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Jan 26, 2020 23:46:36 GMT -5
Jordan, âThe RevolutiDaddyâ Wesley, and 2 more like this
Post by Crow McMorris on Jan 26, 2020 23:46:36 GMT -5
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10 Months Ago. âPurgatoryâ film set. AlmerĂa, Spain.
Euro funded co productions are the worst. The scripts are nonsensical and the acting erratic. You sit in a directorâs chair all day while a dust storm swirls across the set like a howling maniac. Thereâs a haunting quality to it thats picturesque, especially with a western town like this one, but the long days and the heat drain all that enthusiasm away. I asked the director, as we waited for light, how much time would be needed for ADR back in Rome (ADR stands for Automated Dialog Replacement, itâs when you over dub your voice in a booth when the sound on set is unusable) The director shrugged, âIt wonât matter for youâ he answered in broken English, âAn Italian actor will be your voice anywayâ.
I dropped the script to the floor and headed back to my trailer; a tin can with no shower and a blocked toilet. A full length mirror had a hairline crack that ran vertically along itâs center. My Bandit reflection (cowboy hat, olive green poncho, sheepskin vest, jeans, boots with spurs) was segregated down the middle, like a before and after advert, into two very distinct lives. In truth I had lived two lives, well perhaps âlivedâ was pushing it, one was very much alive, the other?
A runner shouted into a megaphone, âFai uscire i morti!â, which translated meant, âBring out the dead.â
A few moments later I could hear the extras shambling into the ghost town; zombies. Crude makeup applied to a sea of minimum-wage extras. Some were dressed in western attire, others where living corpses wandering in from a carnival set situated a few meters outside of town. Clown make-up running into gore prosthetics. The script was insane and the pay an insult.
And this was where my second life had stranded me. I was a rotting former wrestler playing alive in a zombie westen. And my voice wouldnât even be my own.
I mockingly drew my gun from itâs holster and pointed at the mirror; I wondered, âwhich reflection should I kill? And then I realised, both were damned. âTake your pickâ. I murmured.
A buzz sounded before I could pull the trigger. My mobile sat on a table top, I answered with a sigh. It was my agent, Gretchen Gale. Gale is a smart woman, aeriodyte, sputters ideas fast with a New York accent. It reminded me of home, and that didnât help.
âYour Grandfather called. What do you want me to tell him?â
For those uneducated, my grandfather is Buddy Roman, famed WCF manager. Perhaps the most successful manager in professional wrestling history. He even managed to secure me a UCI world title. Now though? You probably remember seeing him motoring into court by way of a zimmer frame on the nightly news. Heâs this years villain and internet wonât let you forget. Gretchen was trying to force an answer out of me about Buddy, correction: the right answer. The answer that gets me back into Hollywood. The one that sells out my own flesh and blood.
âTell him Iâm fineâ I replied. There was a long pause.
âBuddy would understandâ She retorted with a hint of frustration, âYouâre already distant from him anyway, just tweet that you donât condone his actions, and maybe I can salvage that Fincher dealâ.
This was not a good time to hold me for ransom.
âFor the last fucking time, I will not turn my back on my family. Do you understand? Fucking let them cancel me. I donât care.â
âSure you donât care, thatâs why youâre screaming down the phoneâ.
See what I mean?
âListen, you donât understand what having a real family means to me.â
âFamily? Yeah, right. Look, closed shop communities donât get a free pass anymore, Crow. Youâre either clean or youâre dirty. Jayson Price and the WCF are under a huge fucking spotlight right now, the whole ONE 2019 debacle is blowing up on social media and that means you have to stand in the light prove youâre clean. This is about survival.â
âIâm dead, Gretchen. So is the WCF. Itâs a little late for thatâ.
âWhat about Buddy? Shouldnât you be thinking about him?â
âI am.â
âAre you? If you canât earn, you canât provide. Heâs going to need your help financially. Everyone does when they get older. Besides, heâll understand if you appease the snowflakes, itâs business.â
âWeâre done, Gale.â
I hung up, uncoupled the battery from the phone, utilized it as a projectile, and shattered my reflection into a million pieces. A moment later I picked up a large shard of glass from the floor and placed it on the table top. I rummaged through my sports bag, found a concealed baggie I picked up from a dealer in Madrid and did a line of blue velvet.
A moment later my pupils felt like they were about to explode. This blue was cut with something nasty, my nostrils pinpointed bleach, maybe rat poison. The room began to spin as foam ran from my lips, my lungs gasped for air they didnât need as I stumbled out from my coffin into the sharp piercing light of a dreamscape nightmare.
