Post by Ash Blake on Aug 20, 2022 19:24:03 GMT -5
As Ash's boot swung gracefully through the air, Johnny Bacchus was able to get a cross-armed block up in front of his body. Her shin connected hard against his forearms as the blow, even though successfully defended, forced him to take a step back. She landed on all fours, her leg now extended and sweeping for him as a natural extension of the spinning high kick, and though he managed to jump, she caught him beneath the heel and brought him to his back.
"You need to anticipate a more skilled opponent's progression," she remarked as she rose to her feet, "Not everyone's going to swing like a boxer or grapple like a standard technician."
Johnny rolled backwards onto a knee, planting one hand down on the mat as he caught his breath. This was a longer sparring session than usual – in Ash's defense, it had been Johnny's desire to increase the duration and intensity of their training. Still, his lungs seemed aflame with exhaustion after thirty minutes of non-stop full-contact sparring, and sweat stung the mostly-healed wound sutured just beyond his hairline.
"Are Spencer and CJ more skilled opponents?" he remarked dryly, his breath still shuddering to catch up.
Ash shrugged. "Adams does have experience. CJ has athleticism. And you have a partially scrambled frontal lobe. Now get up."
Johnny obliged her command, finding shaky legs beneath him as he rose but adjusting and planting his feet firmly before raising his guard again. Ash smiled with thin amusement before they stepped forward and once again engaged. She dodged a jab and ducked a right cross, but she wasn't prepared for Johnny's knee to rise and connect directly with her chest. As she reeled back, he spun his left arm extending and his fist clenched –
– before stopping just centimeters from her head.
"Yeah, there's skill," Johnny said, a thin smile on his lips, "But if this weren't practice, that would've been right into your bad ear."
Their eyes locked, and Ash returned a knowing smile of her own. They faced each other once more, took their stances, and tied up. An initial burst of superior strength allowed Johnny to muscle Ash back, but she slipped quickly beneath his arm. She leapt onto his back, her legs wrapping his waist as her arm caught his neck. Her free hand rested on his scalp. "And if this weren't practice," she replied, "I'd just rip your head back open."
She released him, and once back on the mat, they crossed to their water bottles sitting on a small gym bench. "You're motivated," she remarked, "They probably expect us to be complacent, considering our histories with them."
Johnny nodded, squirting a stream of water into his mouth. "Too much work to do," he responded, "Already hit a hiccup – can't afford another one. Too much at stake."
"You keep mentioning this ‘work’," she said slowly, her eyes locked on him with a quiet stare, "I feel there's more than just retaining our championships. That's not the whole story, is it?"
He paused, looking fixedly in thought at his water bottle. A silence hung between them. "You were honest with me," Johnny remarked, breaking the silence, "I can reciprocate that."
He rose from the bench, grabbing the strap of his gym bag and throwing it over his shoulder. "Meet at my apartment tonight," he said firmly, "Just us."
There was a pregnant pause as Ash's eyes searched his. Her lips creased into a stern, quiet look, and she gave him a nod.
The time for practice had concluded.
There's something pretty fucking funny about a guy sanctimoniously ranting on how your associations with others taint your name while a Kanye West song plays in the background. Don't worry, I'm sure you took "Jail Pt. 2" off your Spotify DONDA playlist, right? But it's not like you were ever a terribly self-aware or reflective person, Spencer. You've always been the "standards for thee, not for me" type. That's why, no, outside of the initial insult and audacity I could take from your comments at Havoc, I haven't dedicated much emotional or intellectual effort towards dissecting them. Pardon me if I couldn’t give half a shit about whatever moronic projection you throw at me about integrity or association or my personal evolution, Mr. #FightSmart – that's no less old hat from you than this little foray into the tag division.
But in the same breath, there's also something pretty funny (if not "SAD!") about how predictable this whole exercise is for you. The sneering arrogance and dismissive contempt you've held for anyone not bending over backwards for you is so vintage Spencer Adams that I could point back to a year and a half ago to your largely forgettable run as Hardcore Champion until Kid Brother rightfully called you out on your shit and shut your mouth. There are four Hardcore Champions in this match, Spencer, and you're the least memorable of them because you gave the least shit.
Frankly, Spencer, you're fucking embarrassing.
There's a bunch of thick-skulled dullards in this business who fall for the cheap smoke-and-mirrors mythologizing of yourself to worship at the altar of "Mr. Action Wrestling", but for my thoroughly-discussed former status as a viewer, I was never much a fan of yours. In terms of longevity, there's nobody in this company who can hold a candle to you – yet there's a reason why my sole singles championship reign comes a mere 20 days shy of all yours combined, just as there's a reason why you haven't touch the World Title in over four years. There's a reason why your name doesn't sing outside this company the way Corey Black's or Lissie Hope's do, and there's a reason you're about to get a hard reality check if you think I'll let you swagger into here like you own the place.
