“Wendigo Fever”
Nov 8, 2020 21:51:35 GMT -5
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CJ Phoenix, James Nightingale, and 2 more like this
Post by “The RevolutiDaddy” Wesley on Nov 8, 2020 21:51:35 GMT -5
I don’t believe in God.
I don’t believe in The Devil.
I don’t believe in Angels or Demons.
Despite of all of that, I do believe there is one universal truth.
Death, and it’s swift approach toward us all. When that mass of black comes to cut the silver cord connecting your body and soul, what do you want to leave behind in this world?
What is your mark? What is your legacy?
What will they speak of when your name lets loose from lips?
Are they jovial, or pursed?
Personally, I don’t have the answer yet. My life, my work, is to leave that lasting mark on this world.
Through great things, I will have legacy.
Through it all, I’ll persevere for these future acts of eminence.
But for the present? I’ll just have to settle for kicking the living shit out of James Nightingale.
Though Wesley had been sleeping regularly, dreaming nightly, tonight was a different story entirely. Something was keeping him awake, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint the source of this restlessness. A voice, a whisper in the back of his mind telling him:
“Not tonight, brotherbrother, not now.”
He fidgeted around his room, trying to mindlessly keep himself busy. Despite the chilled night, he sweat through his shirt. His legs shook in anticipation of something yet to reveal itself, if it were ever to come to pass. After two hours of scrolling blank eyed through his socials, he decided to take a walk. He slid into his boots, adorned his torso in a massive winter coat, and then exited into the unknown of the night.
The Following compound, unlike Wesley, had found itself shut off. The recruits slept soundly in their dormitories. His mind drifted to Dandy, to Kemp, and wondered if they were resting comfortably or if they were as sleepless as he. Snow crunched under his boots as his feet moved of their own accord. He found himself on the outskirts of the compound, which in itself was surrounded by acreages of woodlands they had yet to venture into.
Wesley, for whatever reason, decided that this night was the one to pop the cherry. He walked headfirst into the woods, with only the flashlight on his phone to illuminate his path. He crushed through frozen bramble and brush as he moved towards a destination that hadn’t become clear to him.
It was as if something were calling him into those woods. Whether it’s nature was amiable or malevolent was still up for debate. Yet, he blazed the trail, his hands clinched frozen around his cellphone as he moved both aimlessly and preordained at the same time.
His mind couldn’t help but wander to the legends told of these northern forests of Minnesota. A creature, said to have the head of a stag, its body emaciated, its eyes sunken and forlorn, its very soul on display with its inner hunger and desire.
Even though Wesley didn’t believe in such tripe, he couldn’t help the shudder that was sent down his spine, nor the extra cautious aura he projected as he walked through the woods.
As if on cue, a twig snapped in the distance.
And was that a growl, or simply the howling of the wind playing tricks on his mind?
Every fiber of his being shouted at him to turn around, head to the warmth and safety of his room and bed...but that god damn voice in the back of his head would not shut its fucking mouth. Through fear, he pushed forward into the woods.
Several miles into the unbroken woods he found himself. His light only cut through several feet of the hazy fog now picking up around him.
That was most definitely a growl.
Wesley didn’t believe in this shit, but he was starting to question whether his beliefs were in fact only his own ego driven desires.
Desires of peace, safety, warmth, and welcome.
He was starting to believe that the universe didn’t actually give a shit what he believed in or not.
Were those yellow eyes staring out at him through the fog?
Belief is a funny thing, James.
Can I call you James?
Your beliefs and mine differ vastly, though from the outside looking in, people would say that they’re one in the same. The uninitiated would be wrong James, as we couldn’t be two more different people if we tried.
We both have an edict, an ethos in which we operate, and on paper they may be roughly the same, but in execution? That’s where the gap happens.
I believe people want to become better versions of themselves.
You believe some people are too far gone to even try.
I’m a practitioner of the art of teaching, but you think you’re judge, jury...and executioner.
What gives you the fucking right, James?
Who the fuck do you think you are?
There was a time when I was weak of mine, body, and soul. I used to be one of the lost, James. Can you believe that? If I had heard your message before then? Man, I might just be in a completely different stage of life then I’ve found myself currently. I could easily have been scooped up by you and your band of fucking crony losers bowing before the Pulpit of Nightingale.
One of the unworthy. Baptized in blood and fear.
