Post by Graham Baker on Oct 12, 2020 19:40:17 GMT -5
“Let me tell you a story.”
Graham Baker’s voice emerges from the darkness of a poorly lit room. Sparse natural light can be seen, half-illuminating the face of The Guillotine. He holds a wooden figurine in his hands.
“My father and I never really got along, you know? We were two different types of men, and even if I didn’t like him, I could always respect what he did for us. He was the kind of man who, with just a look, you could tell was doing what he did to support his family. Me, my siblings, my mother-we all appreciated the long hours, the acrid smell of stain and sawdust upon his flesh, the bloodied bandages we’d sometimes find after a skip of the axe chunked the side of his finger, his hand, his forearm...wherever it went. My father was a carpenter, and he was damned good at it. The finest details, the smallest minutiae...it came to him like visions from heaven.
Anything someone dreamt up, my father could craft it. With the most exotic woods, the finest stains, the sharpest and most expensive tools. For decades, my father built up his craft as much as he could. As his only son, I think one day he expected me to take over. I think he expected me to run his shop, as he showed me the ropes, showed me how to tell an authentic plank from a knockoff. He showed me the ropes, but my hands were never destined to pull them like his were. My eyes sought a different craft from a young age, and I think my father detested me for it. I could see the disinterest wash over his face when I went home those first few years, when I showed him my gold, when he watched my matches. I could recognize it the same way my own eyes would flit when he spoke of a piece he was proud of.
Two different men, right? There was no respect for our respective crafts, no hatred, either. We did what we had to for us.”
Baker pauses. He smiles for a moment.
“I never wished for my father’s life to fall apart, for his business to fail-hell, for his part, I saw it as immortal. Long-standing and unending. A fixture in the community we lived in, somewhere our neighbors would always come. Our town was small, and we all banded together. Kept one another fed. My father’s hand-crafted goods, they always stood above anything the others could do. However, as my father grew old, his hands started to falter, and as technology advanced, well...the machines got better at being less regimentary. As my father’s fingers grew less capable of great detail, the machines got better. Fewer and fewer came to him for the woodworking, realizing that the premiums he charged were not so worthy anymore. As the bigger stores opened-corporate chains-my father’s business dwindled to nothing. Decades of work, the shop that he’d built with his own two hands-sold.
Hurting for money, hurting for livelihood, after he’d sold everything he’d built up...my father played into the hands of those who ran him out and went to work for another man for the first time in his life. He wasn’t so proud as to starve our family, but he was disappointed. In the dark of night, we had one of our little talks. I can’t remember every bit and piece of it, but I can remember one thing;
Despite his lack of respect for all of this, he told me to hold my dream close no matter what level I would compete at, as those bigger, with more resources would eventually close their hands around its throat and choke the life from it.”
Baker lets his words hang in the air for a moment, before he continues.
“Tonight was not my proudest moment in Action Wrestling, far from it. Graham Baker weaves a story in the world that is one of momentary successes followed by monumental failures. For fifteen days, Corey Black and I were the Action Tag Team Champions. The gold that adorned our waists gleamed brightly, and I should have known that which shone so that it could blind the heavens would only shine for so long. Fifteen days, and here I am again. No gold. Letting my family down. Disappointed in myself, I grabbed a beer, some ice bags, and I settled in to watch my brother in arms flood the malformed maw of the mongrel with a deluge of elbows so heavy they washed all of my doubt in his inevitable victory away. Corey Black proved he was the king of not just this company, but the whole industry as he put the Evolved Man away for good-a feat that so few have been able to accomplish up to this point.
I wanted to stand with my brother in arms. I wanted to hoist him onto my shoulders as he and Frank did me, and as I certainly would of had I joined with them earlier. Unfortunately, I found myself deposed as the arena went dark, and I was helpless to watch as my brother was battered, beaten, broken in a moment of celebration. If each strike against Black’s skull was a nail in my heart, the faces behind those masks were the hammer that drove them in further and further. Cranley. Mud. Vayden. Shaw. Blake. Some, friends. Others, rivals. Even others, unknowns, driven with a purpose to choke out this company, to bring law and order, to bring rightful justice, leaving a message that left almost as many questions as answers.
