Post by Crow McMorris on Dec 12, 2019 23:57:06 GMT -5
Glacier City, Alaska
September 28th, 2019
(The Night Of Reunion)
Broken furniture and a sulfuric afterglow encircle me as I stand deep in the remains of a gun fight. Sixty five seconds earlier my bounty arrived through a plume of raging wind and icy snow, a bulgarian organ harvester, shaking off the effects of a raging storm outside as his small, skeletal frame and tired world-weary eyes sought passage across the Yukon into Canada, anxious for a mafia rendevouz that would never arrive. For a moment an eerie stillness held the dimly lit bar in its palm as hunter and prey recognized each other, there was an exchange of looks, exits scouted and options explored, but in the end it’s always the same when a target is cornered; screaming, death, and then the eventual aftermath as perps crawl through their agony while patrons huddle, shaking and confused, behind overturned tables and fragmented scenery.
And then I hear it.
Gravedigger: MARK OF THE BEAST!
I wipe a smear of blood off a cracked wall mounted screen as I observe this monster named Walter mauling my former tag partner. This beast looks unstoppable, a modern day Thomas Uriel Bates as I hear a crack in Gravedigger’s voice. I pour some bourbon as the Barman scurries out of my way.
Jimmy Garcia: WALTER ON TOP OF RICHARDS! IS THIS IT?!
1!
Kick out, Alex....kick out!
2!
The bounty tries to escape on his hands and knees, I lower a size twelve boot onto his broken ankle and the problem is resolved. The liquor's hot fire heats up my cold lungs as my gaze returns to Alex as a part of me I thought was dead and buried, is strangely resurrected.
FIGHT DAMN IT! KICK OUT!
3!
My fist punches the television with an explosion of fury as shards of screen bury themselves into my hand. I look down and observe slithers of blood trickling across my knuckles, the whiskey glass crushed by my grip. As I exhale, the Barman speaks up.
Barman: They made you a statue.
What?
Barman: You’re in the UCI hall of fame. Spencer Adams announced you. I guess he still thinks you’re something special.
My cracked reflection in a mirror says otherwise. I haven’t shaved in months, I’m out of shape and I smell bad. As much as I want to hang on to the illusion of life, it just keeps slipping through my fingers. Everything becomes distant after a while. Civilization is an electrical hum I can barely hear, and yet.
Barman: Smashing up my bar is easier though, right? Those fuckers picked the wrong McMorris.
Some shots don’t need a metal casing to strike. Just a few words, carefully placed. I hand the Barman what I have in cash, then make my way back home. One day at a time. The snow threatening to take me. But it never does.
*****
Weeks pass, I find a small corner in a Chicago gym. Peeling wallpaper and the stench of urine become my world. Even at 6’6 you can disappear in a place like this though. I cover my head with a hoodie and get to work. I work the bag. I sweep the floor. This is ground zero as Howard Black taps me on the shoulder a month into my training and congratulates me on showering. We laugh as I think about the blood trickling down my arm back in Alaska as he speaks. Then a memory of that night at UCI: Beachmania floods back to me as Howie and I hug. We forgive each other. I forgive myself.
*****
When we’re born, doctors wipe blood from our eyes and sooth our screams with drugs. Then, just as we’re becoming accustomed to the light, they cut the cord and set us free. When we die? It’s the same routine, if you’re lucky. Some though, some just drift away.
In a way, Spencer, I’ve died twice. I died in a ring during WCF Revenge 2015. I died again at Gainesville, Florida when Howard Black broke my arm. The second was a slow death; less painful, but not without anguish. I would spend drug hazed nights considering that break, thinking about how quickly it healed, how my “undeath” had robbed me of caring about anything. The belt. UCI. My friends. I drifted away and lost sight of life. Even when you were having casts of my likeness forged in bronze I was shooting up wondering when the hit was gonna arrive. Eventually when you’re me though, everything fades, even addictions recede. Who the fuck knew that could happen?
Then I found something old to hold on to. I watched tapes of your old Trios title pin over Pantheon back at WCF Helloween 2015. The People’s choice, the team that sprang up after your exodus from the DRG. The day you stood up to Bates was the day you registered on my radar, even if Corey Black and Jeff Purse underestimated you back then, I didn’t. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone this, but Bates asked me to join his little Dark Rider’s Gang back in the day. He was looking for soldiers, but I was loyal to Pantheon, which is why he had his goons attack me. That’s why he wanted me out of the way, not because of some made up disagreement, it was because I wouldn’t bend the knee. Even though Bates was seven feet tall he had a small man’s complex; he wanted a wall of bodies between him and the competition; so he targeted those with talent but without Seth Lerch’s ear, the periphery if you will, to fight for him. And that’s when you came in.
