Post by Jessie Lee on May 22, 2024 7:03:24 GMT -5
'EEEEEEEEEEEE YO!
It's finally here; the second favorite super-premium live event that's become the annual tradition of the summer.
Havoc!
The big ol' clusterfucks to end all clusterfucks where the last person left standing goes on to challenge the World Heavyweight Champion for the strap in the main event on the grandest stage; Evolution. So make sure to bring your raincoats Las Vega 'cause it's gonna be a bloody BLOODBATH as world-class athletes will be comin' outta the woodwork in an attempt to claim that fuckin' spot!
At least, that's what I'd like to say an' feel so upbeat with the generic fuzzy-warm babyface bullshit that some people regurgitate whenever one of these things comes 'round.
But me?
Right now?
It's just an overinflated battle royal that is basically no different than the plethora of tournaments that Bolthead has decided was best for whatever business he thinks he's runnin'. Does that sound odd considering the grandiose overtones that it's been over the years? Sure, I guess, but let me lay out a few things that nobody else is willing to say; allow me to show ya how to "speak out", Toadie Jolee.
Winning the Havoc Rumble doesn't mean dick.
Don't get me wrong; it's a neat feather in your cap AND it gets you into that main event as advertised. So make no mistake, winning the fucker is a BIG DEAL. It HAS to be when you got names like Wade Moor, Mikey X. Walter, Spencer Adams, Carter Shaw, an' Lissie motherfuckin' Hope punching their tickets there. However, only two outta the six were able to capture the big one. Which means, while the bragging rights are real for winnin' it doesn't mean you're gaurrented to take the strap home once the dust settles at Evolution. So all you single brain-celled parasites that haven't even started makin' a name for yourself is thinkin' that ya can just pop in for your first Action Wrestling match an' win it all; you're fucked twelve ways from Sunday an' have one hell of a fuckin' mountain to climb.
But did ya notice something?
While only two out of the six managed to grab hold of that imaginary brass ring to become the World Champion at Evolution, each and every single one of them had some real fuckin' weight behind their name that made winning Havoc BIGGER than the sub-standard win rate. With the years of blood, sweat, and tears they made their names mean something and that weight is what has made Havoc into what it is today. When you win it isn't SOLELY about getting that shot at Evo.
It's about showing up, showing out, and showing the world that you're READY TO STEP UP; TO STEP INTO THAT SPOT SO MANY CLAMOR FOR. TO BE THE MAN.
So, while history has shown that emerging victorious at Havic doesn't mean you'll be walking out as the World Heavyweight Champion at Evo it has proven time an' again that you're ready to bear the weight so many crumble under.
A weight that has made six diamonds in the rough un-fucking-deniable.
"What are we doing here again?" Micheal asked the gruff looking next to him as they stood behind a sea of people who were completely engrossed in the gladiatorial contest in the center of the makeshift boxing ring that consisted of square straw bales and loosely tied bull rope.
"She's supposed to be your God damn girlfriend," the man grumbled in annoyance "You fucking tell me why we're fuckin' here. AGAIN."
"Again? What do you mean ag-," pausing as realization finally dawned him, Micheal shook his head in disbelief "I shouldn't be surprised that this was where you found her last time. But that was THEN. Why are we here now?"
"Why do ya think, numb nuts?"
"Because she's missing again and you think she's here?"
"And he FINALLY gets it!" the man exclaimed with exasperation; his Australian accent plain as the nose on his face.
"Jack," Micheal said with a sigh "I know you don't like me."
"Oh, what gave ya THAT idea? The inflection in my force or the shit I talk?"
"Listen," Micheal hissed as he grabbed Jackie by the shoulder roughly "I get that you're pissed, but Jess acting this way is hardly my fault. You're her brother, shouldn't you know what the deal is when I don't?"
"Get your fuckin' hand off me." Jackie snapped in irritation as he swatted the other man's hand from his shoulder. After turning to shoot Micheal a nasty look, he made another sweep of the crowd to see if he could spot his runaway sister.
"We might be a year a part, but we've never been the best of friends. There ain't no fucking way I know what runnin' through her head 'less it involves fuckin' punching people."
"Which is why we're here."
"Bingo." Jackie said with an affirming nod "This was where I ended up findin' her in all her early morning bloody glory."