Thank fuck that’s not the case. I don’t think I could have digested your message quite the same every week while you get your ass absolutely handed to you. It’s a hard pill to swallow, James, finding out that you’re not quite as divine as you think our are. The harder pill though my man is discovering that you’re nothing but a perennial loser.
You’re just a sheep in wolfs clothing.
Your omnipotence comes off as impotence. You wanna be a mover and a shaker. An Angel of Death. Diet Walter or some shit.
I don’t know, Wade Moor did it all better and he’s fucking dead or something. I don’t really know.
What I DO know is that you’re kind of talented. You wouldn’t be in Action Wrestling if you weren’t, but there’s levels to this James and you’re just not on mine.
You don’t see your fellow competitors as adversarial, as hurdles to climb or doors to burst through. In your mind, we’re all beneath you. Just ants to the boot in the grand scheme o’ things but uh...you also be subsequently eating pins from those you deem insignificant. That’s uh, that’s kind of fucked my man. What does that make you in that master plan? Is it all part of the plot, or did you lose that some months ago when you got in bed with Gravedigger and his hoodoo voodoo brood of Mexicano gangsters?
I mean, what in the fuck is this shit? I’m supposed to buy the fact that a pencil necked geek who speaks the Queens English somehow has control of one of - if not - THE most organized, most reviled, most violent brand of scum sucking, blood thirsty crime syndicates in the world? Wait until the boys down in El Salvador catch wind of this nonsense. My moneys on your head ending up on a pike on top of your run down hospital sooner than later...
But for now, you have to deal with me catapulting it into a ring mat. That’s where the money is, right? Wesley versus James Nightingale for progression in this tournament of Turmoil, wrestler of the year at stake, and quite possibly a shot at the Worlds Championship. Do you think you’re World Championship material, James?
I know you went toe to toe with Walter for three months straight. You and the boys in The Lost Breed threw absolutely everything you had at the beast, and yet none of it was enough to put him down for good. Imagine, in all your endless murderous intent, getting upstaged by some guy who cosplays Norse God and shops at Hot Topic. Corey Black did in one night what you failed to do in three with the entirety of your squad behind you.
What does that tell you, man? I know what it screams to me: back to the motherfucking drawing board, and while you’re at it, might as well drop down a few slots on the nights card too. James Nightingale ain’t got what it takes to hang in that main event scene for too long, not without getting exposed as the still wet behind the ears rook that he is.
Look, I’ll give it to you man. You even managed to take Walter to the limit once, but god, you got to also realize that the mans was probably tired from feeding you your own ass. He’s a new father, for fucks sake, even you know how tiring that is, considering you got two little baby angels of death running around...somewhere. I don’t know. You don’t really seem like too present of a father figure, what with the Matriarch screaming up your butthole and a gang of losers to attend to weekly.
Speaking of which, how’s The Lost Breed? I’m sure y’all are reeling after innumerable losses, one being at the hand 🖐🏽 of The Following during that Trios Tournament. Y’all cant be feeling too good about that, right? Nobody was expecting us to dust y’all in that first round match up...but now, that perception has swapped. Now I’m the one in the hot seat because y’all know just how dangerous we can be. The Lost Breed learnt their lesson and now you’re looking to apply them learnings to progress towards the finals here...
That just ain’t gonna happen, bro. Even before The Following, I was waxing guys like you on the weekly. In spite of everything, in spite of being lost, I still knew that at my core...I’m a wrestler. I knew every night I stepped into that ring, that’s exactly where I belong, and nobody was ever gonna change that. I wasn’t going to accept failure in that ring for anyone or from anyone. There’s a reason I have accolades to my name, championships on my resume, wrestling is in my pedigree and no spooky dooky dork like you is going to prove me wrong.
I don’t believe in the preordained. Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve accomplished has been through hard work and sacrifice. I know you believe what you want to believe, but when the facts are staring you in the face it’s kind of hard to throw destiny around, James.
If that’s the case, maybe I should try speaking your language for once. As the Matriarch whispers them sweet nothings into your ear, make sure you listen to everything, not just what you want to hear. Reading between the lines is oft more apt then taking things at face value. If ya know then you know that what she’s really saying is:
“James, ya better wake the fuck up and wipe those midcarder tears off ya face. It’s time to get in the rasslin’ ring with The RevolutiDaddy and get catch that spankin. Get yourself a RevolutiHook for your troubles and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let ya live ya worthless dirt.”
