Post by Sam Kidsgrove on Nov 27, 2022 11:44:44 GMT -5
Kidsgrove again lets Zooey go to voicemail as he sits in his car overlooking the city. A few minutes later a text pops up.
“I don’t know what’s up, talk to me.I’m worried about you.” It reads.
“You know what’s up” he says to himself. “I didn’t want this, I never wanted this but you sent the contract and now the old man owns my life again.”
He doesn’t reply, he doesn’t want to confront the love of his life knowing that she’s betrayed him in the worst way and not even given him the courtesy to talk to him about it. He continues to just look at the city of LA, wondering what to do next. After all, he has no place to go right now. He’s in a fully depressed state after finding out he’s signed for the old Man again, forcing him back into an industry he left behind - to top it off he failed again in what should have been one of the greatest victories of his life. He sighs, a long drawn out sigh and looks at the unopened bottle of wild turkey on the passenger seat.
He turns over his 5 years sober coin in his hands, over and over again - as if to mull it over. This only serves to frustrate him and eventually it gets too much, he starts bashing his steering wheel with his fists and head in rage, until he angrily picks up the bottle, opens the driver door and exits the vehicle. He looks to the city down below.
“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME HUH?” He bellows angrily at the lights. “HAVEN’T I GIVEN YOU ENOUGH?
I GAVE YOU MY CHILDHOOD! I GAVE YOU THIRTY YEARS! WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU STILL WANTING ME! I DON’T WANT THIS, I DON’T WANT ANY OF THIS! YOU UNDERSTAND ME YOU FUCKS!
YOU TOOK EVERYTHING FROM ME! AND YOU WANT ME TO COME BACK? FUCK YOU!”
He flips both birds at the city below before getting to his knees and weeps. Babbling as he does, he’s a broken man. It’s all just become too much.
Eventually, after about 10 minutes of sobbing himself to silence he picks up the bottle of wild turkey, turning away from the city to face the world famous Hollywood sign. He unscrews the cap and puts it to his lips, but he can’t seem to tip the bottle. He can’t seem to draw the elixir into his mouth, part of his brain just won’t let him do it. Try as he might, he just isn’t capable of doing it. In frustration he hurls the bottle at the sign, smashing it against the H. Then, finding some spark of resolve he marches to his car, popping the boot and grabbing one of a number of jerry cans full of petrol. He starts sloshing it over the sign, trying to saturate every single letter in it.
He’s only interrupted by the siren and lights piercing the night.
“Don’t move!” An authoritative voice commands. Kidsgrove looks at the cop, taking refuge behind his car door, pointing his pistol directly at Kidsgrove’s chest. Before Kidsgrove can react another 3 cars pull up and 6 more cops join the scene. After a brief calculation, Kidsgrove reluctantly puts the jerry can down and puts his head over his head. He doesn’t react, doesn’t say anything or even acknowledge the police when they put his arms behind him in cuffs. He allows them to put him in one of the cars, just staring straight ahead. He only turns to face the city when he’s in the car, with hatred in his eyes.
Some time later, at the station, Kidsgrove is being questioned by one of the police officers. He sits in the interview room, still handcuffed, placidly looking at the two way mirror.
“Why’d you do it?” Asks the cop. “If we hadn’t stopped you that would have caused millions of dollars worth of damage."
“Which you have insurance for. Plus you’d bill me anyway, double profit.” Replies Kidsgrove in a bored monotone.
“That’s the problem with you rich types ain’t it? You think you can get away with anything, you’re all “Oh it’s fine, money talks.” Well people like you disgust me.”
Kidsgrove glares at the officer.
“People like me?”
“Yeah you rich silver spooned idiots who think you control the world….”
He’s interrupted by a cold, somewhat insane laugh by Kidsgrove.
“I don’t even control my own fucking life mate. I’ve just lost two of the biggest matches in my career, I’ve been forced into a contract with an agent that I’ve rejected a dozen times. Which meansI have to go back into an industry I left behind and I believe my darling partner, who I trusted with my whole fucking life is the one who decided that without even speaking to me about it.
I’ve lost everything and that’s just this month, I got years of shit to go through if you want.
So no, I don’t control the world, I can’t even control my own fucking house.
And I found out from your little colleague over there.” He nods to the mirror “That I’m having to fight 3 other guys now to once again get another shot at a title that I should have been challenging for for two fucking years. Like another job interview to see if I’m worthy of the almighty head office’s approval. So that’s fucking fun.”
“So why did you try to burn down the sign?”
