The First Step Towards the Next Step
Aug 5, 2022 14:37:25 GMT -5
CJ Phoenix, Addy A, and 7 more like this
Post by Johnny Bacchus on Aug 5, 2022 14:37:25 GMT -5
When Johnny Bacchus answered the knock on his hotel room door, he expected Lissie Hope to be his caller. He’d even expected to greet her affectionately, perhaps with a long hug and a quick peck, taking the moment to enjoy the feeling of semi-resolution between them. What he did not expect was that the moment the door was opened, Lissie would reach out to grab his face and pull it to hers, her lips mashing against his as she pressed her body against him with a contented sigh. “Hey…” she said softly as they drew apart, her eyes going from his to the startled look on his face. She looked down, an oddly shy smile crossing her lips. “Sorry, it’s been quite a week!” “No, you’re good…” he said, taking a moment as if to catch his breath, “Still just kind of can’t believe this.” “You’re a champ” she said, a twinge of guilt hitting his chest, “I’m getting my chance to be one again. It’s kind of a dream.” “It feels like it, doesn’t it?” She looked back into his eyes, then stood up on her tip-toes to press her mouth back to his. His apprehension subsided, and for a fleeting moment they almost lost themselves in the doorway of the hotel room. They laughed softly like two school children as they parted. “So what do you wanna do today?” Lissie asked through a semi-ragged breath. “What do you want to do today, soon-to-be champ?” Johnny replied, bopping her on the nose. “Stop! I don’t wanna get too overconfident!” she said with a blush and a writhe, “But you? All-In is a game-changer. And it’s right there for you. Everything is at your fingertips.” “Feels like a lot is at my fingertips these days,” he said almost disbelieving, giving her a squeeze on the waist which elicited a girlish squeal. “There’s a cute little place down the street. Lulo, I think? I can put something else on and we can eat in. We don’t have to be secret anymore – and I need some sunlight.” “Well,” he replied as he raised the crock of his arm to her, “Why wait?” She frowned and looked back down. “I look like shit though…” “I don’t care how you look,” he said sheepishly, eliciting a blush from her, “Plus, it'll keep us from being hassled.” “True,” she said thoughtfully, “Let me get ready.” She made her way to his bathroom, closing the door behind her. He heard the faucet turn on and the faint sound of brushing – he wondered apprehensively if she kept a toothbrush in her purse or she’d just snatched his up. When the door opened, and she stepped out, he didn’t have time to catch sight of his bathroom arrangement to confirm his suspicion – her hair was primped, and she beamed at him. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, now taking his arm, “It’s gonna be a good day.” “The first of many,” he responded as they closed the door behind them, hoping it was true. Downfall. Fucking Downfall. Of course it has to be you, Dan. I’m sure you’re thinking the same thing: “Bacchus. Fucking Bacchus. Of course it has to be you, Bacchus.” Regan got a once-more apathetic Cass Adler – CJ got a dispirited Addy A – Kemp got to shove Elijah Martin’s head in a toilet, and Cashe got to play footsies with your own tag partner who no longer has eyes for you. Shit, Dan, Jill and Gemini just got waltzed through the door. But that ain’t how shit’s worked for us ever, eh? Nah, gotta fluff up the favorite sons and daughters, while the outsiders are left to fight over the broken cue stick like a scene in the Dark Knight. It must make you seethe, doesn’t it – looking at all the golden tickets and free rides every other “unworthy peon” got on the way to a big make-or-break match to get that blank check? After a full year of grinding and demanding respect – after being Wrestler of the Year, making the cover of AW2kwhatever, becoming a double champion, and smashing the second reign record of your career – you could’ve gotten thrown in the ring with Holden Ross or Tatiana Jolee or some other flailing dork trying not to swallow their own tongue. But you got Bacchus. Fucking Bacchus. Of course it had to be Bacchus. And it must make you seethe. It’s funny to think how much has changed between us and in my regards to you over the past half year, Daniel. I could maybe launch into some tirade that’s full of unbridled mockery and savor the moment that I look you in the eye while I pull the plug on your hemorrhaging career. But I find it difficult to do that. See, I’m not you, and I’m selective about who I chose to kick while they’re down – I’ll laugh in Winnieboy’s face as I did Regan until you gave her a shot in the arm (oops), but when it comes to you? My feelings are a bit more muted in their glee. I don’t enjoy your downfall, Downfall – I pity you. And we know that makes you seethe. Can anyone say they’ve had a worse year than you after such a promising start? After all of your hard work to finally scratch and claw to the top of the mountain – the same mountain that eluded you over a twenty year career – you finally made it. But it’s difficult being at the top of the world, isn’t it? There’s not much room, and the air is thin – a line forms behind you, eager to push you off and make room for themselves, not a care at all about your perseverance or fatigue. You hardly had time to feel the belt in your hands before Affluenza slithered out of the shadows to eclipse your moment and