The Moment. (3,998 words)
Nov 27, 2023 12:44:11 GMT -5
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Tatiana and Gerard Angelo like this
Post by Downfall on Nov 27, 2023 12:44:11 GMT -5
Wrestling's built around getting to the moment, wouldn't you agree?
Even the terminology is based around the concept of building up to a story; A fairly uncomplicated theorem... working towards a climax.
We speak of "popping" the crowd as a euphemism for a collective, psychic orgasmic release, literally the singular moment where their excitement bubbles over into uproarious praise, for that one intersecting point in time where it's all come together.
We wanna believe in a hero, someone who pays out our belief in their skills; When that time comes for them to deliver their righteous comeuppance to the evil shitbird, they hope they've engendered enough goodwill that they'll get that moment, that they'll bask in that glowing praise, that knee-shaking hurrah.
But, most televised wrestling's also endless, a perpetually-churning grinder that uses up, and discards so many that the legions of people burned is endless.
Legions of people bitterly scorn the wrestling company because they never were fit, they never slotted perfectly into the role, and they never built up enough reason to care for that their moment never came.
Because they don't have the long-game perspective of what being part of this serialized story means. Because I don't think many do.
That's the beautiful thing, isn't it? I can acknowledge, even when it bites me in the ass, that the power of that moment wasn't diminished by it's brevity.
Nor has the road I've taken in the two years since then dimmed it's importance.
To me, this WAS a clearly-defined story in three acts (and arguably, a prologue the year before.)
Three-part harmony, showcasing the will it takes to not let anyone define you, to not be finished until you say you are.
It was an arc I came to gradually.
For every bit of shit, I've ever swallowed from small-minded people for my extended period holding the Hardcore title and how it meant that I was afraid to fight for the main event, that I was insecure and hiding from a fight that mattered.
When I fought just as hard in my second Turmoil and came out just short to Spencer Adams, who, unlike me, never did close the deal and take what he assumed was his spot at the top.
Swimming in the nihilism and ruminating on the endings of all things, of the entropy, decay and crumbling of the foundations this company built itself on until I came to the epiphany I'm at now.
Everything, for me, has built and built to this moment, my third final in three years, with higher stakes than ever before.
Not just a tournament win, not just Wrestler of the Year... but finally, with the World Title on the line. Everything's converged into this fervently serendipitous nexus-point.
This is where it begins.
This is where it ends.
The Friendsgiving (Rumiko's idea) had been a modest success at 124-A Pine Street, Saturday night.
Rumiko, belly swelling, had sat on the stool in the makeshift kitchen while Michelle, dotingly, worked around her, taking things out of the oven. How Rumiko had laughed into her stem glass of cherry spritzer (non-alcoholic) and how, when she'd reached her hand in to take a fingertip of cranberry sauce, Michelle had slapped it away. Then, the two women had laughed.
Danny stood back in the shadow of the door-frame, watching with wonder. Amazed that these two disparate yet... uncannily similar women had managed to become friends despite the grim reminders of infidelity and choice growing inside of Ru's tummy.
Danny still watched, despite himself, happily, but when he closed his eyes, he saw the vision yet again. The bristling, thorny, coal-eyed nightmare wolf, it's beetling smile spreading cancerously up to it's ears, gaping at him, and he looked down on the den of cubs and their mother that had been nestled in the snow... and saw the pulped corpses, the snow stained pinkish red.
His mood turned foul after that, and he heard a buzzing at the gate. Low, in his voice, he intoned, "I'll get that, Ru," but, hoping to go out for a smoke, he retreated down the stairs, grabbing his leather duster.
He was stopped as he trundled the security gate aside, by the pathos of Keiko and Mat Hasegawa, fresh from a shift at their bodega. There was an instant of clear animosity and anxiety; Keiko miiiight not've forgiven. Why would she? But... she had kept Michelle, mindwiped and regressed to a little doll, safe, for months... and so there was a softness there that creeped in to the edges of her face.
Keiko came forward, and, stiffly, hugged Daniel.
In Japanese, against his chest, he heard the words, "Tomie would've loved to be here..." in Japanese, he gave his sincerest apologies.
As they parted, he wondered at this, the road that had brought their little found-family together. Wasn't there something profound in this moment?
"To be loved," said the nightmare-wolf in the back of his mind, a warning and an echo, "is to be changed."
But moments are made to pass, and, speaking in quick bursts, Keiko told Mat to hold the pots of omarasu and curry so that they could bring them upstairs...And then, a voice even more unexpected cut through the chill night air.
"Michelle's invite said that you could bring a plus-one to this shindig."
Lightspeed quick, on the heels of that quip, came a second, a familiar cadence. "Got room for a couple former Game Boyz?"