You was just a kid back then, Spence. A cruiserweight basically with a lot of heart but not a lot of mileage. That used to cost you at first, but anyone with an eye could see you were learning fast. Bates, for all his megalomaniacal delusions, wasn’t a spurg; he had his ear to the ground and knew you were a diamond in the rough; little did he know you had a mind that was sharp too.
You’ve always been a free thinker, Spencer. Even when the odds were against you, even when the tide flowed against you, you stood firm. A seven foot tall man can break a lot of things, but an indomitable spirit is not one of them. The day you left the DRG was the day his true colours flew high and wide and for all to see. You exposed the hypocrisy and pettiness of the mountain. You made him conquerable. Didn’t even take a match, just courage. You’ve always had that.
This whole KOS thing; I didn't get it at first, the slabs community lives in a California dust bowl away from everyone and everywhere; why would they have need for a king or even stomach someone announcing themselves as such then they live a meth fueled lifestyle based upon the dissolution of rules and order? So I dug deeper and realized what that connection means to you. It’s so typical of Spencer Adams to hook his wagon to an ideal and try to elevate it. You’re doing it for them, you did it for me back in Chicago. I just never realized it at the time. Like most things in my life. It drifted away.
UCI was your family. I was a part of that but death disconnects you from everything and everyone. Now comes this XIII and I have a chance to fix some of that in Minneapolis; a thousand fans will be compacted into a tiny shitbox all eager for blood and gore. Just like the old days back on Overload. Just like that historic night at Lazerus 2016 when I beat Jay Omega for the UCI World title . The night I became the first to carry your belt. You hugged me backstage that night, Jayson Price and Benjamin Atreu didn’t even shake my hand. Let’s be honest, it was always your company. Because just like with the DRG, your heart held your direction. Your courage plotted the course, and your talent is why you’re a former AW World Champion and now the current US champion. But there’s more for you than that.
In Walter, I see a Bates he could only dream of becoming. But I know you, Spencer, you see it too, don't you? There’s that same arrogance. The same delusions of grandeur. You’re a proud US champion, but the world is what you want over your shoulder. At XIII we can take a step back into the light together. I’m in your corner, even when the hammer comes down and the lights go out. Even when a Murder of Crows hits and the pin is announced. Even after the fight is over and bragging rights are there for the taking. I want to be there for you. To prepare you for the fight to come. For the destiny I know you cannot avoid. For your family. For those gone and those who are still here willing you on. For the ghosts and the loved ones no longer here. And for that spark of hope that never leaves your side. The light that leads the way to hell, and back again.
September 28th, 2019
(The Night Of Reunion)
Broken furniture and a sulfuric afterglow encircle me as I stand deep in the remains of a gun fight. Sixty five seconds earlier my bounty arrived through a plume of raging wind and icy snow, a bulgarian organ harvester, shaking off the effects of a raging storm outside as his small, skeletal frame and tired world-weary eyes sought passage across the Yukon into Canada, anxious for a mafia rendevouz that would never arrive. For a moment an eerie stillness held the dimly lit bar in its palm as hunter and prey recognized each other, there was an exchange of looks, exits scouted and options explored, but in the end it’s always the same when a target is cornered; screaming, death, and then the eventual aftermath as perps crawl through their agony while patrons huddle, shaking and confused, behind overturned tables and fragmented scenery.
And then I hear it.
Gravedigger: MARK OF THE BEAST!
I wipe a smear of blood off a cracked wall mounted screen as I observe this monster named Walter mauling my former tag partner. This beast looks unstoppable, a modern day Thomas Uriel Bates as I hear a crack in Gravedigger’s voice. I pour some bourbon as the Barman scurries out of my way.
Jimmy Garcia: WALTER ON TOP OF RICHARDS! IS THIS IT?!
1!
Kick out, Alex....kick out!
2!
The bounty tries to escape on his hands and knees, I lower a size twelve boot onto his broken ankle and the problem is resolved. The liquor's hot fire heats up my cold lungs as my gaze returns to Alex as a part of me I thought was dead and buried, is strangely resurrected.
FIGHT DAMN IT! KICK OUT!
3!
My fist punches the television with an explosion of fury as shards of screen bury themselves into my hand. I look down and observe slithers of blood trickling across my knuckles, the whiskey glass crushed by my grip. As I exhale, the Barman speaks up.
Barman: They made you a statue.
What?
Barman: You’re in the UCI hall of fame. Spencer Adams announced you. I guess he still thinks you’re something special.
My cracked reflection in a mirror says otherwise. I haven’t shaved in months, I’m out of shape and I smell bad. As much as I want to hang on to the illusion of life, it just keeps slipping through my fingers. Everything becomes distant after a while. Civilization is an electrical hum I can barely hear, and yet.
Barman: Smashing up my bar is easier though, right? Those fuckers picked the wrong McMorris.
