Unholy Alliance of Gods and Evolution
Nov 12, 2020 11:54:33 GMT -5
Lissie Hope, Carter Shaw, and 2 more like this
Post by Man Made Gods on Nov 12, 2020 11:54:33 GMT -5
Miami isn’t real. To most, Miami is some Michael Mann-stylized neon Shangri-La full of cars worth six figures and breast implants worth five. It’s some amalgamation of pop culture references and ethnic stereotypes. It’s Pacino in a white suit, it’s where Lebron is taking his talents. It’s a place whose agreed upon aura is so potent, it convinced us all that Will Smith is cool. Twice. Look too far down the street on one of those sweltering summer days that look so good on film but feel like such shit in person and the air itself bends your vision, the refraction distorting your reality.
Miami isn’t a fantasy. Miami is a city populated by the proletariat service industry, overworked and gritting their teeth behind closed mouth smiles for fat, under tipping tourists. It’s a dream realized for thousands of immigrants--some of whom arrived with nothing but what was on their backs. “Calle Ocho” isn’t just Pitbull’s rallying cry for linen-suited douchebags that work for holding companies; it’s a real place in Little Havana where you can find latinx art and culture and the best cubano sandwich you’ve ever had.
Your version of Miami says a lot about who you are. Are you picturing a leased Bugatti or a 66 Impala? Are you drinking a Starbucks or a cafecito? Whose shirt are you buying at the Fillmore Friday, Man Made Gods or Philidor Holdings?
XIII is a place where all those daydreams come crashing into reality. The fantasy booking is pulled out from its lofty pretense and glossy ideals and into a blood-stained ring in front of just a few hundred faithful. They have no interest in stuffed shirts selling false bills of “control” and “stability” while sucking every ounce of genuine passion out of the sport. They want to see The Man Made Gods and Walter turn this dream match into Philidor’s goddamn nightmare.
“What the fuck are we doing?”
Though Etta was asking in the general sense, the question could have been more immediate. Night had fallen in Miami and she was suddenly aware of how much this place was not their typical haunt. Of course, this wasn’t their typical week.
“You told me that you wanted… No… No actually you said you needed to win Wrestler of the Year again… Some cocksuckin’ point or another you felt you had to prove.”
“Not a point to prove, Loretta. Just a message to send,” he retorted emotionless, indifferent as though he were correcting a math problem. “And that is still the case.”
“Seems to me, Walt, that agreeing to this damn shindig right before the semifinals against a guy you ain’t spent five minutes with in the ring might be putin’ that message in jeopardy.”
“The message was for Philidor. So now I will deliver it twice.”
“And what’s that message?”
“That I’m going to destroy them.”
He may as well have been saying that the sky is blue; there was an equal amount of confidence in the words. Etta wasn’t as sure, the same way she wasn’t sure where they were going. Walter leads her to some undisclosed location through crowds seeking nightlife; their loud banter and bright clothing leaving the dull-dressed duo stuck out like sore thumbs.
“What the fuck are we doing?!” this time, more annoyed.
“We’re meeting with them.”
He strides ahead of her, answering the next questions before she can ask them.
“Evolution is not, and never has been, just one man’s great purpose; survival is not solitary. The Heir has re-taught me that lesson and I am humbled in its potency. Philidor Holdings and their small army have presented to me a threat not in the ring, not in the realm of competition but an existential one somehow still within the accepted structure of Action Wrestling and society at large. I am not ashamed to say that standing alone, these men have laid me flat on more than one occasion--a claim scarce few can make. A single man cannot fight off a pack of wolves. Man survived and continued to evolve thanks to his fellow man; they took company to better serve their purpose: survival.
That is where we are now: in the age of tribalism. Look around, Loretta. The Lost Breed was not organized enough to make good on the promise of their numerical advantages but Philidor’s strings are pulled by a mind superior to James Nightingale. It has become clear to me over the past months that this battle will not be won as so many of mine have been: in the center of the ring, staring down a man who foolishly believes to be my equal. No, they have out-flanked me enough times now that I know the attacks will continue apace; we will be handed notes from security, we will be leashed only to our contractual obligations and nothing more, and when I bellow like a great beast to be met in the ring...They snatched up that other leash and pulled it taut, choking the fight from me.”
“Those guys--” Etta tried to explain away how she lost The Device allowing the HR Department to throttle Walter.
“No, no, Loretta. The failure is not yours--it is mine. Our small pocket of evolved humanity has proven insufficient for this moment. The pack of wolves have descended upon us and we must call upon a village now. We must stir the King and his generals. We--and they--must evolved in order to turn back these thoughtlessly circling vultures. It is the time of tribal warfare. It is the time of Evolved Man Made Gods.”
The neon lined streets of Miami Beach glow against the drizzly weather, bouncing hues of blue and pink off the wet pavement. Cars travel up and down, a giant swath of people ranging ethnicities and social classes. Here, in one of the busiest sections of town lies a club, LIV. Inside the party is popping off, lasers and smoke fill the air, booze flows and the sweat is dripping. Heart pounding bass lines send the dancers in a frenzy of worriless movement, but there’s three men inside that are all business. Through an ‘employee only’ signed door, down a hallway and through another unmarked door sit the Man Made Gods around a circular table. A couple of couches and chairs against the wall, a private bar, no other warm bodies to be seen. Graham Baker with a cigar in his teeth wearing a white suit and black tie, jacket slung over the back of his chair. FPV leaning back with his feet on the table wearing a dark blue suit, pink undershirt and silver tie like a member of Miami Vice, swirling a glass of Maker’s Mark as his eyes dart between his two brothers. Corey Black in a black on black on black suit, hand on his World Championship laying in front of him. He taps it and addresses the room.
“This right here, gentlemen, is the good life. These four walls aren’t governed by any entity. We hold all the chips here. Out on that dance floor with the shitty music and cheap vodka, that’s Philidor style corporate control. Drones working like bees around a queen. A distorted view of the American Dream. Back here there’s soul. Nobody coming around with a clipboard asking for reviews. This is where people come to get things done and have a good time doing it without having money-hungry suits trying to shove sub-par goods in their face.”
Graham pulls the cigar from his mouth and ashes it before speaking to the table.
“We really think this is a good idea?” Graham asks.
Frank kicks his feet to the floor and leans in. Graham continues, “I think we’d be fools to trust Walter. He’s run through all of us at this point without a care. He’s a sociopathic monster who has specifically tried to tarnish this event, Corey.”
“He also put Kaiju in a wheelchair,” responds Frank, both men now looking over towards Black. Corey hesitates. Before he can say anything, Frank jumps in again. “He’s caused us so much pain. All of us. And we’ve tried to put him down. Lord knows we’ve tried. But man, am I ever on the fence about teaming up with him.”
Corey nods in agreement, “Do you guys think you’re breaking news to me here? You’re acting like he didn’t bounce me from Wrestler of the Year last year by going after my eye. You’re acting like I didn’t spend MONTHS calling him out, getting ignored except for that time he decided to JUMP me. You’re acting like they didn’t put Nikki in the hospital! You’re acting like I didn’t just go to WAR with him at Clash 100! Look, I wouldn’t spit on him to put him out bu-”
Just then, the back door to the club opens up. The hulking form of Walter emerges, Etta at his side. There’s a heavy tension in the room-thick enough to be knife-sliced and spread around.
“Please… do continue,” Walter pauses in the door.
Graham Baker pulls the cigar from his mouth and Walter sees his knuckles whiten against the table. Frank sees the Man Evolved approach and sips at his drink, a cautious look in his eyes..
“Now Graham, let’s be cordial. We already know how it ends otherwise.”