set their sights on you. Regan Voorhees played you like a fiddle. She got under your skin and took your eye off the ball, even if just long enough to swing, miss, and watch it land in Winston DiVito’s catcher’s mitt. And in your rage and insult, you continued to swing madly like Casey at the bat, watching the next ball go to Corey Black and then Carter Shaw and even CJ Fuckin’ Phoenix. Swing – miss – swing – miss. And every time, you seethed. Every time you watched someone fail to topple the man holding your belt in his tattooed little gremlin hands, you had to sit in the back while Dion rubbed your shoulders and gave you a pep talk. You clutched that Tag Titles belt like Gollum with the ring and insisted through gritted teeth that it was all that mattered to you now, even though nobody believed it. Then the pitch came at Evolution. Put up or shut up – prove those Tag Titles do matter to Daniel Fehl and are not just a begrudging consolation prize – take revenge on Affluenza again for stealing your moment, prove to Insurgentsia that you have our number as you claim, and assert yourself over the Swallowing to cement yourself as the greatest Tag Team Champion of all time. Swing… And a miss. And now you wear your crown of thorns upon your liar’s chair, looking over your empire of dirt wondering if you can build a final sand castle from the rubble. Regan Voorhees continued to frustrate you in your desperate flailing, but you have one last shot to get back to where you know you belong and prove that this year is still your year. You’ve climbed to the top before, haven’t you? All you have to do is do it again at All-In, right? And then? Bacchus. Fucking Bacchus. Of course it has to be Bacchus. I said I wouldn’t stick to much of our past history, but it’s hard not to see this past month as a relitigation of your Wrestler of the Year tournament run. A staggering defeat at the hands of Regan Voorhees, one of the most transparently cartoonish muppets on the roster, is practically a shot to the gut for your credibility. But there is unfinished business between us, isn’t there? I need not remind you that back in November, I was complimentary of you – you repaid me in kind by spitting in my face. Perhaps it’s petty to cling to that – this is a cutthroat business, and there’s no honor among thieves – but it’s hard not to see this as the ultimate relitigation. You see, I think if I’d not held back, it would be me who was Wrestler of the Year. And you think I’m an unworthy peon who can’t get past the mighty Daniel Fehl. I said it last week, and I’ll say it to you: the measure of a champion is your ability to bend but not break beneath the lash. There’s nobody in this company we’ve seen more thoroughly broken than Daniel Fehl. Through each and every humiliation you’ve suffered, we’ve watched Samson dragged before the Palestinians with his mane chopped to ruins, a snip here and snip there, as you barely struggle within your bonds. Perhaps we’ve even seen you reach up and snip your own locks – after all, such crude self-debasement and laceration is one of your hallmarks, is it not? But the scars of struggle are lost on you, Daniel. Normally, a life of adversity would straighten your back and callous your skin, but with you? We’ve seen your back bow in shame and sag under the weight of your juggled ego and irreconcilable failures. We’ve seen the burden overbear you until those hellhounds on your tail tore you apart. We watched Sisyphus push the boulder up the hill to see it roll back down, and we’ve seen the albatross around your neck pull you under the tide. What happened, Dan? Did you run out of fables to tell and lose inspiration for spinning your own? Your defeats were supposed to forge a phoenix rising from the ashes, but instead you’ve slunk back under the rock you came from to mumble about me like a jealous little bridge troll. Regan Voorhees, Jill Park, and every other vermin on this roster are frolicking about while you lick your wounds. Carter Shaw ate shit in what would’ve been your redemptive Havoc win and Evolution main event, and a mustache-twirling ghoul like Gerard Angelo overthrew the nemesis who wouldn’t even return your calls. You’re a fucking cuckold, Daniel Fehl. I should’ve never let you happen. And I’m rectifying that mistake for good. No, the farmer hasn’t relaxed after firing the first shot into the snake – he’s calmly leveling the second barrel to make sure it stays dead. She was right – LULO Kitchen was a cute little restaurant, and it had been only a few blocks walk from the Hilton Johnny had booked his room at in downtown Cleveland. They sat out at a table on the streetery, sunglasses and baseball caps providing just enough disguise to allow privacy and feign normalcy outside the occasional interruption from a keen-eyed pedestrian. But even those occasional distractions didn’t ruffle Johnny as much as they had since March, when he was under the height of public scrutiny for his recently revealed affiliation with Ashley Blake – these distractions came in the form of an occasional teen asking for a picture or an autograph, not jeers or heckles. It was different. But in the moments they shared undisturbed, it was a pleasant moment of carefully measured intimacy. It helped that the food was good. “Oh man,” Johnny said after taking a bite, before the realization he was speaking with his mouth full elicited a hand to conceal it, “This was a good choice. Here.” He