Top Of The World. (2,991 words)

<"It's a stupid name,"> Hinata had said, smiling genially despite the pain.

<"Wh-No... it's not, it sounds badass! It's like, I'm going to be your downfall!"> Daniel said, even though the pain in his hands was excruciating.

The two of them had been locked in plank position for hours. Heavy stones had been stacked on their backs. Shattered shards of glass littered the floor, and yet, the two of them had been charged by Master Shishio with holding muscles stock-still, unmoving. Not bowing or collapsing. After the first twenty minutes, the young blonde gaijin's arms had ceased their jelly-like quaking. Now, he held firm as a statue, although he feared the slightest shift would either cause his quads to tear from the bone, or unbalance the cairn-stack on his shoulder-blades, sending the whole works tumbling.

All of this, for the crime of him listening to Nirvana's Bleach - their most punk album, the nineteen-year-old would proudly explicate to anyone - in the locker room. Shishio, his bulldog face furrowing, had stood at the foot of his bed, making him get up. "<You will not listen to this whiny drivel in this dojo.">

<"Easiest name in the world to twist into mocking patter. People call you Falldown, Danfehl, Dillweed...">

Danny scoffed, trying not to move his frozen body, like holding in a sneeze. <"I... don't care what some idiot thinks is clever, Downfall is the coolest name alive.">

Hinata Tsuuyuki, twenty years old and lean, powerful muscle, but still in black trunks yet. He bore this dojo's terrifying Young-Lion regimen easier than Danny was... with a smile and a spirit that didn't break.

He heard the footstep into Mondai-Bukken <House of Pain>, and, looking up, his neck creaked, but he overbalanced, feeling the stones slipping off his shoulders. <"Shitshitshitshiiit...."> and then, clattering stones fell to the pavement floor around his hands, which had been pushed into broken glass.

Shishio stared down at him pitilessly. Not saying a word.

Then he looked over at Hinata. <"You go.">

Hinata stayed locked in plank position exactly. Not answering, but staring defiantly.

Shishio stared for a long time, grunted. <"You stand in solidarity with this arrogant whelp. This is your error, Hinata."> But he turned to Danny.

"<I see the callous look in your eye, Daniel. The sullen rage hiding behind your weak, baby flesh. Then step forward. Let the stripling bare his teeth and imitate the action of the tiger.">

Danny, ashamed, looked at the floor.

"<I thought not.>"

Shishio left them, stepping out of the Mondai-Bukken room.

<"Hinata... why did you... why are you standing up for me,>" Danny said, eyebrows furrowed, looking lost.

Hinata just smiled. Even though they were both kneeling, currently, on broken glass, he looked as if he was at ease, serene. "<You wouldn't understand, I guess... it's just something you do when your companion has a weak moment... It's the right thing to do...">

Eschewing the stones, but Hinata dropped down into plank position again.

Danny, hands fumbling, found a flat, polished stone, and he lifted it, looking blankly into it. Hinata's words shot through him like bullets, companion, weak.

It was then, looking over at graceful, athletic Hinata's lithe body, that he came to an epiphany. It struck him like a spring dawn on the horizon... Hinata, golden prodigy of this dojo, Shishio's best student even despite this punishment... Shishio's hope of providing an heir, a legacy for the future. This whole training program was centered on Hinata as the star. Danny was seen as second-best. The outsider, the cocky young blonde boy, son of the old man on the tour.

He sighed, closing his eyes. But something dark in the pit of his soul spoke up, a gnawing rat that spoke No! You are not!

He bit down, bitterly on his lip. For just a second, he considered taking the stone in his hands to the back of Hinata's head.

"<Hey. Shonen Knife.>"

"What?" He blinked.

"<Shonen Knife. You like Nirvana, these girls are their big influence. Very punk. I'll play you Burning Farm in the dorm room, change your life, white boy."> He laughed breezily, despite the pain of the glass digging in his hands.

Danny's eyes narrowed, and his hands twisted on the polished stone.

---

I'm curious if anyone in this ladder match has heard of the term, "Lake Wobegon Effect".

It's a psychological term born from fiction in "The Prairie Home Companion"... turns out, it has roots in related human tendencies. It means, in effect, that we humans have a marvelous capacity to delude ourselves into thinking we're above average.

This leads to every person announced for this farce now cheesing their face in the god damn dish, proclaiming it's their chance to shine.

(Go fuck yourself, Johnny Bacchus.)

Every one of them is feeding into their own main character syndrome, hyping up that patently false narrative.

The issue isn't that I have to fight through a seven-way ladder match to get a rematch when all Dandy had to do was get his brother to ask. Out of this field, who actually deserves to be here?

Dionysus does, 'cause we've been fighting together all year. My road through Turmoil wasn't done solo, and as he reminded me when our no-contact year was up, he has been waiting for a chance to grab the brass ring, the way he fought so hard for his number one spot in Havoc.