Graham’s upper lip quivers into a snarl as Walter approaches the table and all three Man Made Gods keep their eyes trained on the mongrel.
“Are none of you going to offer me a cigar?” he questions as a chair disappears beneath him.
“Yeah, how about I put this one out in your fucking eye?” Graham holds up his stogey.
“Maybe Corey would let me borrow an eye patch then.”
“Maybe he’ll let you borrow that World Title he just kicked your ass for,” FPV jumps in.
“Oh Franklin, some of us are not as beholden to those trinkets as you. If I go fetch one, will you give me a chance to finish what Lockhart started?”
“Jesus, just fuck or fight already,” Etta quipped.
“Alright, let’s just take a breath and calm down Walter,” Corey tries to referee.
“Keep your decrees to yourself, Last King. I am calm. I am the only one here who seems to understand what is at stake here.”
“Big fuckin’ surprise, this prick has something to explain to us,” Graham leans back, annoyed.
FPV rolls his neck with a smirk, “Honestly, I can’t believe you brought this fuckin’ mongrel here, Corey.”
“I don’t want to speak out of turn here Corey but I’m with Frank. What the fuck were you thinking putting this together?” Graham asks.
“I didn’t call him,” Corey explains. “He called me.”
Graham, Frank, and Etta are all in disbelief. Walter waits for them to process for a moment and then explains.
“I am putting together the most dominant year in the history of Action Wrestling."
“You know you’re sitting here with two guys who beat your ass this year, one of whom broke this federation’s record for longest reign? You know that, right, guy?” the World Champion questioned.
“Yes Corey, I am aware of those facts.” Walter pauses. “And as I said, I am putting together the most dominant year in the history of Action Wrestling. I was setting in stone EVOLUTION as the means to dominance, to true greatness. Every opponent I cut down was clearing a path for others to follow, to see that evolution is the only way; to inspire others to evolve is and always shall be my purpose.”
“Bullshit,” Graham shifted in his seat.
“But now Philidor has run roughshod over the legacy I was sculpting for evolution. They’ve turned this place upside down and the trail I blazed has been beset by goons bought and paid for in corporate blood money. The example I laid out as the most dominant in-ring force in the history of this company, is now sullied by cowardly goons grabbing the device and leaving me staring up at the Bright Lights. Ash Blake and her underlings have left me unconscious three times - THREE TIMES since arriving.”
“Shit, you trying to get me to sign up for them because now I’m thinking about it,” Graham puffed his cigar with a smirk.
“They’ve left the Man Made Gods in a pile with even greater ease. Corey’s grand moment was ruined. You failed to meet them in the Trios tournament. They were going to leave you bloodied until I entered the ring.”
“Didn’t go as well this week…” Corey observed.
“I am GOOD for the competitors and for the competition. I GOOD for this company. I am GO-”
Graham dabs out his cigar and stands up. “Okay, I’ve heard enough of this fuck’s self-delusion. He isn’t good for anything but being a heavy bag with a set of flapping fuck gums that I think might need some stiches in the near future.”
Baker reaches down toward a glass and Walter shoots up out of his chair. Corey follows suit.
“Ahh, fuck,” Etta reaches inside her suit jacket and puts a finger on the leash to deactivate it.
And then, a voice.
“He’s right.” Frank’s words rode a sigh from his lips. He wasn’t defeated but he wasn’t happy either. “There isn’t another wrestler in this place like him. We’ve all faced him, we all know this. And there isn’t another wrestler in this place who has had more beef with Philidor than him.”
Corey nods but Graham is still on the fence.
“But what he’s really right about... is that he’s good for this place.”
Walter sits back down in his chair.
“I brought every goddamn thing I had in my bag against him the first time, I really thought I was going to put him down like I said I would...and I lost. Corey, I bet it was the same for you in last year’s tournament.”
A nod from Corey Black.
“And then what happened? We put more in the bag. We each put down the Mongrel. Like it or not - and I sure as shit don’t like it - he brought out more fight in us than we had prior. He can call it evolution or whatever the fuck he wants but if we want to be at our best to take down Philidor? We want him there.”
Baker stands down and grimaces. “Fuck’s sake, we’re really doing this, aren’t we?”
Everyone standing now, around the table. The Man Made Gods, Walter and Etta, the air thick with tension but an understanding. Corey looks to Etta and hands her his phone, she glares at him but knows what to do. Taking a few steps back, she presses record. The video is surreal, these four men standing together around the same table. The four move back toward the bar, standing in a line against the wooden structure. Walter to the far right, the Man Made Gods closer toward the left. Naturally, Graham Baker is the first to speak.
“Philidor fucking Holdings. The corporate stooges who’re dragging Action down moment by moment to see the puppet masters playing with Ash Blake’s strings find more and more spare change to fill their wallets with.
I hate you motherfuckers. You’re the guys who like to talk a big deal of shit, when all you’ve really accomplished since you’ve gotten here is, well, falling short. Carter Shaw couldn’t beat Corey Black, Derrick Vayden is a perennial loser, Noris Cranley lost the first title he’s gained, and the HR Department is just…there. Ash Blake’s found a few wins, but that makes sense-she’s clearly the balls of the group, and she’s gotta keep swingin’ em around somehow, right?
You corrupt, money-grubbing fucks represent everything wrong with this industry. You’re looking for a quick payday, easy money, to beat up on some dudes so that you get richer while people are busy dying in the fuckin’ streets out there. Each and every one of you had some form of promise before you threw yourselves behind a corporate chain-even Cranley-but you’ve gone and pissed it all away. Why? Because Philidor promised you a new car? Promised you some new dates with your misses? Promised you some fancy suits? I can only imagine what prices you two-bit whores agreed to, signing your souls away to the faceless capitalists that sit at the head of this country, but I know one thing for damn sure.
You fucked up on this bet.
In filling your coffers, you’ve filled your coffins as well. The moment that you - Shaw, Vayden, Cranley - decided to hitch your carriage behind this horse, latch yourselves to this bleeding pig, this is where you signed your death warrant. You knew that the blood you would spill for this act would come eventually, that men like me who would die for this fucking sport would kill you for the harm you sought to do to this business. You knew that the time would come to pay the piper-and you cared not. You wanted this, now you’re going to pay the price.
Every action you take into your hands in this world has an equal and opposite reaction, Philidor, and I promised you that this vengeance would come. That you attacking Corey and Walter after their match at Clash 100 would lay seeds for fruit so sweet I could barely stomach it. That you would reap what you’ve sown. The reaper has come, and you’ll now realize how a few moments of fame, a few misguided actions on the behest of a puppet master who, herself, likely has strings, will have consequences that stretch forever into the void. You may’ve been nothing before Philidor, and you may feel like something now, but I promise you, the reality check you receive to throw you down from this mountaintop will hurt far worse than being nothing ever could have.
Trust me. I know it.
At XIII, I’m going to take every opportunity I have in my hands to crush your bones into dust, every chance to turn you into cinders, every chance to pay back every dumbass comment that you four and your twitter-fingers have thrown my way. I’m going to turn you inside out over and over again, paint every inch of the floor of the Fillmore with your blood, drive you head-first into every bit of exposed concrete I can find. I will have my pound of flesh, damn it, I promised you that much the night that Corey won the World Championship, the last time I had gold in Action Wrestling.
I made a promise that you would pay for your poor decisions, that the suffering you felt would be great and immense. I made a promise that I’d reduce Vayden back to the poor boy who got the hardcore championship handed to him, more or less, that I’d reduce Shaw back to what he was before he brushed with me, that I’d reduce the HR Department back to the know-nothings that they always have been, back into the salt mines to toil for eternity out of a spotlight that rejected them. But you four are only the beginning-because once I punch through you, it’s onto Cranley and Blake. It’s onto punishment.