That reason? That you're fucking lazy. And you're fucking entitled.
Apparently you're going through a nostalgic phase, eager to put the crown back on your head. I'd think that after bringing doom to a whole county of impoverished people and unhoused drifters, you'd be a little less enthusiastic about dubbing yourself "King" of anything. Of course this is no different than when you went down offering a Cure to someone miserable, only to watch it Kill them as you walked away whistling. You may think this Take-Your-Son-To-Work-Day shtick with CJ is good for some publicity, but it fucking sickens me to see the way you've gotten into an ill man's head and preyed on his naivety.
That's who you are, Spencer Adams: a fucking predator. You carpet-bagged to my state to LARP around in the desert like Elon Musk at Burning Man, then went back home and left behind more suffering than you found. You are a gentrifier – you are an appropriator – you are a culture vulture, and this is my Marcellus Wallace shit: your California privileges are revoked. You are never walking into the hard work someone else has done and stealing it again. You will never feed on someone suffering again.
And when this half-baked attempt ends in dismal failure and the reality of your despair sets in, CJ? You're going to be sitting there asking "WHY?" for the third time in your career. But Spencer Adams won't have an answer for you. He's going to abandon you like he does everyone else.
We've been through this song and dance number twice now, CJ, and I'm curious how you expect us coming face-to-face once more is going to "break the cycle"? We've watched you spend the last year or so being kicked around like a lame dog so much, at times I've felt some pity for you. You probably blame me for whooping your ass at Evolution, bringing the Phoenix back to Earth, and snuffing out the Luminary's light, but when the Following was crumbling around you, you made your bed. Your buddy Mr. #FightSmart can criticize my affiliations all he likes, but the most remorse you ever showed for your time in Kyle Kemp's Branch Dividians was that it didn't pan out better for you. Your cycle of mediocrity is entirely self-perpetuated, fueled by the idiotic determination that if you ran into this third time a little harder, you may break through instead of breaking your heart.
CJ, I'm sorry, but wake the fuck up.
For someone who once claimed he was a leader and accused me of being a leach, you've done nothing but feed on the residuals of others. We watched Carter Shaw pick apart your group and you idiotically lash out at the only man blowing the whistle. We watched you be baffled by the obvious betrayal at Kyle Kemp's hands, and we watched you get slapped around when you sought his blood. Were it not for the fact Winston's a racist moron, you'd have been sitting at home during XIII, instead of depriving an actual competitor of that title opportunity. Torture raising your hand wasn’t validation – it was a consolation prize. And you think you're going to "break the cycle" with me and my reign? That's as out of touch with reality as spending your salary on building a video game school to spread video game ideology on the advice of video game characters instead of spending it on SSRIs.
You are fucking weak and stupid, CJ. You were conned by Kyle Kemp, conned by Carter Shaw, and now you're conned by Spencer Adams. You failed to extract revenge from Kyle Kemp, failed to extract revenge from Dandy Divito, and you're going to fail to extract revenge from me. So get ready to take your whole "Fool me – can't get fooled again" Dubya shit and swallow it with your despair because three strikes, and you're fucking out.
CJ Phoenix vs. Johnny Bacchus at Evolution: Loss.
CJ Phoenix vs. Johnny Bacchus at XIII: Loss.
CJ Phoenix vs. Johnny Bacchus via King Shit vs. Insurgentsia?
I don’t even know what the fuck I did to you. You dragged the names of my friends, family, and partner out in a flailing, failed attempt to beat me, and I cashed the check your mouth wrote. I’m sorry, are you upset your story didn’t go as planned? Angry that you couldn’t do whatever you want and be the hero? Buddy, do I have news for you about how this attempt ends.
The definition of madness illustrates the Mad Kings’ fates. The cycle continues. The Luminary's ideology of despair still only applies to himself, his beacon still leads into the rocks, and King Shit are still crownless. I'll let you keep the second half of your name – you'll have earned it.
The first time we faced off, I apologized for taking food off the table for you and your wife. Not this time. This time, you can burden yourself with that despair when you have to go home, alone and empty handed...
...to apologize for the fact she married a fucking loser.
She'd arrived punctually – perhaps it was a residual habit from her time in corporate America. When he opened the door, seeing her framed impatiently, a twinge in his brain elicited an involuntary smile.
"Yes?" she asked, her eyebrow cocking at his betrayed expression.
