(It's Not Easy) Making a Name For Yourself
Nov 20, 2021 12:26:59 GMT -5
Karlie Nash, Downfall, and 4 more like this
Post by Johnny Bacchus on Nov 20, 2021 12:26:59 GMT -5
Walking up the ramp was all smiles and celebration, until Johnny Bacchus turned away from the crowd. Then he allowed himself to stop maintaining the act and the corners of his lips to hang low. By the time he’d pushed through the curtain towards the gorilla position, even this frown had been replaced with a curled-lip snarl. His eyes went past the various people in headsets milling about, coming directly to the company owner, sitting behind a monitor and watching intently with a smile on his face. He was so absorbed in viewing the aftermath of the Lumberjack match, he didn’t notice Johnny’s presence until the leather jacket the young man had whipped across the room hit him in the face and its thrower’s voice bellowed after it. “WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!” Torture stood bolt upright, pushing the jacket off him and to the floor. The two men met in the middle, the President’s expression now one of insult and contempt. “Well, congratulations on the big win, too.” “‘CONGRATULATIONS’ NOTHING,” Johnny yelled, jabbing a finger into his chest, “WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT ALL ABOUT?!” “The situation was getting out of hand,” Torture replied gruffly, “So I called an audible.” “HOW ABOUT THROW THEM OUT OF FUCKING RINGSIDE?!” Johnny yelled back, his face turning red as his hair and jabbing another accusing finger into his chest, “SHOW A LITTLE FUCKING SPINE AND SET AN EXAMPLE FOR YOUR DIPSHIT KID!” “I’m sorry, do YOU run Action Wrestling? Do YOU know what you’re even talking about?” “I know EXACTLY what I’m talking about! YOU cost ME a legitimate win! YOU didn’t expect me to mush your widdle golden boy Carter Shaw last week, and you DAMN WELL couldn’t afford to have me go clean over your little gremlin boy out there! That’d be THREE-FOURTHS of your widdle title match beaten THIS YEAR – CLEAN AS A WHISTLE – by a guy you don’t even WANT here! By a guy you don’t GET! So you SCREWED. ME. You booked that Lumberjack Match on the fly because it was a ‘heads you win, tails I lose’ situations, and you KNOW THAT! Nobody’s going to be talking about the fact that I had that Pillsbury Dope Boy lookin’ motherfucker – they’re all going to be talking about ‘poor widdle Winston DiVito getting screwed’ by Kyle Kemp and the rest of the fuckin’ Muppet Babies you’re giving a shot at the title! You are playing fucking GAMES with this shit, ESPECIALLY because it’s ME and you HATE that I’m here when you didn’t expect me to be. You gave me the path of most resistance through this shit in the first place, hoping I’d choke and be out nice and early like Havoc – but I DIDN’T! And then you prayed that you Two Pump Chump would smack me straight and he DIDN’T! So you intentional UNDERCUT my win, and you’re probably PRAYING right now that Ash Blake can weasel her way past Dan in the Main Event so you can clutch a rosary that she’s actually got my number! Well let me tell you something ‘Boss Man’: I don’t give a shit if it’s Ash Blake, it’s Downfall, or if it’s both of them. I’m going on to the Finals! And there, I don’t give a shit if it’s Corey Black, or it’s Teo Blaze, or it’s Regan Voorhees! I’m winning your fuckin’ tournament, just so I can watch you sweat as to whether or not I slap a purple bedazzled dildo on your trophy and go take it somewhere else!” Pasternak rose, taking his headset off and crossing the room to get between the two men. “You need to watch who you’re talking to,” he snarled, locking eyes with the irate star as he pushed between him and his father. “Oh – I need to watch who I talk to?! You wanna lecture me on that shit when YOU were willing to sit down with fucking PHILIDOR HOLDINGS because I hurt your pwecious sense of pwide?! At least now I know the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, so FUCK YOU Little Lord Fauntleroy," he barked before looking back at Torture, "And FUCK YOU, too!" “You got a big mouth on you, addressing the guys who determine whether or not you have a job,” yelled Torture, leaning over Pasternak’s shoulder and spraying spittle, “You can go back to the couch you came from!” “You need me, and you know it!” replied Bacchus, his arm snaking up over Pasternak to jab his finger in Torture’s face again, “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be putting ‘ill’ Jill Park in the fuckin’ title match!” “I COULD REPLACE YOU TONIGHT WITH CHASE JACKSON IN THAT SEMI-FINAL MATCH! FORCE MY HAND!” The room fell silent. Reporters had begun to stream in, the commotion reaching and crescendo and luring them to gorilla, like sharks to blood. As the camera snapped around Bacchus and Torture, Pasternak turned to his father. “Let’s not go that far,” he muttered and let out a sigh as he went back to his post. Johnny’s eyes darted between Pasternak, who’d now engrossed himself with watching the monitors once more, and Torture, who hadn’t budged an inch. The two men’s breathing was heavy – a small smile creeped along the face of the former Hardcore Champion. “You’ve never believed in me,” he said in a lowered and measured tone, “You didn’t even bother to remember my name when I was holding the Pure Title. You