Why, Oh, Why (Did I Ever Care About You?)
Nov 13, 2021 13:16:25 GMT -5
Karlie Nash, CJ Phoenix, and 8 more like this
Post by Johnny Bacchus on Nov 13, 2021 13:16:25 GMT -5
It felt like every part of his body ached and screamed as he limped through the back, his ribs screaming as fire and fury rolled from his neck down to his spine. Through screams and cheers – and the occasional congratulatory slap on the back that did more harm than good – the world was a blur of chaos and pain. But around the Men’s Room door, Johnny was finally able to unhook his arm from around Lissie’s shoulder and fall against the wall, allowing it to hold him up. The blood on his face distorted his vision, and after wiping it clean, he allowed himself to lean forward and spit a mouthful of the fluid into the trashcan Lissie had dragged before him. With each deep breath, his ribs stung and body shuddered. But he was still standing. “Are you okay?” He didn’t answer Lissie’s inquiry immediately, and even his sardonic reflexes held temporarily at bay. As his head raised to look to her face, he saw her standing with folded arms. Her face was a mixture of apprehension, concern, and bemusement. He mustered a smile. “Yeah. Thanks.” He spit another mouthful of blood, the discarded newspaper in the bottom of the can growing increasingly soaked. A silence lingered between them. “Are we good?” A compulsive chuckle escaped his lips as he pushed himself upright, swaying before he used an arm to brace himself on the wall once more. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he replied with another shallow breath of exhaustion, his eyes retreating down to the contents of the can before back to the woman opposite, “But you did the right thing. That’s the first step. You should feel good about yourself.” “I do,” she said as he began to hobble towards the men’s room, “Thanks, Johnny. For everything.” At the door he paused, turning back to look at her. “It’s good to see you again.” It was small, but she smiled. Their eyes stayed locked. “Congratulations on getting through Round One. Kick Dandy’s ass for me next week.” And then she left him to enter the restroom, where Johnny Bacchus ran the sink hot and washed the blood of his fight with Philidor off his face and hands until, by the time he was done, you’d never have known it was there. Yo, Winnie-Boy, them “Seven Day Reign” jokes at Lissie’s expense reeeally didn’t age well, huh? 😬 There’s part of me that wants to feel bad for you – it’s a real kick in the dick to think you got one over, only to watch it be ripped away. I’d know: same show you had your breath of glory, I had Ash Blake bleeding out one ear and singing “The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down” until That Thing stepped in. Life’s a bitch – that’s the first Noble Truth of Buddhism – but it’s all the nature of the game. And when I think about it? Nah. I don’t feel bad at all. I mean, I tweeted out “can they both lose”, and I got my wish. Lmao. So here you are, going from a guy who’s got his eye on the top prize in the company to fighting a “lower-middle card lippy fuck”. Sent on a rocket right to me. And when I beat your frumpy French Bulldog lookin’ ass, the drop tower ride of your career will have that final, anemic shot up towards the top and then plummet right back to the bottom. Like a weak orgasm: story of Dandy’s life. The harder they try to be, the bigger they fall. And I’m sure you’re gonna come in here pretty miffed with me, talking about a selfie I asked for back in January or something. You’ll do the spiel about how you’re “Dandy fuckin’ DeVito tha fuckin’ Action Wrestlin’ Original and tha man ya tryin’ ta be”. But that was then and this is now. I’m not some doe-eyed rook who only knows the man on TV anymore – I see the art and the artist are inseparable. And when you get close enough to see the behind the scenes, perspectives change – that’s happened with almost every single person I admired before signing. ZMac’s a racist – Lissie is a struggling girl who really needs counseling – Addy’s a lot more complex and deep than people realize. And you’re just a posturing loser. I don’t think there’s any shame or harm in rejecting the class you were born into; that’s my story, too. My folks have the money yours do – I certainly never had a trust fund – but my upbringing was comfortable. That said, while I don’t know Jacksonville, but I do know Oakland – and I can tell you living in Oakland wised me up. I don’t run my mouth in the club like I do here; that’s how you get got real quick. I don’t have a death wish, and I’d rather live than “act cool”. And that’s why I say straight up – no matter how many tattoos you have on your face, how long your petty theft misdemeanor rap sheet is, or how many guns you’ve owned – that we are not the same. From a upper-middle class kid turned class-traitor to you, I see through your shit. Go live in a dilapidated shack, but any cardboard