Squirtle Uses Withdraw. Abra Uses Teleport. (vs. Marx)
Nov 29, 2021 23:50:21 GMT -5
CJ Phoenix, Downfall, and 2 more like this
Post by Max f'n Daemon on Nov 29, 2021 23:50:21 GMT -5
We catch up with Max Daemon as he is set inside the tub of a circular bath/shower. He is sweating, and not just from the panting he’s doing.
Max’s doctor—AW’s current lead doctor—turns on the faucet, allowing more-cold-than-warm water to hit his bare chest and matted hair.
“Relax,” they command.
Max opens his mouth to give them a quip, but one solid, harsh glare shuts him up.
They stand up and make their way out of the bathroom, meeting Paddy Conlon at the door. It closes and Max can hear them shout through the thin, outdated wallpapered walls.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” they ask.
“Well—”
“That’s a rhetorical question! Of course you are!”
“Hey now—!” again, Paddy is interrupted.
“Shut up! I know that this means a lot to him, but training is not his entire life!”
Max groans, narrowing his eyes in pain as he opens his mouth to drink from the water raining down from the head He coughs a bit, curling close and holding his stomach as the sweat washes off his chest, down onto his gym shorts and ruining the perfectly good athletic tape around his wrists.
“No, but it’s what he wants, and I’ll be damned if me coming to this dimension isn’t wasted because he can’t fucking handle it! We both know he can!”
There’s a sharp thud against the door, no doubt an impact from the Doc.
“Yes! He can! But only an idiot would push him when he’s going through withdrawals! You know he is!”
“We need him clean for the fight. He wants this as badly as anything he’s ever wanted before.”
There’s a harsh hiss from the Doc.
“Feeding into his damaged ego because he’s recovering from losing that…Her…is one thing, but if you push him like this again when he’s going through it this bad? Conlon, if I have to drag him off the ground so he can suffer in a bathtub again, trust me, anything he can do will be nothing compared to what I can do.”
Paddy can be heard growling through the door.
“I was dragged into this to teach a streetfighter how to be a mixed-martial-artist. If you want to play fairy godparent, do it on his off time,” he says.
“Yo! Geniuses!”
Max groans through the pain.
“If ya’ wanna argue about my wellbein, maybe do it away from the fucker goin through hell! And trust me, I’ve been there, this isn’t that far off!”
There’s a pause on the other side of the door.
Paddy huffs before stomping down the upstairs corridor.
Max suffers in silence for a few moments before the door opens a crack. The Doc sticks their face in, looking over at Max.
“Cool off in there for a bit. I’m going to try and make some dinner you can keep down. If you need me—”
“I’ll figure somethin out,” Max utters.
The Doc nods before closing the door, leaving Max to once again wallow in his withdrawals.
Despite the pain, he smirks.
“Fuck, addiction sucks, don’t it? Not that most of ya' would know. Ya' ever feel so much pain for somethin that’s your fault? And then wallow in that pain knowin that you’re doin it for a reason?
I know someone who hasn’t.
Harvey fuckin Marx.
Because Harvey Marx is fake.
Ya' won’t see Harvey lyin in a tub ta' wane off a headache and cold sweat. Nah, that’s too ‘real’ for him.
Because he’s fake.
Ya' won’t see Harvey comin up from a bottom ta' try and work his way ta' a top. Nah, that’s too much of a potential reality for him.
Because he’s fake.
Harvey’s the kinda guy who’d show up for the show, take his money, then ride off inta' the next town ta' set his mark on another new group of suckers, all while givin ‘em subpar entertainment and mediocre magic.
Mediocre magic that’s nothin but illusions and tricks.
I know real magic. And Harvey isn’t a real magician.
He’s impressive, but what’s more impressive is the lights and smoke he uses ta' hide his tricks.
Impressive.
But it’s all fake.
Because he’s fake.”
Max pauses a few moments to let out a few coughs.
