You Can't Kill Me//My First Shot
Feb 22, 2022 22:17:28 GMT -5
Karlie Nash, Lissie Hope ♥, and 8 more like this
Post by Johnny Bacchus on Feb 22, 2022 22:17:28 GMT -5
Jonathan Backus didn’t run his mouth in public the way he did at his job. He’d only lived in Oakland properly for five years, but he’d absorbed plenty of wisdom about survival in that time. Someone starts shit? You take it. Trying to finish it? That’s how you prolong it. The guy with the smart comments at the club is the guy who gets got in the parking lot. It’s one thing to talk shit and get in the head of a wrestler – it’s another to talk shit to a gun. So as Ashley Blakesley leveled the snub nose revolver with Johnny’s sternum, advancing forward to walk him back into his apartment, he understood that it was time to pick his words very carefully. “Happy New Year's, Johnny,” she said with a slur, the fumes of plastic bottle vodka confirming what her rictus grin had suggested to him, “Hope I'm not interrupting' anything. Lovely place, I can almost see why you wouldn't want to downplay that it's yours, regardless of consequence.” “It’s better this way,” he replied, his eyes going down and away, unwilling to make eye contact with his assassin or the barrel of the gun, “I wouldn’t want anyone making a house call to somewhere I don’t stay anymore.” Ash’s lip twitched before turning down into a snarl. “How goddamned thoughtful of you,” she hissed before jabbing the barrel into his chest. He took a step back into the apartment, and she closed the door behind her as they entered. Once fully in the room, alone and uninterrupted, the silence hung over them, like the Sword of Damocles. “What do you want?” Lemme tell y’all a story. (Sorry DanFehl, I know that’s your shtick, but if Tatiana can copy your “40-plus-year-old veteran crybaby” act, I can do this) Literally one year ago I was a fresh-faced rookie who took a shot at a belt nobody wanted, ran it all the way to Evolution, took another one, and ran it as far as I could go. I cut my way through damn near half the roster in this company, kissing hands and shaking babies, until I decided to shoot the moon. And even though I missed, I found myself among the stars. Cliche, but true. I started climbing this ladder – pardon the pun – a year ago from the date we’re all going to meet in the ring. Fuck whatever else y’all are thinking about me: that’s the only thing y’all need to know. One year – two shots – and a one hundred percent success rate. And I did what I’ve done by treating every match like that first shot. That’s not to say I haven’t failed – fact is I failed three times: -In Havoc, I got too into my head and flew too close to the sun. -Against Ash, I got too personal. -Against DanFehl, I got too friendly. And in all those instances, I took my eye off the ball – that’s when you swing and miss. Now, I haven’t failed that badly. I haven’t for instance: -Burned out twice in the first round of Wrestler of the Year, when both times I’ve been the projected favorite. -Won the belt just to lose almost every single match between then and dropping it. -Stepped up from CruiserClash tyrant to perennial Clash main event we twice just to be smacked back down to where I stand. -Blown so many second chances I was banned from fighting someone for a year to stop wasting everyone’s time. -Needed everyone and their mother to cosign me before I could step up, then shit the bed out of pure ego. -Or choked every single opportunity I’ve ever been afforded to the point my status as a “sleeper star in the making” is shown to be as thoroughly scripted as the show that brought me here. So y’all can throw all the rocks you want at the Rascal King’s throne, but since the moment I dumped Jill Park out in her debut to the point I made DanFehl go snakemode to win a trophy, you’ve all been living on borrowed time from my revolution. You can put your resume against mine pound-for-pound, and all the Magic Eye poster squinting won’t help you find the silver lining anywhere but the guillotine above you. So keep my name in your mouths first to last because the second I walked out, every other number in this match became inconsequential. This is my first shot. And y’all getting the NATE and Mr. Abraham treatment. Ash inhaled sharply, her knuckles whitening as they tightened around the stock of the gun. “Oh, come on, Johnny. ‘What do I want?’” she said with a snicker, “You've got a knack for insight, don't you? So tell me, what do you think I want?” His eyes moved up to take a good look at his assailant. The rain had slicked her hair to her head, but her clothes were pulled on haphazardly regardless. She’d applied no make-up, but her face was flush from inebriation. It wasn’t the Ashley Blakesley he’d known and loathed – she’d have never been caught in such a state. She had to keep up appearances for the company’s image. “They threw you out, didn’t they?” Johnny’s voice was flat, low, and measured; his face remained stoic. The rage in Ash’s expression twitched. “Shouldn't you be reveling in this?” “Why would I?” “Don't play coy,” she sneered, disdain dripping from her words, “Most wouldbe revolutionaries don't make it long enough to see the fruits of their labor realized.” He paused, his gaze not leaving hers. And still his voice did not waver in tone. “I saw those fruits in November. I don’t need to revel in the aftermath.” “What's