didn’t give me a piece of merchandise until Havoc. Tanked my stats in AW 2k21 for a joke. Relegated me to fighting Bunga to somehow ‘prove myself’. I’m not your idea of a ‘Top Guy’ – I’m not a lot of people in the back’s idea, either. I was treated as a joke – then I had everyone waiting for me to choke – then they all bet that one loss to Ash would sink me. But it didn’t. I’m still here – I’m gonna be here for the foreseeable future unless an act of God stops me – and I’m gonna keep winning. So you and everybody else can think whatever they want about me, but I’m gonna raise that big gold belt above my head one day. I’m gonna beat the breaks off everyone in this company, and when that happens? It won’t matter if you don’t see me as a ‘Top Guy’ – I’ll be him anyway.” Torture regarded the young man with amusement. He bent down, picking up the discarded leather jacket, and threw it forcefully back at Bacchus. “I’ll see you next week, John,” he said. And then he turned back to his desk, sat down and put his headset back on, and turned his attention back to the monitor. The cameras continued to snap and flash, now turned from the President to the Rascal King. Johnny pulled his jacket back on, looked at the gathered crowd, and gave a wave directly into the camera. “Hey, Jay-Tee and the other dirt sheets: you wanted to see me throw a temper tantrum like everyone says I do? Wish granted.” And then he pushed through the gathered reporters and headed for the locker room. What is “purpose”? I apologize for the pretentious rhetorical opener – I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. See, I don’t think a lot of people expected me to be here, not just this far in the tournament but to the Main Event at all. Fun fact: this is the first time I’ve ever been in the Main Event, outside of a tag match. Kinda funny when you think about it, huh? I mean, after all, I’ve spent a year causing a ruckus and making waves – certainly that would’ve eventually earned me some kind of nod, like when CJ and John Black got to fight in the big spooky cage before Havoc, right? Nope. But I am here now, and I don’t think a lot of people expected me to be. I think a lot of people felt my career trajectory and momentum was so firmly tied to Philidor Holdings’s heart rate, that I’d flat line with them. Winnie Boy could talk his talk about it not being my fight, and King Rat could say I was shadow boxing – but I won. We won. And in the wake of Philidor’s dissolution, I’m sure a lot of people are wondering: what is Johnny Bacchus’s purpose? Now when it comes to the purpose of anything I’m saying here, I’m at a little bit of a loss for words. Normally, I can muster up a little fire in my belly or find a little thread to pull at, but not with you. I don’t have anything nasty to say to you, Dan – hell, I like you. I’m happy you’re here and have this opportunity; you’re a helluva fighter, have lacked the respect you deserve, and I owe you a big solid for the past three weeks. Unfortunately, that solid isn’t going to be passage through to the Finals. But maybe we can grab a drink after the show. See, I don’t believe in purpose being inherent, I think you have to create it for yourself. Sartre and whatnot. All things considered, I have everything I could ask for right now: victory, recognition, money, love. I could always ask for more, but I don’t need it. In this regard, it makes total sense why people would bet I’ve speed run a career and could probably wind down, be the good little upper-mid-carder everyone says I am, and maybe go back to college. I’m going to burst that bubble really quickly: I have zero desire to quit while I’m ahead. I’m still clutching onto the sides of that rocket blasting straight to the moon, and now I’m taking it past Mars and Jupiter to grab Saturn’s brass ring with both hands. There can’t be two underdogs in this match, Dan. Especially not when everyone will bet that who win this match takes the tournament. But I can’t say I’m down on the odds when I’ve put three-fourths of the Turmoil World Title match on their backs this year, and you can’t say you’re down when you beat the only person to beat me. If anyone thought this would spur my Malcolm X “by any means necessary” shit, they’re wrong. I got love for you, Dan – I respect you as a comrade. But I’ll lick Ash Blake’s dried blood off your hands to give me the drive I need to put you down as well. She didn’t bother staying until the end of the show – there wasn’t enough time. Instead, she slinked out after his match to beat the crowds and called an Uber before the surge pricing hit. She was just thankful nobody else sitting in the nose bleeds had recognized her without make-up and dressed in a frumpy sweater – that could ruin the surprise. Do five nightmares still keep you up? I’ve never been one to keep track of my own – I don’t even talk about them. I let them slip away. I don’t think nightmares are a good motivator, not in the face of dreams. But not everybody’s me, and if it takes five nightmares to drive you, I won’t question your motivation. But it’s been half a year since you made that confession. I’m interested in the five nightmares of your tenure. The first is the memory of when Twiztid Insane put you down, only to go down to Warpig, and you had to watch all the effort you put into