“I don’t hate him. I don’t like him either. But I respect him.
Hell, ya’ gotta respect a guy who can fool the tens of thousands of fans who watch live in the arena every night.
But I don’t like Harvey. And it’s not because he’s a fake magician who wants ta' believe his con so badly that he even has the realest guy here fooled inta' believin he’s actually his friend, fuck no.
I don’t like Harvey because the last two times we’ve seen him, and I’ve been in the same ring with him, have done more than enough ta' make me not want anythin ta’ do with him.
But for some reason, the guy’s got a boner for pissin me off, so he decided ta' cut in front of Bozo and claim a spot against me.
I’ve never been a guy ta' deny a challenge, and I’ll be damned if I let a freak of the mind like Harvey convince me ta' do any different.
So let’s roll back the clock ta' the dawn of time and sing this song with me.”
Max takes a few shaky breaths in and out, almost like he’s chuckling, before resuming.
“At Evolution it was the five-way clusterfuck for the US Title that featured myself and Harvey among some other slew of challengers who are irrelevant ta' my point.
In that match, Harvey tried his best—which is more damning than anything—in a spot that he had no business bein in.
What had Harvey done beforehand ta' earn a shot at the US Title?
Nothing.
Had Harvey proven ta' the AW universe that he deserved a shot at the US Title?
No.
Had he done anything whatsoever ta' showcase that any hype and momentum he had goin inta' Evolution was actually real enough ta' warrant him a spot in that match?
Also no.
Because everythin about Harvey is fake.
His façade. His show. His talent.
Fake. Fake. Fake.
But somehow he convinced Tort or Pasta Mack that this already clusterfucked match needed another challenger, and Harvey was just enough of a name ta' fit the bill.
I wasn’t happy about it then and I’m still pissed about it now, but the match happened.
At Ford Field, in front of 80,000 plus fans, Harvey Marx participated in what would be his only championship shot (especially if I have anythin ta' say about it) in Action Wrestling.
I’ll give you three fuckin guesses as ta' what happened.
First guess: he won the match.
Second guess: he fought until the end and tried ta' prove that he deserved ta' be there.
Third guess: he proved everythin I ever, had ever, or will ever say about him right by takin the pin in the match and walkin out of Evolution the ultimate loser.
That’s for you CJ.
Because, ya’ know, CJ’s somebody I can actually fuckin like and relate ta' as a person. Somebody who proves themselves worthy of their spot.
Not somebody who fuckin vanishes, provin their spot even more pointless and undeservin
Which leads me wonderfully ta' Tokyo Fi—”
Max is interrupted by his own coughing. It’s more haggard, but it’s not enough for him to stop his rant.
“Yeah, go figure, Max is talkin 'bout Tokyo Fite, but how many of ya' remember anythin from the match?
Beyond me bein the sole reason we won because everybody in the fuckin ring decided it was better ta' be selfish and do a quick spotlight move…
It doesn't matter if anybody else does.
Because I do.
I remember it quite well.
I remember Harvey Marx doin the one thing he should’a done from the get-go.
He took his ball and vanished from the face of Action Wrestling.
For what honestly should’a been for good.
Yeah, in case everybody forgot, Harvey teleported the fuck out of the arena and out of the match.
So not only is he a goddamn failure as a performer.
Not only is he a goddamn loser as a wrestler.
But he’s also a goddamn pussy who gets the fuck outta-town (fittin phrase for a conman) when the fight supposedly gets too tough.
Clash is lucky they had me on their team. With allies like Harvey, who the fuck needs enemies?
Just somethin ta’ keep in mind whenever the shit hits the fan again like it did with Philidor.
I mean, if Harvey is such a good friend, where the fuck was he for all that? At least I said somethin about it and took a fuckin stance. Harvey couldn’t even pop in ta’ say hello ta' his friend while he was gettin his fuckin ass beat in by Blake and Co.”
He tries to shrug, but stops the action midway, opting instead to clutch his stomach in pain.