And yet, I can't let it slide that as hard as Dion tends to push for opportunities, as hard as he's worked to make the Vanguard the force it is... when he's on his own, he tends to drop easily tossed softballs. This man swore he had it in the bag and went out to get tapped out by Jill Park. He was going to do Vanguard proud, then he went out and whiffed on a Hellscape match where the only serious competitors were Daemon and Claire Hawkins.

Now, if it came down to me versus him at the top of the ladder, if it didn't go to me, I'd want him to climb up and grab it.

Except the problem is, that I am not willing to step aside for it. Just because I feel like Dion deserves this, doesn't mean he gets a pass.

I'm hyper-aware of my own status in this match; How my own arrogance led me to a vulnerable spot, how I overlooked variables last time. I am also aware that all eyes are going to be on me to keep me from getting what's mine.

That's the point, isn't it.

Just by me being in this match I had everyone shook, because you felt it on the road to fucking Turmoil; when I'm at my most focused I am the threat.

No matter who I'm facing, I'm the man who makes everyone around me flop-sweat and flail when I step in a room... and when someone competes against me, they're asked to step their game up or get crushed underfoot. That's power.

I don't intend to go to the back of the line because a bunch of fucking dorks - each of which, parenthetically, shits the bed in big, multi-man shenanigans such as these, suddenly think they earned this spot.

Oh, I know why many of them do. It's the insidious siren call of illusory superiority they have to carry as their security blanket to cover up how unworthy they are.

For Affluenza, these two have colluded on their shared platform of vapid, egotistical symbiosis. They both exist as a team only to feed off each other's shared media buzz and inherited wealth.

Yet the cred they've banked as actual threats in the ring is dwindling, because they both have fallen short multiple times in instances that were supposed to be their coming-out party.

I could continue to name All-In, Turmoil, Cruiserhavoc, the four-way for the Tag titles, the list goes on. But for Jill and Regan, it's more of the same.

For Regan, at this point, she just wants to prove that she can hang with me. Desperately so, to the point where even her attacking me from behind is fading away.

Jill's just hanging on to that last bit of goodwill she has banked, hoping being in Regan's proximity will establish her as a threat.

Regan is the one who thinks that this is her story, her narrative about going the long way to proving she can beat me....

Who knows. If we'd had our one-on-one match for the World Title at Revolution, she might have had a better shot.

And I will not let her forget that it was her that took the pinfall from Dandy Divito.

So, no. Regan proved not to be the main character, just a bump in the road of a larger, ongoing serial.

Sadly, some participants in this match aren't even that, anymore.

Carter Shaw's once-meteoric, molten-hot rising star's tamped down to ashes, even with a win over Jill under his belt.

He seems far from the can't-miss prospect that was a first-ballot choice for Philidor's in-ring spokesman.

He's been absent more often than not, no longer putting in that weekly work to be seen and counted as a consistent, viable threat.

Were it not for the fact that it was a dumpster-fire waiting to happen, this week's Clash main event went entirely without any input... For Carter, this would be a tantalizing chance for him to step up; show everyone why he was once considered the best and brightest... if only because every time he's opened his mouth since November, curiously, it's been to express the opinion that he's still the Wrestler of the Year.

But I'd tell you someone who personifies this aggrandized, overblown view with the exuberance of Bart Simpson banging pots and pans together.

Johnny's Twitter simps like Lissie already gushing about whatever droll witticism he's already spewed. "Everyone else is a dog, Johnneeeeee be a cat ohemgeeeeee"-fuckin' gag me.

But Johnny, who famously disavowed the cesspit of wrestling Twitter months ago, resorted to dusting his stream-of-consciousness "funny" Twitter gimmick just to boost his profile ahead of His First Shot.

Amazing.

All it takes a few months away, changing handles to "Rascal King" and you new money, huh?

El-oh-el.

Perhaps Johnny's salty I got one miniscule fact wrong 'bout whether he helped Deb Monroe out before get in his head...

Or embarrassed that when he had everything going his way last time, he came straight at me and got his head kicked in.

Think it's fair to say this is your second attempt at a first shot... 'cause when ya took aim at me in November, your trigger must'a jammed.

So... wouldn't let your stans gas your head up too much, Johnathan.

Wasting your arrow flexing on social media for these never-will-bes like a dimestore Cassidy Adler... In between fawning over whatever square-jawed bint will give you time enough to start a cringeworthy sexual fling.

Spent all that time on the couch Tweeting heart-eyes emojis at any girl wrestler with a half a pair of tits... now you step in my way, proclaiming the dawning of a new era of the Chimp Mode bullshit nobody asked for.

For added emphasis... go fuck yourself, Johnathan Backus.

It must kill you, the only two blemishes on your record were from myself and Ash... with her, you have the out that it took rampant interference from Philidor to put you down. But me?

