Post by Carter Shaw on Mar 5, 2022 23:51:48 GMT -5
2/25/22
Atlantic City, NJ
This match felt different. They all feel different, in their own way, every time, but it was the stakes of this one that felt different. #1 contendership for that World Title felt different. Part of it could have been that Shaw felt like he already held a piece of that pie until the moment Dandy defeats him one on one in that ring. Like it was a rightful claim of his for as long as he could still utter the words Death, Taxes, Shaw Beats Dandy with an ounce of self-truth.
But there was more to it. Was it the danger of a ladder match? That wasn’t anything new, Shaw had been there, conquered that before. No danger of any match had ever been off-putting to Shaw. Maybe it was because of the pressure he was putting on himself. What was different about it? The uphill battle it has been since the collapse of Philidor, sure. The scurrying for relevancy after failing to recapture his AW World Championship to close 2021, sure.
There was still something else.
Shaw pulled off the turnpike in his Jeep Wrangler, wiper blades gently sweeping away the soft rain Atlantic City was being graced with. Seeing the lights of the city brought him back to his former “home” outside of Las Vegas. Naturally, his first instinct was to spend the day playing the tables to ease himself into the area for the weekend. He wanted to put that suit jacket back on, pull the collar snug, and have himself a seat at the high roller’s table…
Ah. That was it.
That’s what was different.
This Casino Ladder match wasn’t just for a #1 contendership for him. It wasn’t just about an attempt to get a second run with the AW title.
No.
What he needed was to earn his spot into a match at Battlebowl, so he could collect a Pay Per View paycheck.
Shaw’s head dropped as he rolled past a few slot casinos and turned right, following a road that took him out of the heart of it all. Away from the glitz and glamor that he couldn’t afford to be a part of right now. Away from the life he once lived.
This town ain’t big enough for the two of us.
Well ain’t we just a glorious old Western, Jill Park? The duels that keep on comin’. And just when you think you should be dead and gone…boom, sequel. And you’re just a regular Yosemeti Sam, firing every bullet you’ve got; hitting the ground, hitting the trees, hitting the clouds, hitting everything but the one thing you need to hit. Me.
Let’s go ahead and talk about the Submission Match at Revolution, because you have loved using the one excuse I did NOT want to let you have. I outsmarted you, I outfought you. And the ending visual for all to see was Carter Shaw putting Jill Park out of her misery.
But your hand didn’t hit that mat quite the way I wanted it to. You didn’t submit, and the fact that the stipulation in our match contract was ignored by our referee is now rendered irrelevant. You got the last gasp of excuse you needed in the form of me knocking you the fuck out. Go ahead, cling on to that little nugget for dear life. Because, suddenly, the stakes have gone up even higher.
Shaw.
Park.
Hell In A Cell.
Now this is how you do your damn job, Mr. Pasternak. This is how you drive Clash ratings through the roof, this is how you manage to eliminate any and all scalpers standing outside the Smoothie King Center because nobody is giving a ticket away to this one. Evo season comes early, and I won’t be wearin’ no ankle braces to this party. Not a chance, let’s do this one raw.
Last week, we saw our chance at that #1 Contendership chip go up in flames when I couldn’t fucking resist bringing you straight to hell via Concussion Protocol. I needed that damn match, I wanted to earn that ride back towards Dandy DiVito so damn bad…but. I knew that. I knew that in that brief moment of thought as we stood on that ring apron beside all of those ladders. I knew that as I lifted you up straight in the air…and in that moment, I knew that as bad as I wanted that World Championship opportunity, I wanted to wreck you more.
The match wasn’t big enough for the both of us.
And I have a feeling that until we truly BURY THIS SHIT, we’re gonna keep finding ourselves in these types of moments. To be honest, I’m getting sick of this ill thorn in my side. Almost as much as I’m getting sick of your opportunities by association and the failing upwards that you’ve mastered way more than any goddamn submission.
Your little game of comparing your AW ascension to mine, whether you do it consciously or not, is officially a dead horse. At least you’re beating something, right? How did I rise the ranks? Winning All-In, beating top star after top star in classic underestimated shock fashion, killing The Following, cashing that All-In to JOIN the Evolution Main Event, and then going on to win it.
You?
You beat Frank Patrick Venable. Talk about beating a dead horse. And then? You lost your All-In opportunity, although your rage towards Kyle Kemp saw you attached to his heel for the rise…You failed to capitalize on getting Kemp and myself out of your way at Turmoil…and then after losing to me at Revolution, you managed to pull the old tagalong routine off again getting into that Casino Ladder Match.
