Post by Alexander Pasternak on Mar 4, 2018 23:20:44 GMT -5
Chapter Three: Mr. Tillman
"Without a revolutionary theory there cannot be a revolutionary movement."
~ Vladimir Lenin
Roy Speede's boot strikes me just under the chin and the only sensation I feel is numb weightlessness. The world around me seems to move in slow motion as fall limply to the mat, cognizant of the compromising position I'm in but unable to do anything about it. My breathing is ragged, or at least it would be if that kick didn't drive air out of my lungs. My jaw is going to hurt like hell by the time I hit the ground.
There's a certain inevitability to this, I suppose. Something like this was going to happen eventually; I just wish it wasn't so soon. I'm starting to feel that stinging sensation in my jaw. I'm falling faster. Everything is a blur, a whirlwind of activity buzzing in front of my eyes. I inhale through my teeth, bracing for impact.
I hit the mat and everything goes black.
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"What the FUCK?" I scream, throwing a punch at the wall, but missing by a mile. Here I am again, the same cheap motel room that's been my home ever since I made Las Vegas my temporary residence. Jana sits on the bed just out of my peripheral vision, though I know she'd probably be judging me something fierce if my outburst could pry her eyes away from whatever storm-chasing bullshit she's reading on her phone. It's finally hit me: I fucking lost. I don't even remember the count. I don't remember anything after the superkick. I was out.
"GOD. FUCKING. DAMMIT." This time I actually hit the wall. Three times. Then one more time for good measure. And another. This isn't healthy. I don't give a shit. I'm gonna put a fucking hole in this wall. I see Roy Speede's face in the plaster. That smug, goofy grin I'm sure he has right now and will have until someone wipes it off his face. It should have been me. It was going to be me. How the fuck did he kick out of-
"Holy shit, calm down dude."
"Oh, she does speak." Venom leaks from my lips as I whip around to look at my loving girlfriend over the stack of take-out containers on the floor in front of her. This place looks more and more like our apartment every day.
"Yeah, and she's telling you you're acting like a fucking child."
"So now it's childish to be pissed off about losing in a sport where my fucking livelihood is based on success? It's childish to be concerned about that shit now?"
She sighs and hops off the bed. "You're standing there, huffing and puffing and hitting a wall a bunch. What, do you think if you kick the wall's ass well enough, Gravedigger's gonna bust through the door to tell you he's rescinding Speede's win and giving it to you? You're being a cock."
My hands ball into fists as I stomp over to her. There's a small voice in the back of my head, the fraying ends of my common sense screaming at me that she's right. Screaming at me that I shouldn't say what's on the tip of my tongue. The fire in my veins and the hate in my heart are much louder, though. By the time I realize what I'm doing and try to stop myself, my hands are wrapped tightly around her wrists, nails digging into her palms.
"What the fuck are you- get off of me!"
She struggled against me, kicking at my shins. My grip only tightens as I try to keep my big fucking mouth shut. The words spill out of me regardless.
"Right, right. You're the fuckin' queen of healthy coping mechanisms aren't ya? Why don't we roll up your fucking sleeves."
Her hands slip free and she shoves me away, a scowl on her face, tears in her eyes.
"Real cool, asshole. Real fucking cool. Why am I even surprised?"
Where's that fire now? My hands shake and I backpedal, looking like a deer in the headlights. She wipes the tears away and turns her back to me, grabbing her phone and jacket off the bed.
"Babe, look-"
"You know, I really shouldn't even be shocked. This is you, Alex. This is what you do. Whenever you get criticized even a little, you try and deflect it back at them. You never stop to think 'maybe the other person has a point'. Because they don't, right? They're all hypocrites and liars and they're against you even if all they really want is for you to succeed. You lost, but are you really surprised? We spent all day from the time I flew in until you left for the arena getting fucked up. Is that how fucking champions prepare? No, but I guess that's my fault too. It's getting to be a real burden, carrying the weight for all your fuckups."
She throws on her jacket and walks by me as I try to reach out for her.
"Where are you going?"
"Airport," she says as she grabs her suitcase.
"Your flight doesn't leave until tomorrow morning."
"Tell me something I don't know."
I sigh, opening my mouth to speak before being cut off.
"I'm s-"
"Save it. Don't say those fucking words to me until you actually mean them."
I close my eyes and take a seat on the bed, head in my hands. A few moments later I hear the door open and her first steps outside. She pauses for a second, and in the silence that now hangs in the room like a brewing storm I hear a faint whisper that she wanted to mask with a sigh:
"I love you."
I open my eyes only to see the door slam shut.
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Hey Spence, got a sec? I promise this diatribe won't be too long: you don't inspire the same level of rage that an Alex Richards does. Shit, your existence doesn't even rile me up the way your Korean surname-doppelganger does. How could you? The biggest throughline of your professional wrestling career has been that you've just been, there. Always hanging around, lurking at the periphery, seemingly always on the precipice of the moment. Perpetually poised and ready to pounce. Ready to take that next step and establish yourself as the top dog or, failing that, an elite level talent who cannot be denied.
But it never comes. You never take that step. You just fall back and roll around in the sweet slop of middling futility. Sure, we're kindred spirits of sorts: we're the other two of this tourney's final four. The ones who didn't make the cut. But, there is a difference between you and I, and it's a pretty fucking huge one. See, me losing to Speede? While it definitely stings, that was only my third match on a large scale. I overachieved and I have plenty of time to grab that brass ring.
You? That loss to D-Day is emblematic of your whole career, isn't it? Good, but not good enough. Never good enough. Your WCF run was good for, what? Almost getting buried and tucked away in the doldrums of some big bad biker gang run by a giant doofus a couple layers of irony removed from good ol' Oblivion? A couple of accomplishments in a stable everyone forgot about and a people's title run that went nowhere? I don't mean to keep dragging this dirty laundry out, but it highlights a very important point here, I think. Admit it, Spence, you never reached the level you wanted to as a wrestler.
They say those that can, do. Those that can't, teach. Well, I guess in your case it's "those that are mediocre, start their own promotion to compete with the one they never got a real foothold in" but whatever. Idioms are fucking gay anyway.
How'd that go, anyway? Oh, right. It's in the ground. Let's kick the ballistics here, Spencer:
Your peak as a wrestler was as limp and anticlimactic as a sad handjob. You failed as a promoter, and now you're back to wrestling where you're going to do it all over again.
Can I tell you something, man? Heart to heart, man to man? You might be the first person I've faced that I can truly say I respect as a person. Speede may have kicked my ass and I'd be a fucking retard to not respect his ability but you? You've seen it man. That crippling failure. Every door shutting in your face before you can even try to stick your foot in. That lack of opportunity, and letting the ones you do get slip through your fingers. I get it.
You aren't fighting for glory. For fame. For some bullshit legacy. You're fighting because you have to. Because you don't have anything else.
Just like me.
All I can say is, I'm glad you have a lot of experience with things falling short of expectations. Because this match is going to be another in a long line of that.
Sorry man, you know I got to do it to you.