Post by Mr. Zaigon Carter on Nov 6, 2020 14:09:58 GMT -5
It's during last week's Clash
Mr. Zaigon Carter has returned to his solo dressing room, shortly after talking to Jenna Bauer. Closing the door, he takes in the empty room.
Silence. Not a Troop in sight. No hooting and hollering, nothing to disturb him any further.
It's all him now. Nobody else to rely on, nobody else to take the blame if it goes wrong.
The thought elicits a smile across the face of Mr. Carter that might be described as sinister if one was to describe such a thing.
Mr. Carter drops down into a chair, before taking a look and noticing the crimson stains across his wrist and forearm. The last remnants of the partnership between him and America Jackson, via Jackson's forehead. It had to be done, he thought. There was no other option. America was the weak link, and had to be broken. One day he'll get everything he deserves, but tonight was all about the message sent. All about everyone understanding who the fuck Mr. Zaigon Carter is.
A knock at the door.
"Come in," Mr. Carter said, with a bit of confusion. He wasn't expecting anyone; hopefully it wasn't that interview trollop again.
It wasn't. It was some low level AW staffer, Karl or Kevin or something with a K. It didn't matter, learning these people's names wasn't something he cared about. He'd probably be fired in six weeks and he'd have to learn some other person's name. What's the point?
"Can I help you?" Mr. Carter spits at the staffer.
"The office sent me in here to tell you that you're facing Randy Buster next week," Karl or Kevin or something with a K said. "It'll be a singles match."
Mr. Carter raised his blood stained hands to his face, contemplating the news he just received. Randy Buster was a low card asshole, but he had fought for titles before. He had some name value, and there was...potential there. In fact, there's a lot of potential there.
"That'll be just fine," Mr. Carter replied. "Now get out, you've done your task. Tell the office I'll be there."
Karl or Kevin or something with a K leaves with a swiftness, as Mr. Carter continues to contemplate the news he'd been given. Randy Buster huh?
That sinister smile returned.
Yes, that would actually do quite nicely now that he thought about it.
========
It's three days after Clash
Mr. Carter has returned back to Montana, where he sits in his office doing some reading when he's interrupted by the same communications staffer he brought to Mexico City with him. His name is Paul, Mr. Carter figured that out since the last time they talked. Paul doesn't look very happy.
"Do you have any idea what we've been dealing with the last three days?" Paul asks in a huff. "That stunt you pulled on Clash has dropped your likability off a cliff. People are really mad at you, and it's tanking you on social media."
"I don't care," Mr. Carter said. "What happened needed to be done, so if you're expecting me to worry about that you're wasting your breath."
"You should care," Paul replied. "This is not something that will just go away, it'll take hard work and time. This throws our announcement timeline into shambles. We're talking weeks here sir, weeks."
Mr. Carter stands up from his desk, causing Paul to take a step backwards.
"You know the governor of this state, the new one? He punched a reporter in the face and still got elected to Congress," Mr. Carter said. "All the media firestorm, and yet three years later he's the leader of this state. So you're going to tell me that I need to be worried about what I did on Monday? No, no I don't. The only thing I'm thinking about right now is some old busted bastard from Texas. That's my focus. You do what you need to do, fix this whatever that means. That's your damn job. It's why I pay you."
"It's not that simple though..." Paul began.
"Yes, yes the fuck it is," Mr. Carter said, now angry. "I pay you and your goon squad to do a job. This is part of that job. So fucking do it, or I'll find someone who will and you'll be on the unemployment line. That's how simple it is. Now go do it, and leave me alone unless you have good news."
Sighing, Paul shuffles out of the office. Mr. Carter returns to his chair, a bit miffed at having to tell someone he pays to do their job. It shouldn't be that hard. It'll be fine though, the worker bees will go back and do their thing.
Everything is still on course. It'll all work out just fine.