offered up a morsel on his fork, and she leaned forward, making playful eye contact as her lips parted and she accepted it into her mouth. She giggled as she pulled back and chewed. “I’ve been making better ones lately.” “I’m certainly not complaining,” he said with a shrug. “What’s to complain about – an All-In shot is a big deal, Jay. And if anyone deserves it, it’s you.” “Flattery will get you everywhere,” he replied coyly. “I’m serious!” she said as she put her fork down and gave him a light shove on the shoulder, “Dan had his shot – fuck him. We know you can take him and everyone else in that match. This will be huge for you.” Johnny placed his own fork down, now reaching out to take her hands. He smiled at her. “If things go our way, we may have a looot of tension soon.” “You already beat me for a title once,” she replied with a playful grin, and a second twinge of guilt hit him, “You think I’d let that happen twice?” “That’s where the tension arises, doesn’t it?” “Only if we let it,” she reassured him, “But Downfall is the first step. What can I do? What do you need from me?” “Dunno,” he said with a shrug, “This is a first step for me. You’ve walked it before.” “Let’s get a workout in,” she suggested, “The Hilton has a really nice set-up.” He gave a dry laugh. “Guess I’ll pull double duty between you and Ashley.” She flinched at the name – it was an instinct she caught just barely, but it wasn’t lost on him. Even after the past weeks, scars took time to heal. Nonetheless, she recovered her demeanor and smiled excitedly at him. “Maybe we should do steps - we can run through the stairwell until security kicks us out,” she suggested, “Get those thighs ready to climb that ladder!” “Oh god, if my thighs could look half as good as yours.” She blushed and squeezed his hands. “You’re so sweet when you wanna be.” “You haven’t been around me much one-on-one until recently,” he said looking down, his smile oddly shy. “Well it’s only us tonight,” she replied softly, her eyes big and her smile wide, “Now let’s go earn that night. Work before play.” “Work before play,” he agreed, “I’ll get the check, then let’s get to work.” But while I’ll take no joy in this, Daniel, I know that this is the worst possible outcome for you. Everything is on the line with this one match that some would consider inconsequential – but you know that isn’t the case, is it? You’ll fancy yourself to be arch-rivals with my associate, but all roads in your time here in AW have led back to one person: Me. It was me who primed your pump to have that triumphant pinfall over Ash Blake in our Hellimination match against Philidor, crowning you as a genuine contender who was content swimming alongside medium fish in the tag division. It was me who stood in your way at Wrestler of the Year, knowing that whichever of us won that match would take the tournament. It was me who knocked you off a ladder and denied you a chance at revenge on Winston, and it was me who begrudgingly pinned you before Evolution to give portent to your tag reign’s end. I was the one up on that ladder against the Swallowing – I am the one who now holds your precious tag belts – and I will be the one you have to get through if you want to get to All-In. And it makes you seethe. Your back is to the wall. Everything is on the line for you. Because just like Robert Johnson at the Crossroads, we’re meeting once more, and it’s time to determine who’s the devil and who’s the down-on-their-luck with one foot in an early grave. The Legend of Daniel Fehl can no longer be a patchwork of Aesops and cautionary tales – it needs its own voice and weight. You understand this, and that’s why you rage against your own partner like he was the machine, practically ready to smash every framed picture of you two together and wishing desperately you could go back to before you were Nightingale’s golf caddy who could stand on his own two feet. Who is Daniel Fehl? A man defined by others. Defined by usurping the usurper, running as one of two wolves, screwed by Dandy DiVito, swallowed by the Swallowing… and the thorn in Johnny Bacchus’s side. Because Daniel Fehl is an empty, bitter man. Daniel Fehl lives in his mythology because he knows the man behind the curtain is only a man. And trying to wear that on your sleeves doesn’t deflect you from facing that truth – I’m dating Lissie Hope, for fuck’s sake. But you’ve always been the type to deflect, so it’s no surprise I elicit a certain strain of disgust from your stomach. You’ve always been an insufferable, self-serious try-hard, so to spend your early days being casually mocked by a terminally online twink would only naturally make you “definitely not mad”. You cut your strings from Nightingale only to dangle them in front of me and not expect to have a few chords plucked – I just happened to conduct your orchestra and make you sing. I used you, Daniel – you were a tool to me. And I still think you’re a tool, just of a different definition. And it’s clear that my recent turn towards the more dour has caught you off-guard. I’m a man of many talents, and I’ve always been a fashionista – changing hats is my forte. But I think what stuns you is my ease of success. Oh, sure, there were some Jill Park-shaped bumps along the road, but we’re far past hazardous roads. What matters is I’m here now, holding your belt. Come Monday, I’ll be primed to finalize my ascent to the top and claim my All-In briefcase to