“Fuck, bad idea…
I can’t hate Harvey and I respect him in some capacity, but the day ya’ see me shakin his hand is the day that Ragin Dead starts seein snowflakes.
So that’s about it really.
Harvey Marx is a man who built himself off as a magician, a showman, who came ta' Action Wrestling just like any other fuckwad lookin for momentum and a spotlight.
What he found was somethin too much for a fake like him.
It’s somethin that everybody eventually realizes is too much for ‘em.
Somethin too damn real he makes ya’ wonder what ever was real in the first place.
That somethin is Max fuckin Daemon.
And if a motherfucker like Harvey Marx thinks he has a chance of beatin me at Turmoil?
Then shit, maybe guys like Odin or Walter or Dune are actually relevant in 2021.
Oh would ya’ look at that, I can see stars. Where’s my Blue Fairy?”
Using his left foot, still taped up from being in the Octagon downstairs, he turns the water to the shower off. He then flails open the curtain, hoping that that’s enough noise.
Before the sound of the curtain even stops reverbing off the bathroom walls, the door opens. Doc walks in, holding a wet rag in their hand. They approach Max, putting the rag on his forehead.
“Easy now. Let’s get you cleaned up and see how well you can walk,” they say.
Max cracks a small smirk, grabbing the rag from their hand.
“I’m fine,” he says.
He stops when both of their hands grip Max’s tight.
“I’m not dragging you onto another stretcher,” they say.
Max looks up at the serious look in their eyes, hidden rather poorly from their attempt at a glare.
With a nod and a sigh, Max accepts the help.
“I need a drink.”
The Doc ignores him.
“I thought being a half-demon meant I was immune ta' this shit…”
Again, he goes ignored.
Max snorts, wincing when the headache flares up from the action.
“Max, as long as I am around, I will make sure you never touch that vile concoction ever again.”
“Pfft…good luck.”
Instead of a witty retort or a wild response, the Doc lets the rag go.
They stare down into Max’s eyes, giving him a solidly serious gaze.
“Fucking try me.”
Max’s eyes widen.
He remains silent and offers no recourse as the Doc helps him out of the tub.
Max’s doctor—AW’s current lead doctor—turns on the faucet, allowing more-cold-than-warm water to hit his bare chest and matted hair.
“Relax,” they command.
Max opens his mouth to give them a quip, but one solid, harsh glare shuts him up.
They stand up and make their way out of the bathroom, meeting Paddy Conlon at the door. It closes and Max can hear them shout through the thin, outdated wallpapered walls.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” they ask.
“Well—”
“That’s a rhetorical question! Of course you are!”
“Hey now—!” again, Paddy is interrupted.
“Shut up! I know that this means a lot to him, but training is not his entire life!”
Max groans, narrowing his eyes in pain as he opens his mouth to drink from the water raining down from the head He coughs a bit, curling close and holding his stomach as the sweat washes off his chest, down onto his gym shorts and ruining the perfectly good athletic tape around his wrists.
“No, but it’s what he wants, and I’ll be damned if me coming to this dimension isn’t wasted because he can’t fucking handle it! We both know he can!”
There’s a sharp thud against the door, no doubt an impact from the Doc.
“Yes! He can! But only an idiot would push him when he’s going through withdrawals! You know he is!”
“We need him clean for the fight. He wants this as badly as anything he’s ever wanted before.”
There’s a harsh hiss from the Doc.
“Feeding into his damaged ego because he’s recovering from losing that…Her…is one thing, but if you push him like this again when he’s going through it this bad? Conlon, if I have to drag him off the ground so he can suffer in a bathtub again, trust me, anything he can do will be nothing compared to what I can do.”
Paddy can be heard growling through the door.
“I was dragged into this to teach a streetfighter how to be a mixed-martial-artist. If you want to play fairy godparent, do it on his off time,” he says.
“Yo! Geniuses!”