For a moment, I felt as my father, watching as something came from on high and rammed its boot down into the head of my world, keeping me hostage as I watched it burn. For a moment, I saw my father’s eyes as he was reduced to working for a man who’d ruined him. I saw my future, and the mere thought of it blinded me like acid in my corneas.
The fury I felt was beyond words.”
Baker considers his tongue carefully as he moves on, taking a momentary pause and running a hand through his beard.
“A man’s grandest moment is the accomplishment of his greatest goal, his most unreachable, the insurmountable peak of the mountain. For me, I’ve not yet reached it, but for a man like Corey Black? It was within reach, and he stuck his hands into the heavens and ripped down from them the gold that he has been owed this entire time. Corey Black was always the man to stomp out The Mongrel, Corey Black was always the One who was Promised, Corey Black was always the King of All Wrestlers, and he proved that once again tonight with a brutality unseen, with a resilience unheard of. A name revered as it echoed from the tongues of those watching became that much more glorified as he achieved The Dream. For stealing the opportunity not just for me to join my brother in the ring, but also for stealing that moment alone, I would have you die a thousand deaths. I’d string every one of those white-masked stooges from the throat until purple and black, but this is so much more. This is so much greater than moments stolen, this is so much more important than accolades stained.
This is the noose around the throat of my industry, of a sport I’ve given everything to, and such, it’s a noose around my neck, tightening around my windpipe, claiming every breath.
This is survival.”
Baker flexes his fingers, aching from the violent tag team championship contest earlier in the night. He glances up at the camera.
“Thirteen years ago, when I hit the ropes for the first time and started my foray into this industry, I promised myself I would fight until the last breath. I’ve dripped sweat, blood, and spit onto every canvas I’ve stepped onto across almost every continent on this planet. I’ve travelled this world more times over than almost anyone else in this company, gone from ring to ring, no sleep, no rest save for the shut-eye on the red-eye flights, when I locked eyes with this sport for the first time, I offered my body as a sacrifice, a guarantee that I would do this until the end of all time and then some. An unspoken wish that I would go until someone killed me or I killed myself, and I would always, always go down fighting.
This Philidor Holdings group, this rogue’s gallery, they’re sending a message. They sent it as they ruined Black’s moment. They sent it as they ruined the end of Clash 100, the most iconic show in our history. They sent it as they held that whole arena hostage, Ashley Blake weaving a message of misguided verbiage to play her and her associates as the balancing force, but the truth is far from it. Those who want absolute power want to wield it absolutely, and every moment they stand tall, every breath they take is a breath they take away from someone like me. With the All-In Briefcase, the numbers game, the financial means-I’ve accepted what Black may not have, that his days are likely numbered, that they will steal again and they will take more than just airtime. They will take gold, and, time willing, they will take all of this from us.
It cannot happen.”
Baker’s eyes are cold fire as he stares dead into the lens.
“Two months ago, Black and I called ourselves understated, undesirable, underappreciated. The truth of that statement is up to those who perceive us and how they perceive us. We proved our worth, and we proved it the right way. We worked through the channels, we slapped hands with the crowd, Man Made Gods made our own path. This path that these vermin behind the white masks carve for themselves, it is not one of rationality or patience, it is one of lust. It is one of anger, misguided, one of stealing moments from every man, woman, or individual who has ever stepped into this ring. I will not let the memories of men like Raging Dead and Alex Richards fall short, the legacies upon which they set this company cannot erode. We cannot let the rich history we’ve created down.”
Baker breathes out. He grimaces.
“As long as my lungs breathe, as my blood flows and my knee aches, as my heart beats and my skin sweats, I will give all that I am to all of this. I will give all as I have against Corey Black, against Wesley, against Kidsgrove and Spencer and Lockhart, against every person I’ve stepped between these four ropes with. I will not falter. I will not bow. And I will mark every single white-masked rodent for death, by my hand or another. The bounties are out, the blade is cleaned, the Guillotine is dropping, and it doesn’t stop until it hits neck.
So keep those corporate suits clean, those masks dry and white, and use some of those financial holdings to buy a gaggle of caskets...because I’m coming for heads, and I won’t stop until I’ve knocked every single one clean the fuck off.”