the matter,” she responded mockingly, “you don't want to see what your handiwork wrought?” She paused and drew a deep breath, “Peter Garvey's dead.” “Am I supposed to mourn someone who lived by the sword?” “Head in a box,” she said with a quaver, her voice choking, “left on my mother's stoop on Christmas Eve.” At another time, this could’ve made Johnny pause or engendered pity to learn an act so horrific. But the emotion that welled in Johnny wasn’t either - not was it amusement or ironic glee. Instead, it came out cold and venomous. “You know what they did to Mae. Why did you expect any of you to be above that?” Ash’s lip quivered, the barrel pressed to his chest. “Shut up,” she muttered. “And you think taking me out is going to make them drop you a line? That transitioning from the streets to a cell with this Squeaky Fromme act is going to engender their mercy?” “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” she screamed, twisting the gun against his chest. “Are you a true believer, Ashley? Do you think this will be how you find salvation? Will you be able to scrub this blood off your hands after you walk the road to Damascus with only a clear sky above you? Don’t let me stop your great self-destruction. But remember Christ’s words on the cross…” He placed a hand on hers, their eyes meeting. “‘Why have you forsaken me?’” She was silent, the tears running freely down her face. Her finger moved to the trigger, and “Obnoxious” Johnny Bacchus delivered his last words. “You can’t kill me. No one can.” You know you’ve doing something right when nobody wants to give you credit or respect – I spent sixty percent of my career carrying divisions on my back that every Tom, Dion, and Sally sniffed around for a second, acting like they were above it, until I smacked them back to curtain jerking. I made the secondary legendary, and I didn’t have to be a journeyman veteran or a blue chip acquisition. That’s why I’ll talk my shit and I won’t be nice – and if y’all think I’m gonna pay a cent of dues, you better form a union against me. My career has gone one way and one way only: Up. And similarly, you know you’ve done something special when every Tom, Dan, and Winston wants to take credit for it – so in honor of which way the wind is blowing, I’d like to congratulate Affluenza for being the ones who actually beat Philidor. Lol. Fuck y’all goofies. Jillybean’s already coming with the weakness, pulling some “by your logic” shit. Yeah, you’re right, me taking my shot’s definitely the same as two veterans repeatedly getting slotted for opportunities on their names alone. I should just go home and let you run face first into a brick wall for the seventh or eighth time. If title shots were producers, you’d have blown enough to move onto Hollywood by now. Little advice, Jill: don’t think. That’s what you got Dutch for. Thinking got you worked into a spot where you actually bought King Rat’s chessmaster shtick. Thinking got you enough blows to the head you lost a grappling match via pummeling. Guess it makes the stupid-ass retort come into focus – more focus than your vision’s probably got after that match. It’s kinda like what DanFehl’s got Dion for, and we saw how well “doing it on his own” did for him. Of course, the difference is Dion’s kinda like a head coach who thinks the plan gives him the talent – and this is gonna go as well for Dion as Doug Pederson putting on some pads and running out to take a snap himself will. I get the risk: when you can coach Nick Foles to a Super Bowl, there’s gotta be something there. But those who can’t do, teach – and it remains to see how those who teach can do. But I’ll give you props: you exceeded my prediction clapback. I got nothing to say against you, Corey, that Jill didn’t vomit back up last week or I haven’t said to your face. My only regret is I didn’t make it past Ash Blake so I could’ve forced you down that ramp to face me for the Hardcore Title – record for record – to see who’s bonafide. In the same way, my only regret to Dutch is I threw gentlemen’s shots at DanFehl, depriving you of the Finals you expected. But I’ll kill two birds with one stone tonight when y’all see exactly how that’d turn out: with cut hair and a broken throne, or face down in the dirt like the swine you love and are. Oh, and Carti? I’m only singling you out because you’ve shown you like to go it alone. Tell me, how’s Peter Garvey these days – what’s he been up to? But otherwise, why single anyone out? I’m not facing each and every single one of you – I’m facing all of you. Just like for the Pure Title I wasn’t facing NATE and Mr. Abraham – I was facing both of them. Color me a little disappointed that the challenge rating hasn’t gotten a little higher, but I don’t look gift horses in the mouth. And I’m sure the audience can’t wait for a contender who doesn’t require a stiff drink and soothing music to be palatable. They stood in silence once more. Time has ceased – nothing seemed to hum or vibrate around them – each simply waited for the other’s move. The stalemate was broken suddenly, as Ash turned the gun and shoved it into his hands and chest, collapsing to her knees before him as sobs wracked her body. The extra strength felt weak in his hand, even if he had a larger gun stashed no further than the kitchen drawer. He took a long look at her, but her eyes never met his - they stayed