Around me the procession of the dead became a march of the WCF roster, my eyes were drawn to a long mane of blue hair. I croaked, âChelseaâ but the blue lady refused to answer. A sharp intake of air sent me stumbling forward towards that big top tent on the hill. A red and white canvass above bleeding colors across itâs swerling canopy as I found myself beneath itâs kaleidoscopic sky.
My eyes eventually âadjustedâ to the strange new environment. There were spotlights, the roar of the crowd. I was in an arena, familiar but twisted. But above it all I could hear screaming. Chelsea Armstrong, her arm outstretched as I lay dying, unable to reach me as I slipped away. I tried to hold on for her.
But I couldnât.
I awoke in my trailer. I wiped a streak of dried black blood from my nose and cleaned myself up the best I could. I was on set at 6:30 sharp. I looked like the shit. The director approved.
And so, my life kept spiraling down.
The ONE That Got Away
The Varsity Theatre, December 13th 2019
I began to untape my hands as I sat in my dressing room. The muffled roar of the crowds outside descended upon the tight space as I contemplated my victory. Spencer Adams had come a long way since the days of The Peopleâs Choice. In fact, KOS was an accomplished athlete now, a former AW World Champion and a current US title holder. And yet on this night I was still victorious. It had been nearly a year since I had laced up a pair of boots, my lost year I guess you could call it, a haze that stretched back all the way to âWCF Endgameâ. Just thinking about it made my knuckles turn white as I clenched my fists. WCF dies and I went off the rails. And who was to blame for that?
There was a ginger ârap tap tapâ on the door. I knew who it was. That cheap cologne was unmistakable.
âGramps, come inâ
Buddy Roman stepped back into my life. Proud Grandfather. Wrestling Mastermind. Mentor and friend. He might moan about you. Complain that you have limited skills when compiling the perfect tuna sandwich. But at the end of the day, he was blood. And thatâs all that matters.
âMy boy, how are you? You look terrible by the wayâ
He was right, I wasnât in ring shape yet. Howard Black had pushed me as far as he could in the time we had, but there was still work to be done.
âAre you back from the wilderness?â Buddy asked.
âMaybeâ I responded.
The Shape pulled up a chair, he was using a cane now which bothered me. I felt regret that I hadnât been there for him more as he exhaled before sitting down, his tailored suit straining against his formidable size as he exhaled.
âI have a rare proposition to relay to you.â
âOh yeah?â
âOh yes indeed. A name has come into focus that you and I know very well.â
âHow well?â
âWell enough that seeing his smug little face smashed into a pulp will be very cathartic for both of usâ
âSo, Jayson Price then?â
The Shape smiled a sharkâs grin.
âThis is between us of course. They want a formal announcement in a few weeks. The usual play for ratings.â
âPrice, heâll be toughâ.
âEver since the days of the Vapour Kings, Jayson Price has been this annoying clown that hides behind Corey Blackâs coat tails waiting for an all clear to complete. But now, he has nothing. No money. No financial security. Jayâs back where he started. And that makes him vulnerable.â
âI don't need him vulnerable. I want Jayson to bring his best. I want to face the best version of Jayson Price there is. When I pin him there should be no excuses. No backpedaling. If he loses, itâs because I was better. Smarter. Stronger. Even though we are the same size and weight, It should come down to desire. More reasons to win. His are always the same. Heâs cocky, arrogant. Self assured. Heâs Mister every title and he needs to prove--â
âWrong my boy. Jayson Price has never been any of those things.â
I arched an eyebrow
âOh yeah?â
âMy boy, Jayson Price broke up the Man Made Gods, not because he was in Tortâs shadow. But because they were successful. Jayson fragmented your Pantheon because he feared success. He fears success because if he attains it? If he keeps it? Heâll lose the one comfort he has.â
âI donât understand, he wants to fail?â
âOf course, Jayson Price hates himself. He finds himself repugnant. He wins belts because only by holding championships does he experience their loss when they are stripped away from him.â
âSo, Jay is a pain freak?â
âMasochistic, yes.â replied The Shape. âIâm afraid Jayson was broken years ago. His spirit snapped by bully boy wrestling trainers that pushed him to adopt their techniques down to the letter. Back in the day, we called it âthe basicsâ, but Jaysonâs not of that generation, heâs too soft at his center to get over it. Heâs a weak man, my boy. Weak in spirit and weak in mind.
Home
The Buddy Roman estate was as cold as ever. New Yawk winters had never been kind to this old, somewhat crumbing mansion. Itâs halls carried history all the way back to George Washington. The musty smell of history hung in the air as I polished Custerâs sabre that hung proud over a roaring fire. The crackles from the flames danced as Buddy read his morning post in a large leather bound chair, dressed in his velvet smoking jacket while chuckling to himself as he scrutinized the headlines.