Baker leans back in his chair, hands on his knees, as we fade to black.
Graham Baker’s voice emerges from the darkness of a poorly lit room. Sparse natural light can be seen, half-illuminating the face of The Guillotine. He holds a wooden figurine in his hands.
“My father and I never really got along, you know? We were two different types of men, and even if I didn’t like him, I could always respect what he did for us. He was the kind of man who, with just a look, you could tell was doing what he did to support his family. Me, my siblings, my mother-we all appreciated the long hours, the acrid smell of stain and sawdust upon his flesh, the bloodied bandages we’d sometimes find after a skip of the axe chunked the side of his finger, his hand, his forearm...wherever it went. My father was a carpenter, and he was damned good at it. The finest details, the smallest minutiae...it came to him like visions from heaven.
Anything someone dreamt up, my father could craft it. With the most exotic woods, the finest stains, the sharpest and most expensive tools. For decades, my father built up his craft as much as he could. As his only son, I think one day he expected me to take over. I think he expected me to run his shop, as he showed me the ropes, showed me how to tell an authentic plank from a knockoff. He showed me the ropes, but my hands were never destined to pull them like his were. My eyes sought a different craft from a young age, and I think my father detested me for it. I could see the disinterest wash over his face when I went home those first few years, when I showed him my gold, when he watched my matches. I could recognize it the same way my own eyes would flit when he spoke of a piece he was proud of.
Two different men, right? There was no respect for our respective crafts, no hatred, either. We did what we had to for us.”
Baker pauses. He smiles for a moment.
“I never wished for my father’s life to fall apart, for his business to fail-hell, for his part, I saw it as immortal. Long-standing and unending. A fixture in the community we lived in, somewhere our neighbors would always come. Our town was small, and we all banded together. Kept one another fed. My father’s hand-crafted goods, they always stood above anything the others could do. However, as my father grew old, his hands started to falter, and as technology advanced, well...the machines got better at being less regimentary. As my father’s fingers grew less capable of great detail, the machines got better. Fewer and fewer came to him for the woodworking, realizing that the premiums he charged were not so worthy anymore. As the bigger stores opened-corporate chains-my father’s business dwindled to nothing. Decades of work, the shop that he’d built with his own two hands-sold.
Hurting for money, hurting for livelihood, after he’d sold everything he’d built up...my father played into the hands of those who ran him out and went to work for another man for the first time in his life. He wasn’t so proud as to starve our family, but he was disappointed. In the dark of night, we had one of our little talks. I can’t remember every bit and piece of it, but I can remember one thing;
Despite his lack of respect for all of this, he told me to hold my dream close no matter what level I would compete at, as those bigger, with more resources would eventually close their hands around its throat and choke the life from it.”
Baker lets his words hang in the air for a moment, before he continues.
“Tonight was not my proudest moment in Action Wrestling, far from it. Graham Baker weaves a story in the world that is one of momentary successes followed by monumental failures. For fifteen days, Corey Black and I were the Action Tag Team Champions. The gold that adorned our waists gleamed brightly, and I should have known that which shone so that it could blind the heavens would only shine for so long. Fifteen days, and here I am again. No gold. Letting my family down. Disappointed in myself, I grabbed a beer, some ice bags, and I settled in to watch my brother in arms flood the malformed maw of the mongrel with a deluge of elbows so heavy they washed all of my doubt in his inevitable victory away. Corey Black proved he was the king of not just this company, but the whole industry as he put the Evolved Man away for good-a feat that so few have been able to accomplish up to this point.
I wanted to stand with my brother in arms. I wanted to hoist him onto my shoulders as he and Frank did me, and as I certainly would of had I joined with them earlier. Unfortunately, I found myself deposed as the arena went dark, and I was helpless to watch as my brother was battered, beaten, broken in a moment of celebration. If each strike against Black’s skull was a nail in my heart, the faces behind those masks were the hammer that drove them in further and further. Cranley. Mud. Vayden. Shaw. Blake. Some, friends. Others, rivals. Even others, unknowns, driven with a purpose to choke out this company, to bring law and order, to bring rightful justice, leaving a message that left almost as many questions as answers.
