2021: The Year Odin (Probably Should've) Retired (vs. Odin)
Nov 7, 2021 13:19:53 GMT -5
CJ Phoenix, Downfall, and 1 more like this
Post by Max f'n Daemon on Nov 7, 2021 13:19:53 GMT -5
Max Daemon approaches the mirrored wall in a portion of the basement…laboratory, for lack of a better term. It’s a portion of it that he converted into a training facility for not only wresting, but also his newly found agreement to perform inside the octagon.
He sits down on a bench, red Solo cup in hand. He sets down a plastic bag on the floor, taking out a bottle of Jack Daniels. He unscrews the top and pours it into the cup until it is half full. He places that on the floor before reaching into the bag and pulling out a thing of Nyquil. He does the same to that and pours it into the cup before it is filled near the top.
Finally, Max pulls a bottle of Advil out of the bag, flicking the top off and tipping it back, letting three or four tablets enter his mouth. He swallows them down with a drink of his Mix. He puts the Advil back into the bag, uncaring off if the pills empty or not
With a contented sigh, he looks into the mirrored wall, the line of dumbbells cutting off his sweaty chest and black gym shorts.
Max narrows his eyes at the mirror, looking left and then looking right.
He refocuses his vision on himself, looking somewhat confused.
“We’ve been here before, haven’t we?
Me makin my Mix, poppin some Advil, and talkin shit about Odin Balfore?
I mean…what fuckin luck that I would draw Odin again in the Wrestler of the Year tournament?
Oh right, it’s my fuckin luck.
Yeah, not Odin’s shit fuckin luck, fuck no. I’m the one who benefits from this, much like I’ve benefitted this entire fuckin year while Odin has continued ta' prove that Torture put him into the tournament off name value alone.
But what Torture didn’t realize is that I’ve already established that Odin’s name means jack shit anymore.
But hey, this tournament is about establishin the best wrestler of the year, right? So then tell me, if this was based merely off votin by peers or by the fans, who the fuck in their right mind would honesty believe that Odin has a fuckin chance in hell of deservin that spot?
I ran down Corey Bull’s year and it was pretty horrid for a supposed legend on his way out, but goddamn, Odin’s year is not any better.
At Revolution the man entered inta' the ring against Der Metzger, and in his first ever defense of the United States Title ended up losin it ta' the masked fucker.
What a fuckin showin ta' start the year off. Don’t wanna impress anybody, don’t wanna start the year off right, nope, just walks onto the White House lawn and loses the championship representin the USA.
Abject disappointment will be a recurrin thing for Odin’s rundown of the year.
Oh, and if you’re wonderin, that was the night that Z nearly tore my fuckin arm off, but unlike Odin, who completely failed ta' impress anybody in what Billy called an upset win by Der, at least I could say nearly losin a limb is a valid excuse.
Skippin right over Battlfield, because both of us decided we had better things ta' do, we get ta' Timebomb, where, yes, I failed ta' beat Sam, but at least I fuckin showed up and proved myself relevant. Odin apparently decided ta' hibernate in a fuckin cave for a couple months because losin his US Title was so devastatin ta' him.
Yeah, I bitched out against Baker when I lost my Pure Title, but at least I showed up ta' the shows and made myself relevant on both Clash and CruiserClash. Odin must’ve decided he was too good and told Tort that he needed ta' find himself, or, more than likely, find God, because he finally figured out that he, himself, is not one.
It was probably the only way he justified not changin his name. Or maybe he figured it was easier ta' coast off whatever value the name Odin Balfore might’ve still had because that’s the only reasonin I could think of that would allow Torture and Pasta Mack ta' continue bookin him in high profile matches.”
Max shakes his head and takes a sip of his Mix.
“And just ta' prove my point, here comes Havoc. At this point, Odin has decided that facin and defeatin WALTER is his new goal in life—somethin that Lissie Hope could never do—and decides that it’s more important that winnin the World Title.