âGrampsâ
âYes?â
âYou know I would never betray you. Right?â
Buddy lowered the paper, he had allowed his reading spectacles to hang precariously on the end of his nose.
âYes, Son. I knowâ
My gaze returned to the flames as I sighed.
âYou bugged my phone, didnât you?â
I smirked.
âThat surprises you?â
âNot at all. Gramps, have you ever been back to foam lake?â
Buddy wiped a tear from his eye.
âMy boy Beckman. I havenât seen nor heard from my son in a long time. Why bring up such a terrible loss my son?â
âI travelled there, a few months agoâ
âWhy?â
âI went looking for Chelsea. I wanted to tell her that...that it mattered to me. It mattered that she was there when I died. That she reached out to me. â
âWhat did you find?â
"I got as far as the gates, then I turned back. I donât know If she was there. I just knew I didnât belong.â
âWhen youâre a part of this business my boy, in truth? You donât belong anywhereâ.
Youâll Never See Twenty
I walked among the gutted wreckage of a bygone era. It made perfect sense to me to record my promo here. In Pennsylvania. At the now abandoned WCF offices. The Logan statue that stood outside was now faceless and listing, a crumbling edifice that had an eerie, uncanny valley quality to it. Finally, it now resembled itâs insane namesake. Graffiti was everywhere. Windows boarded up with plywood. Vines had begun to grow and entwin across its concrete structure.
Then I realized where I had seen all this before. In my dreams. It must have been five years ago now. I guess even then I knew it would come to this. Buddy sighed as he surveyed the embarrassment that the offices had become.
âLook at this husk. Disgraceful.â
I set up the go pro inside Sethâs old offices. The winter had brought a layer of frost to the boardroom as I leaned back in a threadbare leather chair and cointemplate matters.
Jayson Price, thirty three years ago a tough little kid with a massive chip on his shoulder was born, a snotty kid who grew up in a bohemian neighbourhood, a street situated slap bang in the middle of Pennsylvania. This scamp was surrounded by artists and hippies, but for young Master Jay life wasnât an easy ride. No sir. No silver spoon lodged in this kidâs mouth, Jay had to grow up the hard way. Now, some kids react well to adversity, they take hardship on the chin, they work through it, others though, they carry a grudge, a grudge against the whole damn world and no matter how far they travel from backalleyâs and broken childhoods they still have that venom running through their veins. Occasionally that venom fuels them to achieve great things. Take a Joey Flash for example. Kid never had nothinâ, yet he winds up a serial winner. Not only that, Joey keeps on winning. He likes the taste of it. It fuels him.
And then thereâs you, Jay.
Thereâs a malfunction inside that sozzled brain of yours. Letâs call it, âlosers dementiaâ, every time you win big, the only thing on your mind is how fast can you lose. Itâs that chip on your shoulder, Jay. That venom. You think it keeps you alive, when all it does is keep you breathing. Waiting for the day you can screw up again and self destruct. Your favourite past time. Your only past time.
Thereâs a tattoo on the inside of your left arm that reads, âPacis Est Pro Pallensâ which is Latin For "Peace Is For The Weak". Irony is, youâre weak and you have no peace. Even in the coma I superkicked you into you still probably dreamt about how great your comeback was going to be...just so that you could throw it all away a week later.
Youâre addicted to failure. To being the wronged outsider. To being the underdog. That self destruct button keeps getting pushed time and again because you can only operate when your back is against the wall. When youâre riding high? Youâre vulnerable. When youâre on your knees? Youâre the plucky never say die million to one shot that doesn't give a shit. Thatâs how youâre wired.
Your career Jay is littered with examples. You win world titles then lose them in the blink of an eye. One week youâre beating Jonny Fly at XIII 2012, two weeks later youâre tapping out to Jonny so he can have his belt back because youâre a mark for failure. Youâre only happy when the title slips through your hands like an eel, so you can run off on another bender and wreck another liver.
Iâve seen all this first hand. You remember Pantheon? No, not the all conquering #beachkrew iteration. Not the original Fly project. Iâm talking about the embarrassment I was involved in. You and Corey hired The Pack plus me to make up the numbers. Richards, Chelsea and Omega, we all looked to you for guidance, yet all we discovered was rejection and betrayal. Difficult to build group unity when one of your leaders is engaged in a Twitter war with the other THE DAY after the team is formed, donât you think? But that's classic Jay Price. Always grasping failure when success is within reach.