you slept on was accessorized with a Gucci blanket. I thrifted clothes while you dumpster-dived at Neiman Marcus. I used my first check here to buy bootleg Air Yeezys for the crew while you were leaving the prints of your stupid-ass Air Force Ones behind a pair of boots and patent leathers. You’re aesthetic without commitment. That’s why you’re hanging out with Sam Kidsgrove instead of yelling “Free Larry.” And that’s who you’re comfortable with, Winnie. The elites. And you can talk about “hard livin’ motherfuggers”, but you ain’t been seen with them. Your posse is the fucking girlfriend in Canada every nerd claimed to be dating in high school. The real one is celebrities like Deschanel, New Age yogis like Wesley, and used car salesmen douchebags like Kyle Kemp. You’ll never be a John Black – end of the day, you’re a Cass Adler with a rebellious phase he never outgrew. You don’t live that life, you just ape it; letting the hardest dude to associate with you be a former Contra that Daddy hired to protect out. Shit, Winnie, your old man rolls deeper than you. Even when trying to craft a tougher street name than Winston, you still ended up a fucking dandy. And all it takes it looking at your so desperately affected accent to see there’s “nothin’” G about you. You’re not Lil Peep. You’re not even Post Malone. You’re fucking Vanilla Ice, and I’m gonna light this chump like a candle. You may have had the venom in your belly to take out Carter Shaw, but you’ll never sit long at the top because you don’t have what it takes. The balls – the brain – the spine – the stomach? Where the fuck is Winnie the Pooh when the going gets tough? Tucking his tail until his name gets him another chance to fuck up again. Just like Daddy always had the money to post your bail, you’ll always ride your reputation until it’s not enough to keep your going forward. Dandy will always get the big moment of scaling the insurmountable – whether it’s making Shaw bleed or ending Lockhart’s streak – but then turn the ball over after the first touchdown. Then the bottom falls out. And you need someone else to pick your ass up. Talk all the shit you want about my place on the card, but I didn’t ever need a self-pity spiral to get my swagger back in the face of a set-back. I know my worth, and I asserted it – I didn’t throw any temper tantrums or piss in my own backyard. Shaw didn’t create Kemp’s betrayal: you did. Because you’re a pissy little baby who makes a good attack dog but a shitty right-hand man. All you did was prove his suspicion. So don’t talk big to me because last week shows that in your place at Execution, the result would be the exact same. I don’t even need a First Blood Match. I proved I can do what you never could: put Shaw’s ass down for three. Lemme ask you something: what the fuck have you actually done this year? Held the Tag Titles valiantly in the face of Big Bubba and Darren Marsh? Fucking Toxic Vyress? Gimme a second to pop my cheek and twirl my finger above my head. After surviving the HR Department, you went five – yes, five – months without a real contender for your tag reign, either facing absolute barrel scrapings or hiding behind singles opportunities at the pay-per-views. Throw in a December off, that’s a grand total of thirty-four fucking days of real competition. So pardon my absolute lack of giving a shit about the stupid little soap opera we had to watch the two least likeable guys in the company play out as the days went by. Even your fucking contender’s match was an underhand pitch. And with a Heavyweight Title match like that at Turmoil? I’m just glad that by rinsing you on my way to the Finals, I can give the people someone actually worth rooting for in the Main Event. And I hope you do win the belt back at Turmoil, just so I can watch you seethe when it’s eclipsed by me winning Wrestler of the Year. Because if there’s one thing you can’t stand, it’s not being the center of attention. And not being cool. For all your DGAF swagger, you care so. fucking. much. From the way you talk to waitresses to the way you turned into a little ball of manbaby rage at being undercut. You care enough about me critiquing the syntax of your jokes on Twitter to put my name in your mouth at Execution. You want it both ways: to be a devious shithead, but for people to think you’re cool or badass. But you’re not. You’re neither of those things. You’re a two-bit edgelord troll who’ll say and do anything to get ahead, but the second your own shit comes back at you, you get your panties in a knot. I take it back, Dandy, you’re not Vanilla Ice: you’re Tekashi 6ix9ine. Just like him, you’ve been shoved in our face and down our throats for too long. Just like him, your belligerence is amusing at first but quickly becomes boring and lazy when it’s beaten to death. Just like him, you’ll pop with a little resurgence and have a fleeting moment. And just like him, soon enough you’re going right back