Oh shit, that’s still me. I don’t know, I have a hard time impersonating deities that don’t exist man. I only deal in real, the absolute, and the truth of the matter is come Monday I’m gonna beat your fuckin ass across that ring like this match was for the World Championship.
Because, shit, it might just be.
Those growls grew deeper as the woods grew thicker. Wesley pushed through, his mind clearly not right. The world felt as if it were closing in around him, as if he existed on a separate plane entirely. He didn’t believe in this shit, but it was becoming harder and harder to deny that there was something watching him in those woods.
His mind drifted to thoughts of his family. His kids. Those beautiful boys he wished he saw more of. Life on the road was already difficult enough. He tried patching things up with their mother but he just couldn’t live the lie anymore. He didn’t love her anymore, there was no denying that. He tried, for the sake of his kids, but it just wasn’t there.
She didn’t take it hard as he expected. She knew, almost as if she could feel it in her soul, that Wesley was just pantomiming happiness. It was all a farce, and it was life she didn’t want for him or her kids.
That fog enveloped Wesley both physically and mentally. For a moment, he forgot his kids faces as he pushed through those woods. He thought instead of something else.
The Following.
Chase, Dandy, and Kyle.
That was easier somehow. Nothing about their relationship felt envious. They all had the same goals and aspirations. There were no underhanded desires, nothing that could trip the rift of The Following. It was all studious, a mastercraft in betterment, a philosophy that had been pursued for decades but no men or women had been able to accomplish.
Until now.
Wesley knew his home was indeed at The Following compound. No if’s, ands, or buts about it brotherjack. No fuckin way, duder.
Then why was he out in these woods, instead of home in his bed? What out here was so important, deep within this frozen tundra of despair, outside of the warmth of sleep and the comfort of dreams?
He certainly had no fucking clue, but his god damn feet wouldn’t stop. His mind wouldn’t quit until he arrived at his destination.
“Just fucking stop and turn around”, he thought to himself.
But nah, bruh. He kept on keeping on as the fog continued to swirl. He wasn’t sure if hypothermia was starting to set in or something because now he was seeing things in that layer of ice covered haze in front of his baby browns.
Ghosts now, in the fog.
Faces he knew but couldn’t put names to. Calling him fake. Calling him worthless. He pushed through, something else was there telling him it would be alright, a faint voice. His feet beat like drums against the hard cold earth, signaling to them (devils?) that this shit wudden’t going to fly. Not on his time, brotherbrother.
There was something he was meant to find out here. Some enlightenment he was chasing. Whatever was pushing those visions, urging him to halt in his tracks started to grow quiet now. His perseverance was beginning to pay off in dividends now as the thick fog began to let up. The woods became less dense and a fire started to burn in his soul.
For a moment, he forgot of any looming danger, until he came to a clearing.
And there, in the center of it stood that emaciated frame, the head of a stag, a heart beating in its hand. It’s mouth dripped with black saliva. It snarled, bearing razor sharp teeth, and blood seeped from its black gums. That heart beat in its hands, causing Wesley to fall to his knees.
The light from his phone still illuminated its hulking frame, towering over him as a monolith. It’s decrepit, clawed hand reached out towards him...but then pulled away. It etched lines in the skull dressing it’s head with talons as thick as an eagles. It reached up over its head and pulled the stag head covering its own, revealing its face underneath.
Wesley let out an inaudible scream as his light dropped to the ground and he was surrounded in pitch black.
Our minds are an enigma, James.
I CAN call you James though, right?
I actually don’t give a shit if I can or not. I’m gonna do it anyways. You see, I’ve seen unimaginable horrors, my guy. Things I can’t rightly explain. Things that, if pressed, I couldn’t even tell you if they were real or not.
Our minds are indeed an enigma.
What isn’t as hard to unravel is the outcome of this match, though. I really and truly can’t wait to get in that ring with you again. The first time was just enough to whet my whistle, but now I guess you could say I’m full blown thirstin’ bro.
I don’t respect your style, man. I know all them head games, messing with people’s families, trying to instill fear into your opponent before the match is just you transposing your legitimate fear onto said opponent. You know what you got in that ring organically just can’t cut muster so you do everything in your power to gain a mental advantage prior to them in ring beatdowns.