Some shots don’t need a metal casing to strike. Just a few words, carefully placed. I hand the Barman what I have in cash, then make my way back home. One day at a time. The snow threatening to take me. But it never does.
*****
Weeks pass, I find a small corner in a Chicago gym. Peeling wallpaper and the stench of urine become my world. Even at 6’6 you can disappear in a place like this though. I cover my head with a hoodie and get to work. I work the bag. I sweep the floor. This is ground zero as Howard Black taps me on the shoulder a month into my training and congratulates me on showering. We laugh as I think about the blood trickling down my arm back in Alaska as he speaks. Then a memory of that night at UCI: Beachmania floods back to me as Howie and I hug. We forgive each other. I forgive myself.
*****
When we’re born, doctors wipe blood from our eyes and sooth our screams with drugs. Then, just as we’re becoming accustomed to the light, they cut the cord and set us free. When we die? It’s the same routine, if you’re lucky. Some though, some just drift away.
In a way, Spencer, I’ve died twice. I died in a ring during WCF Revenge 2015. I died again at Gainesville, Florida when Howard Black broke my arm. The second was a slow death; less painful, but not without anguish. I would spend drug hazed nights considering that break, thinking about how quickly it healed, how my “undeath” had robbed me of caring about anything. The belt. UCI. My friends. I drifted away and lost sight of life. Even when you were having casts of my likeness forged in bronze I was shooting up wondering when the hit was gonna arrive. Eventually when you’re me though, everything fades, even addictions recede. Who the fuck knew that could happen?
Then I found something old to hold on to. I watched tapes of your old Trios title pin over Pantheon back at WCF Helloween 2015. The People’s choice, the team that sprang up after your exodus from the DRG. The day you stood up to Bates was the day you registered on my radar, even if Corey Black and Jeff Purse underestimated you back then, I didn’t. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone this, but Bates asked me to join his little Dark Rider’s Gang back in the day. He was looking for soldiers, but I was loyal to Pantheon, which is why he had his goons attack me. That’s why he wanted me out of the way, not because of some made up disagreement, it was because I wouldn’t bend the knee. Even though Bates was seven feet tall he had a small man’s complex; he wanted a wall of bodies between him and the competition; so he targeted those with talent but without Seth Lerch’s ear, the periphery if you will, to fight for him. And that’s when you came in.
You was just a kid back then, Spence. A cruiserweight basically with a lot of heart but not a lot of mileage. That used to cost you at first, but anyone with an eye could see you were learning fast. Bates, for all his megalomaniacal delusions, wasn’t a spurg; he had his ear to the ground and knew you were a diamond in the rough; little did he know you had a mind that was sharp too.
You’ve always been a free thinker, Spencer. Even when the odds were against you, even when the tide flowed against you, you stood firm. A seven foot tall man can break a lot of things, but an indomitable spirit is not one of them. The day you left the DRG was the day his true colours flew high and wide and for all to see. You exposed the hypocrisy and pettiness of the mountain. You made him conquerable. Didn’t even take a match, just courage. You’ve always had that.
This whole KOS thing; I didn't get it at first, the slabs community lives in a California dust bowl away from everyone and everywhere; why would they have need for a king or even stomach someone announcing themselves as such then they live a meth fueled lifestyle based upon the dissolution of rules and order? So I dug deeper and realized what that connection means to you. It’s so typical of Spencer Adams to hook his wagon to an ideal and try to elevate it. You’re doing it for them, you did it for me back in Chicago. I just never realized it at the time. Like most things in my life. It drifted away.
UCI was your family. I was a part of that but death disconnects you from everything and everyone. Now comes this XIII and I have a chance to fix some of that in Minneapolis; a thousand fans will be compacted into a tiny shitbox all eager for blood and gore. Just like the old days back on Overload. Just like that historic night at Lazerus 2016 when I beat Jay Omega for the UCI World title . The night I became the first to carry your belt. You hugged me backstage that night, Jayson Price and Benjamin Atreu didn’t even shake my hand. Let’s be honest, it was always your company. Because just like with the DRG, your heart held your direction. Your courage plotted the course, and your talent is why you’re a former AW World Champion and now the current US champion. But there’s more for you than that.
In Walter, I see a Bates he could only dream of becoming. But I know you, Spencer, you see it too, don't you? There’s that same arrogance. The same delusions of grandeur. You’re a proud US champion, but the world is what you want over your shoulder. At XIII we can take a step back into the light together. I’m in your corner, even when the hammer comes down and the lights go out. Even when a Murder of Crows hits and the pin is announced. Even after the fight is over and bragging rights are there for the taking. I want to be there for you. To prepare you for the fight to come. For the destiny I know you cannot avoid. For your family. For those gone and those who are still here willing you on. For the ghosts and the loved ones no longer here. And for that spark of hope that never leaves your side. The light that leads the way to hell, and back again.