to your associations. Without Philidor Holdings, I wouldn’t give a shit about Carti Shaw. Even with your dopey expression and try-hard sensibilities, you’d still be as dismissible as a Kyle Kemp. When I beat you, knocking one of the perennial favorites of this tournament out in Round One – when I leave you sitting on your hands or banging on Pasternak’s door demanding to face Kemp at Turmoil – when I successful short the meme stock you are ... I can’t wait to see the look on your face. To see when DeWitt stops taking your calls and Kat witnesses your little temper tantrum backstage. Because that look will be all the jealousy and impotent rage that’s bottled in every try-hard pussy who thinks they’ll never get what’s coming to them. When I beat you, it’s not going to be cathartic; it’s going to be funny. I know there’s a lot of people who hoped one loss would break me, and I bet there’s even more people ready to call me a sell-out for not marching back to your locker room and demanding Ash give me a rematch. That can come in time – I mae just break your little prediction. But if you’ve learned something about me by now, it should be that a loss doesn’t break me. Bitter as defeat tastes, we drink Fernet in the Bay. I can handle it – can you? You think so. I think you’re full of shit. After all, you’re the one who actually thinks he’s a “good guy”, even when he can’t resist winking as he lies through his teeth. Y’know, I think it’s funny that for the big Evolution moment, there’s a lot of people who are going to argue you didn’t eclipse Ash’s year – those who will look past that and through the recency bias to see how the cards have really fallen. We didn’t even eclipse Lissie and Regan. And that’s the real contrast between the two of us: we’re meeting here at a crossroads, but I’m going up while you’re going down. When it comes to this match? You can’t afford to lose. Everything you claim to be – whether the insecurity or the mythology you spin – comes down to this. But you’re going to. And that’s exactly why I’m gonna laugh in your face when the bell rings and my hand’s being raised. Because you’re still the same Carter Shaw as you’ve always been: a regent. A blue chip, b-tier throne keeper (that’s what “regent” means) who eats it in Round One. Just. Like. Last. Year. As for selling your soul to the devil? You’re right, Carter: you can’t sell what isn’t there. That’s the most truthful thing you’ve ever said. Jenn was the first to wake up that morning – ever since she’d taken over the back end of managing her friend’s career, her rising time had grown increasingly earlier. The sound of Fritterz in deep slumber reverberated across the room, and even the sun’s morning rays had yet to stir him. After rising from bed, Jenn wrapped herself in the terrycloth robe she’d been gifted after SpookyClash and made her way to the main room. The coffee maker had been set to start brewing soon. She pulled her hair into a messy ponytail as she crossed the living room, the aroma of brewing grounds filling her nose. The TV was still on – “Are You Still Watching?” stared back at her. From her vantage point, she could see an unopened bottle of Condigo tequila sitting on the end table, and at the far end of the bed, the comforter had been pulled up and away. She crossed over to the pull-out couch, looking down on the sleeping form of Johnny. He slept on his side, still clothed, with one arm wrapped under his pillow and head, his phone clutched in the other. He must’ve fallen asleep while FaceTiming his girlfriend, Jenn thought, before wondering to herself what the next step would be for them. She allowed a smile unseen by anyone to cross her face. Of course, the most amusing quality of her sleeping comrade was his position. In spite of a whole double bed to himself, he was curled up exclusively at the top, his back against the backrest and pillow propped on the arm. Even with the comforts of the world at his feet – literally in the case of the Louboutin sneakers he’d forgotten to take off – the future Wrestler of the Year preferred to sleep on the couch. |