You try, but my man, you fail. You waste all this limitless potential to pull off some whack ass smoke and mirror tricks...but what have you gained from that in the long run. They’re all short term fixes to a long term problem.
That problem? You need to be in that ring training your motherfucking ass off. You need to be working on that in ring psychology instead of relying on that outward manipulation rolling into a match. It might work on them weak willed peasants filling out the undercard, but us real MFs just ain’t gonna fall for it. That’s why Walter kicked your ass, once, twice, by god I’m counting three motherfuckin’ times by the end of y’all’s little spat.
Unimaginable horrors, laid out by a goth boy in black just don’t hit the same man. I don’t fear you, James, and I likely never will. I don’t believe in boogeymen. All monsters are human and humans? Well, they all bleed the same, brother.
And at Clash, I’m gonna show the world just how much. It’s kind of poetic, really. I’m probably one of the last real wrestlers on this roster. I don’t rely on funky gimmicks or cheap tricks to get the job done...I just go out there and do what I do best, and that’s lace up losers like you like it’s going out of style.
But believe this, James.
As long as I’m doing it, it ain’t ever going out of style.
See you at Clash, loser.
That stag head was gripped in its clawed hands as its yellowing eyes beat into his with force, unrelenting force. Wesley scrambled on the ground, searching for his light source, silently willing his legs to allow him to run but to no avail. He finally found the light and shined it up towards the beast, the monster, the creature.
A reflection like a mirror stared back at him. In this monster, he saw himself. He didn’t know if his eyes were playing tricks on him. Black veins throbbed and pulsed through its neck, its face resembling his own.
His mind relented and finally he found out why he was in these woods.
He reflected on all of his past transgressions. Every cruel thing he had ever done came flooding into his mind as the levy broke. He watched as he attacked Claire Hawkins week after week. He watched himself bust Ariel Shadows wide open with that steel chair in the middle of the ring. He watched himself turned his back on Geri, Estrella, and Derrick. He watched as he beat his former best friend nearly within an inch of his life.
In his minds eye, he had visions of his children aging rapidly, growing to resent their father. Their eyes bore into his his like the eyes of the creature, yellow and knowing.
He could see himself jabbing knifes into the backs of Dandy and Kyle, pushing them deep, twisting them with malicious intent.
He snapped back to reality, staring down the heaving monster. It smiled as it prepared now to feast. It licked its chop, bits own lips, walked menacingly towards Wesley.
“Thank you...” Wesley whispered into the night.
The creature stopped in its own tracks, snarling in rage. It contorted and twisted as Wesley realized its purpose.
It had shown him exactly where he came from, and what he could go back to.
But that wasn’t the life he wanted.
Selfish desire was no longer his credo.
What once was salvation now burned.
The creature, starving, fell to its own knees in front of him. It’s eyes turned brown as the black veins disappeared. The claws receded and its emaciated body filled out. Wesley reached out towards it but the fog began to fill in again. He could no longer see in front of him. He searched in vain, unwilling to forget his past, never wanting to let it go in fear he would forget.
To forget was to repeat.
To repent upon it was forging ahead.
He reached out once again and his hands felt icy cold water. The fog dissipated once more and revealed in front of him a small pond, his own reflection staring back at him once more. His mind began to clear.
Finally, he understood that night why he couldn’t sleep. He knew he had to see these visions.
But was that another twig snapping behind him?
He turned quickly and shined his light into the trees. A growl and the sound of clicking teeth out him on guard once more. He stood up, prepared to face the creature once more. More twigs snapped as it made its way through the woods toward him.
He faced it in solidarity.
This time, he was ready.
Finally, through the bramble stepped a hairy leg...and a medium sized mutt walked out through the trees. It’s fur was black, with a streak of grey running down its face. It stood there, its tongue hanging from his mouth, neither of them made a move.
“You lost?” Wesley asked the dog.
It yipped and walked past him towards the pond. It started to lap the water up, savoring its icy cold taste. It looked up at Wesley and stared into his eyes. He walked up to the dog and pet it’s back. The dog started to cozy up to his legs, happily accepting his affection.
“Don’t worry”, Wesley continued, “I think I can get us out of here. I got a warm place we can go.”