"Y'know what's funny?" he remarked, "This will be the first time you've been to my apartment under non-hostile circumstances."
She went quiet, her expression darkening. "Is that funny?" she replied coolly, as he put his hands up defensively.
"No offense intended," he said before holding the door open for her, "Come on in."
She followed him into the living room, her face an expressionless mask as her eyes trailed over the moving boxes in various states of unpacking. The room was disorganized, the arrangement of the furniture offering little rhyme or reason.
"How long have you been here?"
"A few months," he replied, his eyes looking out to the boxes. A veil of melancholy fell over him, followed by a pang of homesickness. "But I don't spend much time here. Hasn't been worth my time to make it a home."
"Then why are we here?" Ash asked, turning to look at him.
Johnny studied her for a moment, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips as he moved almost instinctively towards the kitchen. "You want a drink?" he asked, already pulling a bottle of cheap peach-flavored wine from the refrigerator and placing it on the kitchen counter. "Olive told me this is what you drink."
"No, thank you."
"Alright," he responded as he poured himself a generous glass of Mezcal. "Fuck me," he muttered to himself, far too quiet for his guest to hear as he took a swig. The liquid courage steadied his hand and slowed his heart.
“Y'know, you're the first person I've brought here,” he admitted as he exited the kitchen and began to walk down the hall, her following wordlessly behind, “I wasn't even spending much time here until this past week. But when you handed those documents over to me, I needed privacy and stability; something a hotel room can't afford me. Everyone talks unfairly about what I've ‘sacrificed’ or whatever for you, but this? With this you did more for me than losing a tooth. This was the validation I knew I'd receive. I keep talking about the work to be done, and now I've been able to do my work and prepare for it. So thank you, Ashley.”
He stopped in front of a closed and locked door, fumbling for his keys with nervous, trembling hands. She’d canted her head at him, her expression puzzled.
“Now?” he continued, his voice shaking with quiet excitement, “I'm ready. You can abort, and I wouldn't take it personally. You've done plenty as is. But if you're in this with me?”
He unlocked the door and pushed it open, hitting the light switch to illuminate the study as her jaw dropped.
“There’s work to be done.”
Hello, CJ. Forgive me if I lack my associate's bombast. Truth be told, I think I have a better grasp than most on what to make of you. How could I not, when I look at you and see so, so much of myself staring back at me.
And that's the worst thing I could say to you. Because I look at you and I see the scared and angry girl who bought the first lie spoonfed to me because she couldn't bear not believing in anything. I see the mental gymnastics and moral calculus it took to assure myself that what I was doing was good and righteous. And I see the wide-eyed, empty-headed naivety that kept me from ever questioning anything.
I see you, CJ.
I empathize with you.
But it doesn't make me want to pat you on the head and tell you everything is going to be okay; it makes me want to punch you in the nose and scream "get real." At this rate, you aren't going to break any cycles in your heretofore utterly one-sided rivalry with Johnny, because you can't even keep yourself from stepping on the same rakes over and over again. It's your brand, isn't it? CJ Phoenix falls in with a marginally charismatic huxter and everyone waits with bated breath for him to finally break free.
The Brotherhood.
The Following.
Spencer Adams.
Like clockwork. For all your preening and posturing about how people rally behind you, how they believe in you, how this time it's going to be different — the only thing you've ever been able to prove is how much of an utter waste of time and emotional investment you are. You finally turned the corner, got your big, affirming US title win and came inches away from making Winston DiVito swallow his bravado with a serving of his own teeth.
And here you are, swept up into the Spencer Adams special — I'm sure he's already inundated you with the whole 'this will be so good for you' spiel.
So go on, tell me how much you want this. How much you absolutely need to beat us, CJ. Spit forth all the venom you can muster — remind me of the blood on my hands, of the people I've hurt and disappointed, how I'll never get myself clean.
Because I know I'm not reformed. Not yet.
But I'm not like you; I'm not so arrogant to assume I've done the work just because I went and renounced my affiliation. So do your worst, but don't you dare hop on your high horse and lecture me about integrity, you gormless slug. Not when the only apology you could ever muster for your complicity in the Following was that your ilk weren't good enough to accomplish their goals.
And don't expect me to kiss your ass about the strength and moral conviction it must have taken to scurry off that sinking ship just like the Rat King you couldn't help but admire so much. Because if you think for a minute you're a better man now than you were when you were carrying Kyle Kemp's bags, that's your real delusion.