It’s onto the teardown.
You may have numbers, you may have money, you may have all the perceived advantages in the fucking world, but we have strength. We have a legion of followers, we have homefield advantage, we have Kingship…
...and if all that fails, you have a mongrel to deal with.
I hope Philidor pays out a nice life insurance package, because ol’ Geri Vayden’s going to need to cash hers out to keep her and her daughter afloat. Daddy’s not coming home again-he’ll be the fourth of four corpses filling graves at XIII.
I hope it was worth it.”
Frank places a hand on Graham’s shoulder, stepping forward.
“Y’know, there’s really only one thing I want in my life right now. One very simple little thing. SUCCESS.
If nothing else I am a man who knows how to succeed in whatever he puts his mind to. I walked into this little industry we share, the Wrestling Industry at large, and I stamped my name in the record books with Golden Ink, doing shit less that 0.1% of the industry has ever been able to accomplish. World Titles? Done. Triple Crowns, Grand Slams, fuck it, what about DOUBLE Grand Slams? I’ve done those too. There’s not much left in this business that I haven’t done, and my to-do list grows shorter and shorter by the week.
And what of the coffee business, eh? I’ve rocked that too, made a hell of a fortune out of it. I came close to stepping face-to-face with big bad Starbucks itself and making it out the other end. I translated my fanbase in wrestling to this new business venture with ease, now my name is synonymous with the upper echelons of TWO industries, and that’s not something just any old ham and egger wrestler can say about themselves?
But why am I bringing these little tidbits up? Simple, really. Because Phillidor Holdings think they are what everyone already knows I am. A hybrid of success in both business and wrestling. They certainly put up the image of what they think success looks like. Big suits, big cars, expensive Rolexs, infidelity scandals, they do it all.
And I could do all that too, if I really wanted to. I could dress like how my bank account says I should dress and act all hoighty toighty like a true man of wealth. But that’s not who I am. I’ve tried that lifestyle a few times and every time I remind myself why I’m more comfortable in a hoodie and jeans guzzling coffee like the stuff was an elixir of life. Because unlike the men and women of Philidor Holdings, I’m truly a success. And that means I can do whatever the FUCK I want to do.
Philidor Holdings, LLC is a parody of what successful business looks like. At first glance, they all seem like a large, united front. But as someone who ACTUALLY knows how to run a business, I can see just how lopsided the hierarchy of your group is. All of your energy is at the top, and who’s at the top of Philidor? Ash Blake. Everything, and I do mean EVERYTHING that makes Philidor the powerhouse it claims to be is based on either whatever Blake is doing right now or based on the past glories of its members.
Yes, we know Carter Shaw has the All In briefcase, but we’ve already seen what happens when he has his shot at the champion. LOSS. Yes, we know that Noris Cranley was perhaps the epitome of the Pure Championship, but he’s since lost both his title and his dignity as his world is rocked by scandal. Yes, we know that Derrick Vayden was the golden boy of the cruiserweights during his time in that division, but it’s 2020, and the heavyweights have been tossing him around ragdoll style week in and week out. Meanwhile, Ash Blake proves her worth week in and week out with a historic, record breaking TV Title run.
So guess which Philidor member isn’t in this match to help her team? Heh.
I’ll spell it out for you. Ever since Philidor started, the stock of all of its members have dropped considerably, unless their names are Ash Blake, Samson Saltair or Peter Garvey. The dirty muscle of the group, the HR Department. The only reason their stocks haven’t dropped is because they’re blank slates, new additions to the roster. The two of you have only been in three matches with mixed results. 2-1 ain’t bad on paper, but let’s see the quality of those opponents, shall we?
A win against the Talent Enhancers, the equivalent of a free square on a bingo card or a free hotel pillow mint. Expected and of no consequence.
A win in Trios against Masuda Taejin, Stuart Slane and Jason O’ Neal. A bit more promising.
A loss to The Following to eliminate you from Trios.
It’s simple. What you’ve proven so far is that you are mainly here to be goons for Ash and her lackeys. On your own you do okay against people who don’t matter, heck sometimes you can get lucky and beat a good and solid mid card team! But when it comes to the big leagues, you can’t cut it the real way, with a pin in the middle of the ring. Nah, you gotta sneak up on people and ambush them to get your message across. Since Clash 100, you’ve proven that that is what you’re good at, ambush attacks. You rely heavily on that oh-so-sweet element of surprise.
At XIII, you will have no such advantage whatsoever. Everything is already laid out for everyone to see, plain as day. This will be the true test for you two. Time to sink or swim, bozos.
But of you, Derrick Vayden? Honestly, what is there to say about you that I haven’t already said weeks ago. I watched back that video where I talked about you, I watched the snarl on my face and heard the disdain in my voice as I talked about your place in this company. Some people might’ve said the words I used to describe you were too harsh for the situation, but I fucking stand by everything I said. In fact, I actually have to thank you Vayden. See, I’ve given you ample time to do something big and to change my view on you, enough to razzle me and dazzle me. I only say what I say about you because it’s true, Vayden. I want you to prove me wrong.
So far, you’ve proven nothing to me. Only that you’re just as much a goon for Ash Blake as the HR Department is. Good for sneak attacks and not much else.
I hope you’ve still got plans for getting those fucking dentures, Vayden.
And Shaw? Well...I’m pretty sure The King of All Wrestlers has enough to say about you, little man. I’ll let him speak his own truth.
In fact, there’s only one more man I need to speak to right now. The Fucking Mongrel.
You know, if you had asked me to team up with WALTER of all people in January of 2020, I would have called you insane and told you to go be a crackpot somewhere else. But let’s face it, we’ve all been ravaged by the year, and we’re all different people then we were 11 months ago. I know I am. I’ve gained so much, lost so much, and after everything I’ve endured, the idea of joining forces with someone I ran a smear campaign against for crimes against nature doesn’t sound half bad.
That’ll be your ultimate error, Philidor. Forcing the two greatest forces in AW together purely to put you down like the dogs you are.
Make it a fucking learning experience, why don’t you?”
Frank steps back, leaning on the bar. The man evolved steps forward, looming over the other men with his size and stature.
"I rarely long for the past; I set my eyes ever-forward and move as such. But when corporate vultures swoop into a place that is predicated on actual competition, on a true and proper survival of the fittest to put their finger on the scales of evolution that I have been measuring these men by...I am nostalgic. I am nostalgic when men fought from their instinct and from their soul. I am nostalgic for when pathetic beings like Derrick Vayden were left to die in a heap like they deserve. Instead, placing like Philidor can convince the weak they hold some semblance of value. Put on this tie. Enter this data. You are valuable! Now hold this line while we stand behind you, counting the seconds until you’re impaled upon it by superior men.
I’m sorry Derrick. I truly am. Here we are approaching the calendar’s end and again you find your way into a ring with me. This, of course, despite your failure to make it even into the list of the top 15 competitors in this federation. Perhaps you saw it for the blessing it was, not having to stand across from the Man Evolved and be discarded in such a way that it’s burnt into the back of your mind for the entire next year. Have you changed since then, Derrick? Have you evolved? I’m sure you believe that to be the case but I need not enumerate your myriad failures: you’re more familiar with than then anyone. But I do wonder what stings the worst: the failed marriage, the failed parentage or the failed reign with an unearned title? We both know the answer: the failure to avenge your best friend.
So here you stand now, not in Wrestler of the Year by any stretch of merit but still feeling important, chest out and full-throatedly declaring your relevance here. This is Philidor’s great lie, Derrick. You... Norris... Jim... even Carter.
