Post by Stephen Singh on Jan 16, 2022 21:44:54 GMT -5
Finet’s feet are on the floor while he lays face up staring at the once-white ceiling.
You lost to Karlie fucking Nash.
A heater rattles to life in the cheap motel room.
So what’s your plan? The old game plan would be to run her down and congratulate her on one of the biggest fluke wins of her career and maybe offer to snap her neck in a few weeks when…
When what?
When you’re…somehow better than you were this time? When you figure out how the fuck to win without cutting every corner? When you figure out how to compete at 200 pounds after trying to burn down the temple you previously treated your body as?
Will that “when” ever even come?
Finet sits up on the bed, facing the camera. Forearms resting on his thighs, he hopes the resolve he’s presenting obscures his disappointment.
I used to think failure–most often in the form of losses in-ring–was some type of karmic punishment. Since I cheated at every moment I could, things had to even out eventually; I was OWED those losses. They certainly couldn’t be my own fault or my own shortcomings.
With a few more years and a few more experiences under my belt now, I’m not that naïve. The universe doesn’t balance itself out, there is no karma, no comeuppance, no great and unseeable force putting its purple finger on the scales to make sure everything is “perfectly balanced.”
There is no order, no meaning, no one “deserves” a damn thing. You know that, don’t you Bolas? Because if people got what they “deserved,” you’d still be cruiserweight champion, wouldn’t you? You were never pinned for the title; Teo came in with Blaze just being Blaze, won that title and dubbed himself some conquering hero beyond reproach.
Reel it in, you’re not talking about Teo.
Let’s be honest though, Bogus de Arana, if the universe were actually a true and just place, you would never have had the title. Somebody who treats what we do in that ring like a punchline, who acts like our profession is a joke, who giddily and giggingly calls himself fucking Spiderballs would never have been deemed worthy of Gold in any self-respecting federation.
But the world isn’t just.
It’s filled with Karlie Nash chair shots and Mexi-Jerseyan half-wits who belong collecting change on El Turnpike, not standing across the ring from–
You really need to come up with some fucking nicknames.
Me.
No, the world is not fair but that’s the beauty of what we do, Bolas, that’s the holiness inside that ring: in there, is the only place it CAN be fair, the only place the universe CAN be just. And it’s the exact place that you’re going to be just...not good enough.
So that’s why I’m here, Bol Bol Maracas, to stand toe to toe and go blow-for-blow with another competitor. To prove myself–unequivocally and beyond the slightest inkling of a possible shadow of a breath of a doubt–that I was better that night.
I haven’t done it yet; it seems like I'm in a bit of a slump. But the only way out is through and how do we get out of a slump?
Keep shooting.
Keep that towel handy, Bolas, because your sister-wives are going to be throwing it in for you on Monday. By the way, are you Mormon AND from New Jersey AND from Mexico? Are you going for “things if I were associated with, I’d kill myself” bingo? You’re probably more “golden showers” than “golden plates” though, aren’t you Elder Aranas?
I look forward to slapping some modicum of seriousness into you on Monday, Bolas. I look forward to showing you that to the best of us here–to the Teos and the Corey Blacks and the Lissie Hopes and the Downfalls–this isn’t some trifle. This isn’t a joke or some flippant bullshit you do in between takes on a telenovela. To men like us, this is our life.
That ring is the only place that matters to me. I’m going to find a goddamn way to win on Monday.
Any way?
The right way.