But I can't talk about this little journey of self-discovery of mine without bringing up the elephant in the room, can I? This is where I fall to my knees and grovel, repeating the two words you want to hear out of my mouth the most until you magnanimously offer me forgiveness, because you're just such a good guy, right Spencer? Where I brand the scarlet letter to my forehead and flagellate myself with the cat of nine tails?
I'm belying the point. In truth this is as much a confession as any other: I'm not sorry, Spencer. I don't have anything to apologize to you for.
You snake.
You rat.
You worm.
Go on and puff your chest out all you like, flaunt that perfect chemistry and unblemished record that earned you a spot in the 'everybody else' battle royal to get this shot while Johnny and I actually won the titles. I'm shaking in my boots at the strength of conviction and moral backbone you've constantly employed throughout your illustrious career.
You're such an honorable competitor that you've atoned for the underhanded tactics you needed during your one and only time on top by turning the name of the King's court you used to keep ahold of into the name of your overpriced athleticwear brand. But that's fine, your band of merry men arrived with a bang and died with a whimper, so you've never had to apologize to be forgiven. People tend to feel bad for failures.
You're such a rebel that I'm sure the word corporate will still spill from your mouth when you froth at me in spite of the fact that you haven't had a thought in the last three years that you didn't run past a marketing team first.
This time you stumbled into a tag division that was already thriving and tried to make it all about how it was your doing; not a shock, given you've already wandered into the desert and declared yourself a King.
And you're exactly like Michael Jordan: a degenerate gambler who gets the people he loves killed.
Maybe I'm playing coy — after all, I know exactly what I did to you. I don't think you'd like me to say it out loud, though. It'd betray how hollow your moral judgment of me is and always has been.
I made it indisputably clear that it's not 2018 anymore, didn't I, Spencer? I made it clear that you weren't cut out for the top of the mountain anymore with every breath I took. You shot your shot in the Chamber, and were so underwhelming I didn't even have to lift a finger to eliminate you.
You won Havoc so you didn't have to worry about a distraction, and Carter Shaw — who turned into a pumpkin the second I wasn't there to hold him aloft made you an afterthought in the biggest match of your life.
Then he did it again.
Whether you had to face me or a facsimile, the only thing you could prove was why you belonged exactly here, stringing someone else along with another grasp for acclaim.
And you wonder why the same insults hurled at you three years ago cut you just as deeply as they do now. Because you're the same petty, shallow, insecure coward who couldn't help but beat his chest and scream into the void the very second the guy you're now clinging onto had the audacity to call you a caveman.
Let's not kid ourselves, Spencer. We both know why you're here again, and it has fuck all to do with elevating a division that doesn't need your hand in it, or pushing CJ Phoenix to a higher level.
You're here because once again you proved you can't hack it up there. And now you're running into another of the road blocks that kept you from it the last time. So please, step up, so we can show the world the way this ends.
Kings.
Dead.
A sharp, squealing laugh reverberated in the back of Ash's skull as she stared, wide-eyed at the corkboard before her and shoved her hands into her pockets. She could almost feel his warm, hissing breath at the back of her neck as her eyes focused on the photographed features of his father. His gloating filled her ears as her gaze shot back towards Johnny, the moisture draining from the back of her throat as her focus lingered.
“As I said,” he continued, his voice low and his eyes locked intently on hers, “I understand if this is too much for you. I wouldn’t ask anyone to follow me on a vendetta they didn’t subscribe to. But these titles provide us cover. They give us an excuse to operate together – to move together – to finally retrieve the flesh taken from us both. You’ve come a long way, and if you continue with me, you’ll need to forget that. But. This is the stain on the sheets that can be scrubbed away…”
He paused, his eyes never leaving hers before his voice dropped low and cold, “...for good.”
Ash nodded, prying her gaze from her host and approaching the board. Staring back at her was a structure she was all too familiar with, rows of faces she knew all too well. Reaching for the board, she fiddled with one of the strings, gnawing on the inside of her cheek.
"And you put this all together in a week's time?"
“Felt like a brain exercise would be beneficial to my recovery,” he said with a nonchalant shrug.
"It's impressive…" she whispered, trailing off as she traced the string towards its terminus — the man at the top of the hierarchy: J. Howard de Witt. Her fingers closed around the push pin as she studied the board once more, eyes darting towards a single photograph hung away from the others.
Johnny canted his head as he took note of Ash's shift in focus. "It'd be more impressive if I could figure out where the last piece goes."
She inhaled sharply, fingers trembling as her grip on the push pin tightened, her knuckles whitening.
Moment of truth, she thought to herself as she reached for the cast-off picture and repositioned it at the top. Time to be what you are and always will be. She removed the push pin from de Witt's picture and restrung the connection towards the outlier — a straight delineation between Samson Saltair, and the man who held its leash.