They need you more than you need them. Each of you have tasted success, just enough to whet the appetite, just enough to make you crave more, just enough to make you compromise anything to get it. You now march lockstep with men you don’t know toward a purpose you don’t understand. It’s so disheartening to see men like Carter Shaw--who has fought tooth and nail for everything he’s ever had, who has ground out this career and drug himself to some modicum of respect from their peers and fans--see this mirage of “opportunity” and sign expediently on whatever dotted line is presented to them.
What bill of goods did they sell you, Carter? Perhaps there are great advancement opportunities in management? How did they present to you their benefits package? Was it Hertz Rent-A-Car’s fast-track to management and corporate soullessness? Or was it some Jokerian speech about potential for “aggressive expansion” while they asked who you would stab with a pool cue for some meaningless movement up the card?
When will you boys see this for the empty endeavor it is? At what point does a meat shield look down and realize its purpose to all those standing behind it. Look deep into those who have called you into Action here today. Why does your leader not stand with you? Why does she not answer this call? Do not wait until there is a spear between your ribs to throw down your weapons. By then, we’re twisting the blade and will leave you bleed on the battlefield for your ignorance.
This is the Fyre Festival, gentlemen. Your purpose is to fill the front lines and the coffers. Carter, your position is admittedly strangest: you already had the golden ticket, the briefcase in hand. But you still wanted more reassurance, you wanted more security that you wouldn’t flub its use like Casey Holiday and become Action Wrestling’s newest punchline. This is the frailty of the human ego. All these men have tasted success here but yet to reach the true pinnacle. None of them have experienced the success even of Graham Baker--the least decorated man in this room. This faceless, soulless entity saw your desperation and desire and are shoveling it like coal into the engine of their own. You’re nothing more than that to them, Carter.
You’ve already been dangled out in front of management by Ash Blake, empty threats about your contract renewals. Is that the man you’ve fought so hard to become, Carter? A pawn to be shuffled about by corporatists? You hold that briefcase, a virtual guaranteed title reign of your choosing, yet you let someone else threaten to end your contract? Were you always this empty, Carter and I just failed to see it? No...the briefcase poisoned you. And now Philidor is doing more of the same. You’ve been promised Shargi-La
As you clawed your way to success here, Philidor extended its hand up and a less steep climb; you saw no blade so you took it whole-heartedly. But Philidor is not Sparta, it’s Jonestown. Jim Jones did not murder his followers, he offered them but a cup. Now Carter and Derrick, you’ve fallen for the same offer: stand with Philidor and your cup will overflow. I’d implore you to set it down now but it’s too late: you’re going to choke either way.
Peter Garvey and Samson Saltair. I cannot lump the two of you in with your partners because you are not like them, are you? No, you’ve descended upon us as part of the plan from the beginning, as part of the corporate structure itself. Is there any more chilling a phrase for the workaday “slobs” you surely quietly set yourselves apart from than, “We’re from corporate.” Those words represent an unknowable superiority, an authority granted by their chosen servitude.
I have chosen no such servitude, gentlemen. I cannot categorize you so swiftly as I do your partners because there is nothing to categorize. You are ciphers, meaningless voids of the corporate culture and useful idiots sitting at the right and left hands of Ash Blake. What advantage you gain with the scarcity of detail you’ve provided us all thus far, gentlemen. What strategic maneuvering by the suits to which you answer--aiming their biggest guns from the shadows where we cannot even see the barrel. I, on the other hand, have offered myself and my philosophy over and over to this place. I have extended my own hand up for those with the humility to hear it, to take it. My purpose and the meaning I bring to this place has been made clear by word and by deed; I have scrawled my message in the blood of the dozens I’ve put down here.
Your great achievements are detailed in emails and filed away in manila folders. You move in silence only because your minds are in that perpetual state. You adhere to a message, you do not send one. That is why leaving me flat on more than one occasion still lacks the meaning or the merit of the ONE time Franklin or Corey have done it. They write their own stories, they create their own narratives, they captain their ships and know that if it sinks--it is all their own. You serve on a destroyer whose direction you have no say in; you besuited apes are chained to the engine room shoveling the coal of your “stablemates” into the fire, too simple to take a place in the bridge.
I know you’ll have done your homework, Samson and Peter. I know you’ll have watched me and you’ll know what I’m capable of; I know it’s for that reason that your superiors have sent you to me specifically. They know the threat I represent to their offers of “order” here in Action Wrestling. They know that evolution takes place in the wild and that corporations are a futile attempt at civilization. Remember now gentlemen that the forthcoming battle is taking place neither in the boardroom nor after one of my competitions. This battle is inside of a ring in Action Wrestling. This battle takes place where I have been the most dominant competitor ever known. I have experienced more things in this ring than you can learn through tapes. I have won a great many times and I have lost. I have brought blood lust and fight out of men that they did not know they were capable of. My experience here has grown me...has EVOLVED me into a MONSTER twice over. You hold no such experience in your hands nor your minds. Your great mystery will meet The Great Mystery and you will know what Evolution has wrought. A mongrel. A beast whose purpose is clear and plain and has been growled from the mountaintops since I’ve arrived here. You? You are Philidor’s Holding Pattern. You are its tools deployed in futile attempts to keep evolution in line, at bay, beholden to some postmodern authoritarian ideals of profit. I do not concern myself with whether or not the train runs on time because I am the locomotive. I make the schedule and I obliterate whatever cattle is so unfortunate as to stand on my tracks. I am the rough beast, slouching toward Bethlehem to be reborn. 2020, the year of Evolution, of my Second Coming:"
"I WILL BURN PHILIDOR DOWN
IN THE YEAR OF EVOLUTION
I AM REBORN"
Walter takes a step back, giving the floor to the final man to speak. The Last King, the host of XIII. Corey Black steps forward, rubbing his hands together, licking his teeth and looking to the side.
"I bet Philidor is looking to come into this as spoilers, into my own event and run through us like we were just in one of the most physical World Title matches in this company's history.
That is, until the first round of Wrestler of the Year where I removed their golden boy's head from his shoulders. Just like I said I would. It was surely a humbling experience for you, Shaw, as you lay there looking at your useless contract inside your useless briefcase. But you guys had a plan, an assault that would end up good for you - but better for us.
See, the Man Made Gods are enough to topple Philidor. We can handle you without issue. But you went and you attacked a man evolved, too. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. And while I'd love to go eight on three and show the world that Philidor is, in fact, chalk full of yellow bellied bitches - this is XIII baby. This is where dream matches, unnatural partners and chaos happens. Where the unreal becomes reality.
It's also where we wipe out half your visible clients.
Carter Shaw knows the sting of defeat. He's on borrowed time as it is. That 'will he, won't he' shit means literally nothing now. I've gone through hell and came back for more to win this World Heavyweight Championship. There's nothing Carter Shaw can do to pry this from my fingers short of putting me on my deathbed.. and what honorable means that is. The man is a snake, a rat and he is everything I said he is. He's also on a fast track to annihilation. Look around the room, four men that have had our names sullied by Philidor standing together. A collection of talent so vast not even the brass have enough money to throw at us to turn us corporate. You couldn't hire a more dangerous outfit than us.
That's the difference between us. These men can't be purchased. No matter what. Walter already has shown, Hot Shot gave him a pile of money to come beat my ass and he didn't even want it - all he wanted was destruction. Graham Baker and FPV are professionals, they'll fight to the end because they know this fight is the good fight.
That's what you're faced with, Philidor. At XIII we finally return fire. You've fired pot shots in our direction for weeks but Friday.. we finish a battle.
Send all the faceless goons you have, like Jason Voorhees slicing his way through teens, the names don't matter. Send in your janitor, your secretary, your sales team - even your HR Department - we'll bleed them out and send their body parts back to company offices bit by fucking bit.