Daniel blinked at the faces coming up his walkway now, the taller one in front, still bearing his gelled-up quiff. He squinted, disbelieving. "...Kyle Shane?"
Where we come to you, Tatiana... because you're a clearer illustration of that point than I could've ever asked from Jill Park OR Gerard Angelo.
You're the answer to the age-old existential question of what happens with the coyote when he's finally caught his roadrunner... now what's he do with it?
The problem with this serialized story, this morality play of building a hero through all of her various quirks, trials, and tribulations, is that she's meant to be relatable, she's meant to be someone that, at bottom, we think of as a paragon.
In theory, you are, or you should be, the best of us.
You, the stalwart, malcontent, counter-culture rogue, the journeywoman who's come from a few decades of obscurity, an overly Canadian stoicism, and a take-no-shit attitude; over this entire year, surely you've proven your worth.
Through every one of your troubles, when you've fallen short, and, ultimately, when you've triumphed, you proved yourself, right?
You not only ended the threat of Jill's title reign, you ended her putting her on an injured reserve we're not sure she'll ever recover from, in a bravura display in the grittiest, most brutal bloodbath XIII has ever seen?
That, more than anything, should assure you, correct?
But where do you go from here with the prize you've tracked down and won?
When you ask yourself that, you should have a clear idea.
You've mouthed some high-minded words about being a role model, a positive force to lead this company's young up-and-comers, to bring AW into a new golden age.
What you don't realize, Tatiana, is that you've already reached a point where your words begin to fall on deaf ears.
It's just talking, bureaucratic doublespeak, something you just need to say as World Champion, while you play to both the Pro- and Anti-AW sides on Twitter, continually testing the fickle waters of popularity.
Here's the reality.
Your chase is over, you've caught your prize, so the pressing need to believe in you is waning.
Now, to hold on to that belt you clutch so dearly against mounting challenges, you'll either need to start resorting to the same cheap tactics you decried Jill and Gerry for to get you through another month, or you'll get eaten.
You're already at the point I'd reached in my first title reign here because I was trying to do things the honorable way, that's the point.
You're already halfway to mimicking Jill anyway, seeing as how you already walk out there with a morally-nebulous manager named Ruby Goldhirsch at your side... isn't too much of a stretch to foresee you needing her sliding you a foreign object, once your back gets firmly to the wall, and you want to pad your title reign a month, that's the point.
What I need to you understand is that, in every way that matters, I'm the one here who sees you most clearly, Tatiana.
You and I both had the same background.
We were nearly lost for years, decades almost.
Two tattered, ragged, DIY punk aesthetic castoffs, who fell from grace at some point, vagabonded around the indies and were written off for playing the bingo halls, who fought hard to get these AW contracts... fought even harder to be taken seriously as threats, not as fucking hasbeens. How could I not see you?
But here's the key difference between us, Tatiana, I realize that I'm not, never will be, beloved so I don't court it.
I realize there's going to be a sizeable anti-AW contingent that bitches and moans about me being in WOTY Finals from jump street, and will HATE it when I address them. I don't care.
I don't hide behind public opinion, Tatiana. I don't cheekily try to gauge which way the wind could possibly blow and ride it, like you did when you "addressed" the "controversies" of XIII, and you continue to pal around with anyone who'll give your posts two likes.
You've done it all along.
I'm firmly aware of my place in the story; It's how it progressed in Act One, for me to approach this as a hero, to Act Two where I played myself off, specifically against Mister AW, as it's ultimate villain, it's end-boss.
The truth that I've worked towards is that I'm neither of those.
The truth that I'd come to by Uprising, that's playing out now once I've returned you to whence you came, is that for this drama to come to its logical conclusion, to really end this story, is that my time in the sun didn't last because it wasn't meant to.
I needed to prove myself further. I needed to be torn back down. I needed to shed outside attachments, Dionysus for me, Ruby and your Twitter following for you. I needed to pare down to my core.
Contrast our differences in approach to our losses, Tatiana. I've had just as much reason as you to complain.
When I was in the same position as you are (that first time,) I was fucked just as badly as you've been by the inconsistency of Torture's capricious whims, his coked-out "road to Evo" Pepe Silva mapping.
I never even got my moment to hold the title over my head proudly. As soon as I won it, I was being bludgeoned to a pulp by Affluenza and Jill. As soon as I could stand, I was being booked into triple threat matches. Into ladder matches. When I got to the exact point you're at right now, I was tested by fire. And I was given nothing.
That's a difference. You engage with Twitter so much because they'll believe that you're aggrieved, that you're being held back, any time you say it.
I never raised my voice to complain once when Torture's booking the World title well out of my hands with no rematch went down last year. And for that, I'm labeled Torture's ass-kisser, somehow.
Now look at you. You think you've shown your stuff as World Champion, don't you? You overcame the challenges of "SOYBOY" Gerard Angelo, and you've proudly defended the title strongly for a month?