This time though, you didnât just derail your career, you derailed mine, and Alex, and Chelseaâs. And what about Chelsea, Jay? That hatred you had for her, you couldnât look past it, could you? You couldnât see the possibilities so you had to revert to type and try to kill her. A woman who was ready to put aside the past and move forward. But not you, Jay. Never you. Because Jayson Price will never let the past go. He wants to revive it over and over. Unless of course, if it involves me.
See, Iâve always wondered. Why wasnât it you that pushed me off that scaffolding at Revenge? You had the perfect motive, months earlier Iâd super kicked you into a coma. Iâd silenced âMr Every Titleâ and yet when you woke? Nothing. Then the UCI run, you could have called me out then after I dismantled Wade Moor to face Omega for the belt. Yet you stood there and did nothing. Just watched me win your companies grandest prize right from under your nose. Why was that Jayson? Because I wasnât worth your time? Or is it because youâre afraid of what would happen?
Are you afraid of another coma? Perhaps you should. Little anatomy lesson for you Jayson, you probably think that your metal skull is immune to the Murder Of Crows. And youâd be right. But youâd be wrong if you think Jayson Price can survive it. Itâs not the impact to the skull that knocks out my opponents, itâs your larynx being crushed by my shoulder on the way down that turns out the lights. That part of your anatomy is still very much flesh and blood. Your neck has been operated on so many times Iâm surprised you can munch on popcorn without the aid of a straw. Perhaps you believe you can out maneuver me? Spoiler: you canât. In that Capital One arena Iâll be everywhere, in your face harassing you, throwing you off that methodical rhythm of yours that you so love to pace your matches to. While me? Iâm heavy metal. And Metal beats slow and steady very time. Iâm going to powerbomb the breath from your lungs, then when youâre gasping like a stuffed pig Iâll drop that fused stack of dimes you call a neck and shut menace down for good. Call it a mercy killing.
No more Price tower. No more WCF. Everything you touch dies. Everything except me. I hear thatâs why weâre having this match. Tort was looking for an opponent for you but everyone turned you down. Something about you living inside an eighty year old vagina for a month? A malignant moustache minge frothing to the brim with crabs while you poked and prodded around doing your best steve zissou impersonation. Meanwhile, out in the real world the company fell down around your ears.
ONE has to be the âpinnacleâ of your achievementsâ. Ask anyone âWho won the title that night?â and theyâd shrug. Ask anyone about the Jayson Price marriage segment, the night when the union of âJobber Priceâ and a jurassic flumpnugget was consummated via a rough housed gangbang session on your person, lead by a Hulk Hogan impersonator, and theyâd remember all right...and then throw up immediately.
Corey Black can blame himself for WCFâs downfall all he wants, but the world knows that it was you and that fucking âmarrageâ that ended the company. I guess that sickness in your soul just canât be satisfied anymore by simply losing a belt. Now you have to destroy livelihoods too. How proud you must be of your accomplishments. Even Logan couldnât manage to shut the company down permanently. Someone should build you a statue.
Youâre a stan for your own ineptitude, Jay. You feed off it, get off on it. Even when everyone was telling you to hang up your boots and retire after the ONE disaster you stood fast, said it was down to you alone to decide that date, because only you knew when it was time. Under any other circumstances that would be noble, but itâs you Jayson. You hang around like a bad fart because your legacy means shit to you. The only reason you complained about not being inducted into the Hall of Fame was because you hated the idea of entering it. Of course Seth would keep you out to spite you, thatâs what you wanted! Being an outsider gives that hurt little boy inside from south-street more ammunition, more reasons to hate and to disappoint. Itâs your fire, Jayson. Your Zim-Quila. Your porn hub subscription.
But Imagine this Jayson, imagine after putting yourself through all that indecency, all that embarrassment just to win and piss off the fans...you lose instead. You lose to someone without half your titles. Without a skull made from eighty percent steel. You lose to a scruffy, âraggedy manâ with no money, and no career. At Revolution 3 you lose to a ghost that haunts the living because heâs got nothing better to do. Imagine it, Jayson. Then get ready to LIVE IT. Get ready to experience it. Live, in front of millions. In a company bigger now than the one you helped to run into the ground. But that's not even the dagger to the heart. No, that belongs to the day after Washington, when millennials all over the world wake up and check the results via the AW app and skip your name because you stopped being relevant five years ago. You are just as much a ghost now as I am. Youâre a boomer whose had his day and now your sunset has arrived. Itâs time to fade out, Jayson. Itâs time to return to the coma ward and dream of better days. Thereâs no WCF âTwentyâ in your future, Jay. No more milestone PPVâs to headline (even though ONE was a co-main event, TEN was a 6 man match) Just that ward, waiting for you, beckoning you on.
Iâd bring you flowers. But the stench of urine is a deal breaker. Gravedigger really does need to hydrate.