Wesley rubbed the dogs back as it continued to drink from the pond. His mind wandered to the beast that once stood in the clearing, trying to decide if it were real, or if he imagined the entire thing.
He wasn’t sure what to believe.
I don’t believe in The Devil.
I don’t believe in Angels or Demons.
Despite of all of that, I do believe there is one universal truth.
Death, and it’s swift approach toward us all. When that mass of black comes to cut the silver cord connecting your body and soul, what do you want to leave behind in this world?
What is your mark? What is your legacy?
What will they speak of when your name lets loose from lips?
Are they jovial, or pursed?
Personally, I don’t have the answer yet. My life, my work, is to leave that lasting mark on this world.
Through great things, I will have legacy.
Through it all, I’ll persevere for these future acts of eminence.
But for the present? I’ll just have to settle for kicking the living shit out of James Nightingale.
Though Wesley had been sleeping regularly, dreaming nightly, tonight was a different story entirely. Something was keeping him awake, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint the source of this restlessness. A voice, a whisper in the back of his mind telling him:
“Not tonight, brotherbrother, not now.”
He fidgeted around his room, trying to mindlessly keep himself busy. Despite the chilled night, he sweat through his shirt. His legs shook in anticipation of something yet to reveal itself, if it were ever to come to pass. After two hours of scrolling blank eyed through his socials, he decided to take a walk. He slid into his boots, adorned his torso in a massive winter coat, and then exited into the unknown of the night.
The Following compound, unlike Wesley, had found itself shut off. The recruits slept soundly in their dormitories. His mind drifted to Dandy, to Kemp, and wondered if they were resting comfortably or if they were as sleepless as he. Snow crunched under his boots as his feet moved of their own accord. He found himself on the outskirts of the compound, which in itself was surrounded by acreages of woodlands they had yet to venture into.
Wesley, for whatever reason, decided that this night was the one to pop the cherry. He walked headfirst into the woods, with only the flashlight on his phone to illuminate his path. He crushed through frozen bramble and brush as he moved towards a destination that hadn’t become clear to him.
It was as if something were calling him into those woods. Whether it’s nature was amiable or malevolent was still up for debate. Yet, he blazed the trail, his hands clinched frozen around his cellphone as he moved both aimlessly and preordained at the same time.
His mind couldn’t help but wander to the legends told of these northern forests of Minnesota. A creature, said to have the head of a stag, its body emaciated, its eyes sunken and forlorn, its very soul on display with its inner hunger and desire.
Even though Wesley didn’t believe in such tripe, he couldn’t help the shudder that was sent down his spine, nor the extra cautious aura he projected as he walked through the woods.
As if on cue, a twig snapped in the distance.
And was that a growl, or simply the howling of the wind playing tricks on his mind?
Every fiber of his being shouted at him to turn around, head to the warmth and safety of his room and bed...but that god damn voice in the back of his head would not shut its fucking mouth. Through fear, he pushed forward into the woods.
Several miles into the unbroken woods he found himself. His light only cut through several feet of the hazy fog now picking up around him.
That was most definitely a growl.
Wesley didn’t believe in this shit, but he was starting to question whether his beliefs were in fact only his own ego driven desires.
Desires of peace, safety, warmth, and welcome.
He was starting to believe that the universe didn’t actually give a shit what he believed in or not.
Were those yellow eyes staring out at him through the fog?
Belief is a funny thing, James.
Can I call you James?
Your beliefs and mine differ vastly, though from the outside looking in, people would say that they’re one in the same. The uninitiated would be wrong James, as we couldn’t be two more different people if we tried.
We both have an edict, an ethos in which we operate, and on paper they may be roughly the same, but in execution? That’s where the gap happens.
I believe people want to become better versions of themselves.
You believe some people are too far gone to even try.
I’m a practitioner of the art of teaching, but you think you’re judge, jury...and executioner.
What gives you the fucking right, James?
Who the fuck do you think you are?
There was a time when I was weak of mine, body, and soul. I used to be one of the lost, James. Can you believe that? If I had heard your message before then? Man, I might just be in a completely different stage of life then I’ve found myself currently. I could easily have been scooped up by you and your band of fucking crony losers bowing before the Pulpit of Nightingale.
One of the unworthy. Baptized in blood and fear.