No I’m not fuckin with ya’.
Instead of tryin ta’ win the World Title off of Ash Blake, he eliminates himself by goin after WALTER.
I’m gonna repeat that.
He eliminates himself…by goin after WALTER.
And it’s not like his time in the ring was impressive beforehand either. He entered at #6 and lasted until #10 when the enemy in question walked inta' the arena.
But hey, he managed ta' take down WALTER (and himself) with a chokeslam off the stage.
Seems familiar don’t it? The only difference is that I did that shit ta' Odin with the intention ta’ take us both out.
Odin took out WALTER out of blind rage and idiocy because all he can think about is murder, death, kill like some stupid robot designed only ta' stink up the main event scene and put down AW as a whole with every match he’s had and whoops did I just say that out loud!”
Max takes another healthy drink from the cup.
“But hey, the man managed ta' take down WALTER (maybe one day you can only Hope to do the same) at Evolution…
…only ta' be immediately outclassed and beaten the fuck down by a better wrestler with bigger name value in Dune.
Congratulations Odin, ya’ played yourself.”
Max pulls out of his phone from the plastic bag and starts to fiddle with it.
“What did he do until he faced Dune proper?
Oh he signed his name on the contract with Dune’s blood, because that’s perfectly okay and a sane thing to do in a post-COVID world.
So not only is he fuckin stupid, a worthless talent, a no-name player tryin ta' pass himself as a main eventer, but he’s also fuckin disgustin, wonderful.
What else?
Oh he beat a no-name talent on Clash. That’s neat. Not at all impressive, but okay. Know what also isn’t impressive? Havin a brawl with your rival that can be separated by security and then not goin after the guy ya' despise after he gets the fuck outta dodge.
At least when I run from a fight I do it for the mind games. I know the person I’m fightin wants a piece of me, so why the fuck should I give ‘em the satisfaction?
Ain’t that right Johnny? Ya’ never did tell me how my Mix tasted…”
He caps that off by taking another sip from the red Solo cup.
“Oh, the next week he did a little promo piece ta' hype himself up.
Or ta' fool the crowd inta' thinkin that match was somethin worth seein and not a shitshow between a guy who was a big name once and another guy who is coastin off what name he had.
Take your pick as ta' who I’m talkin about with those.
Callin himself the All-Father—motherfucker please. I have no problems takin out one of your eyes if ya' really wanna be like your namesake. That’d be the only thing the two of ya' have in common because if ya' think callin yourself a god makes ya' a fuckin god, than you’re goddamn delusional.
And this is comin from me, one of the most arrogant guys on the roster.
My shit doesn’t stink because I never give a shit.
Your shit is the worst because ya' honestly believe it’s better than everybody else’s.
But what the fuck ever, this big fight with Dune at Tokyo Fite! Odin got his match! He can finally prove that he’s actually worth somethin and not just a guy tryin ta' coast off the reputation he had and—”
Max shakes his head and takes a sip from his cup.
And just to further solidify the smirk on his face, he raises the Tokyo Cup into frame, winking with his left eye.
“Yeah, suffice ta' say that Odin’s year has reached the point of unrecoverable.
But hey, if beatin a buncha Cruiserweights isn’t your cup of Solo…”
Max lowers the Tokyo Cup before bringing up the Pure Cup trophy.
“…I got another one that ya' can jack-off ta' when you remember how important ya' used to be.”
Max lets that one reside on the floor next to the Tokyo Cup. He finishes off the Mix before tossing the Solo cup over his shoulder.
“Right, as we’ve already established he was handed a World Title shot—in Twenty-Twenty-fuckin-One no less, seriously, way ta' drop the ball hard on that one Pasta Mack—and proceeded ta' do nothin ta' prove he deserved it because it’s easier ta' focus on a rival (in this case Odin) than actually win the World Title and prove you’re not a shadow of whatever former self ya' claim ya' still are.