"Early morning bloody glory?" Micheal repeated in confusion "Dude, was she fighting or on her period? 'Cause that's just a weird phrase you should never say again."
"Har har," Jackie grumbled back as he scanned the crowd for felt like the umpteenth time. His sister was a creature of habit when she dealing with something alone and since fighting was the best release, he had thought that she would be here. Especially after the heartbreaking loss that she had suffered last Monday Night Clash. However, amidst the plethora of smelly gamblers and throat-burning smoke he hadn't managed to catch sight of her. And as much as he was loathe to admit it, he had found himself worrying about her more and more since their brother had passed.
"Listen, its just weird is a-"
"Hold that thought." Jackie said briskly as he finally recognized someone and pushed his way to them. The person in question was an elderly man that was promoting this silly makeshift arena and, as luck would have, was the one that had called him the last time Jessie was here.
"Hey ol' man," Jackie said as he touched the man's shoulder "I need to talk to ya quick."
Whipping around with a surprising amount of spryness, the man looked like he was ready to throw hands despite his advanced age. However, before he could throw that first punch his eye lit up in recognition.
"'Bout time you showed up." the old man grumbled as he shoved a hand into his pocket. After a few moments he fished out a pair of items and shoved them into Jackie's hands.
"What're you?" Jackie questioned in confusion as his sister's phone and a folded piece of paper was shoved into his hands.
"Hell if I know," the old man said guessing at the train of thought "she came by awhile ago an' asked me to give these to ya. Don't know why you'd trust some random old man, but whatever."
Dazed and unable to utter a word, the sea of people steadily pushed him away from the old man who had less answers than Jackie had questions.
Now that I've grounded the over eager scum-sucking beavers a bit, let's move on to the good bits, yeah?
Now, I could rattle off the list of all the known people involved or try an' categorize people in this mad scramble to become a diamond but none of that would mean shit when we're all the same at the core. The people that make that run to the ring are starving animals dead set on sinkin' their rabies-ridden fangs into the soft neck of their fellow mongrel an' there ain't a better way to describe the atmosphere that'll be in that ring than that. Sure it super simplafies things to an absurd degree, but how else am I gonna describe a shit ton of uber psychotic egotistical ultra-competitive super athletes that'll take your breath away on any given day?
I mean, sure you got big ol' monsters like DRAUGR, Sicko, an' Greenie-weenie lumbering about wreaking hell on whoever dares cross their path; clear favorites due to their size and ferocity. But their all pretty much doin' the same thing; fillin' that same void that every wrestling seems to have for big ol' monster motherfuckers. I ain't sayin' their not doin' a damn good job with what their doin', I got my ass handed to me by DRAUGR after all. It's just that someone as simple as me can't seperate them when they all pretty much do the same fuckin' thing in bein' murder monsters culling the meek an' mid. So, if last week is any indication, I got a hard enough skull to knock 'em silly an' render their terrifyin' size moot.
Bigger don't mean better.
Which means the rest of the feild are nothing but technically sound, high impact, hard-hittin', fearless motherfuckers that'll try to put the "show" in "Show Stealer". I wanna prattle off a list of names that help solidify that, but you already know WHO they are. I mean, yeah it's pretty much everyone else that isn't part of the big meaty man club I listed moments ago but there in that description alone is every reason why they're lumped together. 'Course ya got standouts like Doc, Cedrone, Addy, Chodie an' Tats but other than them everyone is just a part of the bland wannabe club. Even then those standout names ain't all that diffent than the Keoring's an' Alexander's loungin' at the bottom of the barrel. Like fish waitin' to be shot, they're mindlessly swimming in circles doin' the same thing week in and week out; sayin' the same horseshit false equivalency bullshit to try an' protect their fragile egos. Doc's one "Dork" and "Nerd" away from an Angelo wannabe from WISH; which, sure, he's been on roll but his relevancy evaporates as soon as the next segment pops up on the screen. Jolee can't get her shit straight an' flip flops from in-ring technical assassin to bitter old bitch yelling at clouds. Chodie an' Cedrone are perpetually one step forward an' twelve steps back whenever they start to cook. An' Addy? She might be holdin' two belts, but she didn't capitalize on her return by challengin' be proper like she should have. Instead she went back to Bolts-for-brains like a child whose older siblings wouldn't allow her to join their game.