Max groans through the pain.
“If ya’ wanna argue about my wellbein, maybe do it away from the fucker goin through hell! And trust me, I’ve been there, this isn’t that far off!”
There’s a pause on the other side of the door.
Paddy huffs before stomping down the upstairs corridor.
Max suffers in silence for a few moments before the door opens a crack. The Doc sticks their face in, looking over at Max.
“Cool off in there for a bit. I’m going to try and make some dinner you can keep down. If you need me—”
“I’ll figure somethin out,” Max utters.
The Doc nods before closing the door, leaving Max to once again wallow in his withdrawals.
Despite the pain, he smirks.
“Fuck, addiction sucks, don’t it? Not that most of ya' would know. Ya' ever feel so much pain for somethin that’s your fault? And then wallow in that pain knowin that you’re doin it for a reason?
I know someone who hasn’t.
Harvey fuckin Marx.
Because Harvey Marx is fake.
Ya' won’t see Harvey lyin in a tub ta' wane off a headache and cold sweat. Nah, that’s too ‘real’ for him.
Because he’s fake.
Ya' won’t see Harvey comin up from a bottom ta' try and work his way ta' a top. Nah, that’s too much of a potential reality for him.
Because he’s fake.
Harvey’s the kinda guy who’d show up for the show, take his money, then ride off inta' the next town ta' set his mark on another new group of suckers, all while givin ‘em subpar entertainment and mediocre magic.
Mediocre magic that’s nothin but illusions and tricks.
I know real magic. And Harvey isn’t a real magician.
He’s impressive, but what’s more impressive is the lights and smoke he uses ta' hide his tricks.
Impressive.
But it’s all fake.
Because he’s fake.”
Max pauses a few moments to let out a few coughs.
“I don’t hate him. I don’t like him either. But I respect him.
Hell, ya’ gotta respect a guy who can fool the tens of thousands of fans who watch live in the arena every night.
But I don’t like Harvey. And it’s not because he’s a fake magician who wants ta' believe his con so badly that he even has the realest guy here fooled inta' believin he’s actually his friend, fuck no.
I don’t like Harvey because the last two times we’ve seen him, and I’ve been in the same ring with him, have done more than enough ta' make me not want anythin ta’ do with him.
But for some reason, the guy’s got a boner for pissin me off, so he decided ta' cut in front of Bozo and claim a spot against me.
I’ve never been a guy ta' deny a challenge, and I’ll be damned if I let a freak of the mind like Harvey convince me ta' do any different.
So let’s roll back the clock ta' the dawn of time and sing this song with me.”
Max takes a few shaky breaths in and out, almost like he’s chuckling, before resuming.
“At Evolution it was the five-way clusterfuck for the US Title that featured myself and Harvey among some other slew of challengers who are irrelevant ta' my point.
In that match, Harvey tried his best—which is more damning than anything—in a spot that he had no business bein in.
What had Harvey done beforehand ta' earn a shot at the US Title?
Nothing.
Had Harvey proven ta' the AW universe that he deserved a shot at the US Title?
No.
Had he done anything whatsoever ta' showcase that any hype and momentum he had goin inta' Evolution was actually real enough ta' warrant him a spot in that match?
Also no.
Because everythin about Harvey is fake.
His façade. His show. His talent.
Fake. Fake. Fake.
But somehow he convinced Tort or Pasta Mack that this already clusterfucked match needed another challenger, and Harvey was just enough of a name ta' fit the bill.
I wasn’t happy about it then and I’m still pissed about it now, but the match happened.
At Ford Field, in front of 80,000 plus fans, Harvey Marx participated in what would be his only championship shot (especially if I have anythin ta' say about it) in Action Wrestling.
I’ll give you three fuckin guesses as ta' what happened.
First guess: he won the match.
Second guess: he fought until the end and tried ta' prove that he deserved ta' be there.