You’re an idiot for deludin yourself inta' this fantasy ya’ve crafted where you’re still a viable main eventer.
You’re a dumb-ass for thinkin yourself ‘pure’ when ya’ve done nothin ta' prove yourself in the Pure Division or with the Pure Cup.
You’re a goddamn moron for not wantin ta' win the World Title with either opportunity ya’ve had this year.
And you’re a fuckin washed up has been who hasn’t been jack shit this entire year. I had some problems earlier this year, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve more than proven that I am better than some supposed legend like you.
If the Hall of Fame is already callin ya’ up Odin, do us all a favor and answer it. Don’t bother leavin your boots in the middle of the ring, feel free ta' cut out the middleman and hand 'em over ta' me. Save everyone the time and just say that ya' retired because Max fuckin Daemon beat ya' so bad and humiliated ya' on national television ta' the point where retirement was the only option left.
I’ve handedly beat ya' once. And I will do it much more handedly again.”
Max starts to get up but stops and sits back down.
“Oh, and if you ever fuckin call me by my real name again, I will personally assure that Rebellion finds itself through your fuckin eye, through your fuckin skull, through whatever fuckin brain you might have in there, and right through the back of your fuckin head, because of all the people in the world who can call me by that name, trust me Odin, you’re pretty fuckin far down on that list.”
Max then stands up and walks off frame.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
We cut to Max leaning against a wall. He’s panting pretty hard, the sweat on his bare chest glistening under the LED light above him.
His new coach—Paddy Conlon—approaches, handing him a bottle of water.
Max nods before taking a healthy gulp.
Once he is quenched, Max speaks.
“Lay it on me, Coach.”
Paddy shrugs.
“Your cardio is good for a pro wrestler, but otherwise average for what you’re planning, triply so for who your opponent is. Your skills in fighting with your fists are good for a street fighter, bareknuckle style brawler, but there’s little form and intention in them beyond ‘attack to win’.”
“All power, no substance…” Max mutters after another drink.
“Exactly. Your grappling is mediocre, but serviceable enough that we can improve on it. Your submissions are actually your finest point right now. Once you have that Dragon Sleeper—”
“Arbiter,” Max interrupts.
“Right, Arbiter. Once you have Arbiter locked in, there’s really no getting out unless the fighter is especially skilled. Unfortunately, the one you’re fighting is, but again, this can be improved on.”
Max takes a third drink from the water bottle. He hands it back to Paddy, who nods once.
“So what’s the verdict?” Max asks.
“Taking the fight was a stupid decision,” Paddy answers.
Max smirks and starts to stretch his arms above his head.
“Yeah, but did ya' see the dollar signs?” he asks.
“I did, which is why I don’t blame you for taking it, nor asking me to help. I’ll admit, I’m still trying to wrap my head around this whole…interdimensional shit, but it helps that I’m here doing what I know.”
Max nods, continuing to stretch his sore muscles.
“Yeah, that was always their goal. No need ta' change a character. Try ta' find what they know and adapt them that way.”
Paddy shrugs, still unsure of his place in this Game beyond his current role.
“Don’t worry. Once the fight is done and you’re more than compensated, you’ll be sent back home ta' your sons,” Max says.
Now it’s Paddy’s turn to nod.
“We can work with you. Having your experience in the Pure Division and in…your other experiences elsewhere…there’s a lot to mold and adapt to, but we can work with it. I’d say focus on strikes and improving your grappling and submission. Honestly, I can’t say that you might win, but if you can take him the distance, or as far towards it as you can, than I’d say I’ve done my job properly as your coach,” he says.
Max lets out a breath, pushing his hands through his matty and dirty hair.
“When’s the fight again?” Paddy asks.
“March or April. They’re still workin on the details and he’s not sure when he’ll be cleared, but it’s lookin pretty damn good for him. They wanna put this on the billboards and posters as soon as they can, so it’ll be a matter of which event it’s on.”