Is this where I get reprimanded and given a warning? Foul language at the workplace.
This is professional wrestling, it's less a workplace and more a way of life. That's what kills me about Philidor, it isn't whatever their goal is - it's that they think men like Graham Baker or Frank Venable.. or even myself will just roll over and let them walk on us. Why, because you're bigger? You're stronger? You have a multi-million dollar company backing you?
We have heart, motherfuckers. Decades upon decades of careers all lined up and ready to eviscerate what you stand for. Does money buy you happiness? Sure, I’ve subscribed to that theory for a while. But my integrity is priceless. Our standing in Action Wrestling isn’t for sale.
We have the drive and will to succeed. To buck back at the tyrannical nature of Philidor. The 'it's too good to be true' offers of wealth, backing and success. You need a lot more than that to be a successful pro wrestler. A life filled with excess and women may await you, but you'll be left with that hole in your heart knowing you didn't do it on your own. You didn't build an empire, one came to you and added you to the pile like a generic fucking Lego piece.
If that's what you want your legacy to be then so be it. Who am I to sit here and preach to a man who found a sister, was directly responsible for her being kidnapped, and now she wants nothing to do with him? Why would a guy who watched as his best friend was killed listen to a twenty year veteran like me? You’re younger yet but you’re not stupid, boys. Especially you, Derrick. You have a family to fight for, I get it man. Being owned by a company though, that’s how you fast track yourself to the dumpster. What do you do then Philidor is done with you, or they find another bright young star that shines just a little more? When they see the broken spirit they invested in?
Are Shaw and Vayden better than Philidor? I thought so. Maybe the green tinted glasses are giving a new meaning to this world, maybe they have ideas for what they are getting that'll help them out - but at the end of the day, the juice wasn't worth that squeeze. All the money and power in the world wouldn't be enough for an average person to cross the Man Made Gods and Walter like you have.
Maybe it's an opportunity, you were given a floor plan and among the foundation was targeting the main event of Clash 100. It could have been anyone. Any person on the roster not on the payroll would have felt the same feeling of elation and had it ripped away from them just so Philidor could announce their presence.
But it wasn't a random member of the roster. It wasn't just anyone.
It was the King of All Wrestlers.
That, Philidor, is when you fucked up.
Every last one of you have targets painted on your heads and my elbow is locked on. At XIII it continues with HR and Vayden. This World Championship won't stop me from turning your skulls to dust. From the bottom all the way to the top, I will Game of Death it until Philidor is left crumbling. A decayed shell that once handed favors out to bright young men turning them into victims. An afterthought in the professional wrestling world. A black eye, a brown stain but a forgotten one.
I won't ever forget, though.
And I'm not the only one. There's three other men chomping at the bit to get their hands around your throats on Friday, countless others in the company that would rally and send you packing. You thought you had the numbers, you thought you had the advantage - you're the fucking minority.
And while you may have an army... we have a mongrel.
A set of World Champions spanning decades and companies, Philidor. Whomever you are, sitting in that office pulling the strings, know this. You’re in the wrestling world now. While you have a business run monarchy, a wealth driven system of peasants at your beck and call, foot on the throat of all the men and women you have on the payroll - opulence is not the king here. The unfortunate part is that all of the cannon fodder from Philidor in this match think they are important pieces of this machine, a cog in the system, they do not realize that they are nothing but warm bodies huddled in a bunker that we are about to blast through with napalm.
I rule over this land not by wealth, not by politics, but by the blood, sweat and tears I have given for this sport. By my love not for the gains and the grandeur, but for competition. For XIII and the art of the deathmatch. For testing myself against the best and brightest this sport has to offer. This is why a corporation will never usurp my crown, they fight for nothing but profit margins and a bottom line. Sent to die by a woman backed by investors without their leader. Bend the knee or we take your life.
Long live professional wrestling.
Long live the Last King.
Long live Action Wrestling.
Long live XIII."
The four men stand there, united in their fight. An understanding among them. Corey steps forward and retrieves his phone from Etta, she’s clearly not impressed with the proceedings. Alas, a barkeep emerges and pours four drinks. Three whiskeys and a Diet Coke. The men retrieve their desired liquid. Frank is the first to break the silence.
“Well.. I guess that’s it, then.”
“I guess so,” retorts Graham, holding his whiskey close.
“We’ll see you on Friday, Walter,” responds Corey, looking directly in the eye of the mongrel. “And I’ll see you at Turmoil.”
A sneer forms over the man evolved’s face, he thrusts his drink out in front of him in a toast.
“Man Made Gods,” he says. The other three hesitate but entertain the offer, clinking their glasses with his and all respond at the same time.
“Walter.”
All the drinks are downed in one gulp, Walter places his glass upside down on the bar and heads for the door, Etta following close behind. They disappear into the night as the door slams shut, leaving the Man Made Gods alone. Not a word is said, though. Instead, they all make eye contact, look at one another and nod. Baker grabs his jacket and they leave through the door leading back into the club, the pounding bass and lasers firing off in the distance.
Miami isn’t a fantasy. Miami is a city populated by the proletariat service industry, overworked and gritting their teeth behind closed mouth smiles for fat, under tipping tourists. It’s a dream realized for thousands of immigrants--some of whom arrived with nothing but what was on their backs. “Calle Ocho” isn’t just Pitbull’s rallying cry for linen-suited douchebags that work for holding companies; it’s a real place in Little Havana where you can find latinx art and culture and the best cubano sandwich you’ve ever had.
Your version of Miami says a lot about who you are. Are you picturing a leased Bugatti or a 66 Impala? Are you drinking a Starbucks or a cafecito? Whose shirt are you buying at the Fillmore Friday, Man Made Gods or Philidor Holdings?
XIII is a place where all those daydreams come crashing into reality. The fantasy booking is pulled out from its lofty pretense and glossy ideals and into a blood-stained ring in front of just a few hundred faithful. They have no interest in stuffed shirts selling false bills of “control” and “stability” while sucking every ounce of genuine passion out of the sport. They want to see The Man Made Gods and Walter turn this dream match into Philidor’s goddamn nightmare.
And they’re going to.
“What the fuck are we doing?”
Though Etta was asking in the general sense, the question could have been more immediate. Night had fallen in Miami and she was suddenly aware of how much this place was not their typical haunt. Of course, this wasn’t their typical week.
“You told me that you wanted… No… No actually you said you needed to win Wrestler of the Year again… Some cocksuckin’ point or another you felt you had to prove.”
“Not a point to prove, Loretta. Just a message to send,” he retorted emotionless, indifferent as though he were correcting a math problem. “And that is still the case.”
“Seems to me, Walt, that agreeing to this damn shindig right before the semifinals against a guy you ain’t spent five minutes with in the ring might be putin’ that message in jeopardy.”
“The message was for Philidor. So now I will deliver it twice.”
“And what’s that message?”
“That I’m going to destroy them.”
He may as well have been saying that the sky is blue; there was an equal amount of confidence in the words. Etta wasn’t as sure, the same way she wasn’t sure where they were going. Walter leads her to some undisclosed location through crowds seeking nightlife; their loud banter and bright clothing leaving the dull-dressed duo stuck out like sore thumbs.
“What the fuck are we doing?!” this time, more annoyed.
“We’re meeting with them.”
He strides ahead of her, answering the next questions before she can ask them.