Except that you haven't.
Again, I didn't have the luxury of being given softball-pitch title defenses against a Dake Ken Jr. I never got to prolong my length by not having to defend my gold for a month while we waited for Turmoil to play out.
Do you think you've overcome the worst possible challenges just because you finally brought Jill down in a match she was too unprepared for? You still haven't had a real challenge that you've passed, to this day.
Again, it's all the differences in approach. When you were affronted, you took to social media, bitched and raged. You played victim and spun everything, every single time you fell short, as someone else's fault.
When you didn't get what you wanted on the table, you threatened to walk away without signing a contract; Tatiana, I've freely admitted I'm the worst scumbag imaginable but I've never once held a contract as a bargaining chip, I've never raged against the owners for giving me less when I swore I deserved a title shot.
I just went out there every single time and killed it. Until I left nobody standing in my way.
This year was filled with the most glaring examples, Tatiana. Emotionally, you have the stability and maturity of a fucking high-schooler.
Your jealousy of Lissie Hope reached such a point you needed to erase the lineage of the CBS title she held, promoting it as your own, wholly original idea.
A "Purity" division, because you're nothing if not consistent with this fallacious argument that you're the greatest, undiscovered technical wunderkind of our generation; While also promoting a sexless, chaste, boringly-puritanical mindset of what the world, what pro wrestling, should be.
You saw Torture's hand in every single one of your failures so much that even in the instances where you had a point, and he was trying to screw you over, it couldn't be said it wasn't deserved on your part.
You did chase him down, marking one of two high points of your year as beating a non-combatant half to death inside a steel cage for one of the most meaningless victories imaginable.
Was it satisfactory? Was it good for you, to be vindicated?
There again, the question of what do you do once you've attained everything you've ever wanted?
The answers to that are... simply depressing. Look at you.
Every time you promote yourself as World Champion your mouth is filled with the names of people who aren't here anymore.
The tacit implication, of course, the victorious crowing of the Last Woman Standing, that you've finally been vindicated in the supremacy of your craft because Ash Blake, Lissie, and Carter won't return Tort's calls anymore.
It doesn't appear like that to anyone else on the outside. It actually comes off as that mouthy little nerd that waits until his bully is out of the room to puff his chest out and proclaim "I wasn't ever scared, I coulda whipped his ass!"
There's another paramount difference between us is that I did rise to the top in a fed where they were active. But you've remained static.
I went to the Hardcore division by choice. You stayed in TV division, in CBS division, by pecking order.
Every single time I've won a World championship, the story has been different because I had something else to prove.
The first time it was to establish my undersized, dog-in-the-fight tenacity, that I could take on giants and overcome the odds. The second? It was to prove I could exist outside of my comfortable little cage, exist without the assistance of a stable.
The last time, when I won the World Title overcoming Dandy Divito, one of the greatest Hall-of-Famers in AW history? It was just a statement of intention, a step on the journey that brought me here, now, to you.
But now, I have NOTHING to prove and everything to fight for... this time the story isn't that I want to prove haters wrong about me, that I need to win to recoup my embarrassment.
This time, the story goes deeper than anything you could imagine, because I have become obsessed with the realization that closing this three-year odyssey out means the final act in a completed work.
I'll be DAMNED if I let you stop me when I'm about to lay the last stroke in.
As Hiro Sasuke palled around in the kitchen, making nice with Rumiko, bonding over similar upbringings, occasionally lapsing into exchanges of dialect, Kyle and Daniel retreated out of the party atmosphere, to the familiarity of the smoking-section, the fire escape.
Daniel had so many questions, but resolved himself to let the former Game Boy draw them out in his time. Kyle's face was older, lined with anxiety and worry. No longer the boy, he reminded himself.
"So..." Daniel got his dig in, "How's life being canceled?"
Kyle rolled his eyes, don't get me started, "'S'all goin' to shit, kupo. They're calling for my head on Twitter. You know the takes, not only m'I a goddamn sadboi that's never held on to success long..."
Danny brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaled, cherry glowing, "Mmm, know what that's like."
"But there's entire documentary episodes about the shady shit I did in college. People are calling for my head, and it's not likely I'll ever get hired anywhere again."
Danny frowned, this openly-defeatist whining really wasn't like Kyle at all, and he said so. "So that's it."
"That's it? Danny... I'm done in wrestling. Me and Hiro..." he looked back into the kitchen, and his expression softened. Daniel understood that look, and that an unconventional love may've grown where it wasn't expected. He and Ru shared the same look often enough.
Brusquely, Danny cut him off. "No. Bullshit. That's what I've been coming to this entire time, you don't let anyone define when you're done except you."