watch Gerard Angelo start fidgeting in his seat. By year’s end, I have every intention of hoisting both your precious Tag Titles over my head and your precious World Title – with the attention spans of those in the back, they probably won’t remember you did the same at the start of the year. And it won’t have taken me twenty years in this business. It won’t have taken me paying dues or training at some dojo in Japan. I’ll have done it with the simple natural talent and intelligence you never possessed but worked so hard to emulate. And that? That will make you seethe. They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but it seems evident now that your insecure self-diagnosis was correct: cursed, mediocre blood runs through your veins. You have the most golden of opportunities here, ready to give Insurgentsia a black eye before our match with King Shit, and you could savor retribution by proxy. You could humiliate me and leave me lying on my back with CJ Phoenix giving a sarcastic applause as I have to wonder what our place on Uprising will be. You could get that second wind to climb the ladder and secure the briefcase to demonstrate that reports of your demise were greatly exaggerated. But you won’t. You can’t. Because you could never bear the lash without breaking, unlike me. And that makes you seethe. What happens to the Ballad of Daniel Fehl when the music stops and the fat lady sings this Monday? What will happen when your eyes open on the canvas and you’re staring up into the house lights, blinded by your failures, and desperately covering your ears so you don’t have to hear my name called out? Will you hear no evil, see no evil, and speak no evil? Or will you think back to how this all started and remember that desperate ploy to get past me, leaning on my goodwill and running your premature victory lap? I’ve had some bumps along the road, Daniel. You’ve had your licks over me in time. But I'm gonna break your heart, kid. Because I always win in the end. "When are they gonna kiss? This is ridiculous.” Lissie laughed as her eyes left the television to look over at Johnny, his eyes peering over the top of his copy of Guerilla Warfare at the simmering tension on the screen. “I knew you were watching,” she said with satisfaction as she scooted closer to nuzzle against him, “This showmance will ruin his game. I don’t think he should.” “This alliance isn’t perfect, but it’s about fucking time the good guys to win.” “Do you think we’re a showmance?” Lissie said, looking up at him, “Will it isolate us from the rest of the locker room?” “I don’t let others dictate my happiness,” he replied dismissively, “If they genuinely care about you, it shouldn’t change their perception of you.” “I need to be more like you,” she mused as her eyes turned back to the television, “I care too much. When you’ve been hated for so long – I just don’t want it to get worse.” “I care a lot, Tiger,” he responded, giving her head an affectionate scratch, “Some people you just can’t sway.” Her eyes darkened and fell from the TV looking down at their bodies before her, her lips curling down into a frown. “Did you sway Ash?” she asked with quiet contemplation. “I did not,” he replied matter-of-factly, drawing her eyes up to his face in confusion. He smiled back at her, quietly and confidently. “You did.” Her eyes water, a combination of emotions welling up as she squeezed him tightly around the chest. “Jay…” she started hesitantly before taking a deep breath, “I’m sorry, I know it’s a guarded subject – but if we want to do this and be something… and I do want to be something, I’m just always worried about being hurt again… I need you to be honest with me. Why Ash? What about her has you so committed and invested? Why is she so important to you?” A silence fell between them, finally broken by a dry laugh as a knowing smile spread across Johnny’s face. “You really wanna know?” he asked. “Please,” she asked firmly, her eyes looking up at him pleadingly, “I need to know.” He looked down at her, the grin fading into a quiet smile. He stroked her cheek gently as he looked into her eyes. “Okay.” He rose suddenly, leaving his book facedown on the bed as he walked over to the window, his eyes looking out over the Cleveland skyline like a hawking searching for prey. “They’re still out there,” he stated plainly. “Who?” Lissie asked, her eyebrows cocking in confusion. “You know who.” Her blood ran cold. As thoughts raced through her head, she rose and crossed the room to him. “No,” she said softly, desperate to justify his words in her mind, “They can’t be. You beat them.” “You think Garvey kneeled over a FedEx box and cut his own head off?” he replied bluntly. She stood in stunned silence, looking at him, her eyes a mixture of awe and horror. Her words were stuck in her throat. He turned and looked her in the eye, his own hazel eyes filled with sad understanding. “She knows them better than anyone, Tiger,” he continued, “She’s the key to finding them. Tagging in a wrestling company is a convenient way to conceal our movement around the world – the briefcase and hopefully title even more so – but I need to know where in the world to go. She knows. And that is why I need Ash Blake.” “What will you do when you succeed?” she asked quietly, “When you’ve accomplished this goal?” “Dunno,” he replied with a shrug and a grin before turning back to the window, “But whatever I do? I’m going to enjoy it.” |