Thank fuck that’s not the case. I don’t think I could have digested your message quite the same every week while you get your ass absolutely handed to you. It’s a hard pill to swallow, James, finding out that you’re not quite as divine as you think our are. The harder pill though my man is discovering that you’re nothing but a perennial loser.
You’re just a sheep in wolfs clothing.
Your omnipotence comes off as impotence. You wanna be a mover and a shaker. An Angel of Death. Diet Walter or some shit.
I don’t know, Wade Moor did it all better and he’s fucking dead or something. I don’t really know.
What I DO know is that you’re kind of talented. You wouldn’t be in Action Wrestling if you weren’t, but there’s levels to this James and you’re just not on mine.
You don’t see your fellow competitors as adversarial, as hurdles to climb or doors to burst through. In your mind, we’re all beneath you. Just ants to the boot in the grand scheme o’ things but uh...you also be subsequently eating pins from those you deem insignificant. That’s uh, that’s kind of fucked my man. What does that make you in that master plan? Is it all part of the plot, or did you lose that some months ago when you got in bed with Gravedigger and his hoodoo voodoo brood of Mexicano gangsters?
I mean, what in the fuck is this shit? I’m supposed to buy the fact that a pencil necked geek who speaks the Queens English somehow has control of one of - if not - THE most organized, most reviled, most violent brand of scum sucking, blood thirsty crime syndicates in the world? Wait until the boys down in El Salvador catch wind of this nonsense. My moneys on your head ending up on a pike on top of your run down hospital sooner than later...
But for now, you have to deal with me catapulting it into a ring mat. That’s where the money is, right? Wesley versus James Nightingale for progression in this tournament of Turmoil, wrestler of the year at stake, and quite possibly a shot at the Worlds Championship. Do you think you’re World Championship material, James?
I know you went toe to toe with Walter for three months straight. You and the boys in The Lost Breed threw absolutely everything you had at the beast, and yet none of it was enough to put him down for good. Imagine, in all your endless murderous intent, getting upstaged by some guy who cosplays Norse God and shops at Hot Topic. Corey Black did in one night what you failed to do in three with the entirety of your squad behind you.
What does that tell you, man? I know what it screams to me: back to the motherfucking drawing board, and while you’re at it, might as well drop down a few slots on the nights card too. James Nightingale ain’t got what it takes to hang in that main event scene for too long, not without getting exposed as the still wet behind the ears rook that he is.
Look, I’ll give it to you man. You even managed to take Walter to the limit once, but god, you got to also realize that the mans was probably tired from feeding you your own ass. He’s a new father, for fucks sake, even you know how tiring that is, considering you got two little baby angels of death running around...somewhere. I don’t know. You don’t really seem like too present of a father figure, what with the Matriarch screaming up your butthole and a gang of losers to attend to weekly.
Speaking of which, how’s The Lost Breed? I’m sure y’all are reeling after innumerable losses, one being at the hand 🖐🏽 of The Following during that Trios Tournament. Y’all cant be feeling too good about that, right? Nobody was expecting us to dust y’all in that first round match up...but now, that perception has swapped. Now I’m the one in the hot seat because y’all know just how dangerous we can be. The Lost Breed learnt their lesson and now you’re looking to apply them learnings to progress towards the finals here...
That just ain’t gonna happen, bro. Even before The Following, I was waxing guys like you on the weekly. In spite of everything, in spite of being lost, I still knew that at my core...I’m a wrestler. I knew every night I stepped into that ring, that’s exactly where I belong, and nobody was ever gonna change that. I wasn’t going to accept failure in that ring for anyone or from anyone. There’s a reason I have accolades to my name, championships on my resume, wrestling is in my pedigree and no spooky dooky dork like you is going to prove me wrong.
I don’t believe in the preordained. Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve accomplished has been through hard work and sacrifice. I know you believe what you want to believe, but when the facts are staring you in the face it’s kind of hard to throw destiny around, James.
If that’s the case, maybe I should try speaking your language for once. As the Matriarch whispers them sweet nothings into your ear, make sure you listen to everything, not just what you want to hear. Reading between the lines is oft more apt then taking things at face value. If ya know then you know that what she’s really saying is:
“James, ya better wake the fuck up and wipe those midcarder tears off ya face. It’s time to get in the rasslin’ ring with The RevolutiDaddy and get catch that spankin. Get yourself a RevolutiHook for your troubles and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let ya live ya worthless dirt.”