“No kidding? Sanford’s the big cheese?”
"No kidding." An uneasy smile formed in the corners of her mouth. "And Sanford's not even his real name."
"You need to anticipate a more skilled opponent's progression," she remarked as she rose to her feet, "Not everyone's going to swing like a boxer or grapple like a standard technician."
Johnny rolled backwards onto a knee, planting one hand down on the mat as he caught his breath. This was a longer sparring session than usual – in Ash's defense, it had been Johnny's desire to increase the duration and intensity of their training. Still, his lungs seemed aflame with exhaustion after thirty minutes of non-stop full-contact sparring, and sweat stung the mostly-healed wound sutured just beyond his hairline.
"Are Spencer and CJ more skilled opponents?" he remarked dryly, his breath still shuddering to catch up.
Ash shrugged. "Adams does have experience. CJ has athleticism. And you have a partially scrambled frontal lobe. Now get up."
Johnny obliged her command, finding shaky legs beneath him as he rose but adjusting and planting his feet firmly before raising his guard again. Ash smiled with thin amusement before they stepped forward and once again engaged. She dodged a jab and ducked a right cross, but she wasn't prepared for Johnny's knee to rise and connect directly with her chest. As she reeled back, he spun his left arm extending and his fist clenched –
– before stopping just centimeters from her head.
"Yeah, there's skill," Johnny said, a thin smile on his lips, "But if this weren't practice, that would've been right into your bad ear."
Their eyes locked, and Ash returned a knowing smile of her own. They faced each other once more, took their stances, and tied up. An initial burst of superior strength allowed Johnny to muscle Ash back, but she slipped quickly beneath his arm. She leapt onto his back, her legs wrapping his waist as her arm caught his neck. Her free hand rested on his scalp. "And if this weren't practice," she replied, "I'd just rip your head back open."
She released him, and once back on the mat, they crossed to their water bottles sitting on a small gym bench. "You're motivated," she remarked, "They probably expect us to be complacent, considering our histories with them."
Johnny nodded, squirting a stream of water into his mouth. "Too much work to do," he responded, "Already hit a hiccup – can't afford another one. Too much at stake."
"You keep mentioning this ‘work’," she said slowly, her eyes locked on him with a quiet stare, "I feel there's more than just retaining our championships. That's not the whole story, is it?"
He paused, looking fixedly in thought at his water bottle. A silence hung between them. "You were honest with me," Johnny remarked, breaking the silence, "I can reciprocate that."
He rose from the bench, grabbing the strap of his gym bag and throwing it over his shoulder. "Meet at my apartment tonight," he said firmly, "Just us."
There was a pregnant pause as Ash's eyes searched his. Her lips creased into a stern, quiet look, and she gave him a nod.
The time for practice had concluded.
There's something pretty fucking funny about a guy sanctimoniously ranting on how your associations with others taint your name while a Kanye West song plays in the background. Don't worry, I'm sure you took "Jail Pt. 2" off your Spotify DONDA playlist, right? But it's not like you were ever a terribly self-aware or reflective person, Spencer. You've always been the "standards for thee, not for me" type. That's why, no, outside of the initial insult and audacity I could take from your comments at Havoc, I haven't dedicated much emotional or intellectual effort towards dissecting them. Pardon me if I couldn’t give half a shit about whatever moronic projection you throw at me about integrity or association or my personal evolution, Mr. #FightSmart – that's no less old hat from you than this little foray into the tag division.
But in the same breath, there's also something pretty funny (if not "SAD!") about how predictable this whole exercise is for you. The sneering arrogance and dismissive contempt you've held for anyone not bending over backwards for you is so vintage Spencer Adams that I could point back to a year and a half ago to your largely forgettable run as Hardcore Champion until Kid Brother rightfully called you out on your shit and shut your mouth. There are four Hardcore Champions in this match, Spencer, and you're the least memorable of them because you gave the least shit.
Frankly, Spencer, you're fucking embarrassing.
There's a bunch of thick-skulled dullards in this business who fall for the cheap smoke-and-mirrors mythologizing of yourself to worship at the altar of "Mr. Action Wrestling", but for my thoroughly-discussed former status as a viewer, I was never much a fan of yours. In terms of longevity, there's nobody in this company who can hold a candle to you – yet there's a reason why my sole singles championship reign comes a mere 20 days shy of all yours combined, just as there's a reason why you haven't touch the World Title in over four years. There's a reason why your name doesn't sing outside this company the way Corey Black's or Lissie Hope's do, and there's a reason you're about to get a hard reality check if you think I'll let you swagger into here like you own the place.