“Because Hollywood ruined my fucking life and I want to take it back, and until now I didn’t know how the fuck I was going to do it.”
“So you lashed out? Have you been drinking?”
“No, that’s the only thing I can control, other than when I’m out there in the ring.”
“OK Sam. So how has Hollywood ruined your life and how are you going to get it back? You know how to do it now, right?”
“It just won’t let go, it’s like a fucking monster that just won’t let me out of it. It tells me I’m done, it tells me I’m finished, it drops me like a fucking stone when I’m at my lowest and then demands I never left when I’m on the verge of something special. So then I lose to Spence because my mental preparation was fucked.
But you know, the only way out of this shit is to be ruthless against Odin, be vicious against Dion, be heartless against Regan. To destroy them all with all the fucking frustration I’ve been feeling and make sure there’s absolutely no doubt that I’m the man around here. I could have been, actually should have been fighting for Wrestler of the Year at Turmoil.
But this place just pulled me back and just couldn’t stop - hell even now when I was told the names of the victims against me at Turmoil I couldn’t help but think of Hollywood. Like one last taunt, the people I gotta destroy are basically Hollywood cliches.
You got your horror movie cliche - the bad guy slasher with a sympathetic backstory so everything kinda agrees with what they’re doing when in reality they’re an abject piece of shit who really just needs to be killed off in the first act and would be if people weren’t so fucking stupid.
Then you got the two flavours of gods. The super serious fuckin’ badass who just wants to watch the world burn and has a vendetta against everyone and everything with no reason other than he can. The one where the hero just can’t face down unless they get a hyper specific to the god secret weapon mcguffin and until then they are outmatched, outgunned and out powered.
The other god is the marvel God. The one who’s just a regular dude. The comedy act, who’s technically immortal but just literally is a side character in the films, doesn’t add anything to it and is there just to add brevity on a side plot when the big boss is fucking everything up.
This is what I have to deal with to get my shot, the trifecta of cliches, the trilogy of disappointments, the Hobbits of the wrestling world.
Odin. The God, the myth, the legend. The most feared guy in this industry, the most brutal OG in the whole of wrestling. Won everything, man of the stars - will send you to Valhalla in the blink of an eye if you look at him wrong. Super serious, super badass, super powered. Everyone is outmatched and outgunned against him.
Except for the guy who holds the secret weapon.
You see, Odin’s whole career is built on the myth that he’s a badass, that he’s feared. That he’s won the match before he’s even begun. He gets in people’s heads and just backs up the shit he’s saying. He scares people into submission before they’ve even begun.
I don’t fear anyone. I don’t care about anyone’s reputation. I don’t give a damn if they’re 5ft tall or 7ft tall. Whatever they’ve done before they hit AW is irrelevant to me.
That’s the weapon, as soon as you look through his reputation, as soon as you look through his bullshit and see him for what he is then you lose the fear. As soon as you realise that for all Odin’s achievements and for his Hall of Fame credentials the fucker is just bullshitting and blustering away through life like the rest of us the fear just evaporates. All Odin is, is a man going through an extended mid life crisis, living the life of a dude who just got ditched by his wife who wants to “better herself” with a personal trainer called Chad. Spending his time like a divorced dad in random hotels with hookers and blow, just trying to relive a youth he never really had using outdated references and memes to try and stay relevant with the kids.
Dude is a shadow of himself, he’s pathetic. His diminishing returns are painfully obvious and his mystique is being found out on a regular basis now. If he’s a movie about Gods, then he’s that fucking shit Clash of the Titans movie with Liam Neeson basically cashing in a pay cheque and phoning it in because he didn’t need the money after living on that Star Wars pay for a decade.
God himself only knows how whenever a new year comes around the fuckin main event happens to be Odin challenging for the title in some sort of special. That’s how it seems anyway, he’s like fucking Santa just turning up at the main event scene once a year giving seasons cheer to every fucker in the audience who’s just there to watch his inevitable demise.
Only problem is he’s not a jolly old fat guy handing out presents and making it snow. He’s a depressed middle aged monster who’s so coked up that he stumbles into the fucking room, falling over the tree and sharting on your rug.
Sure I’ve been getting opportunities lately because they are fucking terrified my contract runs out in February and they want to make sure I sign on their shitty deal but nothing compares to the opportunities Odin has been getting for years now. If I had a fraction of the chances he was just randomly given I’d be a multiple time world champion by now and that fuckstick Angelo wouldn’t even have had a look in for one.