Oh shit, that’s still me. I don’t know, I have a hard time impersonating deities that don’t exist man. I only deal in real, the absolute, and the truth of the matter is come Monday I’m gonna beat your fuckin ass across that ring like this match was for the World Championship.
Because, shit, it might just be.
Those growls grew deeper as the woods grew thicker. Wesley pushed through, his mind clearly not right. The world felt as if it were closing in around him, as if he existed on a separate plane entirely. He didn’t believe in this shit, but it was becoming harder and harder to deny that there was something watching him in those woods.
His mind drifted to thoughts of his family. His kids. Those beautiful boys he wished he saw more of. Life on the road was already difficult enough. He tried patching things up with their mother but he just couldn’t live the lie anymore. He didn’t love her anymore, there was no denying that. He tried, for the sake of his kids, but it just wasn’t there.
She didn’t take it hard as he expected. She knew, almost as if she could feel it in her soul, that Wesley was just pantomiming happiness. It was all a farce, and it was life she didn’t want for him or her kids.
That fog enveloped Wesley both physically and mentally. For a moment, he forgot his kids faces as he pushed through those woods. He thought instead of something else.
The Following.
Chase, Dandy, and Kyle.
That was easier somehow. Nothing about their relationship felt envious. They all had the same goals and aspirations. There were no underhanded desires, nothing that could trip the rift of The Following. It was all studious, a mastercraft in betterment, a philosophy that had been pursued for decades but no men or women had been able to accomplish.
Until now.
Wesley knew his home was indeed at The Following compound. No if’s, ands, or buts about it brotherjack. No fuckin way, duder.
Then why was he out in these woods, instead of home in his bed? What out here was so important, deep within this frozen tundra of despair, outside of the warmth of sleep and the comfort of dreams?
He certainly had no fucking clue, but his god damn feet wouldn’t stop. His mind wouldn’t quit until he arrived at his destination.
“Just fucking stop and turn around”, he thought to himself.
But nah, bruh. He kept on keeping on as the fog continued to swirl. He wasn’t sure if hypothermia was starting to set in or something because now he was seeing things in that layer of ice covered haze in front of his baby browns.
Ghosts now, in the fog.
Faces he knew but couldn’t put names to. Calling him fake. Calling him worthless. He pushed through, something else was there telling him it would be alright, a faint voice. His feet beat like drums against the hard cold earth, signaling to them (devils?) that this shit wudden’t going to fly. Not on his time, brotherbrother.
There was something he was meant to find out here. Some enlightenment he was chasing. Whatever was pushing those visions, urging him to halt in his tracks started to grow quiet now. His perseverance was beginning to pay off in dividends now as the thick fog began to let up. The woods became less dense and a fire started to burn in his soul.
For a moment, he forgot of any looming danger, until he came to a clearing.
And there, in the center of it stood that emaciated frame, the head of a stag, a heart beating in its hand. It’s mouth dripped with black saliva. It snarled, bearing razor sharp teeth, and blood seeped from its black gums. That heart beat in its hands, causing Wesley to fall to his knees.
The light from his phone still illuminated its hulking frame, towering over him as a monolith. It’s decrepit, clawed hand reached out towards him...but then pulled away. It etched lines in the skull dressing it’s head with talons as thick as an eagles. It reached up over its head and pulled the stag head covering its own, revealing its face underneath.
Wesley let out an inaudible scream as his light dropped to the ground and he was surrounded in pitch black.
Our minds are an enigma, James.
I CAN call you James though, right?
I actually don’t give a shit if I can or not. I’m gonna do it anyways. You see, I’ve seen unimaginable horrors, my guy. Things I can’t rightly explain. Things that, if pressed, I couldn’t even tell you if they were real or not.
Our minds are indeed an enigma.
What isn’t as hard to unravel is the outcome of this match, though. I really and truly can’t wait to get in that ring with you again. The first time was just enough to whet my whistle, but now I guess you could say I’m full blown thirstin’ bro.
I don’t respect your style, man. I know all them head games, messing with people’s families, trying to instill fear into your opponent before the match is just you transposing your legitimate fear onto said opponent. You know what you got in that ring organically just can’t cut muster so you do everything in your power to gain a mental advantage prior to them in ring beatdowns.