Adios.
10 Months Ago. âPurgatoryâ film set. AlmerĂa, Spain.
Euro funded co productions are the worst. The scripts are nonsensical and the acting erratic. You sit in a directorâs chair all day while a dust storm swirls across the set like a howling maniac. Thereâs a haunting quality to it thats picturesque, especially with a western town like this one, but the long days and the heat drain all that enthusiasm away. I asked the director, as we waited for light, how much time would be needed for ADR back in Rome (ADR stands for Automated Dialog Replacement, itâs when you over dub your voice in a booth when the sound on set is unusable) The director shrugged, âIt wonât matter for youâ he answered in broken English, âAn Italian actor will be your voice anywayâ.
I dropped the script to the floor and headed back to my trailer; a tin can with no shower and a blocked toilet. A full length mirror had a hairline crack that ran vertically along itâs center. My Bandit reflection (cowboy hat, olive green poncho, sheepskin vest, jeans, boots with spurs) was segregated down the middle, like a before and after advert, into two very distinct lives. In truth I had lived two lives, well perhaps âlivedâ was pushing it, one was very much alive, the other?
A runner shouted into a megaphone, âFai uscire i morti!â, which translated meant, âBring out the dead.â
A few moments later I could hear the extras shambling into the ghost town; zombies. Crude makeup applied to a sea of minimum-wage extras. Some were dressed in western attire, others where living corpses wandering in from a carnival set situated a few meters outside of town. Clown make-up running into gore prosthetics. The script was insane and the pay an insult.
And this was where my second life had stranded me. I was a rotting former wrestler playing alive in a zombie westen. And my voice wouldnât even be my own.
I mockingly drew my gun from itâs holster and pointed at the mirror; I wondered, âwhich reflection should I kill? And then I realised, both were damned. âTake your pickâ. I murmured.
A buzz sounded before I could pull the trigger. My mobile sat on a table top, I answered with a sigh. It was my agent, Gretchen Gale. Gale is a smart woman, aeriodyte, sputters ideas fast with a New York accent. It reminded me of home, and that didnât help.
âYour Grandfather called. What do you want me to tell him?â
For those uneducated, my grandfather is Buddy Roman, famed WCF manager. Perhaps the most successful manager in professional wrestling history. He even managed to secure me a UCI world title. Now though? You probably remember seeing him motoring into court by way of a zimmer frame on the nightly news. Heâs this years villain and internet wonât let you forget. Gretchen was trying to force an answer out of me about Buddy, correction: the right answer. The answer that gets me back into Hollywood. The one that sells out my own flesh and blood.
âTell him Iâm fineâ I replied. There was a long pause.
âBuddy would understandâ She retorted with a hint of frustration, âYouâre already distant from him anyway, just tweet that you donât condone his actions, and maybe I can salvage that Fincher dealâ.
This was not a good time to hold me for ransom.
âFor the last fucking time, I will not turn my back on my family. Do you understand? Fucking let them cancel me. I donât care.â
âSure you donât care, thatâs why youâre screaming down the phoneâ.
See what I mean?
âListen, you donât understand what having a real family means to me.â
âFamily? Yeah, right. Look, closed shop communities donât get a free pass anymore, Crow. Youâre either clean or youâre dirty. Jayson Price and the WCF are under a huge fucking spotlight right now, the whole ONE 2019 debacle is blowing up on social media and that means you have to stand in the light prove youâre clean. This is about survival.â
âIâm dead, Gretchen. So is the WCF. Itâs a little late for thatâ.
âWhat about Buddy? Shouldnât you be thinking about him?â
âI am.â
âAre you? If you canât earn, you canât provide. Heâs going to need your help financially. Everyone does when they get older. Besides, heâll understand if you appease the snowflakes, itâs business.â
âWeâre done, Gale.â
I hung up, uncoupled the battery from the phone, utilized it as a projectile, and shattered my reflection into a million pieces. A moment later I picked up a large shard of glass from the floor and placed it on the table top. I rummaged through my sports bag, found a concealed baggie I picked up from a dealer in Madrid and did a line of blue velvet.
A moment later my pupils felt like they were about to explode. This blue was cut with something nasty, my nostrils pinpointed bleach, maybe rat poison. The room began to spin as foam ran from my lips, my lungs gasped for air they didnât need as I stumbled out from my coffin into the sharp piercing light of a dreamscape nightmare.
Around me the procession of the dead became a march of the WCF roster, my eyes were drawn to a long mane of blue hair. I croaked, âChelseaâ but the blue lady refused to answer. A sharp intake of air sent me stumbling forward towards that big top tent on the hill. A red and white canvass above bleeding colors across itâs swerling canopy as I found myself beneath itâs kaleidoscopic sky.