That reason? That you're fucking lazy. And you're fucking entitled.
Apparently you're going through a nostalgic phase, eager to put the crown back on your head. I'd think that after bringing doom to a whole county of impoverished people and unhoused drifters, you'd be a little less enthusiastic about dubbing yourself "King" of anything. Of course this is no different than when you went down offering a Cure to someone miserable, only to watch it Kill them as you walked away whistling. You may think this Take-Your-Son-To-Work-Day shtick with CJ is good for some publicity, but it fucking sickens me to see the way you've gotten into an ill man's head and preyed on his naivety.
That's who you are, Spencer Adams: a fucking predator. You carpet-bagged to my state to LARP around in the desert like Elon Musk at Burning Man, then went back home and left behind more suffering than you found. You are a gentrifier – you are an appropriator – you are a culture vulture, and this is my Marcellus Wallace shit: your California privileges are revoked. You are never walking into the hard work someone else has done and stealing it again. You will never feed on someone suffering again.
And when this half-baked attempt ends in dismal failure and the reality of your despair sets in, CJ? You're going to be sitting there asking "WHY?" for the third time in your career. But Spencer Adams won't have an answer for you. He's going to abandon you like he does everyone else.
We've been through this song and dance number twice now, CJ, and I'm curious how you expect us coming face-to-face once more is going to "break the cycle"? We've watched you spend the last year or so being kicked around like a lame dog so much, at times I've felt some pity for you. You probably blame me for whooping your ass at Evolution, bringing the Phoenix back to Earth, and snuffing out the Luminary's light, but when the Following was crumbling around you, you made your bed. Your buddy Mr. #FightSmart can criticize my affiliations all he likes, but the most remorse you ever showed for your time in Kyle Kemp's Branch Dividians was that it didn't pan out better for you. Your cycle of mediocrity is entirely self-perpetuated, fueled by the idiotic determination that if you ran into this third time a little harder, you may break through instead of breaking your heart.
CJ, I'm sorry, but wake the fuck up.
For someone who once claimed he was a leader and accused me of being a leach, you've done nothing but feed on the residuals of others. We watched Carter Shaw pick apart your group and you idiotically lash out at the only man blowing the whistle. We watched you be baffled by the obvious betrayal at Kyle Kemp's hands, and we watched you get slapped around when you sought his blood. Were it not for the fact Winston's a racist moron, you'd have been sitting at home during XIII, instead of depriving an actual competitor of that title opportunity. Torture raising your hand wasn’t validation – it was a consolation prize. And you think you're going to "break the cycle" with me and my reign? That's as out of touch with reality as spending your salary on building a video game school to spread video game ideology on the advice of video game characters instead of spending it on SSRIs.
You are fucking weak and stupid, CJ. You were conned by Kyle Kemp, conned by Carter Shaw, and now you're conned by Spencer Adams. You failed to extract revenge from Kyle Kemp, failed to extract revenge from Dandy Divito, and you're going to fail to extract revenge from me. So get ready to take your whole "Fool me – can't get fooled again" Dubya shit and swallow it with your despair because three strikes, and you're fucking out.
CJ Phoenix vs. Johnny Bacchus at Evolution: Loss.
CJ Phoenix vs. Johnny Bacchus at XIII: Loss.
CJ Phoenix vs. Johnny Bacchus via King Shit vs. Insurgentsia?
I don’t even know what the fuck I did to you. You dragged the names of my friends, family, and partner out in a flailing, failed attempt to beat me, and I cashed the check your mouth wrote. I’m sorry, are you upset your story didn’t go as planned? Angry that you couldn’t do whatever you want and be the hero? Buddy, do I have news for you about how this attempt ends.
The definition of madness illustrates the Mad Kings’ fates. The cycle continues. The Luminary's ideology of despair still only applies to himself, his beacon still leads into the rocks, and King Shit are still crownless. I'll let you keep the second half of your name – you'll have earned it.
The first time we faced off, I apologized for taking food off the table for you and your wife. Not this time. This time, you can burden yourself with that despair when you have to go home, alone and empty handed...
...to apologize for the fact she married a fucking loser.
She'd arrived punctually – perhaps it was a residual habit from her time in corporate America. When he opened the door, seeing her framed impatiently, a twinge in his brain elicited an involuntary smile.
"Yes?" she asked, her eyebrow cocking at his betrayed expression.
"Y'know what's funny?" he remarked, "This will be the first time you've been to my apartment under non-hostile circumstances."
She went quiet, her expression darkening. "Is that funny?" she replied coolly, as he put his hands up defensively.
