Post by Odin Balfore on Nov 5, 2022 13:32:31 GMT -5
The Valdiva-Roman Compound. Haddonfield, CT.
The normally jovial ring of the Apple J-6 was somber, sad, reluctant, and recluse. Sucked into the speakers, not wanting to be the bearer of bad news. Alas, it had no choice. Its purpose was to do such tasks. The Shape put the phone to his plump, fat, red ear that smelled like roast duck, and answered it in the same upbeat manner that he always does.
“Hello, Vincent ‘Buddy’ Roman. Proud Father."
There was silence as The Shapes cold dead eyes - black, like a doll's eyes darted back and forth like Gutenberg's typewriter. He was trying to process the news but those mega bits wouldn’t mega-byte. His eyes were welled with dead sea tears. His face flushed like the red sea. Egyptian kings would drop dead on the spot if they pinched those rosey cheeks. His voice rose and sank in his chest.
“My son.” He said. “Dead.” It wasn’t a question. He could feel it in his proud, fatherly heart. He stood in his kitchen abashed that he has lost yet another one of his proud children. The All-Father cast a large shadow from the archway that separated the kitchen from the living room. Steve Orbit leaned up against the sink, eating a can of peaches in heavy syrup with a fork out of the can.
“Dude, you ok?” Asks Orbit in between cling yellowed bites. “Why are you, like mist?” The All-Father has indeed become vapor, a result of is newly proud, Proud Father's medicine. Medicine that was meant to heal his hands but at what cost- that has yet to be determined.
“First, Anthony Michael-Hall Savongeski, and now, TAKEOFF.”
“My G, what – Takeoff’s dead?” Asks Orbit
“AHH!” The Shape wails. “ My grief. My grief! With TAKEOFFS death it’s almost as though I can hear my proud, and loving son – my favorite son, Steven Orbit-Roman, once again. The world, such cruel and wickedness shouldn’t befoul a proud father in such ways.”
Steven Orbit-Roman turns to Odin. “Can you believe this shit. I made chili for him last night and now this. I hate this shit gets to him like this.” Odin nods in silent approval. “Dude, you sure you’re good; you’re almost evaporating into the floor. Do you need a towel or a mop?”
The Shape collapses into a dining room chair like a tub of rice pudding and pounds his fist into the table. “ My son, my son, my son. Odin my son, your brother, is gone.” Says the Shape with a whimper and a cry. “ Odin, we have to go to back to Houston. We have to go back to the scene of the crime. A Proud Father needs closure. I need to know who did that. I need to know why.”
Steven Orbit-Roman sets his peaches down in protest and walks past the shape and towards the stairs. “Why, G, you’re just gonna replace him like you replaced me. Did you know that he keeps all the other VK rooms the exact same? The. Exact. Same. Do you know what’s in mine. An Urn. A fucking Urn. I’m not dead, dude, and I’m certainly not ashes in a jar.”
The Shape looks up to Heaven and motions with his hands. “OHH, son, Steven. Do not be jealous of your new brother in heaven. I only ask that you take him under your wing so that he too, may gain his.”
“This is ridiculous. I’m not dead!” Yells Steven Orbit-Roman as he stomps up the stairs, disappearing into the darkness.
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Ninth. Action Wrestling, you do the Ol’ Dirty with such great disrespect I have carried two divisions this year and now as the number one contender for the ol’ Dirty American title, we can call it a third. Great disrespect for a man, who from where I’m sitting - you need. You need ol’ Dirty to raise them fucking boats. It's cuz you aint got heavy hittahs or shot callahs to put in that ol dirty work. These violent hands are all bandaged and wrapped. Ya’ll think ya fuckin’ safe.
You fuckin sour cunts. You tell me where safe is, and I know exactly your mindset at any given day. Safe might be, not in that ring with me. You didn't draw numbah eight. You aint CJ Pheonix. Miss you with that problem. I get chu. I see you.
First ol’ Dirty came for CJ Pheonix and you said nothing.
Then maybe he comes for Teo Blaze - a man so afraid to put the weigh on cuz he knows as soon as he does he’s gonna get the weight on.
Ol’ dirty gonna come for his money, ya’ll better fuckin believe that. Know that shit in your fuckin bones. Even to call me wrestler of just A year is laughable at best because I’ve been the guy day in and day out. Been the guy puttin in that work. Taking names off that list. Puttin down dogs and bitches alike. I’ve been the guy all this fodder comes for when they don't know whats next. When the office aint got a fuckin clue what to do with them.