“Evolution is not, and never has been, just one man’s great purpose; survival is not solitary. The Heir has re-taught me that lesson and I am humbled in its potency. Philidor Holdings and their small army have presented to me a threat not in the ring, not in the realm of competition but an existential one somehow still within the accepted structure of Action Wrestling and society at large. I am not ashamed to say that standing alone, these men have laid me flat on more than one occasion--a claim scarce few can make. A single man cannot fight off a pack of wolves. Man survived and continued to evolve thanks to his fellow man; they took company to better serve their purpose: survival.
That is where we are now: in the age of tribalism. Look around, Loretta. The Lost Breed was not organized enough to make good on the promise of their numerical advantages but Philidor’s strings are pulled by a mind superior to James Nightingale. It has become clear to me over the past months that this battle will not be won as so many of mine have been: in the center of the ring, staring down a man who foolishly believes to be my equal. No, they have out-flanked me enough times now that I know the attacks will continue apace; we will be handed notes from security, we will be leashed only to our contractual obligations and nothing more, and when I bellow like a great beast to be met in the ring...They snatched up that other leash and pulled it taut, choking the fight from me.”
“Those guys--” Etta tried to explain away how she lost The Device allowing the HR Department to throttle Walter.
“No, no, Loretta. The failure is not yours--it is mine. Our small pocket of evolved humanity has proven insufficient for this moment. The pack of wolves have descended upon us and we must call upon a village now. We must stir the King and his generals. We--and they--must evolved in order to turn back these thoughtlessly circling vultures. It is the time of tribal warfare. It is the time of Evolved Man Made Gods.”
The neon lined streets of Miami Beach glow against the drizzly weather, bouncing hues of blue and pink off the wet pavement. Cars travel up and down, a giant swath of people ranging ethnicities and social classes. Here, in one of the busiest sections of town lies a club, LIV. Inside the party is popping off, lasers and smoke fill the air, booze flows and the sweat is dripping. Heart pounding bass lines send the dancers in a frenzy of worriless movement, but there’s three men inside that are all business. Through an ‘employee only’ signed door, down a hallway and through another unmarked door sit the Man Made Gods around a circular table. A couple of couches and chairs against the wall, a private bar, no other warm bodies to be seen. Graham Baker with a cigar in his teeth wearing a white suit and black tie, jacket slung over the back of his chair. FPV leaning back with his feet on the table wearing a dark blue suit, pink undershirt and silver tie like a member of Miami Vice, swirling a glass of Maker’s Mark as his eyes dart between his two brothers. Corey Black in a black on black on black suit, hand on his World Championship laying in front of him. He taps it and addresses the room.
“This right here, gentlemen, is the good life. These four walls aren’t governed by any entity. We hold all the chips here. Out on that dance floor with the shitty music and cheap vodka, that’s Philidor style corporate control. Drones working like bees around a queen. A distorted view of the American Dream. Back here there’s soul. Nobody coming around with a clipboard asking for reviews. This is where people come to get things done and have a good time doing it without having money-hungry suits trying to shove sub-par goods in their face.”
Graham pulls the cigar from his mouth and ashes it before speaking to the table.
“We really think this is a good idea?” Graham asks.
Frank kicks his feet to the floor and leans in. Graham continues, “I think we’d be fools to trust Walter. He’s run through all of us at this point without a care. He’s a sociopathic monster who has specifically tried to tarnish this event, Corey.”
“He also put Kaiju in a wheelchair,” responds Frank, both men now looking over towards Black. Corey hesitates. Before he can say anything, Frank jumps in again. “He’s caused us so much pain. All of us. And we’ve tried to put him down. Lord knows we’ve tried. But man, am I ever on the fence about teaming up with him.”
Corey nods in agreement, “Do you guys think you’re breaking news to me here? You’re acting like he didn’t bounce me from Wrestler of the Year last year by going after my eye. You’re acting like I didn’t spend MONTHS calling him out, getting ignored except for that time he decided to JUMP me. You’re acting like they didn’t put Nikki in the hospital! You’re acting like I didn’t just go to WAR with him at Clash 100! Look, I wouldn’t spit on him to put him out bu-”
Just then, the back door to the club opens up. The hulking form of Walter emerges, Etta at his side. There’s a heavy tension in the room-thick enough to be knife-sliced and spread around.
“Please… do continue,” Walter pauses in the door.
Graham Baker pulls the cigar from his mouth and Walter sees his knuckles whiten against the table. Frank sees the Man Evolved approach and sips at his drink, a cautious look in his eyes..
“Now Graham, let’s be cordial. We already know how it ends otherwise.”
Graham’s upper lip quivers into a snarl as Walter approaches the table and all three Man Made Gods keep their eyes trained on the mongrel.
“Are none of you going to offer me a cigar?” he questions as a chair disappears beneath him.
“Yeah, how about I put this one out in your fucking eye?” Graham holds up his stogey.
“Maybe Corey would let me borrow an eye patch then.”
“Maybe he’ll let you borrow that World Title he just kicked your ass for,” FPV jumps in.
“Oh Franklin, some of us are not as beholden to those trinkets as you. If I go fetch one, will you give me a chance to finish what Lockhart started?”
“Jesus, just fuck or fight already,” Etta quipped.
“Alright, let’s just take a breath and calm down Walter,” Corey tries to referee.
“Keep your decrees to yourself, Last King. I am calm. I am the only one here who seems to understand what is at stake here.”
“Big fuckin’ surprise, this prick has something to explain to us,” Graham leans back, annoyed.
FPV rolls his neck with a smirk, “Honestly, I can’t believe you brought this fuckin’ mongrel here, Corey.”
“I don’t want to speak out of turn here Corey but I’m with Frank. What the fuck were you thinking putting this together?” Graham asks.
“I didn’t call him,” Corey explains. “He called me.”
Graham, Frank, and Etta are all in disbelief. Walter waits for them to process for a moment and then explains.
“I am putting together the most dominant year in the history of Action Wrestling."
“You know you’re sitting here with two guys who beat your ass this year, one of whom broke this federation’s record for longest reign? You know that, right, guy?” the World Champion questioned.
“Yes Corey, I am aware of those facts.” Walter pauses. “And as I said, I am putting together the most dominant year in the history of Action Wrestling. I was setting in stone EVOLUTION as the means to dominance, to true greatness. Every opponent I cut down was clearing a path for others to follow, to see that evolution is the only way; to inspire others to evolve is and always shall be my purpose.”
“Bullshit,” Graham shifted in his seat.
“But now Philidor has run roughshod over the legacy I was sculpting for evolution. They’ve turned this place upside down and the trail I blazed has been beset by goons bought and paid for in corporate blood money. The example I laid out as the most dominant in-ring force in the history of this company, is now sullied by cowardly goons grabbing the device and leaving me staring up at the Bright Lights. Ash Blake and her underlings have left me unconscious three times - THREE TIMES since arriving.”
“Shit, you trying to get me to sign up for them because now I’m thinking about it,” Graham puffed his cigar with a smirk.
“They’ve left the Man Made Gods in a pile with even greater ease. Corey’s grand moment was ruined. You failed to meet them in the Trios tournament. They were going to leave you bloodied until I entered the ring.”
“Didn’t go as well this week…” Corey observed.
“I am GOOD for the competitors and for the competition. I GOOD for this company. I am GO-”
Graham dabs out his cigar and stands up. “Okay, I’ve heard enough of this fuck’s self-delusion. He isn’t good for anything but being a heavy bag with a set of flapping fuck gums that I think might need some stiches in the near future.”
Baker reaches down toward a glass and Walter shoots up out of his chair. Corey follows suit.
“Ahh, fuck,” Etta reaches inside her suit jacket and puts a finger on the leash to deactivate it.
And then, a voice.
“He’s right.” Frank’s words rode a sigh from his lips. He wasn’t defeated but he wasn’t happy either. “There isn’t another wrestler in this place like him. We’ve all faced him, we all know this. And there isn’t another wrestler in this place who has had more beef with Philidor than him.”
