Post by Johnny Bacchus on May 14, 2022 1:44:01 GMT -5
 i get you’ve been high on your own supply for the past couple months but you’re getting a hard reality check in a couple hours, you fucking brat April 16, 2022 Johnny’s head and hearing was ringing as he pushed himself up outside the ring. That white hot ugly feeling of spiking adrenaline was coursing through him – a more focused Johnny Bacchus would’ve slid right back in the ring and made some decidedly anti-MTV adjustments to Jill’s facial structure. But as if propelled by muscle memory and a distant reminder of decorum, he walked up the ramp. He couldn’t turn to look out at the crowd in the arena – his eyes kept down as every synapse in his brain seemed to be firing at once in a struggle for supremacy and attention. The ringing in his ears reached a fever pitch, even as he pushed through the curtains and found himself in the back. There was no respite: even going through gorilla, he passed the gaze of every producer and every queued coworker ready to charge at their chance to do what he failed. Were they disappointed? The reason THEY haven’t taken to you quite the same as they did prior, Johnny, is because this is a slap in the fucking face. Were they snickering? The room was spinning. What the fuck would John Thomas be saying on his show the next morning? Congratulations, Johnny Bacchus; you saved the soul of Action Wrestling at the cost of your own. The people who’d bought tickets to see him? His chest felt tight. To boo him?He saw Mae and Olive approaching him, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying. Were the Spencer Adams and Dionysus’s of the world right about him? I liked you, Dan. It’s amazing how much can change in the course of a month. One second, you’re seemingly shaking hands with someone, the next thing they’re spitting in your face and dancing on your grave. It’s funnier when you see what a difference several months makes: one moment you’re shaking hands with someone to oppose someone, a few later and you’re vice-versa. I’ll admit, I’ve been naïve and not the best judge of character. But that doesn’t say as much about me as it does about you. Trust me. At the end of the day we can say what we will about Ashley and Philidor, but unless you’ve got Sam Kidsgrove on tape to soothe your soul, we know the truth. I don’t need to relitigate anything with a mental midget who was a Nazi cabin boy just over a year ago and whose parents can’t spell “Connor”. When I think about my past decisions, I do owe it to do a bit of Spring Cleaning. I formally rescind my endorsement of you, Daniel. I’m taking your scalp, and if all goes according, I’ll take your championship to leave you what I know you are: A miserable. Empty. Failure. With no one to blame but himself. You. Are. A. Loser. It shows itself in every move you make; every pity party you throw and every word you sneer. You tell on yourself every time you snarl through gritted teeth about how two wolves jokes “definitely don’t bother you” or wipe ragetears off your cheeks every time someone calls you “DanFehl”. Twenty years in the business, and it gave you all the hallmarks of a veteran: cauliflower ear, a hockey nose, and paper-thin skin. Years in a dojo to perfect the ancient martial art of being a smug crybaby. You aren’t just a bitch – your soul is bitchmade. And that’s why in all the lead up to Havoc, you couldn’t even position yourself – in spite of all of your efforts – to cut CJ Phoenix in line for a shot at the title. No matter how good your resume looks on paper, we all know that you don’t have the balls or the guts to go it alone. Every single time you’ve ventured out of some lesser wrestler’s comforting arms, you’ve eaten shit like a knock-kneed foal – twenty years in the business and you still can’t walk unassisted. Without the medal around your neck, you’re a guy with a bunch of meaningless feathers in his hat nobody better than average is impressed with. And without Dion sewn to your side, you’re a man not defined by the successes of himself but the failures of others. That’s why you’ll tell anyone who listens that you’re Ashley’s bane, and that’s why you’ll scream from the rooftops you “Ether’d” me. Know how that legendary diss track turned out for those involved, Dannyboy? Jay-Z went on to be a billionaire, and Nas went on to beat the shit out of his wife (so I guess it suits you). Then again, I don’t expect thought from a bloviating, amoral, insecure goblin mercenary who thinks paying attention in AP English made him a Warrior Poet. I liked you, Dan. That’s why back in November I fought you with one arm behind my back. You mistook my kindness for weakness. Don’t be surprised I’m removing it and throwing a closed fist this time. May 9, 2022 Johnny hadn’t checked in with anyone after the match, and this included his teammates. He also hadn’t been answering his phone since he quietly left the Moody Center, and this was equally troubling. Nonetheless, Olive Adler felt she had enough of an inkling as to her friend’s habits to locate him, and when she reached the roof of the Austin Downtown Marriott the three of them were staying at, she found him as expected. A spliff burned between his fingers as he leaned forward on one hand to look out over the Colorado River and city