So no, Odin doesn’t throw fear into my heart. I don’t think he’s a god, I don’t care if he’s a fucking monster or that he could rip someone’s heart out of their chest or whatever the fuck these people do. I am Sam Kidsgrove, my name should be on his lips - I should strike fear into his little heart, it should be printed on the bi-frost itself just so he remembers who the fuck I am.”
“OK, so that stunt you pulled up on the hill? That’s to remind people who you are?”
“No. Well yes. In a way.
In my world you get a couple of chances to remind people who you are when you fall away, and there’s a few ways you can go about it.
You can do what I did. Put on your big boy boots, demand a change in yourself and work as hard as you fucking can, beating the shit out of some legends, avenging some others and generally making yourself indispensable. Demand changes in yourself and that in turn demands changes in the others you need to convince.
Or you can do what Dion did.
Demand changes in others, act like you’re super serious now and never shake off the fact that you’re a supporting cast in someone else’s play. Pretend that you’ve changed, but still talk up your partner like he’s on some sort of pedestal. Say that this is your time and that the time of roses and wine is over or whatever, but then stay in the shadow of your partner until you’re comfortable to come out.
Basically change nothing, act like you changed everything and expect the world to bow down to your insignificance like a minor God in a marvel movie. Tap into that inner Benicio del Toro. Be that Jeff Goldblum. There’s the rub with Dion, he’s never had the self confidence to do what it takes to be the man. Yeah I remember the time when he was coming out every week demanding he was number 1 in Havoc because he backed himself to win the whole thing from the beginning, we all remember that. We all got a great laugh out of it because it was like a toddler demanding to be sitting on the adults table. It was cute, a nice little segment there to distract people from the real business of serious people wanting to win serious fights. A little cute side story which gives you a little chuckle, something that is memorable but ultimately could have been cut out of the movie without a fucking thought if runtime needed to be cut.
And that’s all Dion is, all Dion ever has been. A side story. Someone there to give an interesting narrative to but ultimate is there to fill time in between sequences of actual worth.
Sure he can point to his many accomplishments, such as, erm, well, wasn’t he the guy who was pinned to crown the first US champion?
Right from the beginning, Dion is there, providing the fall guy for others. Right from day one Dion was there, and he tells us this frequently - so we know he was an AW original, being the side story.
He crowned TFK as the first US title holder, a division that I subsequently owned and made my own. He was the supporting act in a tag team title winning team. Great, join the club - although no one can argue I was ever the supporting act for Shads, unless they’re a complete liar.
So yeah, great achievements from an AW original there. But you know it’s all changed now. Everything is different. He’s super serious about things, he wants to be respected, he wants to show the world he’s not just someone’s side quest. Cool.
How’s that going?
Well it’s going about as well as expected. His tag team partner is main eventing turmoil and he’s just about to be dumped out of the title match against Angelo because I’m going instead. So we’ll see in the next couple of months what his next attempt at being taken seriously is. I dunno, maybe he’ll shake off the shackles of Downfall and be a big man but I doubt it.
But you know? It doesn’t matter what Dion does now or in the future because I have to make this about myself. I have to make this federation mine because in this life, people like me don’t get handed things, when you try to do things the right way you don’t just get given them, you have to take them. What I’m going to do at Turmoil is take this opportunity away from Dion. He’ll be looking at this as his big break - go to December 12th, win the title and finally be on a par with Downfall. He’ll be salivating at the prospect that he gets, all the years of hurt, all the years of neglect, all the years of being the most irrelevant AW original gone. Just by one shot, one lucky punch against Angelo, every insecurity he’s ever had disappeared. After all, Downfall beat Angelo - why can’t he, right? His best bud, the guy who he had a 20 year feud with then became best buds beat Angelo so he knows how to do it too? The guy who he trains with, eats with, sleeps with even though they’re following their own paths will have told him the exact secret on how to beat the seemingly unstoppable Angelo.
Well, no, he didn’t. Angelo was just so relieved that I didn’t get to the final because I was blindsided by that contract bullshit that he took his eye off the ball.
I’m the only one who can take that World title from him. It’s my fucking job, hell it’s my right. Dion can’t do it, Odin definitely won’t do it. Regan? Well shit you may as well send a fucking snowflake to face Angelo.
At Turmoil I’m going to make a statement, then on December 12th I’m going to carry it out.”
“Sam, the only statement I want from you is why you tried to burn down the Hollywood sign, so far I got you are pissed off with the industry and your desire to remind people who you are. Anything else you want to add?”