========
One of the things I've done most since I came to AW, besides winning, is complain about my opponents. When the Storm was a thing, we were largely booked against maggots and people who would go on to be fired. It wasn't a challenge, and it was beneath a superstar of my abilities. It was a lack of respect, and that's just something I will never tolerate. So it'd be fair to expect that in my singles debut at AW, that trend would continue. That I'd be unhappy about facing someone like Randy Buster.
You'd be wrong.
If you wanted to do so, you could make the argument that Randy and I aren't that different. Two big stars who for one reason or another were left behind by the business. Now we are both here in AW, looking to reclaim the time and star power that we believe is rightfully ours. We've found our way to this company because we know we have more left, and that opportunity has found itself here.
Of course, that's where the "similarities" end. Because comparing the two of us in actuality? Impossible.
See Randy I didn't lose my chance because I drank, snorted, and fucked anything I could touch. I was blackballed because people were afraid of my talent, afraid that I was going to be the star I've become. Their fear was well founded but that of cowards, and I will spend every waking moment making them pay for their insolence. You though? They were and are afraid of you because you're a no good junkie. You can't be trusted, you can't be relied on, you're just an old man clinging onto the last vestiges of his 15 minutes of fame. Just another has been who has just as little control over his future as he does on his sobriety.
And yet, you'd think that'd be insulting that AW put me against such a shell of his former self. That I'd see that as disrespect.
I don't though. I see this as a wonderful opportunity.
See Randy, folks like you trying to cling onto roster space takes away chances from people like me. You're hoping that everyone loves the feel good recovery story enough to keep you around. We can see you out there, moving like a stoned sloth dropping falls left and right. Your journey is a dead end Randy; you're never going to reclaim that glory you had before you pissed it all away. You're a waste of space, skin, and television time. The only place you belong is in the gutter, begging for change and sharing needles with other junkie pieces of shit.
Good news though. This week will be the week I make sure you know that. Everyone else here has sympathy for you, some sort of affection for you. I don't, because I don't like you or people like you. So when Clash comes, I intend to do whatever it takes to end this little reunion tour. Hell you saw what I did to someone I USED to like last week, do you really think I'll have a shred of mercy for someone that drank away any chance of earning someone like mine's respect?
Though before we get to Monday, I want you to do me a favor. More actually I want you to do yourself a favor. Before your final walk down that aisle towards the man who will bring about your end, please call that precious granddaughter of yours. Dial her up, and tell her how grandpappy is about to face the biggest star in his career on live television. How it's going to be a tough fight, but that as long as his little girl has his back he can overcome it. That you need her by the television supporting him, because that's the thing that drives you forward.
Remember the sounds of her voice, how good and powerful it makes you feel. Put the image of her gleefully in front of the TV watching her grandfather soaking in that ovation coming to the ring. The smile, the pride, all the things she must be feeling. When you step into the ring with me, you better have all those things in your mind before the bell rings.
Because I want to stomp every single last one of them out of your skull.
I want that little girl to watch me maim you, in front of ALL those people in the Capital and around the world. I want her to see every single little thing I do to you, and I hope she's sitting as close to the television as her little eyes can get when I do it so she doesn't miss a detail. Not because I want to teach some sort of lesson, or because I think she'll feel anything but pain from it. I know it's going to break her little heart watching the man she looks up to be beaten up one side of a ring and down another.
That's what I want.
I want that little girl's lasting memory of you not to be your redemption, but your collapse. That when she thinks of the man she once looked up to, she'll remember that Mr. Zaigon Carter showed her the truth: her idol is just a battered old man who needed to be taken behind the barn and put out of his misery. That she should look not to her elders, but to her betters for leadership. I am her betters, I am her superior, you are soon to be her faded memory forgotten by shame. You are going to nothing but an echo to her.
She'll never forget me though. She'll never forget Mr. Zaigon Carter, I can assure you of that.