Whoops.
Guess I'm naming names anyway.
Welp, that ends now 'cause we're into the "Surprise" entrants that always pop the crowd. Fuckin' nobody knows who showin' up but I don't give a shit. They'll show up, get their moment, and disappear back into the abyss from whence they came after they fumble the ball they're tryin' to steal. So let them try their hand, fact is even if they win odds are they won't be sticking around to carry the company anyway. I mean, if they're old members of the roster then there was already a reason why they couldn't stick around to begin with so they'll just fuckin' leave as soon as the little spark dies an' the first-time people that'll make an appearance for the one time weren't good enough anyway.
Sounds egotistical and shallow of me, I know, but that's just facts.
Now, I could rattle off the list of all the known people involved or try an' categorize people in this mad scramble to become a diamond but none of that would mean shit when we're all the same at the core. The people that make that run to the ring are starving animals dead set on sinkin' their rabies-ridden fangs into the soft neck of their fellow mongrel an' there ain't a better way to describe the atmosphere that'll be in that ring than that. Sure it super simplafies things to an absurd degree, but how else am I gonna describe a shit ton of uber psychotic egotistical ultra-competitive super athletes that'll take your breath away on any given day?
I mean, sure you got big ol' monsters like DRAUGR, Sicko, an' Greenie-weenie lumbering about wreaking hell on whoever dares cross their path; clear favorites due to their size and ferocity. But their all pretty much doin' the same thing; fillin' that same void that every wrestling seems to have for big ol' monster motherfuckers. I ain't sayin' their not doin' a damn good job with what their doin', I got my ass handed to me by DRAUGR after all. It's just that someone as simple as me can't seperate them when they all pretty much do the same fuckin' thing in bein' murder monsters culling the meek an' mid. So, if last week is any indication, I got a hard enough skull to knock 'em silly an' render their terrifyin' size moot.
Bigger don't mean better.
Which means the rest of the feild are nothing but technically sound, high impact, hard-hittin', fearless motherfuckers that'll try to put the "show" in "Show Stealer". I wanna prattle off a list of names that help solidify that, but you already know WHO they are. I mean, yeah it's pretty much everyone else that isn't part of the big meaty man club I listed moments ago but there in that description alone is every reason why they're lumped together. 'Course ya got standouts like Doc, Cedrone, Addy, Chodie an' Tats but other than them everyone is just a part of the bland wannabe club. Even then those standout names ain't all that diffent than the Keoring's an' Alexander's loungin' at the bottom of the barrel. Like fish waitin' to be shot, they're mindlessly swimming in circles doin' the same thing week in and week out; sayin' the same horseshit false equivalency bullshit to try an' protect their fragile egos. Doc's one "Dork" and "Nerd" away from an Angelo wannabe from WISH; which, sure, he's been on roll but his relevancy evaporates as soon as the next segment pops up on the screen. Jolee can't get her shit straight an' flip flops from in-ring technical assassin to bitter old bitch yelling at clouds. Chodie an' Cedrone are perpetually one step forward an' twelve steps back whenever they start to cook. An' Addy? She might be holdin' two belts, but she didn't capitalize on her return by challengin' be proper like she should have. Instead she went back to Bolts-for-brains like a child whose older siblings wouldn't allow her to join their game.
Whoops.
Guess I'm naming names anyway.
Welp, that ends now 'cause we're into the "Surprise" entrants that always pop the crowd. Fuckin' nobody knows who showin' up but I don't give a shit. They'll show up, get their moment, and disappear back into the abyss from whence they came after they fumble the ball they're tryin' to steal. So let them try their hand, fact is even if they win odds are they won't be sticking around to carry the company anyway. I mean, if they're old members of the roster then there was already a reason why they couldn't stick around to begin with so they'll just fuckin' leave as soon as the little spark dies an' the first-time people that'll make an appearance for the one time weren't good enough anyway.
Sounds egotistical and shallow of me, I know, but that's just facts.
Hey Jack,
If you're reading this then I've decided to follow through with something. I know that fucking sounds bad, but it ain't what you're thinking. I didn't do anything THAT drastic and I'm still very much alive. Its just that I needed to go. Where to I don't know, but I'm still sticking to that Action Wrestling and NPWA contracts (that why you can see that I'm alive) but I just couldn't stand staying any longer. It felt like I was suffocating and I just needed to get away. It seems childish, I know, and maybe it doesn't make any sense except to me. But that's how I can best explain things. I'll be back when it feels like I get my head straight again.