If you wanted a piggyback ride, all ya had to do was ask.
And here you are, Jill. The next big thing, huh? The new generation of Action Wrestling? Bitch, people have been losing their way to the top around here for years. Your schtick is no breath of fresh air, it’s recirculated.
Top of the world, but your world isn’t real. Your world’s an ideal.
And now we’ll be surrounded by steel. I built a career on that shit while you were still usin’ the family’s bank account to pay your parking tickets. Before you even had the impulse to take that one wrestling class you took, I was throwin’ fists inside a cage. Max Daemon can play MMA tough all he wants, but you’ll be reminded over and over again where I come from. You were chokin’ on the silver spoon while I was earning the money for my family.
You don’t get what you want. Not this time. Not when it comes to Carter Shaw. You can play the “I don’t care” game all you want, but if you didn’t care, you wouldn’t…fucking…be…here. This ain’t a game you can conquer at the snap of your fingers and I think you’ve spent all your months in Action Wrestling figuring that out. Sorry I’m not sorry it’s not going your way. Maybe Regan can solve all your problems after this one, but I’m not an issue you’re able to pay away.
Let’s tear each other apart one more time, but don’t waste any of your eggs in the basket of expected victory. Save those eggs for achievable hopes. CruiserClash is always accepting applications. But let’s be real, there’s a reason they’re putting us inside the Cell.
Action Wrestling ain’t big enough for the two of us.
And there’s no need for the public to wait until Battlebowl to witness a battlefield, instead they’ll bear witness to another Jill Park folly. Of epic proportions. Don’t tell me that the Hell In A Cell is in your wheelhouse too, your teeth can’t handle any more lies comin’ through them. Let me put this into Casino terms, considering the most recent scenery I just dropped you in.
The Flop: Jill Park and Carter Shaw do a couple dances. A tag team encounter against Dandy and Kemp. A World Title match that neither succeeded in.
The Turn: Carter Shaw defeats Jill Park at Revolution in a Submission Match via referee stoppage as Jill Park goes night night.
This is where the sweat builds at your brow. Sorry, Park, let me rephrase. Perspiration glistens from your brow. The anticipation tears you up inside. Those butterflies, Jill? Those are nerves. You may not feel them often, as someone who doesn’t give a shit about anyone or anything, but you know that the stakes here are alot heavier than just a Hell In A Cell Clash Main Event…the stakes here? You’re all fuckin in, whether you choose to be or not. Your hand is forced by your own doing.
The River.
Carter Shaw defeats Jill Park on Clash in Hell In A Cell. Clear cut. Undisputed. Simply put.
You can call me Jill Park’s dead man’s hand.
2/29/22 1:08 AM
Pleasantville, NJ
Shaw pulled his car into the Park n Ride, noting the 2 cars in the far corner before shifting to park in the opposite corner. Killing the engine, he rested back into his seat and let his head rest as much as he could in the seated position. With a grunt, he reached to his back that was throbbing in pain. The Ladder match left him in a physical wreck, as expected. Rubbing at his temples, he watched the dancing light sneaking on to his dashboard from the swaying lightpost nearby.
He turned his head both ways, looking out both the driver’s side and passenger’s side windows, as if expecting company. The sigh that followed was deep and long, as if he were cleansing his entire body of every last ounce of breath.
He turned his body in a stretch, trying to loosen the many tight, bruised muscles, before turning his entire body and crawling in between the front seats to the flattened back of the Wrangler. With the seats down, it was quite roomy.
He dragged his knees a couple of times over the 2 layers of blankets, giving the pillow a shove to fluff it before settling in to lay flat. Outside the back window, the stars managed to outshine some of the glare from the light posts.
The loss hurt. He needed that Battlebowl paycheck. The surprise garnishings and repossessions had finally come to an end at the hands of his former association and it was time to rebuild quickly. Brick by brick. It wasn’t just a mantra to rebuild himself within the Philidor-less confines of Action Wrestling, but his entire life had been torn down. All eggs in one basket.
He was comfortable enough, adjusting only a few times before finding a spot with the aid of the blankets beneath him where the car wasn’t as rough on his hurting body. This was a fine resting place, although not ideal after a ladder wreck.