Corey nods but Graham is still on the fence.
“But what he’s really right about... is that he’s good for this place.”
Walter sits back down in his chair.
“I brought every goddamn thing I had in my bag against him the first time, I really thought I was going to put him down like I said I would...and I lost. Corey, I bet it was the same for you in last year’s tournament.”
A nod from Corey Black.
“And then what happened? We put more in the bag. We each put down the Mongrel. Like it or not - and I sure as shit don’t like it - he brought out more fight in us than we had prior. He can call it evolution or whatever the fuck he wants but if we want to be at our best to take down Philidor? We want him there.”
Baker stands down and grimaces. “Fuck’s sake, we’re really doing this, aren’t we?”
Everyone standing now, around the table. The Man Made Gods, Walter and Etta, the air thick with tension but an understanding. Corey looks to Etta and hands her his phone, she glares at him but knows what to do. Taking a few steps back, she presses record. The video is surreal, these four men standing together around the same table. The four move back toward the bar, standing in a line against the wooden structure. Walter to the far right, the Man Made Gods closer toward the left. Naturally, Graham Baker is the first to speak.
“Philidor fucking Holdings. The corporate stooges who’re dragging Action down moment by moment to see the puppet masters playing with Ash Blake’s strings find more and more spare change to fill their wallets with.
I hate you motherfuckers. You’re the guys who like to talk a big deal of shit, when all you’ve really accomplished since you’ve gotten here is, well, falling short. Carter Shaw couldn’t beat Corey Black, Derrick Vayden is a perennial loser, Noris Cranley lost the first title he’s gained, and the HR Department is just…there. Ash Blake’s found a few wins, but that makes sense-she’s clearly the balls of the group, and she’s gotta keep swingin’ em around somehow, right?
You corrupt, money-grubbing fucks represent everything wrong with this industry. You’re looking for a quick payday, easy money, to beat up on some dudes so that you get richer while people are busy dying in the fuckin’ streets out there. Each and every one of you had some form of promise before you threw yourselves behind a corporate chain-even Cranley-but you’ve gone and pissed it all away. Why? Because Philidor promised you a new car? Promised you some new dates with your misses? Promised you some fancy suits? I can only imagine what prices you two-bit whores agreed to, signing your souls away to the faceless capitalists that sit at the head of this country, but I know one thing for damn sure.
You fucked up on this bet.
In filling your coffers, you’ve filled your coffins as well. The moment that you - Shaw, Vayden, Cranley - decided to hitch your carriage behind this horse, latch yourselves to this bleeding pig, this is where you signed your death warrant. You knew that the blood you would spill for this act would come eventually, that men like me who would die for this fucking sport would kill you for the harm you sought to do to this business. You knew that the time would come to pay the piper-and you cared not. You wanted this, now you’re going to pay the price.
Every action you take into your hands in this world has an equal and opposite reaction, Philidor, and I promised you that this vengeance would come. That you attacking Corey and Walter after their match at Clash 100 would lay seeds for fruit so sweet I could barely stomach it. That you would reap what you’ve sown. The reaper has come, and you’ll now realize how a few moments of fame, a few misguided actions on the behest of a puppet master who, herself, likely has strings, will have consequences that stretch forever into the void. You may’ve been nothing before Philidor, and you may feel like something now, but I promise you, the reality check you receive to throw you down from this mountaintop will hurt far worse than being nothing ever could have.
Trust me. I know it.
At XIII, I’m going to take every opportunity I have in my hands to crush your bones into dust, every chance to turn you into cinders, every chance to pay back every dumbass comment that you four and your twitter-fingers have thrown my way. I’m going to turn you inside out over and over again, paint every inch of the floor of the Fillmore with your blood, drive you head-first into every bit of exposed concrete I can find. I will have my pound of flesh, damn it, I promised you that much the night that Corey won the World Championship, the last time I had gold in Action Wrestling.
I made a promise that you would pay for your poor decisions, that the suffering you felt would be great and immense. I made a promise that I’d reduce Vayden back to the poor boy who got the hardcore championship handed to him, more or less, that I’d reduce Shaw back to what he was before he brushed with me, that I’d reduce the HR Department back to the know-nothings that they always have been, back into the salt mines to toil for eternity out of a spotlight that rejected them. But you four are only the beginning-because once I punch through you, it’s onto Cranley and Blake. It’s onto punishment.
It’s onto the teardown.
You may have numbers, you may have money, you may have all the perceived advantages in the fucking world, but we have strength. We have a legion of followers, we have homefield advantage, we have Kingship…
...and if all that fails, you have a mongrel to deal with.
I hope Philidor pays out a nice life insurance package, because ol’ Geri Vayden’s going to need to cash hers out to keep her and her daughter afloat. Daddy’s not coming home again-he’ll be the fourth of four corpses filling graves at XIII.
I hope it was worth it.”
Frank places a hand on Graham’s shoulder, stepping forward.
“Y’know, there’s really only one thing I want in my life right now. One very simple little thing. SUCCESS.
If nothing else I am a man who knows how to succeed in whatever he puts his mind to. I walked into this little industry we share, the Wrestling Industry at large, and I stamped my name in the record books with Golden Ink, doing shit less that 0.1% of the industry has ever been able to accomplish. World Titles? Done. Triple Crowns, Grand Slams, fuck it, what about DOUBLE Grand Slams? I’ve done those too. There’s not much left in this business that I haven’t done, and my to-do list grows shorter and shorter by the week.
And what of the coffee business, eh? I’ve rocked that too, made a hell of a fortune out of it. I came close to stepping face-to-face with big bad Starbucks itself and making it out the other end. I translated my fanbase in wrestling to this new business venture with ease, now my name is synonymous with the upper echelons of TWO industries, and that’s not something just any old ham and egger wrestler can say about themselves?
But why am I bringing these little tidbits up? Simple, really. Because Phillidor Holdings think they are what everyone already knows I am. A hybrid of success in both business and wrestling. They certainly put up the image of what they think success looks like. Big suits, big cars, expensive Rolexs, infidelity scandals, they do it all.
And I could do all that too, if I really wanted to. I could dress like how my bank account says I should dress and act all hoighty toighty like a true man of wealth. But that’s not who I am. I’ve tried that lifestyle a few times and every time I remind myself why I’m more comfortable in a hoodie and jeans guzzling coffee like the stuff was an elixir of life. Because unlike the men and women of Philidor Holdings, I’m truly a success. And that means I can do whatever the FUCK I want to do.
Philidor Holdings, LLC is a parody of what successful business looks like. At first glance, they all seem like a large, united front. But as someone who ACTUALLY knows how to run a business, I can see just how lopsided the hierarchy of your group is. All of your energy is at the top, and who’s at the top of Philidor? Ash Blake. Everything, and I do mean EVERYTHING that makes Philidor the powerhouse it claims to be is based on either whatever Blake is doing right now or based on the past glories of its members.
Yes, we know Carter Shaw has the All In briefcase, but we’ve already seen what happens when he has his shot at the champion. LOSS. Yes, we know that Noris Cranley was perhaps the epitome of the Pure Championship, but he’s since lost both his title and his dignity as his world is rocked by scandal. Yes, we know that Derrick Vayden was the golden boy of the cruiserweights during his time in that division, but it’s 2020, and the heavyweights have been tossing him around ragdoll style week in and week out. Meanwhile, Ash Blake proves her worth week in and week out with a historic, record breaking TV Title run.
So guess which Philidor member isn’t in this match to help her team? Heh.