“A pro wrestler taking on an MMA superstar. That’ll make you a very rich man.”
Max smirks, winking once at Paddy with his left eye.
“That’s the plan, Coach.”
He sits down on a bench, red Solo cup in hand. He sets down a plastic bag on the floor, taking out a bottle of Jack Daniels. He unscrews the top and pours it into the cup until it is half full. He places that on the floor before reaching into the bag and pulling out a thing of Nyquil. He does the same to that and pours it into the cup before it is filled near the top.
Finally, Max pulls a bottle of Advil out of the bag, flicking the top off and tipping it back, letting three or four tablets enter his mouth. He swallows them down with a drink of his Mix. He puts the Advil back into the bag, uncaring off if the pills empty or not
With a contented sigh, he looks into the mirrored wall, the line of dumbbells cutting off his sweaty chest and black gym shorts.
Max narrows his eyes at the mirror, looking left and then looking right.
He refocuses his vision on himself, looking somewhat confused.
“We’ve been here before, haven’t we?
Me makin my Mix, poppin some Advil, and talkin shit about Odin Balfore?
I mean…what fuckin luck that I would draw Odin again in the Wrestler of the Year tournament?
Oh right, it’s my fuckin luck.
Yeah, not Odin’s shit fuckin luck, fuck no. I’m the one who benefits from this, much like I’ve benefitted this entire fuckin year while Odin has continued ta' prove that Torture put him into the tournament off name value alone.
But what Torture didn’t realize is that I’ve already established that Odin’s name means jack shit anymore.
But hey, this tournament is about establishin the best wrestler of the year, right? So then tell me, if this was based merely off votin by peers or by the fans, who the fuck in their right mind would honesty believe that Odin has a fuckin chance in hell of deservin that spot?
I ran down Corey Bull’s year and it was pretty horrid for a supposed legend on his way out, but goddamn, Odin’s year is not any better.
At Revolution the man entered inta' the ring against Der Metzger, and in his first ever defense of the United States Title ended up losin it ta' the masked fucker.
What a fuckin showin ta' start the year off. Don’t wanna impress anybody, don’t wanna start the year off right, nope, just walks onto the White House lawn and loses the championship representin the USA.
Abject disappointment will be a recurrin thing for Odin’s rundown of the year.
Oh, and if you’re wonderin, that was the night that Z nearly tore my fuckin arm off, but unlike Odin, who completely failed ta' impress anybody in what Billy called an upset win by Der, at least I could say nearly losin a limb is a valid excuse.
Skippin right over Battlfield, because both of us decided we had better things ta' do, we get ta' Timebomb, where, yes, I failed ta' beat Sam, but at least I fuckin showed up and proved myself relevant. Odin apparently decided ta' hibernate in a fuckin cave for a couple months because losin his US Title was so devastatin ta' him.
Yeah, I bitched out against Baker when I lost my Pure Title, but at least I showed up ta' the shows and made myself relevant on both Clash and CruiserClash. Odin must’ve decided he was too good and told Tort that he needed ta' find himself, or, more than likely, find God, because he finally figured out that he, himself, is not one.
It was probably the only way he justified not changin his name. Or maybe he figured it was easier ta' coast off whatever value the name Odin Balfore might’ve still had because that’s the only reasonin I could think of that would allow Torture and Pasta Mack ta' continue bookin him in high profile matches.”
Max shakes his head and takes a sip of his Mix.
“And just ta' prove my point, here comes Havoc. At this point, Odin has decided that facin and defeatin WALTER is his new goal in life—somethin that Lissie Hope could never do—and decides that it’s more important that winnin the World Title.
No I’m not fuckin with ya’.
Instead of tryin ta’ win the World Title off of Ash Blake, he eliminates himself by goin after WALTER.
I’m gonna repeat that.
He eliminates himself…by goin after WALTER.