His phone vibrated from the nearby cup holder, Shaw reaching up over his head to grab it. The letters “KH” appeared, Shaw holding off a moment before picking the “Decline” option. He closed his eyes tight for a moment before reaching back up and placing the phone back in its holder. He reached over to the far car door, grabbing hold of a small book with a pen hooked upon the cover. He flipped through a few pages and clicked the pen. He scribbled a few words down from his bed on wheels:
Every time I wake, it’s a chance to wake up a new person. To wake as somebody else.
Carpe Hate’em
Seize The Hate
I’m no Hatebringer like Corey Bull, who I hope is burning in a miserable post-AW life, because I don’t hate aimlessly. I don’t hate with reckless abandon. I hate with intention.
I hate you, Jill Park, and let me tell you why. You walk around here trying so hard to make sure those around you think you don’t give a fuck. You can write me off outloud all you want. “You don’t give a shit about Carter Shaw,” right? That’s fine. I don’t need your care. You can treat AW like shit all you want, but the funny thing is…
You’re afraid to admit that this industry and your success within it is all you have. You haven’t been able to get anything else off the ground, despite the opening advantage of the silver spoon upbringing. You can’t wrap your head around the possibility of failure. It’s not that you don’t know failure. You know failure, alright. It’s that you’re incapable of understanding it and accepting it. The problem there? Is that one who doesn’t understand their failure can’t learn from it.
Why are you even here, Park? You can’t be bothered to put in the extra effort to be great, but then you sit there wondering why you aren’t great. You want to be some known personality? Chasing fame? You could’ve pursued that shit in 20 different directions given the financial leg up you had from the get go.
Your current trials and tribulations of Carter Shaw is the closest thing you’ve come to your life being hard. It’s pathetic and I fucking hate you for it. I fought and I fight because I’ve got nothing else. This is it. This is me. The only talent I’ve ever had and the only talent I sought to hone. I admit that to the world, to your face, while you can’t even admit the simple fact that you lost a match. You deserve every single bit of what I’ve put you through. The self doubt, the second guessing. The course correction on anything you thought you were great at. Jill Park is no submission specialist. You’re a specialist of nothing, and it’s because you’ve yet to, in your years of living, put the effort in to specialize in anything.
The Frankle Lock? Fuck off, keep huggin’ my ankle. Hang me from a ladder with it. This nod, albeit hilarious, to FPV has run its course and no longer holds up as ‘cutesy’. Linking yourself to Regan Voorhees solves none of your issues and fills none of your cracks. What did you think that was gonna solve? What do you think Affluenza is gonna create?
See. You’ve got more questions surrounding you then I do and that’s sayin’ something. There’s a reason Hell In A Cell was decided upon when the brass figured out that we needed to go head to head one more time. It’s not because we needed some demonic structure to contain our battle. It’s not because the dreaded steel signifies some heavy ending to our rivalry.
Nah.
It’s because everyone but you knows that you need to go through hell first before you have any chance at achieving anything else beyond Participation Awards. The cell is merely décor, but the hell? Your hell is a necessary evil, I’m nothing but the one with the ability to serve it.
I’m like a C-Section, allowing you the chance at rebirth by a new path. A path on which you LEARN from your failures. A path on which you PUT the effort in to achieve MORE. Maybe this is something you’ll see for the first time when you wake up realizing that I put you to sleep one more time. Your wheelhouse.
But right now? Standing before me? The Jill Park I’ve been fighting for 4 months now? You’ve fooled yourself into thinking you're talented because you had the right connections to get a foot in the door. You’ve fooled yourself into thinking you’re a star by turning your own camera 180 degrees and hitting record. You’ve let a life of luxury guide your headspace into the clouds without taking the stairs. You’re Dandy DiVito with tits and better teeth. The only difference is that Dandy gave a shit when it came to results and getting better in order to achieve them.
4 “title reigns” later, and what you’ve got is an example of what you could become. You’re smarter than most. The way you’ve conned your way up the ladder is admirable, and I’ve said this to you before. The tactics you deployed have been efficient and well thought out. And yet, you still find yourself stuck at my doorstep once again.
This is not a coincidence.
This is not happenstance.
You need me, Park. You need me just as much as I need you. Because I need you to have someone to beat again and again as loud reminders that I was the best AW had to offer through 2021 and nothing has fuckin’ changed, including the fact that I’ve never been granted my fair and even rematch to the throne I left an ass indent in. And you need me as an adversary who won’t give up on beating you. Trust me, I’ll do it for as many times as it takes for you to benefit from it.
You’re welcome.