The moonlight spilled out over Pine Street in the chill El Nino winter; People bustled in and around the marketplace, waiting in line at food kiosks. His people, he thought, somewhat sadly. The people he'd grown to... care for in his time here? He looked back into the kitchen as well, to the Hasegawas, to Chelle, to Ru. He hadn't known the power that wanting to freeze a memory in time would have over him until he got there.
Shrewdly, Kyle cut his eyes over. "Is this about you, suddenly?"
Danny leaned his head against the brownstone, exhaling smoke and vapor. "Over this past year, I've been coming to a decision. Because an... old friend did ask me, what it was like to have everything you've ever wanted, and when do you decide it's enough? Well... I was deciding that as I held the Hardcore division in my hands, in an iron grip... it came to me that it wasn't where I wanted to end things. It wasn't where I wanted my story to be finished. So I vacated the belt, and took it off the board. I let it go."
"There's... something freeing in that, Kyle. In wanting something so long, only to find out it wasn't everything you wished it could be. In letting go of it, and starting anew. Waiting for the next moment to come, and seizing it."
"Hm. I can get that. So now?" Kyle raised his eyebrows at him.
"Now... we'll see," he said, simply. "Because the truth of it is... that honestly, staying stuck in one place is a little death. A remaining static. You have to live life, Kyle. You have to go out and search for the ending you want, and then you don't stop until you've brought it into fruition. And maybe... I want to be alive."
Kyle considered for a long while, breath fogging. He rubbed his hands together.
"C'mon, kid, let's go back to the party."
"Danny... thanks for... giving me something to consider."
Danny shrugged it off.
When they climbed back in through the window, Michelle met Danny's eyes, their unspoken shorthand of let's get out of here, I need to talk to you.
Danny nodded at her, but he stayed, for just a second, as he watched Keiko Hasegawa spooning out food on a plate and chiding Ru to eat, for the safety of her child. He saw Hiro wrap his arms around Kyle's waist and kiss his neck, tenderly, and Kyle stood, stiffly, not returning it. He saw them all together in one space.
It was a moment he wished he could've saved while he was in it.
You and I, Tatiana, had similar starting points, but we comprise tonally different ethos in how this game is played.
You're still in that space where you won this belt after a decade of doldrums, you raise it high to prove EVERYONE that said a forty-year-old woman in this game is a sunk cost and you're raring to STICK it to the patriarchy; you're still on that heady high dreaming about the titillating new directions you want for your show.
It shows in your approach throughout this entire tournament, Tatiana. Week-after-week, you had your eyes on Sitcom, on Gerard.
You never mentioned me once, even though the possibility had to've occurred to you, even when you saw me bearing down on you in your rear-view, the dread starting to sink in, as you began to grok the finality that I represent.
You're just at that point in the story where you've fleetingly gotten your hands on the prize, only to have it ripped from your grasp. As I was... once.
But you're going to think the differences between us lay in tactics. You're going to sniff down your high, porcelain nose at me for my legacy of hardcore, because as a wrestling purist, you'd have nothing but disdain for what I've stood for, for what I've done.
You're going to give your patently-safe rah-rah spiel about how easily you'll bend me like a pretzel, how disarming me without any weapons will lead you to the easy tap-out, to the accolade of Wrestler of the Year that should surely belong to you by rote, given everything you've done January to now.
It's true, I'm not meeting you in a backyard deathmatch arena, I'm not even meeting you halfway in the state you won the title from Jill in, in a barbed-wire cage with glass taped to our fists, and gallons of claret painting the mats.
Everything, everything has been propelling us to this moment where I am going to stand on your very own chessboard and outmaneuver you like Bobby Fischer finessing a Russian grandmaster.
I am going to strike down upon you with such ferocity that when the whimper of submission escapes your lips it's going to be just so you can stay the raining of my fists on your head.
I am going to lay in with such malicious intent that any jury would have to argue a case for manslaughter.
It isn't for bloodthirst, and it isn't to sate ego, to put you in your place for daring to exist in a man's world, no.
It has absolutely no moral bearing. I've moved beyond that.
I'm not the Devil. Not the Final Boss, not the Hollywood Ending, I'm not the million stupid catchphrases that you, nor Jill, or any idiot in the World title scene over the last few years has concocted to fluff their ego, to convince themselves that this story has ever been moving them towards this.
It's as I've said, I am simply the one that shows up every single time and shows that there is absolutely no reign that lasts forever, that nothing gold can stay, that every new beginning is some other beginning's end, ad hominem. Wrestling is built around moments, but there is one moment that I deliver on that nobody else in this company ever can.
Finality.
The culminating point, that shuffles the deck.
Because what I've learned over three god damn years, Tatiana... is that you need to close out someone's story, you need to bring things to their logical ending, so that you can start fresh, renewed.
To quote Kyle:
Endfuckinggame.