building the Television Title in the wake of Ash Blake be dashed apart in little under a month by a group of chumps who couldn’t handle that pressure. The second is wondering what would have happened if Dion didn’t believe in you, and when Jimmy Nightingale’s house of cards fell, whether or not you’d be left holding a bag for a monster. And whether or not Dion was a guardian angel who came down and saved you from a lonely existence, always known as the guy who held Jimmy Night’s bag until the bitter end, a legacy you can’t so easily wash off your hands at that point. The third is the memory of when Sam Kidsgrove and Dandy DiVito slipped past you the first time. You two weren’t ready – you two got cute. And in the back of your mind, you wondered if you’d made the right choice. You could’ve quit right there, gone back to playing it solo and maybe made a run at Lissie Hope or Graham Baker – maybe even Carter Shaw. But the nightmare is knowing that if you left, you’d be alone. The fourth is wondering what would’ve happened if you HAD failed a second time. Where would you be then? All the hard work you put in – all the self-improvement you made – all the risks you took and trust you placed in another? That would be for nothing. Whose fault would it have been – who would you have blamed? Dion? Yourself? Would you have gone at it again, or would you have given up? Would you have had the strength to pull yourself out of the hole and get back on your feet, or would you have wallowed in your Old Dog self-pity and thought wistfully about hanging it up for good? And the fifth is the worry that Ash Blake was right about you – that when you lose this match and don’t go onto the Wrestler of the Year Finals, you’ll go down in history defined by her. Daniel Fehl, the old dog who made a second semi-successful run in Action Wrestling, who flashed on his ability to have the number of the woman nobody else could beat but couldn’t beat anyone else when it mattered. And that’s not even touching on the living nightmare of saying it aloud and finding those five nightmares didn’t compel you past Corey Black earlier this year, trying to get into Time Bomb. Where Ash Blake retained because she was locked in a room with a whole bunch of men whose numbers she had. I wonder if that ever keeps you up at night, wondering about if you’d have just gotten past Corey Black, that belt would be around your waist. I wonder if baring that vulnerability and still failing haunts you at night and steels you up. But if that’s a sixth nightmare? Then the seventh is wondering the opposite – what if you’d gotten past Corey Black but choked in the Elimination Chamber. What if you didn’t have this badge of pride against Ash Blake because she’d already spilled your blood once – where would your mind have been at Hellimination, and where would it have been last week? Would you be that rising star, or would you be another ill Jill Park, riding a wave of whispers and hedged bets to flirt with glory? Did failing to get into that match save your ass from a Sisyphean fate? But this is why I don’t concern myself with nightmares. Because I could have a whole lot of “what if’s” and do have a whole lot of failures in my life. But what the fuck good has dwelling on them ever done me? How has running from a nightmare pushed me to the Semi-Finals of Wrestler of the Year? And that’s why I dream, Dan. I’m dreaming – and living – my dreams in this ring. I keep my eyes forward – I hear and see no evil, and if you were expecting me to speak it at you, that’s a lost wager. But I will give you absolute Hell in that ring this Monday, and I will be going to Turmoil as the Finalist of our bracket. You’re standing between me and my dreams. So I’ll be your toon nightmare. Johnny had stuck around to thank the crew (as per his weekly ritual) and congratulate Downfall on his victory in the Quarter Finals. But he wasn’t in the mood to socialize in any depth, and an invitation from Addy to “get fuckin’ wasted an’ pee in a fountain” was gently turned down. He had far too much on his mind, and nothing sounded better than killing a bowl and passing out to Adventure Time reruns. I don’t think I’m special for doing what I do. Anyone can do what I do: talk shit – win matches – not compromise on being a decent person. I only toot my horn about it because nobody else seems to have any interest in doing it as well. I’m going to be something this company’s never seen – not Howard Black, not WALTER, and not Wade Moor. I come to the people in Technicolor because there’s no shades of gray to me. How about you, Dan? There’s no shame in losing to you, I simply have no intention of doing so. And there’s no shame in losing to me, so you better come correct, or I’ll humiliate your ass and send it off to a Muppet Babies World Title Match. I’ve watched you this year: I’ve seen you change and evolve. Now the time’s come for you to prove you’re the man you claim to be. And I want that for you, but I’m the scale you’re going to be placing your heart on against the Feather of Truth. I’m not going to cross any lines – I’m not gonna mention your family, your friend, or anyone but you. The secret to my staying power is my consistency: I didn’t need anyone to believe in me because I made it damn certain there was no way they couldn’t believe me. I