skyline, and when she approached him, he stood up straight and acknowledged her with a look. “I suppose with the black and moodiness, you’ve left the punk phase for your goth phase?” she quipped, receiving a dry snicker from him in response. He offered the spliff, and she accepted it before taking a drag. “You’ve been off lately,” she said through an exhale of smoke, “Adjusting to the new shit they put you on?” “I’m not taking any fucking Lexapro,” he replied curtly, “No.” “Couldn’t even prescribe you the good anxiety meds like Xanax,” Olive lamented. “I know. The audacity.” The sound of vibration emitted from his pocket, and as he withdrew his phone, Olive caught a glimpse of the name “Mae tha 🐹 <3” on the screen. Johnny declined the call and held the power button down, swiping to turn the phone off before putting it back in his pocket. He turned back to look over the city as Olive joined him. “At least you don’t gotta herd cats next week,” she offered, only eliciting a shrug from him. “A lot less to think about not having to deal with others.” “You know,” she started hesitantly, “You can abort mission on this. We wouldn’t take it personally – she gets it. You’ve done plenty as is.” “You know when I was most successful?” Johnny interrupted as he turned towards her, his words pointed and angry, “When I didn’t give a shit about what other people thought of my actions and just did it. No, I’m not letting anyone win – not Downfall, not Dion, not Reagan, not Lissie fuckin’ Hope.” The sudden outburst startled her, and she took a step back. After a pregnant pause, he turned back to the skyline. “You wanna be alone?” Olive asked. “No,” he said before pausing, his follow up less firm and tinged with melancholy, “Not particularly.” Apologies that this isn’t my usual “petulance” and “aggrandizement”. Maybe I could give you the unbridled mockery you deserve, but I haven’t been myself lately. And no: I don’t mean by being the person standing side-by-side with Ashley Blake. I’m speaking of failing. I’m not one to fail, and up until recently, I had the legacy to prove it. I spent a reign cracking the skulls of people like your doofus partner who thought I was untested. I don’t like that they feel proven correct in retrospect, and as I’ve felt the walls closing in, I’ve wondered how it started. And it started with you. Because for as much as I’m clearly under your skin, you’re under mine. I may not give a shit about the things you say, but your success offends me. I hate that your defamation received adulation and approval. I hate that you got and botched opportunities while I struggled to survive. I hate the oinking farm animals who root you on after dragging me through the mud. But as you took glee in blindsiding me back in November, I’m going to revel in taking your heart just to show you I always could. I'm going to love our settled score being on a mundane Clash eclipsed by XIII. Call this an exorcism – call it an expungement or an atonement. But I’m going to wash my hands of shaking with the one person I never should’ve: You. You don’t have to be my Jesus, but you were my hammer. And I used you, Dan, but I didn’t need you. Anything you can do, I can do better. For instance: Do you know the story of the Farmer and the Snake? A farmer opens his door on a frigid night to find a dying snake. Moved, he lets it inside to get warm. When it’s sufficiently resuscitated, it turns around and bites the farmer for his troubles. Falling, the farmer asks “Why?” The snake replies, “I’m a snake. You knew that when you let me in.” Of course, not every bite is fatal, nor is every snake as venomous as they believe. So imagine the snake’s surprise when the farmer, though in agony from the bite, reached for his shotgun. Maybe a few more bites would do the job, but the farmer’s learned his lesson and doesn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. The snake learned a lesson, too: finish the job before gloating. Allow me to demonstrate. May 16, 2022 Much had changed in a month. As he stood back in gorilla, staring out through the curtains, Johnny didn’t feel the same rush he used to. The nervousness and anxiety was there, but it was different. Inverted. While a creeping dread sat in the pit of his stomach and slowly inched it’s way up his spine, the overwhelming emotion was one of cold detachment and familiar numbness. Who knew what the reaction would be? Who cared? When he looked away from the audience, he found that Ash had joined him, though he wasn’t sure when. Her eyes traveled to his prior view, and she regarded the crowd with stoic judgment. “I told you they wouldn’t understand,” she remarked. “That’s okay,” Johnny replied, “They don’t need to.” She turned to look at him, and their eyes met, two masks of grim certainty. “How’d you do it?” he asked after a pause, “Tune them out? Ignore the anger?” Her lips parted in a sly smile, her eyes lighting to match a battered grin. “I can hear them,” she replied, “But when you’re half deaf, it’s easy to pretend you don’t.” She reached into the pocket of her jacket and withdrew a set of earplugs. “Here,” she offered, “You don’t owe anyone anything.” His music hit. He took the plugs from her hand. When he made his way onto the stage, he could hardly hear, let alone care, what anyone thought. |