I Ether'ed you and put you on your scrawny, privileged little ass with my own two hands.

Know your problem? There's multiple, but I'll simplify it for you...

You surround yourself with like-minded tryhards, your own little glass bubble of Twitter followers and friends you keep around, this insular world where they all agree with you.

That's how baby neo-communist Gen Z kids like you thrive. You think you're the cutest, smartest, cleverest little boy alive... and you're fed that by beta pussies hyping your shit up as much more cerebral and deeper than it is.

But what you are... is an overly-pretentious little hypocrite.

Nobody, myself included ever paid your juvenile japes the time of day until Ash completely pulled your punk card and your half-cocked ideology fell apart.

Then, never forget, you had to run to me for backup to take her on. Because you knew you couldn't. And that fits your entire MO, because you are a scum-sucking lamprey who will attach to anyone just that much better than you.

So insecure are you anytime someone shows even a skosh more skill than you have, you befriend them, make'em your teammate rather than step across the ring from them.

Same deal that's led to you nervously buddying up to everyone from Harvey to Trey to me to... oh look...

It only took one little Downfall-imposed sabbatical for you to go from "Ash Blake's a cancer" to "I am now teaming with Ash Blake!" Quelle surprise.

You have all of the moral authority, and not-coincidentally all of the bite, of an incontinent chihuahua.

But how dare you swagger back in here tryin'a cut the line.

Blowing kisses to me on Twitter acting like you're entitled to leapfrog through to your ascension, to finally follow through on this revolution you've long promised.

You're a child.

Unhappily for you, I'm ready to dole out enough material on child abuse to fill a sequel of the Glass Castle.

But you aren't alone, Johnny.

The last member of "Team Bacchus" (Why'd we ever buy-in to your self-fellating narcissism to let you name a team after yourself?) that I want to tell to sit his ass down; the King in Absentia, Corey Black.

I love how it's just become your brand to saunter through AW, intervening in these convoluted multi-man paydays every few months... in-between whatever shill for Denzel Porter you're working on currently.

Thing is, you spend all this time elsewhere and bring back little to show for it. You didn't do it to showcase AW as the best competition in the world.

You just wanted everyone to fuel your miniscule, small-dick Viking jarl fantasy world. Fuck you.

No matter how long you leave AW on read, while you're off taking a mid-tier spot on some boring list, off on some fanciful tournament on a cruise ship, you expect to come back and demand fealty.

You step on the ramp and expect us to kiss the ring just because you've had skin in this game for twenty years and accomplished all you have.

You're basically Chris Page, if he was only a fraction more enamored with the laboring of his own overblown Norse legend.

Truth is, oh Ozymandias, king of kings, no matter how much your words speak of your magnanimous legend, something as simple as recent history is enough to make us see you standing on the parapet with your bare ass out.

You've just been tooling around in meanless "Y am I violence" double-dutch rudders with backyard stuntmen like Robbie Big Dick or Holden Ross, claiming the dubious title of King of the Deathmatch.

But no matter how much you remind us with haughty words, no matter how forcefully you put down these bruisers in bloody combat... I can't see you as the king you want me to.

Isn't that ya abdicated the throne. It's that when you had so many chances to back that legend up recently, you showed a blinding weakness.

All it takes to assassinate the ferocious King in Black is to be a little girl half his size.

That's why it's laughable to find you even attempting to make this your saga, Corey... you are so far removed. You had your chance, multiple times over this past year... you never reclaimed what was yours. Not by a long shot.

You couldn't even make it past one round with Regan.

So when I lay it out there, I ask every one of you to consider why it's not just insulting that you were gifted this opportunity, but what makes any of you think you have a chance.

All you needed to do was walk out onto a stage when your name was called.

You weren't even part of the final finish at Revolution... nor have you been involved in this ongoing drama between Regan and me, or myself and Dandy.

You do not deserve this.

You didn't work for it.

You don't have the hunger for redemption, the feeling of your blood boiling, every day when you curse yourself for getting too cocky.

But, as with every facet of my life story, the truth is that it's been a repeating pattern for me. I have fought hard multiple times in my life only to slide. But it has never stopped me from rising back up.

That's where I find the epiphany in this match: That every one of you's someone I've encountered over the last year. Every opposing faction in this melee encapsulates an obstacle that I had to push through.

Even the few that I didn't win over the first time, I gave them such a bitter accounting of myself that I earned their god damn respect.

No, this is not, any of your stories. You are the chapters I had to go through in my progression, you are the backs I stepped on to climb the ladder the first time around.

So if you group these past side encounters in front of me here, now, I will show them, to a man, why in a field of those that swear they are the upper echelon find themselves outmatched by someone who outclasses them by such a wide margin.

I'll climb to the rafters on a stack of their bodies, if need be, and pull that contract down.

Because if I can climb to the top once... there won't be a cloud in my eye when I do it again.