My eyes eventually âadjustedâ to the strange new environment. There were spotlights, the roar of the crowd. I was in an arena, familiar but twisted. But above it all I could hear screaming. Chelsea Armstrong, her arm outstretched as I lay dying, unable to reach me as I slipped away. I tried to hold on for her.
But I couldnât.
I awoke in my trailer. I wiped a streak of dried black blood from my nose and cleaned myself up the best I could. I was on set at 6:30 sharp. I looked like the shit. The director approved.
And so, my life kept spiraling down.
The ONE That Got Away
The Varsity Theatre, December 13th 2019
I began to untape my hands as I sat in my dressing room. The muffled roar of the crowds outside descended upon the tight space as I contemplated my victory. Spencer Adams had come a long way since the days of The Peopleâs Choice. In fact, KOS was an accomplished athlete now, a former AW World Champion and a current US title holder. And yet on this night I was still victorious. It had been nearly a year since I had laced up a pair of boots, my lost year I guess you could call it, a haze that stretched back all the way to âWCF Endgameâ. Just thinking about it made my knuckles turn white as I clenched my fists. WCF dies and I went off the rails. And who was to blame for that?
There was a ginger ârap tap tapâ on the door. I knew who it was. That cheap cologne was unmistakable.
âGramps, come inâ
Buddy Roman stepped back into my life. Proud Grandfather. Wrestling Mastermind. Mentor and friend. He might moan about you. Complain that you have limited skills when compiling the perfect tuna sandwich. But at the end of the day, he was blood. And thatâs all that matters.
âMy boy, how are you? You look terrible by the wayâ
He was right, I wasnât in ring shape yet. Howard Black had pushed me as far as he could in the time we had, but there was still work to be done.
âAre you back from the wilderness?â Buddy asked.
âMaybeâ I responded.
The Shape pulled up a chair, he was using a cane now which bothered me. I felt regret that I hadnât been there for him more as he exhaled before sitting down, his tailored suit straining against his formidable size as he exhaled.
âI have a rare proposition to relay to you.â
âOh yeah?â
âOh yes indeed. A name has come into focus that you and I know very well.â
âHow well?â
âWell enough that seeing his smug little face smashed into a pulp will be very cathartic for both of usâ
âSo, Jayson Price then?â
The Shape smiled a sharkâs grin.
âThis is between us of course. They want a formal announcement in a few weeks. The usual play for ratings.â
âPrice, heâll be toughâ.
âEver since the days of the Vapour Kings, Jayson Price has been this annoying clown that hides behind Corey Blackâs coat tails waiting for an all clear to complete. But now, he has nothing. No money. No financial security. Jayâs back where he started. And that makes him vulnerable.â
âI don't need him vulnerable. I want Jayson to bring his best. I want to face the best version of Jayson Price there is. When I pin him there should be no excuses. No backpedaling. If he loses, itâs because I was better. Smarter. Stronger. Even though we are the same size and weight, It should come down to desire. More reasons to win. His are always the same. Heâs cocky, arrogant. Self assured. Heâs Mister every title and he needs to prove--â
âWrong my boy. Jayson Price has never been any of those things.â
I arched an eyebrow
âOh yeah?â
âMy boy, Jayson Price broke up the Man Made Gods, not because he was in Tortâs shadow. But because they were successful. Jayson fragmented your Pantheon because he feared success. He fears success because if he attains it? If he keeps it? Heâll lose the one comfort he has.â
âI donât understand, he wants to fail?â
âOf course, Jayson Price hates himself. He finds himself repugnant. He wins belts because only by holding championships does he experience their loss when they are stripped away from him.â
âSo, Jay is a pain freak?â
âMasochistic, yes.â replied The Shape. âIâm afraid Jayson was broken years ago. His spirit snapped by bully boy wrestling trainers that pushed him to adopt their techniques down to the letter. Back in the day, we called it âthe basicsâ, but Jaysonâs not of that generation, heâs too soft at his center to get over it. Heâs a weak man, my boy. Weak in spirit and weak in mind.
Home
The Buddy Roman estate was as cold as ever. New Yawk winters had never been kind to this old, somewhat crumbing mansion. Itâs halls carried history all the way back to George Washington. The musty smell of history hung in the air as I polished Custerâs sabre that hung proud over a roaring fire. The crackles from the flames danced as Buddy read his morning post in a large leather bound chair, dressed in his velvet smoking jacket while chuckling to himself as he scrutinized the headlines.
âGrampsâ
âYes?â
âYou know I would never betray you. Right?â
Buddy lowered the paper, he had allowed his reading spectacles to hang precariously on the end of his nose.