“What’s your rank?” Asks Sam, directly to the police officer.
“Erm, well, Sergeant.” Comes the rather perplexed reply.
“Did you earn that rank?”
“Yeah, I think I did.”
“Not everyone earns their spot.
Some people coast on the names of their families, become little psychos, get given every single little thing they ever wanted as a kid and then have the same treatment when they become adults. Some people take that a little further and give themselves the moniker slaughterella. Like owning an abattoir and pretending to be a horror princess or whatever shit went on is anything remotely like having the killer instinct to go and take someone out when they’re fighting for their lives. Acting like they’re some sort of big fuckin’ shot because they so happen to inherit their family fortune and in their rookie year actually did 6 times more than Dion has since the first AW show.
Problem is when you’re used to coasting on the name of your family, when you’re used to coasting in life and have everything handed to you with minimal effort, then you tend to coast when you’re on your own. When things seemingly come to you naturally, like, I dunno, the 70 odd shots Regan has had at titles she’s never deserved then you’re gonna coast. Just like the Halloween movies coasted after they did like the second one, they coasted - phoned it in, thought the people would just carry on watching and put minimal effort in. They then had to rely on crossovers and shit to stay relevant after no one was buying what they were selling any more.
Just like Regan. When she was in the CW division she was fresh, she was a star, they didn’t know how to handle her. Everything was going well. She got promoted, same thing happened, until it didn’t.
Everyone in this industry has that period where they’ve gotta dig deep and ask themselves whether what they’re doing now people are buying. Everyone has to evaluate what they do because if you don’t, then you’re going down a rabbit hole and the end result is being in the butcher’s shop right under the cleaver.
Some people reinvent. They refresh, they do what I did and basically take the business by the throat and say “No, this is what’s going to happen now” and then make things happen. Some people stay the course and get swallowed up, being sent to obscurity before their inevitable release.
Others? Well they start seeking sanctuary in crossovers. They seek out the help of people who are going through the same thing, they think unity is stronger. They think being together helps, they think that them versus the world will ensure a victory for all of them!
Well that’s just a crock of shit.
The only person who can ensure victory is yourself. Affluenza haven’t exactly set the world on fire, god knows they’ve tried. Dion is useless but at least his team managed to actually do something memorable. Affluenza? Yeah they lost to King Shit twice. That’s not in itself embarrassing, I mean Spence and CJ are formidable and I think they could even have given the Hollywood Elite a difficult match. No, what is embarrassing is the belief that Regan should be remotely near the number 1 contender for the World title. The belief that she can actually beat Angelo. We’re talking here someone who burst onto the scene as a kid with all the privileges that she’s been given throughout her life, promising that she’ll be the biggest and best thing to ever come out of Cruiser Clash, guaranteeing that she’ll butcher us all or some nonsense and failing to deliver precisely any of this while she cheerleads the actual person who is doing this. Maybe if Jill was here in this match we’d be having a different conversation, as it stands though no, we’ve got the stand in instead.
Regan can’t beat Angelo and take that title off his slimy, douchebag hands. Regan doesn’t have the drive or desire to do it, she’s too busy coasting, too busy making sure she stays in her safe little lane, not having to do anything other than the bare minimum to stay rich and stay slightly relevant. She’s happy like that, she wants that sort of life. Putting her in the main event against Angelo would be like that rabbit in her abattoir, there’s no chance it’s coming out of there alive.
I have to win this match at Turmoil. I have to because I am the only person who can take that title off of Angelo. I’m the only fucker in this match who has a chance against Angelo. I’m the only one who wants Angelo that badly that he’ll run through fucking walls to get him. I want to wipe that smirk off the little fucker’s face, I want to take everything away from him like he did with me. I want him to be so fucking desperate and down that he’ll be sitting here with you fuckers in 2 months because he actually burned down that Hollywood sign. I want him to feel half the pain I’m feeling right now, and I want to send a message to Hollywood that way.
If you want to mess with my life then I’m going to burn down your new flavour of the month.
Angelo’s name will die by my hands.”
The interview room door opens, in walks through a rather smart suited man who neither Kidsgrove or the sergeant recognises.
“I’m calling an end to this interview gentlemen, I’m Mr Kidsgrove’s lawyer and I wish to speak to my client in private. I also have his bond to pay, courtesy of his partner so if you would like to take him out of those handcuffs, I’d appreciate it.”
Kidsgrove gives him a sour look.
“If Zooey is sending you, then I’m not interested.”