Third guess: he proved everythin I ever, had ever, or will ever say about him right by takin the pin in the match and walkin out of Evolution the ultimate loser.
That’s for you CJ.
Because, ya’ know, CJ’s somebody I can actually fuckin like and relate ta' as a person. Somebody who proves themselves worthy of their spot.
Not somebody who fuckin vanishes, provin their spot even more pointless and undeservin
Which leads me wonderfully ta' Tokyo Fi—”
Max is interrupted by his own coughing. It’s more haggard, but it’s not enough for him to stop his rant.
“Yeah, go figure, Max is talkin 'bout Tokyo Fite, but how many of ya' remember anythin from the match?
Beyond me bein the sole reason we won because everybody in the fuckin ring decided it was better ta' be selfish and do a quick spotlight move…
It doesn't matter if anybody else does.
Because I do.
I remember it quite well.
I remember Harvey Marx doin the one thing he should’a done from the get-go.
He took his ball and vanished from the face of Action Wrestling.
For what honestly should’a been for good.
Yeah, in case everybody forgot, Harvey teleported the fuck out of the arena and out of the match.
So not only is he a goddamn failure as a performer.
Not only is he a goddamn loser as a wrestler.
But he’s also a goddamn pussy who gets the fuck outta-town (fittin phrase for a conman) when the fight supposedly gets too tough.
Clash is lucky they had me on their team. With allies like Harvey, who the fuck needs enemies?
Just somethin ta’ keep in mind whenever the shit hits the fan again like it did with Philidor.
I mean, if Harvey is such a good friend, where the fuck was he for all that? At least I said somethin about it and took a fuckin stance. Harvey couldn’t even pop in ta’ say hello ta' his friend while he was gettin his fuckin ass beat in by Blake and Co.”
He tries to shrug, but stops the action midway, opting instead to clutch his stomach in pain.
“Fuck, bad idea…
I can’t hate Harvey and I respect him in some capacity, but the day ya’ see me shakin his hand is the day that Ragin Dead starts seein snowflakes.
So that’s about it really.
Harvey Marx is a man who built himself off as a magician, a showman, who came ta' Action Wrestling just like any other fuckwad lookin for momentum and a spotlight.
What he found was somethin too much for a fake like him.
It’s somethin that everybody eventually realizes is too much for ‘em.
Somethin too damn real he makes ya’ wonder what ever was real in the first place.
That somethin is Max fuckin Daemon.
And if a motherfucker like Harvey Marx thinks he has a chance of beatin me at Turmoil?
Then shit, maybe guys like Odin or Walter or Dune are actually relevant in 2021.
Oh would ya’ look at that, I can see stars. Where’s my Blue Fairy?”
Using his left foot, still taped up from being in the Octagon downstairs, he turns the water to the shower off. He then flails open the curtain, hoping that that’s enough noise.
Before the sound of the curtain even stops reverbing off the bathroom walls, the door opens. Doc walks in, holding a wet rag in their hand. They approach Max, putting the rag on his forehead.
“Easy now. Let’s get you cleaned up and see how well you can walk,” they say.
Max cracks a small smirk, grabbing the rag from their hand.
“I’m fine,” he says.
He stops when both of their hands grip Max’s tight.
“I’m not dragging you onto another stretcher,” they say.
Max looks up at the serious look in their eyes, hidden rather poorly from their attempt at a glare.
With a nod and a sigh, Max accepts the help.
“I need a drink.”
The Doc ignores him.
“I thought being a half-demon meant I was immune ta' this shit…”
Again, he goes ignored.
Max snorts, wincing when the headache flares up from the action.
“Max, as long as I am around, I will make sure you never touch that vile concoction ever again.”
“Pfft…good luck.”
Instead of a witty retort or a wild response, the Doc lets the rag go.
They stare down into Max’s eyes, giving him a solidly serious gaze.
“Fucking try me.”
Max’s eyes widen.
He remains silent and offers no recourse as the Doc helps him out of the tub.