Assuming you don't lose all your memory to whiskey and heroin Randy Buster, after Monday you won't either.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
Mr. Zaigon Carter has returned to his solo dressing room, shortly after talking to Jenna Bauer. Closing the door, he takes in the empty room.
Silence. Not a Troop in sight. No hooting and hollering, nothing to disturb him any further.
It's all him now. Nobody else to rely on, nobody else to take the blame if it goes wrong.
The thought elicits a smile across the face of Mr. Carter that might be described as sinister if one was to describe such a thing.
Mr. Carter drops down into a chair, before taking a look and noticing the crimson stains across his wrist and forearm. The last remnants of the partnership between him and America Jackson, via Jackson's forehead. It had to be done, he thought. There was no other option. America was the weak link, and had to be broken. One day he'll get everything he deserves, but tonight was all about the message sent. All about everyone understanding who the fuck Mr. Zaigon Carter is.
A knock at the door.
"Come in," Mr. Carter said, with a bit of confusion. He wasn't expecting anyone; hopefully it wasn't that interview trollop again.
It wasn't. It was some low level AW staffer, Karl or Kevin or something with a K. It didn't matter, learning these people's names wasn't something he cared about. He'd probably be fired in six weeks and he'd have to learn some other person's name. What's the point?
"Can I help you?" Mr. Carter spits at the staffer.
"The office sent me in here to tell you that you're facing Randy Buster next week," Karl or Kevin or something with a K said. "It'll be a singles match."
Mr. Carter raised his blood stained hands to his face, contemplating the news he just received. Randy Buster was a low card asshole, but he had fought for titles before. He had some name value, and there was...potential there. In fact, there's a lot of potential there.
"That'll be just fine," Mr. Carter replied. "Now get out, you've done your task. Tell the office I'll be there."
Karl or Kevin or something with a K leaves with a swiftness, as Mr. Carter continues to contemplate the news he'd been given. Randy Buster huh?
That sinister smile returned.
Yes, that would actually do quite nicely now that he thought about it.
========
It's three days after Clash
Mr. Carter has returned back to Montana, where he sits in his office doing some reading when he's interrupted by the same communications staffer he brought to Mexico City with him. His name is Paul, Mr. Carter figured that out since the last time they talked. Paul doesn't look very happy.
"Do you have any idea what we've been dealing with the last three days?" Paul asks in a huff. "That stunt you pulled on Clash has dropped your likability off a cliff. People are really mad at you, and it's tanking you on social media."
"I don't care," Mr. Carter said. "What happened needed to be done, so if you're expecting me to worry about that you're wasting your breath."
"You should care," Paul replied. "This is not something that will just go away, it'll take hard work and time. This throws our announcement timeline into shambles. We're talking weeks here sir, weeks."
Mr. Carter stands up from his desk, causing Paul to take a step backwards.
"You know the governor of this state, the new one? He punched a reporter in the face and still got elected to Congress," Mr. Carter said. "All the media firestorm, and yet three years later he's the leader of this state. So you're going to tell me that I need to be worried about what I did on Monday? No, no I don't. The only thing I'm thinking about right now is some old busted bastard from Texas. That's my focus. You do what you need to do, fix this whatever that means. That's your damn job. It's why I pay you."
"It's not that simple though..." Paul began.
"Yes, yes the fuck it is," Mr. Carter said, now angry. "I pay you and your goon squad to do a job. This is part of that job. So fucking do it, or I'll find someone who will and you'll be on the unemployment line. That's how simple it is. Now go do it, and leave me alone unless you have good news."
Sighing, Paul shuffles out of the office. Mr. Carter returns to his chair, a bit miffed at having to tell someone he pays to do their job. It shouldn't be that hard. It'll be fine though, the worker bees will go back and do their thing.
Everything is still on course. It'll all work out just fine.