to the irrelevance where you deserve. Any respect you crave, I deny you. Trot out Bozo, I’ll put my Execution drip back on, and you’ll still be the biggest clown in this company – throw a purple leather jacket on, and you’d be the spitting image of the Leto Joker. You talk shit because you’re full of it – I could drop one, and it would still be 24 Karat. Any of your DNA that was rubbed off while watching you on the screen became better and more real when I laced my boots for the first time. And that’s why my name’s in your mouth: Because you know that there’s no role for Dandy fuckin’ DiVito while I’m here, outside of warming my spot for me. And trust me, the fans will love having a foul-mouth punk who’s actually likeable and actually looks fuckable. Because all the criticisms people lob at me? They apply to you tenfold. And all the shit you try to be? I am. I took a risk punching up, but I did it – I don’t care if it cost me a belt. You beat the HR Department – I didn’t see you moving on to their next batch of goons, and I certainly didn’t see you refusing to stay down after Roll the Dice. For all your piss and vinegar, when you lost, you turned inward – you turned towards Kemp rather than lean into Shaw. Took a belt being on the line for you to come for Shaw, and let’s be real: if it hadn’t been, you still wouldn’t be stepping. Prance around in a little cowboy suit, but that shit wasn’t High Noon – Gary Cooper may have been an actor, but he certainly didn’t come across as a Dude Rancher. I don’t need anyone in the back to think I’m real. I know I am. I prove that shit on the daily, whether on this mic or in that ring. I don’t even need people to listen to me – if only Mom and Dad did, that’d still be two more than your mixtape ever got. But people do like me, and people do listen to me. Because I don’t throw a fucking fit when they don’t. You couldn’t even get your “brothers” CJ and Chase to listen – even when you were in the right. Maybe if you were a little less try-hard, they wouldn’t think your truth was full of shit. And when it comes to mocking a poor girl with substance issues about her struggles for a cheap joke? You just prove what a fucking disgrace you are. So here’s a piece of your own medicine: I hope King Rat’s transparent paternity lawsuit goes through. Because when DeWtt drags him out back like Old Yeller for his failures, better Yaz’s kid has no dad that a loser for a father like you. Fuck you, fuck your accolades, and fuck your career. Have fun in your little title shot, chasing the seven second dragon. I’m going to win Wrestler of the Year. Mae Ashby stood staring at the broadcast in stunned silence. Her mind wasn’t reeling – it was still as the grave, a ringing in her ears drowning out any immediate thoughts. It was 6 am in Johannesburg when Clash ceased broadcasting, and it was the cut to an unrelated commercial and the whistling of her mother’s kettle in the kitchen which snapped her from the trance. Even as tears streamed down her cheeks and gentle sobs shook her little body, her hand snapped for her phone, going straight to Johnny’s contact and hitting the Face Time button. It rang twice before he answered – his hair was matted with dried blood, and his eye was purpled. When he mustered a smile, there were still stains of red in the crevices between his teeth. She reaches up to wipe her eyes, the tears subsiding with a warm glow radiating from deep in her chest. She smiled at him. “You look great.” “No, I don’t, but thank you.” She laughed, her mind now exploding with the events of the show racing at lightspeed. The two stared at one another though the phone in silence, a single tear of joy running down her cheek. “You did it,” she whispered, bringing a sweater sleeve-clad hand up to her chin, “you beat them. And you saved her.” “I’ll take partial credit, but don’t heap too much on me.” The smile broke into a grin, her hand coming to her eyes once more to wipe the stains from her face. “I wish I was there,” she said through a rasped voice and stuffy nose. “I wish you were, too,” he replied, rolling his neck, “I could really use a back rub.” She let out another laugh. “Johnny?” she asked quietly. “Yeah?” The gears in her mind were turning. Her eyes darted past the screen to her closet. She looked back at him, the smile never leaving her face. “I love you,” she said, “I gotta go have breakfast. I’ll see you soon.” “I love you too,” he replied, before blowing a kiss which she reciprocated, “Tell the folks I said ‘Hey’.” When the call disconnected, she put her phone down and walked out into the sitting room, where her father sat reading a newspaper. The smells of breakfast drew her into the kitchen, and her mother looked up from the eggs she’d been scrambling in the pan to greet her daughter. “Mother?” Mae spoke, her lip trembling with anticipation, “I’m going back to America. Johnny’s in Wrestler of the Year, and I want to be there when he wins.” |