"No offense intended," he said before holding the door open for her, "Come on in."
She followed him into the living room, her face an expressionless mask as her eyes trailed over the moving boxes in various states of unpacking. The room was disorganized, the arrangement of the furniture offering little rhyme or reason.
"How long have you been here?"
"A few months," he replied, his eyes looking out to the boxes. A veil of melancholy fell over him, followed by a pang of homesickness. "But I don't spend much time here. Hasn't been worth my time to make it a home."
"Then why are we here?" Ash asked, turning to look at him.
Johnny studied her for a moment, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips as he moved almost instinctively towards the kitchen. "You want a drink?" he asked, already pulling a bottle of cheap peach-flavored wine from the refrigerator and placing it on the kitchen counter. "Olive told me this is what you drink."
"No, thank you."
"Alright," he responded as he poured himself a generous glass of Mezcal. "Fuck me," he muttered to himself, far too quiet for his guest to hear as he took a swig. The liquid courage steadied his hand and slowed his heart.
“Y'know, you're the first person I've brought here,” he admitted as he exited the kitchen and began to walk down the hall, her following wordlessly behind, “I wasn't even spending much time here until this past week. But when you handed those documents over to me, I needed privacy and stability; something a hotel room can't afford me. Everyone talks unfairly about what I've ‘sacrificed’ or whatever for you, but this? With this you did more for me than losing a tooth. This was the validation I knew I'd receive. I keep talking about the work to be done, and now I've been able to do my work and prepare for it. So thank you, Ashley.”
He stopped in front of a closed and locked door, fumbling for his keys with nervous, trembling hands. She’d canted her head at him, her expression puzzled.
“Now?” he continued, his voice shaking with quiet excitement, “I'm ready. You can abort, and I wouldn't take it personally. You've done plenty as is. But if you're in this with me?”
He unlocked the door and pushed it open, hitting the light switch to illuminate the study as her jaw dropped.
“There’s work to be done.”
Hello, CJ. Forgive me if I lack my associate's bombast. Truth be told, I think I have a better grasp than most on what to make of you. How could I not, when I look at you and see so, so much of myself staring back at me.
And that's the worst thing I could say to you. Because I look at you and I see the scared and angry girl who bought the first lie spoonfed to me because she couldn't bear not believing in anything. I see the mental gymnastics and moral calculus it took to assure myself that what I was doing was good and righteous. And I see the wide-eyed, empty-headed naivety that kept me from ever questioning anything.
I see you, CJ.
I empathize with you.
But it doesn't make me want to pat you on the head and tell you everything is going to be okay; it makes me want to punch you in the nose and scream "get real." At this rate, you aren't going to break any cycles in your heretofore utterly one-sided rivalry with Johnny, because you can't even keep yourself from stepping on the same rakes over and over again. It's your brand, isn't it? CJ Phoenix falls in with a marginally charismatic huxter and everyone waits with bated breath for him to finally break free.
The Brotherhood.
The Following.
Spencer Adams.
Like clockwork. For all your preening and posturing about how people rally behind you, how they believe in you, how this time it's going to be different — the only thing you've ever been able to prove is how much of an utter waste of time and emotional investment you are. You finally turned the corner, got your big, affirming US title win and came inches away from making Winston DiVito swallow his bravado with a serving of his own teeth.
And here you are, swept up into the Spencer Adams special — I'm sure he's already inundated you with the whole 'this will be so good for you' spiel.
So go on, tell me how much you want this. How much you absolutely need to beat us, CJ. Spit forth all the venom you can muster — remind me of the blood on my hands, of the people I've hurt and disappointed, how I'll never get myself clean.
Because I know I'm not reformed. Not yet.
But I'm not like you; I'm not so arrogant to assume I've done the work just because I went and renounced my affiliation. So do your worst, but don't you dare hop on your high horse and lecture me about integrity, you gormless slug. Not when the only apology you could ever muster for your complicity in the Following was that your ilk weren't good enough to accomplish their goals.
And don't expect me to kiss your ass about the strength and moral conviction it must have taken to scurry off that sinking ship just like the Rat King you couldn't help but admire so much. Because if you think for a minute you're a better man now than you were when you were carrying Kyle Kemp's bags, that's your real delusion.
But I can't talk about this little journey of self-discovery of mine without bringing up the elephant in the room, can I? This is where I fall to my knees and grovel, repeating the two words you want to hear out of my mouth the most until you magnanimously offer me forgiveness, because you're just such a good guy, right Spencer? Where I brand the scarlet letter to my forehead and flagellate myself with the cat of nine tails?