“She thought you’d say that, but here - listen to this recording. It’ll explain everything.”
The lawyer places a phone on the table.
“I don’t know what’s up, talk to me.I’m worried about you.” It reads.
“You know what’s up” he says to himself. “I didn’t want this, I never wanted this but you sent the contract and now the old man owns my life again.”
He doesn’t reply, he doesn’t want to confront the love of his life knowing that she’s betrayed him in the worst way and not even given him the courtesy to talk to him about it. He continues to just look at the city of LA, wondering what to do next. After all, he has no place to go right now. He’s in a fully depressed state after finding out he’s signed for the old Man again, forcing him back into an industry he left behind - to top it off he failed again in what should have been one of the greatest victories of his life. He sighs, a long drawn out sigh and looks at the unopened bottle of wild turkey on the passenger seat.
He turns over his 5 years sober coin in his hands, over and over again - as if to mull it over. This only serves to frustrate him and eventually it gets too much, he starts bashing his steering wheel with his fists and head in rage, until he angrily picks up the bottle, opens the driver door and exits the vehicle. He looks to the city down below.
“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME HUH?” He bellows angrily at the lights. “HAVEN’T I GIVEN YOU ENOUGH?
I GAVE YOU MY CHILDHOOD! I GAVE YOU THIRTY YEARS! WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU STILL WANTING ME! I DON’T WANT THIS, I DON’T WANT ANY OF THIS! YOU UNDERSTAND ME YOU FUCKS!
YOU TOOK EVERYTHING FROM ME! AND YOU WANT ME TO COME BACK? FUCK YOU!”
He flips both birds at the city below before getting to his knees and weeps. Babbling as he does, he’s a broken man. It’s all just become too much.
Eventually, after about 10 minutes of sobbing himself to silence he picks up the bottle of wild turkey, turning away from the city to face the world famous Hollywood sign. He unscrews the cap and puts it to his lips, but he can’t seem to tip the bottle. He can’t seem to draw the elixir into his mouth, part of his brain just won’t let him do it. Try as he might, he just isn’t capable of doing it. In frustration he hurls the bottle at the sign, smashing it against the H. Then, finding some spark of resolve he marches to his car, popping the boot and grabbing one of a number of jerry cans full of petrol. He starts sloshing it over the sign, trying to saturate every single letter in it.
He’s only interrupted by the siren and lights piercing the night.
“Don’t move!” An authoritative voice commands. Kidsgrove looks at the cop, taking refuge behind his car door, pointing his pistol directly at Kidsgrove’s chest. Before Kidsgrove can react another 3 cars pull up and 6 more cops join the scene. After a brief calculation, Kidsgrove reluctantly puts the jerry can down and puts his head over his head. He doesn’t react, doesn’t say anything or even acknowledge the police when they put his arms behind him in cuffs. He allows them to put him in one of the cars, just staring straight ahead. He only turns to face the city when he’s in the car, with hatred in his eyes.
Some time later, at the station, Kidsgrove is being questioned by one of the police officers. He sits in the interview room, still handcuffed, placidly looking at the two way mirror.
“Why’d you do it?” Asks the cop. “If we hadn’t stopped you that would have caused millions of dollars worth of damage."
“Which you have insurance for. Plus you’d bill me anyway, double profit.” Replies Kidsgrove in a bored monotone.
“That’s the problem with you rich types ain’t it? You think you can get away with anything, you’re all “Oh it’s fine, money talks.” Well people like you disgust me.”
Kidsgrove glares at the officer.
“People like me?”
“Yeah you rich silver spooned idiots who think you control the world….”
He’s interrupted by a cold, somewhat insane laugh by Kidsgrove.
“I don’t even control my own fucking life mate. I’ve just lost two of the biggest matches in my career, I’ve been forced into a contract with an agent that I’ve rejected a dozen times. Which meansI have to go back into an industry I left behind and I believe my darling partner, who I trusted with my whole fucking life is the one who decided that without even speaking to me about it.
I’ve lost everything and that’s just this month, I got years of shit to go through if you want.
So no, I don’t control the world, I can’t even control my own fucking house.
And I found out from your little colleague over there.” He nods to the mirror “That I’m having to fight 3 other guys now to once again get another shot at a title that I should have been challenging for for two fucking years. Like another job interview to see if I’m worthy of the almighty head office’s approval. So that’s fucking fun.”
“So why did you try to burn down the sign?”
“Because Hollywood ruined my fucking life and I want to take it back, and until now I didn’t know how the fuck I was going to do it.”