Try not to run the gym into the ground,
Jessie
P.S.
Don't you fucking hurt a fucking hair on Micheal. I'll fuckin' skin you alive an' use ya as a fucking lamp shade.
P.P.S.
I'm fucking serious. I WILL KILL YOU!
If you're reading this then I've decided to follow through with something. I know that fucking sounds bad, but it ain't what you're thinking. I didn't do anything THAT drastic and I'm still very much alive. Its just that I needed to go. Where to I don't know, but I'm still sticking to that Action Wrestling and NPWA contracts (that why you can see that I'm alive) but I just couldn't stand staying any longer. It felt like I was suffocating and I just needed to get away. It seems childish, I know, and maybe it doesn't make any sense except to me. But that's how I can best explain things. I'll be back when it feels like I get my head straight again.
Try not to run the gym into the ground,
Jessie
P.S.
Don't you fucking hurt a fucking hair on Micheal. I'll fuckin' skin you alive an' use ya as a fucking lamp shade.
P.P.S.
I'm fucking serious. I WILL KILL YOU!
But hey, it's not this has been a typical Dommy Mommy promo and I think I'm allowed that much after keeping this ship afloat for a fucking year.
Wait, you're gonna tell me I'm wrong and that I ain't nothin' more than a punching bag for the losers that can't hold a fucking candle to me in either ability or bloody fuckin' passion?
Okay.
Neat.
I couldn't give less of a shit 'bout what you think. I could reiterate EVERY FUCKING THING I've done from keeping the United States Championship division afloat, giving Doc and TFK BOTH relevancy in the short lived Tailor Made For Greatness, to even REVIVING and keeping the Television strap relevant before it was decided that it was time to shit that bed by allowing Addy to play gatekeeper 'cause she too fuckin' afraid to step the fuck up. Speaking of shitty beds, how'd things go with Drillbit bein' Tv Champ? Hm, Brady? Was it worth the sharp drop in fucking RATINGS or were ya too busy masturbating at the thought of bein' a part of "the boys"?
Fucking hell.
I tried. I REALLY fucking tried to do things differently for Havoc; to show that I'm MORE than my "Repeatin' Syndrome" but MOTHERFUCKER I'm proud of what I've managed to accomplish thus far an' I'll be damned if I'm gonna allow you motherfuckers to FORGET IT. I'm PROUD of it and I AIN'T FUCKIN' DONE. 'Cause this is motherfucking Havoc an' I shouldn't have to tell ya shit when I go out an' PROVE MYSELF EVERY FUCKING WEEK. Do I always win? Fuck no. But every time I'm on tv ~EVERYTIME I'M ON THE CARD~ you KNOW you're in for a show. You know that, whether I win or lose, YOU are going home with my name on you lips an' my performance running on loop in your mind. A few weeks ago, I said that I'm the conversation, but after last week I'm the EINTIRE FUCKING SHOW.
You can agree with it.
You can HATE IT.
You can even try and deny it until you blue in your fucking face, but the fact remains I'm the glue, mortar, an' adamantium that holds this shit together, keeping it from just becoming ANOTHER fourth-rate jerkoff contest of a "wrestling" promotion. You know, the kind of place where you as one of the MANY so-called producers backstage if there's anything you can improve to be a BETTER competitor only to be brushed off with non-answers like "Just keep doing what you're doing" and "Don't worry about it, kid" so they can around to push Andrew Tate's inbred fucking cousin to the moon.
So all that shit I said about the weight of Havoc's past winners and them being undeniable diamonds?
Guess fucking what; you might not like what I say and you don't need to give a flying fuck, but the weight of the world I'm taking onto MY SHOULDERS is what MAKES ME THAT DIAMOND.
THE DIAMOND YOU NEVER FUCKING WANTED.
So this Sunday Night, when the twenty; thirty; forty or however many slack-jawed fuck-knuckles step into that ring I'm not just going to beat 'em an' dump JUST to WIN. I'm not going to throttle EVERY giant scary monster. I'm going to once again PROVE why the Monday Night Mommy is THAT BISH.