It’s only fitting that we do this so soon after Mardi Gras, because I would fucking love to give up Jill Park for Lent, please and thank you. We need this to be done. Because until it is, we might as well continue to destroy chances for each other along the road of opportunity. How’s your head feeling, by the way, because that Concussion Protocol last week was so damn worth it in the moment…when the moment comes, Jill…when the moment comes that you look yourself in the mirror and finally embrace your reality…
Be ready to catch some beads in New Orleans.
Because you’ll finally see that you’re nothing but a flash in the pan.
There will be enough room in the cell for the two of us. The world that awaits us afterward, however…
3/3/22
New Orleans, LA
The Friday Night Fights gym had emptied out for the day as Mike Tata rounded up some papers in his small office near the ring. Cell phone pinched between his shoulder and ear, he spoke while continuing to gather his necessary things.
“Yeah, we’re completely squared away for tomorrow night…main event is locked down, girls are all set, we got the python and I may even have JoJo the Clown swing by and do a set before the 4th and 5th…I know, but hey, since when do I turn down ‘hokey’”
His voice echoes a bit through the empty gym, but an echo on the opposite side of the gym acts as a response. A man walks across the already-dark side of the equipment before making his way around the ring. Mike looks up, having heard the noise, and walks over to his doorway.
“Hey, we’re closed.”
He had a muddled accent, part Louisiana, part natural bravado. As the figure came to light during the approach, Carter Shaw appeared before him with a hand up in some sort of ‘I come in peace’ motion.
“Hey, I saw you still had some lights on and I…”
“Whatcha need, man? -Hey, Vince, I’mma call you back- You forget somethin’ from earlier?”
Shaw slowly nodded as he stood closer to the man.
“Was wondering if you had any spots left in your fights for tomorrow night?” Shaw asked with no hesitation, nor introduction, as Mike squinted a bit as he started to recognize some facial features. He spoke slower in response.
“Naw man, I don’t, the card is set…you, do I know you? You fight here before?” Mike asked, leaning in for an even better absorbance of info.
“No, I haven’t. Just in town for the week and was lookin’ for a fight is all. Can I leave you my number if one of your fighters flake?” Shaw speaks clear and confident, laced with respect for the small time venue he stood in. Mike Tata laughed softly.
“My fighters don’t flake, bud. But I know you…” He took the face in for another moment before it clicked. “You Carter Shaw?”
Shaw nodded once, not letting the calm intensity leave his face.
“What the hell you doin’ lookin’ for a fight at Friday Night Fights, man, aren’t you competing this weekend?” Mike asked genuinely.
“Just lookin’ to get into a fight. If you’ve got no spots, it’s all good.” Shaw said in a surprisingly polite manner. Like the old version of himself, just looking for a fight for some prize money.
“I ain’t got no fights for you, brother, but you can absolutely be a part of the show! You wanna cut a promo or somethin’ inbetween fights? Or just holler at the crowd for a minute?”
Shaw paused for a moment. On instinct, he wanted to blast the guy for denying a ‘draw’. But he swallowed his words, swallowed this version of himself.
“Will it pay?”
Mike fidgeted a bit, looking around awkwardly.
“I, uh…I mean, I can cut ya 40 bucks for doin’ a promo for us? Might help you draw to your fight too.”
Shaw paused once again, feeling slapped in the face by the suggestion that he might need help drawing attention to his Hell In A Cell main event on Clash. He also caught the feeling that the man before him didn’t know this.
“...I shouldn’t have come in here, good luck with your fights.” Shaw turns his body as he speaks, walking back towards the ring punching bags for the exit. He walks slowly, slipping a hand in his pocket.
“Wait!” Tata yelled from behind him. Shaw froze, a smirk creeping across his face. He wiped it clean before he turned around to give the man a genuine raise of the eyebrows.
“I’ll pay you 200 if you’d be willing to lose to one of my regulars.” Mike Tata spoke with a cocky edge. Shaw walked towards him once more with sudden aggression.
“Are you fucking kidding me? You’ve got a chance to have Carter Shaw on your fight card, and you wanna offer me a throw?!” As he gets close to Tata, he grabs a handful of shirt and looks angrily in the man’s face. “Who the FUCK do you think you’re talkin’ to?”
Silence besets the room.
Tata lifts his chin, seemingly happy to let Shaw keep hold.
Shaw’s piercing blue eyes might as well be fire…before they calm a bit.
“Make it 400, by choke out.”