“So you lashed out? Have you been drinking?”
“No, that’s the only thing I can control, other than when I’m out there in the ring.”
“OK Sam. So how has Hollywood ruined your life and how are you going to get it back? You know how to do it now, right?”
“It just won’t let go, it’s like a fucking monster that just won’t let me out of it. It tells me I’m done, it tells me I’m finished, it drops me like a fucking stone when I’m at my lowest and then demands I never left when I’m on the verge of something special. So then I lose to Spence because my mental preparation was fucked.
But you know, the only way out of this shit is to be ruthless against Odin, be vicious against Dion, be heartless against Regan. To destroy them all with all the fucking frustration I’ve been feeling and make sure there’s absolutely no doubt that I’m the man around here. I could have been, actually should have been fighting for Wrestler of the Year at Turmoil.
But this place just pulled me back and just couldn’t stop - hell even now when I was told the names of the victims against me at Turmoil I couldn’t help but think of Hollywood. Like one last taunt, the people I gotta destroy are basically Hollywood cliches.
You got your horror movie cliche - the bad guy slasher with a sympathetic backstory so everything kinda agrees with what they’re doing when in reality they’re an abject piece of shit who really just needs to be killed off in the first act and would be if people weren’t so fucking stupid.
Then you got the two flavours of gods. The super serious fuckin’ badass who just wants to watch the world burn and has a vendetta against everyone and everything with no reason other than he can. The one where the hero just can’t face down unless they get a hyper specific to the god secret weapon mcguffin and until then they are outmatched, outgunned and out powered.
The other god is the marvel God. The one who’s just a regular dude. The comedy act, who’s technically immortal but just literally is a side character in the films, doesn’t add anything to it and is there just to add brevity on a side plot when the big boss is fucking everything up.
This is what I have to deal with to get my shot, the trifecta of cliches, the trilogy of disappointments, the Hobbits of the wrestling world.
Odin. The God, the myth, the legend. The most feared guy in this industry, the most brutal OG in the whole of wrestling. Won everything, man of the stars - will send you to Valhalla in the blink of an eye if you look at him wrong. Super serious, super badass, super powered. Everyone is outmatched and outgunned against him.
Except for the guy who holds the secret weapon.
You see, Odin’s whole career is built on the myth that he’s a badass, that he’s feared. That he’s won the match before he’s even begun. He gets in people’s heads and just backs up the shit he’s saying. He scares people into submission before they’ve even begun.
I don’t fear anyone. I don’t care about anyone’s reputation. I don’t give a damn if they’re 5ft tall or 7ft tall. Whatever they’ve done before they hit AW is irrelevant to me.
That’s the weapon, as soon as you look through his reputation, as soon as you look through his bullshit and see him for what he is then you lose the fear. As soon as you realise that for all Odin’s achievements and for his Hall of Fame credentials the fucker is just bullshitting and blustering away through life like the rest of us the fear just evaporates. All Odin is, is a man going through an extended mid life crisis, living the life of a dude who just got ditched by his wife who wants to “better herself” with a personal trainer called Chad. Spending his time like a divorced dad in random hotels with hookers and blow, just trying to relive a youth he never really had using outdated references and memes to try and stay relevant with the kids.
Dude is a shadow of himself, he’s pathetic. His diminishing returns are painfully obvious and his mystique is being found out on a regular basis now. If he’s a movie about Gods, then he’s that fucking shit Clash of the Titans movie with Liam Neeson basically cashing in a pay cheque and phoning it in because he didn’t need the money after living on that Star Wars pay for a decade.
God himself only knows how whenever a new year comes around the fuckin main event happens to be Odin challenging for the title in some sort of special. That’s how it seems anyway, he’s like fucking Santa just turning up at the main event scene once a year giving seasons cheer to every fucker in the audience who’s just there to watch his inevitable demise.
Only problem is he’s not a jolly old fat guy handing out presents and making it snow. He’s a depressed middle aged monster who’s so coked up that he stumbles into the fucking room, falling over the tree and sharting on your rug.
Sure I’ve been getting opportunities lately because they are fucking terrified my contract runs out in February and they want to make sure I sign on their shitty deal but nothing compares to the opportunities Odin has been getting for years now. If I had a fraction of the chances he was just randomly given I’d be a multiple time world champion by now and that fuckstick Angelo wouldn’t even have had a look in for one.