âYes, Son. I knowâ
My gaze returned to the flames as I sighed.
âYou bugged my phone, didnât you?â
âOf course. Itâs my job to keep an eye on you.â
âThat surprises you?â
âNot at all. Gramps, have you ever been back to foam lake?â
Buddy wiped a tear from his eye.
âMy boy Beckman. I havenât seen nor heard from my son in a long time. Why bring up such a terrible loss my son?â
âI travelled there, a few months agoâ
âWhy?â
âI went looking for Chelsea. I wanted to tell her that...that it mattered to me. It mattered that she was there when I died. That she reached out to me. â
âWhat did you find?â
"I got as far as the gates, then I turned back. I donât know If she was there. I just knew I didnât belong.â
âWhen youâre a part of this business my boy, in truth? You donât belong anywhereâ.
Youâll Never See Twenty
"Proposition. Jayson Price had Jeffery Epstein murdered because Jay couldnât remember anything that happened between 2009 - 2019. Conclusion: This revelation would not surprise me.â
I walked among the gutted wreckage of a bygone era. It made perfect sense to me to record my promo here. In Pennsylvania. At the now abandoned WCF offices. The Logan statue that stood outside was now faceless and listing, a crumbling edifice that had an eerie, uncanny valley quality to it. Finally, it now resembled itâs insane namesake. Graffiti was everywhere. Windows boarded up with plywood. Vines had begun to grow and entwin across its concrete structure.
Then I realized where I had seen all this before. In my dreams. It must have been five years ago now. I guess even then I knew it would come to this. Buddy sighed as he surveyed the embarrassment that the offices had become.
âLook at this husk. Disgraceful.â
I set up the go pro inside Sethâs old offices. The winter had brought a layer of frost to the boardroom as I leaned back in a threadbare leather chair and cointemplate matters.
Jayson Price, thirty three years ago a tough little kid with a massive chip on his shoulder was born, a snotty kid who grew up in a bohemian neighbourhood, a street situated slap bang in the middle of Pennsylvania. This scamp was surrounded by artists and hippies, but for young Master Jay life wasnât an easy ride. No sir. No silver spoon lodged in this kidâs mouth, Jay had to grow up the hard way. Now, some kids react well to adversity, they take hardship on the chin, they work through it, others though, they carry a grudge, a grudge against the whole damn world and no matter how far they travel from backalleyâs and broken childhoods they still have that venom running through their veins. Occasionally that venom fuels them to achieve great things. Take a Joey Flash for example. Kid never had nothinâ, yet he winds up a serial winner. Not only that, Joey keeps on winning. He likes the taste of it. It fuels him.
And then thereâs you, Jay.
Thereâs a malfunction inside that sozzled brain of yours. Letâs call it, âlosers dementiaâ, every time you win big, the only thing on your mind is how fast can you lose. Itâs that chip on your shoulder, Jay. That venom. You think it keeps you alive, when all it does is keep you breathing. Waiting for the day you can screw up again and self destruct. Your favourite past time. Your only past time.
Thereâs a tattoo on the inside of your left arm that reads, âPacis Est Pro Pallensâ which is Latin For "Peace Is For The Weak". Irony is, youâre weak and you have no peace. Even in the coma I superkicked you into you still probably dreamt about how great your comeback was going to be...just so that you could throw it all away a week later.
Youâre addicted to failure. To being the wronged outsider. To being the underdog. That self destruct button keeps getting pushed time and again because you can only operate when your back is against the wall. When youâre riding high? Youâre vulnerable. When youâre on your knees? Youâre the plucky never say die million to one shot that doesn't give a shit. Thatâs how youâre wired.
Your career Jay is littered with examples. You win world titles then lose them in the blink of an eye. One week youâre beating Jonny Fly at XIII 2012, two weeks later youâre tapping out to Jonny so he can have his belt back because youâre a mark for failure. Youâre only happy when the title slips through your hands like an eel, so you can run off on another bender and wreck another liver.
Iâve seen all this first hand. You remember Pantheon? No, not the all conquering #beachkrew iteration. Not the original Fly project. Iâm talking about the embarrassment I was involved in. You and Corey hired The Pack plus me to make up the numbers. Richards, Chelsea and Omega, we all looked to you for guidance, yet all we discovered was rejection and betrayal. Difficult to build group unity when one of your leaders is engaged in a Twitter war with the other THE DAY after the team is formed, donât you think? But that's classic Jay Price. Always grasping failure when success is within reach.