You try, but my man, you fail. You waste all this limitless potential to pull off some whack ass smoke and mirror tricks...but what have you gained from that in the long run. They’re all short term fixes to a long term problem.
That problem? You need to be in that ring training your motherfucking ass off. You need to be working on that in ring psychology instead of relying on that outward manipulation rolling into a match. It might work on them weak willed peasants filling out the undercard, but us real MFs just ain’t gonna fall for it. That’s why Walter kicked your ass, once, twice, by god I’m counting three motherfuckin’ times by the end of y’all’s little spat.
Unimaginable horrors, laid out by a goth boy in black just don’t hit the same man. I don’t fear you, James, and I likely never will. I don’t believe in boogeymen. All monsters are human and humans? Well, they all bleed the same, brother.
And at Clash, I’m gonna show the world just how much. It’s kind of poetic, really. I’m probably one of the last real wrestlers on this roster. I don’t rely on funky gimmicks or cheap tricks to get the job done...I just go out there and do what I do best, and that’s lace up losers like you like it’s going out of style.
But believe this, James.
As long as I’m doing it, it ain’t ever going out of style.
See you at Clash, loser.
That stag head was gripped in its clawed hands as its yellowing eyes beat into his with force, unrelenting force. Wesley scrambled on the ground, searching for his light source, silently willing his legs to allow him to run but to no avail. He finally found the light and shined it up towards the beast, the monster, the creature.
A reflection like a mirror stared back at him. In this monster, he saw himself. He didn’t know if his eyes were playing tricks on him. Black veins throbbed and pulsed through its neck, its face resembling his own.
His mind relented and finally he found out why he was in these woods.
He reflected on all of his past transgressions. Every cruel thing he had ever done came flooding into his mind as the levy broke. He watched as he attacked Claire Hawkins week after week. He watched himself bust Ariel Shadows wide open with that steel chair in the middle of the ring. He watched himself turned his back on Geri, Estrella, and Derrick. He watched as he beat his former best friend nearly within an inch of his life.
In his minds eye, he had visions of his children aging rapidly, growing to resent their father. Their eyes bore into his his like the eyes of the creature, yellow and knowing.
He could see himself jabbing knifes into the backs of Dandy and Kyle, pushing them deep, twisting them with malicious intent.
He snapped back to reality, staring down the heaving monster. It smiled as it prepared now to feast. It licked its chop, bits own lips, walked menacingly towards Wesley.
“Thank you...” Wesley whispered into the night.
The creature stopped in its own tracks, snarling in rage. It contorted and twisted as Wesley realized its purpose.
It had shown him exactly where he came from, and what he could go back to.
But that wasn’t the life he wanted.
Selfish desire was no longer his credo.
What once was salvation now burned.
The creature, starving, fell to its own knees in front of him. It’s eyes turned brown as the black veins disappeared. The claws receded and its emaciated body filled out. Wesley reached out towards it but the fog began to fill in again. He could no longer see in front of him. He searched in vain, unwilling to forget his past, never wanting to let it go in fear he would forget.
To forget was to repeat.
To repent upon it was forging ahead.
He reached out once again and his hands felt icy cold water. The fog dissipated once more and revealed in front of him a small pond, his own reflection staring back at him once more. His mind began to clear.
Finally, he understood that night why he couldn’t sleep. He knew he had to see these visions.
But was that another twig snapping behind him?
He turned quickly and shined his light into the trees. A growl and the sound of clicking teeth out him on guard once more. He stood up, prepared to face the creature once more. More twigs snapped as it made its way through the woods toward him.
He faced it in solidarity.
This time, he was ready.
Finally, through the bramble stepped a hairy leg...and a medium sized mutt walked out through the trees. It’s fur was black, with a streak of grey running down its face. It stood there, its tongue hanging from his mouth, neither of them made a move.
“You lost?” Wesley asked the dog.
It yipped and walked past him towards the pond. It started to lap the water up, savoring its icy cold taste. It looked up at Wesley and stared into his eyes. He walked up to the dog and pet it’s back. The dog started to cozy up to his legs, happily accepting his affection.
“Don’t worry”, Wesley continued, “I think I can get us out of here. I got a warm place we can go.”
Wesley rubbed the dogs back as it continued to drink from the pond. His mind wandered to the beast that once stood in the clearing, trying to decide if it were real, or if he imagined the entire thing.
He wasn’t sure what to believe.