CJ, you arnt immune from this. You’ve been getting backpacked by Spencer Adams so hard, you got Cliff Bars coming out cha asshole. But now he aint here to fucking protect you and I aint got yet another Albatros bald-faced lemming to keep me from those tag belts. You want to move on to the next round but you wouldn't know what to do with it once you got there.
You wouldn't know what one on one verse Ol’ Dirty meant if you went back and watched all the fucking tape in the world.
And all the fucking tape in the world wont stop these violent hands. You think I care that they are broken. They arnt broken. They are free. Free to fuck up people like you.
The eights, the sevens, the sixes.
There aint no apologies. Aint no one coming to my door with a card but I am going to come to yours with one.
You shouldn't come to work, CJ because mediocre black men have been dying left and right recently and some - don’t even know they’re dead. I want you to remember that black don't crack, CJ but ya’ll get buried in the dirt just the same.
I want to know what the fuck happened to you. I want to know why you ever made it. Why you gotta plug ya dick into Spencers World class asshole just to ride the struggle bus in a division that gets left forgotten because I’m not in it. You could have made something of yourself in any capacity and yet you chose mediocrity. In truth, that's a fate worse than what these hands can give you but you’ll be prayin real fuckin hard when you’re in there with me that the mediocrity bullet takes you out from the grassy knoll and splatters ya brains all over ring.
Maybe then you’ll learn a thing or two.
There are legends in this business, CJ. Then there are the autismo, undying midcard fodder you occupy in this current space next to me.
I know you think being ranked eighth is a good thing. Aye, you should be proud but you’re proof positive that any ranking system where you’re on it - let alone above me is manufactured fuccboi stupidity and you’re sittin there right now in Spencer Adams backpack like a pointy green-eared child eating that cowboy gorilla paste that he feeds you because you simply cannot eat on your own. I’m sure you’ll come with some quips and one-liners. That's all that they are, CJ. Words and one-liners are unless they are a Holy Roman Prayer to Gawd, I suggest you keep that shit to yourself. You aint ever been a stand-out talent and its not like its going to help you now.
Feel good about yourself that you were here in this moment in time with me because that time is running out. Then you can go back to full-on dominating a division that is often shelved because Tort doesn't want to admit to himself that The All-Father carries this company. However, since being carried isnt a new feeling for you - you’ll be right at home in this match.
Don’t bother tying your boots for this match. You won't be staying long.
I have a fabled history with breaking and defeating proud, talented black men. This week will be no different. However, it’s a shame you will not be counted among them. So in ten years time, when you are retired and I’m still winning belt, after belt, after belt and no doubt you’ll be in the Hall of Fame because let's face, anyone can get in and some reporter comes up to you and they ask you about how you made it, you can lie to her, as I know you will or you can tell her the Gods honest truth and tell her that you were carried every fucking step of the way.
My G, face it. It’s not you’re happy about this. Its that your legs are fuckin broken. You can not carry yourself to the promised land. That Chariot has got to swing low for the criminally disabled work rate that you have displayed over multiple years and multiple companies.
I swear your ankles break everytime those boots go on.
Now I’m going to break the rest.
Its time I get paid and Ol’ Dirty is coming for his money.
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At the Funeral for TAKEOFF, Vincent Buddy Roman stands alone, near the coat room of the funeral home. He leans against the counter. Breathing heavy but his emotions are in check. He looks up directly into your eyes. Into your souls and address you directly.
“It is never easy. Far too many time has this proud father buried his children. They come and go so fast, you barely have time to recognize them for the angels that they really are. The good and talented die young, CJ Pheonix. May you live forever knowing that everything you do in this wrestling ring cannot bring even an ounce of joy in comparison to my proud, loving, beautiful sons. I’ve prayed for you in the past. I’ve prayed that Yahweh come down from heaven and I can watch you transform into the man that I know you to really be deep down. However, the devil is a liar and you have deceived me yet deceive me no more you shall. I wish it was you in the ground instead of my son. He had promise. You don't. Oppertunity after oppertunity. Prove me wrong, CJ. I want you to prove me wrong. What I want you to do though, CJ is to place your hand over your heart and in a loud clear voice:
Conquer. The. Hate.