spent a year being dragged through the mud and raked over the coals, so if you’ve got the temptation to turn that silver tongue or surgeon’s analysis on me, I’ll use them both to cut your throat. If you want to turn over a new leaf, I don’t want to see the roots of your past rise up out of desperation. I want you to face me, mano e mano, in this ring and beat me. I want you to prove you deserve to go on to Teo Blaze or Regan Voorhees and this year won’t be capped by another jerk-off slithering his way to the top. Because even if Dion and I look past it, the Angel of Death’s aura hangs over you. So now prove that the guy who rolled with James Nightingale has gone straight. Prove to me that you’re a different man. And if Mae’s name crosses your mouth once, I’ll leave you without the teeth to keep it there again. And that’s purpose, Dan. Your purpose is to test my ability – once and for all – as to whether or not I belong in the upper echelons. Your purpose is to be the next in a long line of the most brutal, stacked climb up the ranks anyone’s had to make this year. Your purpose is to be the gatekeeper to the main event, to be the tested player who determines whether or not Johnny Bacchus can stand alongside everyone else, or if I’m just a loud mouth with a hot hand. But I have never relied on luck. I got too many cards up my sleeves to ever fold, and I’ll always double down. So my question is what is this loss gonna feel like to you? Because I know what it’ll feel like to me. You lost early and avoided the stigma. I’ve been in this company grinding a whole year nonstop, and my success has been an albatross that everyone has waited to drag me underwater. You saw my whole reign and every week of this tournament – every jackal is waiting on baited breath for me to get wounded so they can pounce. And that’s why I’ve run as hard as I have – I have every gun trained on me, everyone waiting for me to slow down enough to catch up and slit my throat. I can’t stop and won’t stop, so if you think you’re the roadblock on my way to the top, you’re in for a shock when I walk away Finalist for Wrestler of the Year. And yeah, I planned those rhymes. Just wait ‘til you can see what I do off the mic. What is purpose? Purpose is knowing that we’re both being tested here and being ready to play my role. I’m your shadow – I’m your young vision of a different Downfall. You’re my keeper to the threshold, and I’m yours. When that bell rings, I’m going to look into your soul. And you know what I’m gonna see? Inside you are two wolves: one is being pinned, and the other one is tapping out. Either way, you’re losing this match. When Johnny entered the lobby of the Hilton Garden Inn, he wasn’t expecting to be greeted by a full floral arrangement, complete with a boom box playing “Sixteen Reasons” by Connie Stevens. He also wasn’t expecting to see Mae Ashby standing among the floral arrangements, her eyes weary and tired from travel but her mouth smiling with silly pride. She’d found the time to run to the bathroom and do her face and change out of incognito wrestling fan clothes, and as she stood there waiting for him, she held a hand-lettered sign reading: Congratulations! I love you There was no need for dramatic pauses or the comedic dropping of his gym bag – when Johnny’s eyes had fallen on her, he’d broken into a full sprint in her direction. She dropped the sign, her arms open, and hardly expecting him to crash into her and take her to the ground like a football tackle, the young woman squealing with delight as her boyfriend’s hands combed up through her hair to clutch her face. “Are you fucking kidding me?!” Johnny belted over the sound of her now incessant giggling, their words ceased only as he pressed his lips hard against hers and drew away, “What the fuck is this?!” “Congratulations, Johnny,” she giggled as she kissed him a second and a third time before he broke away to stare at her in disbelief. “‘Congratulations’ nothing… what the fuck is this all about?!” She giggled again, the warm joy radiating off her as she snuggled against his chest on the hotel lobby floor, her hand reaching up to grip his collar and wrap it around her fist. “I’m home, stupid,” she said quietly, “For good.” Their lips met again, this time long and deep. Neither hardly noticed their idly swinging legs knock over one of the flower pots or how many times the song playing on the boom box had started over. When their lips parted, their eyes lingered on one another. “Promise?” “I promise.” They kissed again before getting to their feet, hand-in-hand. Johnny’s head swiveled from the amused look of the desk clerk to the mess of spilled flowers, water, and dirt of the knocked over arrangements, returning to the woman behind the counter and offering a sheepish smile. “I can clean this up if you get me a broom,” he offered. The woman behind the counter put her hands up, shaking her head. “I think you two have better things to do,” she replied, “we’ll put it on your room bill.” He led her by the hand up the stairs to the third floor, where they stopped to kiss again, back up on the wall in the landing. And by the time they’d reached his hotel room, Johnny couldn’t have given a fuck less about the President, Dandy, or a Lumberjack match. The past was finally over. And the future was bright. |