So no, Odin doesn’t throw fear into my heart. I don’t think he’s a god, I don’t care if he’s a fucking monster or that he could rip someone’s heart out of their chest or whatever the fuck these people do. I am Sam Kidsgrove, my name should be on his lips - I should strike fear into his little heart, it should be printed on the bi-frost itself just so he remembers who the fuck I am.”
“OK, so that stunt you pulled up on the hill? That’s to remind people who you are?”
“No. Well yes. In a way.
In my world you get a couple of chances to remind people who you are when you fall away, and there’s a few ways you can go about it.
You can do what I did. Put on your big boy boots, demand a change in yourself and work as hard as you fucking can, beating the shit out of some legends, avenging some others and generally making yourself indispensable. Demand changes in yourself and that in turn demands changes in the others you need to convince.
Or you can do what Dion did.
Demand changes in others, act like you’re super serious now and never shake off the fact that you’re a supporting cast in someone else’s play. Pretend that you’ve changed, but still talk up your partner like he’s on some sort of pedestal. Say that this is your time and that the time of roses and wine is over or whatever, but then stay in the shadow of your partner until you’re comfortable to come out.
Basically change nothing, act like you changed everything and expect the world to bow down to your insignificance like a minor God in a marvel movie. Tap into that inner Benicio del Toro. Be that Jeff Goldblum. There’s the rub with Dion, he’s never had the self confidence to do what it takes to be the man. Yeah I remember the time when he was coming out every week demanding he was number 1 in Havoc because he backed himself to win the whole thing from the beginning, we all remember that. We all got a great laugh out of it because it was like a toddler demanding to be sitting on the adults table. It was cute, a nice little segment there to distract people from the real business of serious people wanting to win serious fights. A little cute side story which gives you a little chuckle, something that is memorable but ultimately could have been cut out of the movie without a fucking thought if runtime needed to be cut.
And that’s all Dion is, all Dion ever has been. A side story. Someone there to give an interesting narrative to but ultimate is there to fill time in between sequences of actual worth.
Sure he can point to his many accomplishments, such as, erm, well, wasn’t he the guy who was pinned to crown the first US champion?
Right from the beginning, Dion is there, providing the fall guy for others. Right from day one Dion was there, and he tells us this frequently - so we know he was an AW original, being the side story.
He crowned TFK as the first US title holder, a division that I subsequently owned and made my own. He was the supporting act in a tag team title winning team. Great, join the club - although no one can argue I was ever the supporting act for Shads, unless they’re a complete liar.
So yeah, great achievements from an AW original there. But you know it’s all changed now. Everything is different. He’s super serious about things, he wants to be respected, he wants to show the world he’s not just someone’s side quest. Cool.
How’s that going?
Well it’s going about as well as expected. His tag team partner is main eventing turmoil and he’s just about to be dumped out of the title match against Angelo because I’m going instead. So we’ll see in the next couple of months what his next attempt at being taken seriously is. I dunno, maybe he’ll shake off the shackles of Downfall and be a big man but I doubt it.
But you know? It doesn’t matter what Dion does now or in the future because I have to make this about myself. I have to make this federation mine because in this life, people like me don’t get handed things, when you try to do things the right way you don’t just get given them, you have to take them. What I’m going to do at Turmoil is take this opportunity away from Dion. He’ll be looking at this as his big break - go to December 12th, win the title and finally be on a par with Downfall. He’ll be salivating at the prospect that he gets, all the years of hurt, all the years of neglect, all the years of being the most irrelevant AW original gone. Just by one shot, one lucky punch against Angelo, every insecurity he’s ever had disappeared. After all, Downfall beat Angelo - why can’t he, right? His best bud, the guy who he had a 20 year feud with then became best buds beat Angelo so he knows how to do it too? The guy who he trains with, eats with, sleeps with even though they’re following their own paths will have told him the exact secret on how to beat the seemingly unstoppable Angelo.
Well, no, he didn’t. Angelo was just so relieved that I didn’t get to the final because I was blindsided by that contract bullshit that he took his eye off the ball.
I’m the only one who can take that World title from him. It’s my fucking job, hell it’s my right. Dion can’t do it, Odin definitely won’t do it. Regan? Well shit you may as well send a fucking snowflake to face Angelo.
At Turmoil I’m going to make a statement, then on December 12th I’m going to carry it out.”
“Sam, the only statement I want from you is why you tried to burn down the Hollywood sign, so far I got you are pissed off with the industry and your desire to remind people who you are. Anything else you want to add?”
“What’s your rank?” Asks Sam, directly to the police officer.