For a moment, I felt as my father, watching as something came from on high and rammed its boot down into the head of my world, keeping me hostage as I watched it burn. For a moment, I saw my father’s eyes as he was reduced to working for a man who’d ruined him. I saw my future, and the mere thought of it blinded me like acid in my corneas.
The fury I felt was beyond words.”
Baker considers his tongue carefully as he moves on, taking a momentary pause and running a hand through his beard.
“A man’s grandest moment is the accomplishment of his greatest goal, his most unreachable, the insurmountable peak of the mountain. For me, I’ve not yet reached it, but for a man like Corey Black? It was within reach, and he stuck his hands into the heavens and ripped down from them the gold that he has been owed this entire time. Corey Black was always the man to stomp out The Mongrel, Corey Black was always the One who was Promised, Corey Black was always the King of All Wrestlers, and he proved that once again tonight with a brutality unseen, with a resilience unheard of. A name revered as it echoed from the tongues of those watching became that much more glorified as he achieved The Dream. For stealing the opportunity not just for me to join my brother in the ring, but also for stealing that moment alone, I would have you die a thousand deaths. I’d string every one of those white-masked stooges from the throat until purple and black, but this is so much more. This is so much greater than moments stolen, this is so much more important than accolades stained.
This is the noose around the throat of my industry, of a sport I’ve given everything to, and such, it’s a noose around my neck, tightening around my windpipe, claiming every breath.
This is survival.”
Baker flexes his fingers, aching from the violent tag team championship contest earlier in the night. He glances up at the camera.
“Thirteen years ago, when I hit the ropes for the first time and started my foray into this industry, I promised myself I would fight until the last breath. I’ve dripped sweat, blood, and spit onto every canvas I’ve stepped onto across almost every continent on this planet. I’ve travelled this world more times over than almost anyone else in this company, gone from ring to ring, no sleep, no rest save for the shut-eye on the red-eye flights, when I locked eyes with this sport for the first time, I offered my body as a sacrifice, a guarantee that I would do this until the end of all time and then some. An unspoken wish that I would go until someone killed me or I killed myself, and I would always, always go down fighting.
This Philidor Holdings group, this rogue’s gallery, they’re sending a message. They sent it as they ruined Black’s moment. They sent it as they ruined the end of Clash 100, the most iconic show in our history. They sent it as they held that whole arena hostage, Ashley Blake weaving a message of misguided verbiage to play her and her associates as the balancing force, but the truth is far from it. Those who want absolute power want to wield it absolutely, and every moment they stand tall, every breath they take is a breath they take away from someone like me. With the All-In Briefcase, the numbers game, the financial means-I’ve accepted what Black may not have, that his days are likely numbered, that they will steal again and they will take more than just airtime. They will take gold, and, time willing, they will take all of this from us.
It cannot happen.”
Baker’s eyes are cold fire as he stares dead into the lens.
“Two months ago, Black and I called ourselves understated, undesirable, underappreciated. The truth of that statement is up to those who perceive us and how they perceive us. We proved our worth, and we proved it the right way. We worked through the channels, we slapped hands with the crowd, Man Made Gods made our own path. This path that these vermin behind the white masks carve for themselves, it is not one of rationality or patience, it is one of lust. It is one of anger, misguided, one of stealing moments from every man, woman, or individual who has ever stepped into this ring. I will not let the memories of men like Raging Dead and Alex Richards fall short, the legacies upon which they set this company cannot erode. We cannot let the rich history we’ve created down.”
Baker breathes out. He grimaces.
“As long as my lungs breathe, as my blood flows and my knee aches, as my heart beats and my skin sweats, I will give all that I am to all of this. I will give all as I have against Corey Black, against Wesley, against Kidsgrove and Spencer and Lockhart, against every person I’ve stepped between these four ropes with. I will not falter. I will not bow. And I will mark every single white-masked rodent for death, by my hand or another. The bounties are out, the blade is cleaned, the Guillotine is dropping, and it doesn’t stop until it hits neck.
So keep those corporate suits clean, those masks dry and white, and use some of those financial holdings to buy a gaggle of caskets...because I’m coming for heads, and I won’t stop until I’ve knocked every single one clean the fuck off.”
Baker leans back in his chair, hands on his knees, as we fade to black.