And it’s not like his time in the ring was impressive beforehand either. He entered at #6 and lasted until #10 when the enemy in question walked inta' the arena.
But hey, he managed ta' take down WALTER (and himself) with a chokeslam off the stage.
Seems familiar don’t it? The only difference is that I did that shit ta' Odin with the intention ta’ take us both out.
Odin took out WALTER out of blind rage and idiocy because all he can think about is murder, death, kill like some stupid robot designed only ta' stink up the main event scene and put down AW as a whole with every match he’s had and whoops did I just say that out loud!”
Max takes another healthy drink from the cup.
“But hey, the man managed ta' take down WALTER (maybe one day you can only Hope to do the same) at Evolution…
…only ta' be immediately outclassed and beaten the fuck down by a better wrestler with bigger name value in Dune.
Congratulations Odin, ya’ played yourself.”
Max pulls out of his phone from the plastic bag and starts to fiddle with it.
“What did he do until he faced Dune proper?
Oh he signed his name on the contract with Dune’s blood, because that’s perfectly okay and a sane thing to do in a post-COVID world.
So not only is he fuckin stupid, a worthless talent, a no-name player tryin ta' pass himself as a main eventer, but he’s also fuckin disgustin, wonderful.
What else?
Oh he beat a no-name talent on Clash. That’s neat. Not at all impressive, but okay. Know what also isn’t impressive? Havin a brawl with your rival that can be separated by security and then not goin after the guy ya' despise after he gets the fuck outta dodge.
At least when I run from a fight I do it for the mind games. I know the person I’m fightin wants a piece of me, so why the fuck should I give ‘em the satisfaction?
Ain’t that right Johnny? Ya’ never did tell me how my Mix tasted…”
He caps that off by taking another sip from the red Solo cup.
“Oh, the next week he did a little promo piece ta' hype himself up.
Or ta' fool the crowd inta' thinkin that match was somethin worth seein and not a shitshow between a guy who was a big name once and another guy who is coastin off what name he had.
Take your pick as ta' who I’m talkin about with those.
Callin himself the All-Father—motherfucker please. I have no problems takin out one of your eyes if ya' really wanna be like your namesake. That’d be the only thing the two of ya' have in common because if ya' think callin yourself a god makes ya' a fuckin god, than you’re goddamn delusional.
And this is comin from me, one of the most arrogant guys on the roster.
My shit doesn’t stink because I never give a shit.
Your shit is the worst because ya' honestly believe it’s better than everybody else’s.
But what the fuck ever, this big fight with Dune at Tokyo Fite! Odin got his match! He can finally prove that he’s actually worth somethin and not just a guy tryin ta' coast off the reputation he had and—”
Max shakes his head and takes a sip from his cup.
And just to further solidify the smirk on his face, he raises the Tokyo Cup into frame, winking with his left eye.
“Yeah, suffice ta' say that Odin’s year has reached the point of unrecoverable.
But hey, if beatin a buncha Cruiserweights isn’t your cup of Solo…”
Max lowers the Tokyo Cup before bringing up the Pure Cup trophy.
“…I got another one that ya' can jack-off ta' when you remember how important ya' used to be.”
Max lets that one reside on the floor next to the Tokyo Cup. He finishes off the Mix before tossing the Solo cup over his shoulder.
“Right, as we’ve already established he was handed a World Title shot—in Twenty-Twenty-fuckin-One no less, seriously, way ta' drop the ball hard on that one Pasta Mack—and proceeded ta' do nothin ta' prove he deserved it because it’s easier ta' focus on a rival (in this case Odin) than actually win the World Title and prove you’re not a shadow of whatever former self ya' claim ya' still are.
You’re an idiot for deludin yourself inta' this fantasy ya’ve crafted where you’re still a viable main eventer.
You’re a dumb-ass for thinkin yourself ‘pure’ when ya’ve done nothin ta' prove yourself in the Pure Division or with the Pure Cup.