“Erm, well, Sergeant.” Comes the rather perplexed reply.
“Did you earn that rank?”
“Yeah, I think I did.”
“Not everyone earns their spot.
Some people coast on the names of their families, become little psychos, get given every single little thing they ever wanted as a kid and then have the same treatment when they become adults. Some people take that a little further and give themselves the moniker slaughterella. Like owning an abattoir and pretending to be a horror princess or whatever shit went on is anything remotely like having the killer instinct to go and take someone out when they’re fighting for their lives. Acting like they’re some sort of big fuckin’ shot because they so happen to inherit their family fortune and in their rookie year actually did 6 times more than Dion has since the first AW show.
Problem is when you’re used to coasting on the name of your family, when you’re used to coasting in life and have everything handed to you with minimal effort, then you tend to coast when you’re on your own. When things seemingly come to you naturally, like, I dunno, the 70 odd shots Regan has had at titles she’s never deserved then you’re gonna coast. Just like the Halloween movies coasted after they did like the second one, they coasted - phoned it in, thought the people would just carry on watching and put minimal effort in. They then had to rely on crossovers and shit to stay relevant after no one was buying what they were selling any more.
Just like Regan. When she was in the CW division she was fresh, she was a star, they didn’t know how to handle her. Everything was going well. She got promoted, same thing happened, until it didn’t.
Everyone in this industry has that period where they’ve gotta dig deep and ask themselves whether what they’re doing now people are buying. Everyone has to evaluate what they do because if you don’t, then you’re going down a rabbit hole and the end result is being in the butcher’s shop right under the cleaver.
Some people reinvent. They refresh, they do what I did and basically take the business by the throat and say “No, this is what’s going to happen now” and then make things happen. Some people stay the course and get swallowed up, being sent to obscurity before their inevitable release.
Others? Well they start seeking sanctuary in crossovers. They seek out the help of people who are going through the same thing, they think unity is stronger. They think being together helps, they think that them versus the world will ensure a victory for all of them!
Well that’s just a crock of shit.
The only person who can ensure victory is yourself. Affluenza haven’t exactly set the world on fire, god knows they’ve tried. Dion is useless but at least his team managed to actually do something memorable. Affluenza? Yeah they lost to King Shit twice. That’s not in itself embarrassing, I mean Spence and CJ are formidable and I think they could even have given the Hollywood Elite a difficult match. No, what is embarrassing is the belief that Regan should be remotely near the number 1 contender for the World title. The belief that she can actually beat Angelo. We’re talking here someone who burst onto the scene as a kid with all the privileges that she’s been given throughout her life, promising that she’ll be the biggest and best thing to ever come out of Cruiser Clash, guaranteeing that she’ll butcher us all or some nonsense and failing to deliver precisely any of this while she cheerleads the actual person who is doing this. Maybe if Jill was here in this match we’d be having a different conversation, as it stands though no, we’ve got the stand in instead.
Regan can’t beat Angelo and take that title off his slimy, douchebag hands. Regan doesn’t have the drive or desire to do it, she’s too busy coasting, too busy making sure she stays in her safe little lane, not having to do anything other than the bare minimum to stay rich and stay slightly relevant. She’s happy like that, she wants that sort of life. Putting her in the main event against Angelo would be like that rabbit in her abattoir, there’s no chance it’s coming out of there alive.
I have to win this match at Turmoil. I have to because I am the only person who can take that title off of Angelo. I’m the only fucker in this match who has a chance against Angelo. I’m the only one who wants Angelo that badly that he’ll run through fucking walls to get him. I want to wipe that smirk off the little fucker’s face, I want to take everything away from him like he did with me. I want him to be so fucking desperate and down that he’ll be sitting here with you fuckers in 2 months because he actually burned down that Hollywood sign. I want him to feel half the pain I’m feeling right now, and I want to send a message to Hollywood that way.
If you want to mess with my life then I’m going to burn down your new flavour of the month.
Angelo’s name will die by my hands.”
The interview room door opens, in walks through a rather smart suited man who neither Kidsgrove or the sergeant recognises.
“I’m calling an end to this interview gentlemen, I’m Mr Kidsgrove’s lawyer and I wish to speak to my client in private. I also have his bond to pay, courtesy of his partner so if you would like to take him out of those handcuffs, I’d appreciate it.”
Kidsgrove gives him a sour look.
“If Zooey is sending you, then I’m not interested.”
“She thought you’d say that, but here - listen to this recording. It’ll explain everything.”
The lawyer places a phone on the table.