Why the Aussie Assault is WAR PERSONIFIED.
Why I'm UN~FUCKING~BREAKABLE.
Wait, you're gonna tell me I'm wrong and that I ain't nothin' more than a punching bag for the losers that can't hold a fucking candle to me in either ability or bloody fuckin' passion?
Okay.
Neat.
I couldn't give less of a shit 'bout what you think. I could reiterate EVERY FUCKING THING I've done from keeping the United States Championship division afloat, giving Doc and TFK BOTH relevancy in the short lived Tailor Made For Greatness, to even REVIVING and keeping the Television strap relevant before it was decided that it was time to shit that bed by allowing Addy to play gatekeeper 'cause she too fuckin' afraid to step the fuck up. Speaking of shitty beds, how'd things go with Drillbit bein' Tv Champ? Hm, Brady? Was it worth the sharp drop in fucking RATINGS or were ya too busy masturbating at the thought of bein' a part of "the boys"?
Fucking hell.
I tried. I REALLY fucking tried to do things differently for Havoc; to show that I'm MORE than my "Repeatin' Syndrome" but MOTHERFUCKER I'm proud of what I've managed to accomplish thus far an' I'll be damned if I'm gonna allow you motherfuckers to FORGET IT. I'm PROUD of it and I AIN'T FUCKIN' DONE. 'Cause this is motherfucking Havoc an' I shouldn't have to tell ya shit when I go out an' PROVE MYSELF EVERY FUCKING WEEK. Do I always win? Fuck no. But every time I'm on tv ~EVERYTIME I'M ON THE CARD~ you KNOW you're in for a show. You know that, whether I win or lose, YOU are going home with my name on you lips an' my performance running on loop in your mind. A few weeks ago, I said that I'm the conversation, but after last week I'm the EINTIRE FUCKING SHOW.
You can agree with it.
You can HATE IT.
You can even try and deny it until you blue in your fucking face, but the fact remains I'm the glue, mortar, an' adamantium that holds this shit together, keeping it from just becoming ANOTHER fourth-rate jerkoff contest of a "wrestling" promotion. You know, the kind of place where you as one of the MANY so-called producers backstage if there's anything you can improve to be a BETTER competitor only to be brushed off with non-answers like "Just keep doing what you're doing" and "Don't worry about it, kid" so they can around to push Andrew Tate's inbred fucking cousin to the moon.
So all that shit I said about the weight of Havoc's past winners and them being undeniable diamonds?
Guess fucking what; you might not like what I say and you don't need to give a flying fuck, but the weight of the world I'm taking onto MY SHOULDERS is what MAKES ME THAT DIAMOND.
THE DIAMOND YOU NEVER FUCKING WANTED.
So this Sunday Night, when the twenty; thirty; forty or however many slack-jawed fuck-knuckles step into that ring I'm not just going to beat 'em an' dump JUST to WIN. I'm not going to throttle EVERY giant scary monster. I'm going to once again PROVE why the Monday Night Mommy is THAT BISH.
Why the Aussie Assault is WAR PERSONIFIED.
Why I'm UN~FUCKING~BREAKABLE.
Leaning her head against the cool bus window, Jessie watched the jidnight dessert scenery pass by as she took the late night bus to(ANNNYWHERE) Las Vegas. The weight she felt around her throat slowly disapaiting the further the bus went. A year ago it had felt like a home away from home. Now? Now it felt like a prison that she would rot away in if she didn't leave and anywhere was fine.
Did any of this make sense?
Proably not, but if anything had been a proven constant it was that she was less a creature of logic and more of an emotional storm. Therefore, in that vein, it felt like she needed to leave; that there was something cruical that she couldn't get if she stayed.
Maybe that didn't make sense either.
She was a mess and just needed to be a mess of a person elsewhere. To a person sound of mind with half decent morals it might seem like she was abandoning her responabilities and maybe she was, but sometimes there was something that a person felt compelled to do and for her this was that something. She could try to place a feeling or some sort of label on it, but it just was what it was. Where things would go she couldn't guess.
But maybe that's what she needed.
Uncertainty.
A change.
"Andy," she breathed softly "What am I even doin'?"
With silence as the only answer, the bus rattled onwards into the night.