downcast at the floor, her cheeks wet and body shaking. “Do it,” she muttered, “You’re only killing a man.” And that’s when Johnny realized that this was what she’d wanted. He said a silent prayer to Saint Christopher and cocked the hammer back. It was his only swerving. Y’all out here trying to be clever by half, when that’s just a byproduct of me doing what I do, kinda like how dominance was a byproduct of my drive. This ain’t arrogance – in a group of navel-gazing mythmakers, I’m the only one who’s all name, no gimmicks. In a crowd of losers, I’m the only one who’s fought tooth and claw to reach this level. Man, everyone was hoping I’d be slowing down when I was just getting started – everyone wanted to be the hellhound on my tail that DanFehl wishes made him run, when instead y'all turned out to be a pack of chihuahuas who couldn’t pick a scrap from me while I was down. Just like those chihuahuas on Dan’s tail got him all the way to the towering heights of the Tag Title division before I lit a hellfire under his ass to move him along. By the way, DanFehl, that is how you cop credit, you insecure doofus. I’m sure your ass has already bought a ladder, eager to set it up and explain how each rung represents one of us and the act of climbing is symbolic of your return to the top, or whatever. And Corey’s gonna recount the tale of Jack and Beanstalk – but with Frost Giants. Dion will tell us he doesn’t like jokes about ladders because they’re beneath him (insert groans here), and Jill will try to get the contract renegotiated so she only has to climb half (and still fall off). Reagan’s gonna reveal how her Great Great Grandfather made love to a giant spider and it blessed her with superior climbing skills – and Carter will probably hide under the ring eating cheese until he can come out and do his “Cass Adler with glamor muscles” shtick. And as for me? I’m gonna do what I’ve always done: making my way to the top and telling y’all to kiss my ass on the way by. Because in the end it doesn’t matter how many Aesops you recount… Viking tomes you study… Weird lineages you unveil… Snack commercials you pimp… Controversies you manufacture… Or holes you chew through the drywall… You’ve all proven yourself unable to stay atop the ladder or climb it in the first place. Except for me. Ash looked up when the bullets clattered to the ground alongside her tears. The cylinder to the revolver had been opened, and Johnny stood above her with the barrel now pointed to the ceiling before he pulled the trigger to harmlessly disengage the hammer. He threw the gun onto the couch. “You’re embarrassing,” he muttered in disgust. Her eyes went from him to the bullets to the discarded gun. Her expression suggested that her head spun with the rotation of her view, before they finally settled on Johnny. In a scream of pain and anger, she lunged forward. Her hands wrapped around his throat. She hung from him, as though clinging for life from a cliff’s edge, and he offered no resistance. In turn, she offered no exertion of force. Her hands held in place, but any attempts to constrict his throat were feeble at best and impotent at most. Instead, she simply hung, crying aloud beneath the silent, judgmental stare of her adversary. When the door opened, Johnny’s gaze turned to it. He felt a moment of regret as the bag of groceries crashed to the floor from Mae’s hands, her face a mask of horror, but it stirred him to reach up and remove Ash’s hands from his throat and offer a smile. “Nothing to worry, Miss Blakesley was just leaving.” His hand came to the back of Ash’s shirt, gripping it between the shoulders and walking her forward to the door. She did not object, allowing him to lead her in silence as Mae stepped aside. “Can you get me a LaCroix, bae? I need a moment alone.” Mae nodded, her eyes still wide with shock. As she left the two, Johnny ushered Ash into the apartment hallway and looked her in the eyes. “Ashley. If you ever come here again, I will fulfill your wish. On my terms.” They shared a moment of understanding, and then Johnny closed the door. But back inside, the Rascal King understood there was work to be done. And this time, he had to be greater than he ever imagined. When you spend sixty percent of your career being the fucking man, you have the right to talk your shit. When you respond to getting knocked down by getting back up and demanding more, you’ve earned your next test. When you learn from a loss rather than throwing a pity party on Clash, you’ll never not be the next man up. And when you treat every match like it’s your first shot, you’ll fight like it’s your only shot. Yeah, I’m the same guy I’ve always been – but I’ve come a long way in one year’s time. The Obnoxious One’s ready for his coronation – the Rascal King is ready to march into Toon World and take his crown. Call it vandalism, or call it street art – either way, this is the year I leave my technicolor mark on that belt. There’s nothing noble about why I’m gunning this time – no big goals or ethos – just punching the appropriate moment to get in the ring with Winnie Boy so he can thank me for clearing up his Turmoil obligations and pay me for my services. I hear self-care is in vogue, and after last year, I deserve a little Me Time. Got a problem with that? Go win Havoc so you can catch me at Evolution. Good catching up again – did you miss me? |