You’re a goddamn moron for not wantin ta' win the World Title with either opportunity ya’ve had this year.
And you’re a fuckin washed up has been who hasn’t been jack shit this entire year. I had some problems earlier this year, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve more than proven that I am better than some supposed legend like you.
If the Hall of Fame is already callin ya’ up Odin, do us all a favor and answer it. Don’t bother leavin your boots in the middle of the ring, feel free ta' cut out the middleman and hand 'em over ta' me. Save everyone the time and just say that ya' retired because Max fuckin Daemon beat ya' so bad and humiliated ya' on national television ta' the point where retirement was the only option left.
I’ve handedly beat ya' once. And I will do it much more handedly again.”
Max starts to get up but stops and sits back down.
“Oh, and if you ever fuckin call me by my real name again, I will personally assure that Rebellion finds itself through your fuckin eye, through your fuckin skull, through whatever fuckin brain you might have in there, and right through the back of your fuckin head, because of all the people in the world who can call me by that name, trust me Odin, you’re pretty fuckin far down on that list.”
Max then stands up and walks off frame.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
We cut to Max leaning against a wall. He’s panting pretty hard, the sweat on his bare chest glistening under the LED light above him.
His new coach—Paddy Conlon—approaches, handing him a bottle of water.
Max nods before taking a healthy gulp.
Once he is quenched, Max speaks.
“Lay it on me, Coach.”
Paddy shrugs.
“Your cardio is good for a pro wrestler, but otherwise average for what you’re planning, triply so for who your opponent is. Your skills in fighting with your fists are good for a street fighter, bareknuckle style brawler, but there’s little form and intention in them beyond ‘attack to win’.”
“All power, no substance…” Max mutters after another drink.
“Exactly. Your grappling is mediocre, but serviceable enough that we can improve on it. Your submissions are actually your finest point right now. Once you have that Dragon Sleeper—”
“Arbiter,” Max interrupts.
“Right, Arbiter. Once you have Arbiter locked in, there’s really no getting out unless the fighter is especially skilled. Unfortunately, the one you’re fighting is, but again, this can be improved on.”
Max takes a third drink from the water bottle. He hands it back to Paddy, who nods once.
“So what’s the verdict?” Max asks.
“Taking the fight was a stupid decision,” Paddy answers.
Max smirks and starts to stretch his arms above his head.
“Yeah, but did ya' see the dollar signs?” he asks.
“I did, which is why I don’t blame you for taking it, nor asking me to help. I’ll admit, I’m still trying to wrap my head around this whole…interdimensional shit, but it helps that I’m here doing what I know.”
Max nods, continuing to stretch his sore muscles.
“Yeah, that was always their goal. No need ta' change a character. Try ta' find what they know and adapt them that way.”
Paddy shrugs, still unsure of his place in this Game beyond his current role.
“Don’t worry. Once the fight is done and you’re more than compensated, you’ll be sent back home ta' your sons,” Max says.
Now it’s Paddy’s turn to nod.
“We can work with you. Having your experience in the Pure Division and in…your other experiences elsewhere…there’s a lot to mold and adapt to, but we can work with it. I’d say focus on strikes and improving your grappling and submission. Honestly, I can’t say that you might win, but if you can take him the distance, or as far towards it as you can, than I’d say I’ve done my job properly as your coach,” he says.
Max lets out a breath, pushing his hands through his matty and dirty hair.
“When’s the fight again?” Paddy asks.
“March or April. They’re still workin on the details and he’s not sure when he’ll be cleared, but it’s lookin pretty damn good for him. They wanna put this on the billboards and posters as soon as they can, so it’ll be a matter of which event it’s on.”
“A pro wrestler taking on an MMA superstar. That’ll make you a very rich man.”
Max smirks, winking once at Paddy with his left eye.
“That’s the plan, Coach.”