This time though, you didnât just derail your career, you derailed mine, and Alex, and Chelseaâs. And what about Chelsea, Jay? That hatred you had for her, you couldnât look past it, could you? You couldnât see the possibilities so you had to revert to type and try to kill her. A woman who was ready to put aside the past and move forward. But not you, Jay. Never you. Because Jayson Price will never let the past go. He wants to revive it over and over. Unless of course, if it involves me.
See, Iâve always wondered. Why wasnât it you that pushed me off that scaffolding at Revenge? You had the perfect motive, months earlier Iâd super kicked you into a coma. Iâd silenced âMr Every Titleâ and yet when you woke? Nothing. Then the UCI run, you could have called me out then after I dismantled Wade Moor to face Omega for the belt. Yet you stood there and did nothing. Just watched me win your companies grandest prize right from under your nose. Why was that Jayson? Because I wasnât worth your time? Or is it because youâre afraid of what would happen?
Are you afraid of another coma? Perhaps you should. Little anatomy lesson for you Jayson, you probably think that your metal skull is immune to the Murder Of Crows. And youâd be right. But youâd be wrong if you think Jayson Price can survive it. Itâs not the impact to the skull that knocks out my opponents, itâs your larynx being crushed by my shoulder on the way down that turns out the lights. That part of your anatomy is still very much flesh and blood. Your neck has been operated on so many times Iâm surprised you can munch on popcorn without the aid of a straw. Perhaps you believe you can out maneuver me? Spoiler: you canât. In that Capital One arena Iâll be everywhere, in your face harassing you, throwing you off that methodical rhythm of yours that you so love to pace your matches to. While me? Iâm heavy metal. And Metal beats slow and steady very time. Iâm going to powerbomb the breath from your lungs, then when youâre gasping like a stuffed pig Iâll drop that fused stack of dimes you call a neck and shut menace down for good. Call it a mercy killing.
No more Price tower. No more WCF. Everything you touch dies. Everything except me. I hear thatâs why weâre having this match. Tort was looking for an opponent for you but everyone turned you down. Something about you living inside an eighty year old vagina for a month? A malignant moustache minge frothing to the brim with crabs while you poked and prodded around doing your best steve zissou impersonation. Meanwhile, out in the real world the company fell down around your ears.
ONE has to be the âpinnacleâ of your achievementsâ. Ask anyone âWho won the title that night?â and theyâd shrug. Ask anyone about the Jayson Price marriage segment, the night when the union of âJobber Priceâ and a jurassic flumpnugget was consummated via a rough housed gangbang session on your person, lead by a Hulk Hogan impersonator, and theyâd remember all right...and then throw up immediately.
Corey Black can blame himself for WCFâs downfall all he wants, but the world knows that it was you and that fucking âmarrageâ that ended the company. I guess that sickness in your soul just canât be satisfied anymore by simply losing a belt. Now you have to destroy livelihoods too. How proud you must be of your accomplishments. Even Logan couldnât manage to shut the company down permanently. Someone should build you a statue.
Youâre a stan for your own ineptitude, Jay. You feed off it, get off on it. Even when everyone was telling you to hang up your boots and retire after the ONE disaster you stood fast, said it was down to you alone to decide that date, because only you knew when it was time. Under any other circumstances that would be noble, but itâs you Jayson. You hang around like a bad fart because your legacy means shit to you. The only reason you complained about not being inducted into the Hall of Fame was because you hated the idea of entering it. Of course Seth would keep you out to spite you, thatâs what you wanted! Being an outsider gives that hurt little boy inside from south-street more ammunition, more reasons to hate and to disappoint. Itâs your fire, Jayson. Your Zim-Quila. Your porn hub subscription.
But Imagine this Jayson, imagine after putting yourself through all that indecency, all that embarrassment just to win and piss off the fans...you lose instead. You lose to someone without half your titles. Without a skull made from eighty percent steel. You lose to a scruffy, âraggedy manâ with no money, and no career. At Revolution 3 you lose to a ghost that haunts the living because heâs got nothing better to do. Imagine it, Jayson. Then get ready to LIVE IT. Get ready to experience it. Live, in front of millions. In a company bigger now than the one you helped to run into the ground. But that's not even the dagger to the heart. No, that belongs to the day after Washington, when millennials all over the world wake up and check the results via the AW app and skip your name because you stopped being relevant five years ago. You are just as much a ghost now as I am. Youâre a boomer whose had his day and now your sunset has arrived. Itâs time to fade out, Jayson. Itâs time to return to the coma ward and dream of better days. Thereâs no WCF âTwentyâ in your future, Jay. No more milestone PPVâs to headline (even though ONE was a co-main event, TEN was a 6 man match) Just that ward, waiting for you, beckoning you on.
Iâd bring you flowers. But the stench of urine is a deal breaker. Gravedigger really does need to hydrate.
Adios.