I'm belying the point. In truth this is as much a confession as any other: I'm not sorry, Spencer. I don't have anything to apologize to you for.
You snake.
You rat.
You worm.
Go on and puff your chest out all you like, flaunt that perfect chemistry and unblemished record that earned you a spot in the 'everybody else' battle royal to get this shot while Johnny and I actually won the titles. I'm shaking in my boots at the strength of conviction and moral backbone you've constantly employed throughout your illustrious career.
You're such an honorable competitor that you've atoned for the underhanded tactics you needed during your one and only time on top by turning the name of the King's court you used to keep ahold of into the name of your overpriced athleticwear brand. But that's fine, your band of merry men arrived with a bang and died with a whimper, so you've never had to apologize to be forgiven. People tend to feel bad for failures.
You're such a rebel that I'm sure the word corporate will still spill from your mouth when you froth at me in spite of the fact that you haven't had a thought in the last three years that you didn't run past a marketing team first.
This time you stumbled into a tag division that was already thriving and tried to make it all about how it was your doing; not a shock, given you've already wandered into the desert and declared yourself a King.
And you're exactly like Michael Jordan: a degenerate gambler who gets the people he loves killed.
Maybe I'm playing coy — after all, I know exactly what I did to you. I don't think you'd like me to say it out loud, though. It'd betray how hollow your moral judgment of me is and always has been.
I made it indisputably clear that it's not 2018 anymore, didn't I, Spencer? I made it clear that you weren't cut out for the top of the mountain anymore with every breath I took. You shot your shot in the Chamber, and were so underwhelming I didn't even have to lift a finger to eliminate you.
You won Havoc so you didn't have to worry about a distraction, and Carter Shaw — who turned into a pumpkin the second I wasn't there to hold him aloft made you an afterthought in the biggest match of your life.
Then he did it again.
Whether you had to face me or a facsimile, the only thing you could prove was why you belonged exactly here, stringing someone else along with another grasp for acclaim.
And you wonder why the same insults hurled at you three years ago cut you just as deeply as they do now. Because you're the same petty, shallow, insecure coward who couldn't help but beat his chest and scream into the void the very second the guy you're now clinging onto had the audacity to call you a caveman.
Let's not kid ourselves, Spencer. We both know why you're here again, and it has fuck all to do with elevating a division that doesn't need your hand in it, or pushing CJ Phoenix to a higher level.
You're here because once again you proved you can't hack it up there. And now you're running into another of the road blocks that kept you from it the last time. So please, step up, so we can show the world the way this ends.
Kings.
Dead.
A sharp, squealing laugh reverberated in the back of Ash's skull as she stared, wide-eyed at the corkboard before her and shoved her hands into her pockets. She could almost feel his warm, hissing breath at the back of her neck as her eyes focused on the photographed features of his father. His gloating filled her ears as her gaze shot back towards Johnny, the moisture draining from the back of her throat as her focus lingered.
“As I said,” he continued, his voice low and his eyes locked intently on hers, “I understand if this is too much for you. I wouldn’t ask anyone to follow me on a vendetta they didn’t subscribe to. But these titles provide us cover. They give us an excuse to operate together – to move together – to finally retrieve the flesh taken from us both. You’ve come a long way, and if you continue with me, you’ll need to forget that. But. This is the stain on the sheets that can be scrubbed away…”
He paused, his eyes never leaving hers before his voice dropped low and cold, “...for good.”
Ash nodded, prying her gaze from her host and approaching the board. Staring back at her was a structure she was all too familiar with, rows of faces she knew all too well. Reaching for the board, she fiddled with one of the strings, gnawing on the inside of her cheek.
"And you put this all together in a week's time?"
“Felt like a brain exercise would be beneficial to my recovery,” he said with a nonchalant shrug.
"It's impressive…" she whispered, trailing off as she traced the string towards its terminus — the man at the top of the hierarchy: J. Howard de Witt. Her fingers closed around the push pin as she studied the board once more, eyes darting towards a single photograph hung away from the others.
Johnny canted his head as he took note of Ash's shift in focus. "It'd be more impressive if I could figure out where the last piece goes."
She inhaled sharply, fingers trembling as her grip on the push pin tightened, her knuckles whitening.
Moment of truth, she thought to herself as she reached for the cast-off picture and repositioned it at the top. Time to be what you are and always will be. She removed the push pin from de Witt's picture and restrung the connection towards the outlier — a straight delineation between Samson Saltair, and the man who held its leash.
“No kidding? Sanford’s the big cheese?”
"No kidding." An uneasy smile formed in the corners of her mouth. "And Sanford's not even his real name."