========
One of the things I've done most since I came to AW, besides winning, is complain about my opponents. When the Storm was a thing, we were largely booked against maggots and people who would go on to be fired. It wasn't a challenge, and it was beneath a superstar of my abilities. It was a lack of respect, and that's just something I will never tolerate. So it'd be fair to expect that in my singles debut at AW, that trend would continue. That I'd be unhappy about facing someone like Randy Buster.
You'd be wrong.
If you wanted to do so, you could make the argument that Randy and I aren't that different. Two big stars who for one reason or another were left behind by the business. Now we are both here in AW, looking to reclaim the time and star power that we believe is rightfully ours. We've found our way to this company because we know we have more left, and that opportunity has found itself here.
Of course, that's where the "similarities" end. Because comparing the two of us in actuality? Impossible.
See Randy I didn't lose my chance because I drank, snorted, and fucked anything I could touch. I was blackballed because people were afraid of my talent, afraid that I was going to be the star I've become. Their fear was well founded but that of cowards, and I will spend every waking moment making them pay for their insolence. You though? They were and are afraid of you because you're a no good junkie. You can't be trusted, you can't be relied on, you're just an old man clinging onto the last vestiges of his 15 minutes of fame. Just another has been who has just as little control over his future as he does on his sobriety.
And yet, you'd think that'd be insulting that AW put me against such a shell of his former self. That I'd see that as disrespect.
I don't though. I see this as a wonderful opportunity.
See Randy, folks like you trying to cling onto roster space takes away chances from people like me. You're hoping that everyone loves the feel good recovery story enough to keep you around. We can see you out there, moving like a stoned sloth dropping falls left and right. Your journey is a dead end Randy; you're never going to reclaim that glory you had before you pissed it all away. You're a waste of space, skin, and television time. The only place you belong is in the gutter, begging for change and sharing needles with other junkie pieces of shit.
Good news though. This week will be the week I make sure you know that. Everyone else here has sympathy for you, some sort of affection for you. I don't, because I don't like you or people like you. So when Clash comes, I intend to do whatever it takes to end this little reunion tour. Hell you saw what I did to someone I USED to like last week, do you really think I'll have a shred of mercy for someone that drank away any chance of earning someone like mine's respect?
Though before we get to Monday, I want you to do me a favor. More actually I want you to do yourself a favor. Before your final walk down that aisle towards the man who will bring about your end, please call that precious granddaughter of yours. Dial her up, and tell her how grandpappy is about to face the biggest star in his career on live television. How it's going to be a tough fight, but that as long as his little girl has his back he can overcome it. That you need her by the television supporting him, because that's the thing that drives you forward.
Remember the sounds of her voice, how good and powerful it makes you feel. Put the image of her gleefully in front of the TV watching her grandfather soaking in that ovation coming to the ring. The smile, the pride, all the things she must be feeling. When you step into the ring with me, you better have all those things in your mind before the bell rings.
Because I want to stomp every single last one of them out of your skull.
I want that little girl to watch me maim you, in front of ALL those people in the Capital and around the world. I want her to see every single little thing I do to you, and I hope she's sitting as close to the television as her little eyes can get when I do it so she doesn't miss a detail. Not because I want to teach some sort of lesson, or because I think she'll feel anything but pain from it. I know it's going to break her little heart watching the man she looks up to be beaten up one side of a ring and down another.
That's what I want.
I want that little girl's lasting memory of you not to be your redemption, but your collapse. That when she thinks of the man she once looked up to, she'll remember that Mr. Zaigon Carter showed her the truth: her idol is just a battered old man who needed to be taken behind the barn and put out of his misery. That she should look not to her elders, but to her betters for leadership. I am her betters, I am her superior, you are soon to be her faded memory forgotten by shame. You are going to nothing but an echo to her.
She'll never forget me though. She'll never forget Mr. Zaigon Carter, I can assure you of that.
Assuming you don't lose all your memory to whiskey and heroin Randy Buster, after Monday you won't either.
Don't say I didn't warn you.