I’ll spell it out for you. Ever since Philidor started, the stock of all of its members have dropped considerably, unless their names are Ash Blake, Samson Saltair or Peter Garvey. The dirty muscle of the group, the HR Department. The only reason their stocks haven’t dropped is because they’re blank slates, new additions to the roster. The two of you have only been in three matches with mixed results. 2-1 ain’t bad on paper, but let’s see the quality of those opponents, shall we?
A win against the Talent Enhancers, the equivalent of a free square on a bingo card or a free hotel pillow mint. Expected and of no consequence.
A win in Trios against Masuda Taejin, Stuart Slane and Jason O’ Neal. A bit more promising.
A loss to The Following to eliminate you from Trios.
It’s simple. What you’ve proven so far is that you are mainly here to be goons for Ash and her lackeys. On your own you do okay against people who don’t matter, heck sometimes you can get lucky and beat a good and solid mid card team! But when it comes to the big leagues, you can’t cut it the real way, with a pin in the middle of the ring. Nah, you gotta sneak up on people and ambush them to get your message across. Since Clash 100, you’ve proven that that is what you’re good at, ambush attacks. You rely heavily on that oh-so-sweet element of surprise.
At XIII, you will have no such advantage whatsoever. Everything is already laid out for everyone to see, plain as day. This will be the true test for you two. Time to sink or swim, bozos.
But of you, Derrick Vayden? Honestly, what is there to say about you that I haven’t already said weeks ago. I watched back that video where I talked about you, I watched the snarl on my face and heard the disdain in my voice as I talked about your place in this company. Some people might’ve said the words I used to describe you were too harsh for the situation, but I fucking stand by everything I said. In fact, I actually have to thank you Vayden. See, I’ve given you ample time to do something big and to change my view on you, enough to razzle me and dazzle me. I only say what I say about you because it’s true, Vayden. I want you to prove me wrong.
So far, you’ve proven nothing to me. Only that you’re just as much a goon for Ash Blake as the HR Department is. Good for sneak attacks and not much else.
I hope you’ve still got plans for getting those fucking dentures, Vayden.
And Shaw? Well...I’m pretty sure The King of All Wrestlers has enough to say about you, little man. I’ll let him speak his own truth.
In fact, there’s only one more man I need to speak to right now. The Fucking Mongrel.
You know, if you had asked me to team up with WALTER of all people in January of 2020, I would have called you insane and told you to go be a crackpot somewhere else. But let’s face it, we’ve all been ravaged by the year, and we’re all different people then we were 11 months ago. I know I am. I’ve gained so much, lost so much, and after everything I’ve endured, the idea of joining forces with someone I ran a smear campaign against for crimes against nature doesn’t sound half bad.
That’ll be your ultimate error, Philidor. Forcing the two greatest forces in AW together purely to put you down like the dogs you are.
Make it a fucking learning experience, why don’t you?”
Frank steps back, leaning on the bar. The man evolved steps forward, looming over the other men with his size and stature.
"I rarely long for the past; I set my eyes ever-forward and move as such. But when corporate vultures swoop into a place that is predicated on actual competition, on a true and proper survival of the fittest to put their finger on the scales of evolution that I have been measuring these men by...I am nostalgic. I am nostalgic when men fought from their instinct and from their soul. I am nostalgic for when pathetic beings like Derrick Vayden were left to die in a heap like they deserve. Instead, placing like Philidor can convince the weak they hold some semblance of value. Put on this tie. Enter this data. You are valuable! Now hold this line while we stand behind you, counting the seconds until you’re impaled upon it by superior men.
I’m sorry Derrick. I truly am. Here we are approaching the calendar’s end and again you find your way into a ring with me. This, of course, despite your failure to make it even into the list of the top 15 competitors in this federation. Perhaps you saw it for the blessing it was, not having to stand across from the Man Evolved and be discarded in such a way that it’s burnt into the back of your mind for the entire next year. Have you changed since then, Derrick? Have you evolved? I’m sure you believe that to be the case but I need not enumerate your myriad failures: you’re more familiar with than then anyone. But I do wonder what stings the worst: the failed marriage, the failed parentage or the failed reign with an unearned title? We both know the answer: the failure to avenge your best friend.
So here you stand now, not in Wrestler of the Year by any stretch of merit but still feeling important, chest out and full-throatedly declaring your relevance here. This is Philidor’s great lie, Derrick. You... Norris... Jim... even Carter.
They need you more than you need them. Each of you have tasted success, just enough to whet the appetite, just enough to make you crave more, just enough to make you compromise anything to get it. You now march lockstep with men you don’t know toward a purpose you don’t understand. It’s so disheartening to see men like Carter Shaw--who has fought tooth and nail for everything he’s ever had, who has ground out this career and drug himself to some modicum of respect from their peers and fans--see this mirage of “opportunity” and sign expediently on whatever dotted line is presented to them.
What bill of goods did they sell you, Carter? Perhaps there are great advancement opportunities in management? How did they present to you their benefits package? Was it Hertz Rent-A-Car’s fast-track to management and corporate soullessness? Or was it some Jokerian speech about potential for “aggressive expansion” while they asked who you would stab with a pool cue for some meaningless movement up the card?
When will you boys see this for the empty endeavor it is? At what point does a meat shield look down and realize its purpose to all those standing behind it. Look deep into those who have called you into Action here today. Why does your leader not stand with you? Why does she not answer this call? Do not wait until there is a spear between your ribs to throw down your weapons. By then, we’re twisting the blade and will leave you bleed on the battlefield for your ignorance.
This is the Fyre Festival, gentlemen. Your purpose is to fill the front lines and the coffers. Carter, your position is admittedly strangest: you already had the golden ticket, the briefcase in hand. But you still wanted more reassurance, you wanted more security that you wouldn’t flub its use like Casey Holiday and become Action Wrestling’s newest punchline. This is the frailty of the human ego. All these men have tasted success here but yet to reach the true pinnacle. None of them have experienced the success even of Graham Baker--the least decorated man in this room. This faceless, soulless entity saw your desperation and desire and are shoveling it like coal into the engine of their own. You’re nothing more than that to them, Carter.
You’ve already been dangled out in front of management by Ash Blake, empty threats about your contract renewals. Is that the man you’ve fought so hard to become, Carter? A pawn to be shuffled about by corporatists? You hold that briefcase, a virtual guaranteed title reign of your choosing, yet you let someone else threaten to end your contract? Were you always this empty, Carter and I just failed to see it? No...the briefcase poisoned you. And now Philidor is doing more of the same. You’ve been promised Shargi-La
As you clawed your way to success here, Philidor extended its hand up and a less steep climb; you saw no blade so you took it whole-heartedly. But Philidor is not Sparta, it’s Jonestown. Jim Jones did not murder his followers, he offered them but a cup. Now Carter and Derrick, you’ve fallen for the same offer: stand with Philidor and your cup will overflow. I’d implore you to set it down now but it’s too late: you’re going to choke either way.
Peter Garvey and Samson Saltair. I cannot lump the two of you in with your partners because you are not like them, are you? No, you’ve descended upon us as part of the plan from the beginning, as part of the corporate structure itself. Is there any more chilling a phrase for the workaday “slobs” you surely quietly set yourselves apart from than, “We’re from corporate.” Those words represent an unknowable superiority, an authority granted by their chosen servitude.
I have chosen no such servitude, gentlemen. I cannot categorize you so swiftly as I do your partners because there is nothing to categorize. You are ciphers, meaningless voids of the corporate culture and useful idiots sitting at the right and left hands of Ash Blake. What advantage you gain with the scarcity of detail you’ve provided us all thus far, gentlemen. What strategic maneuvering by the suits to which you answer--aiming their biggest guns from the shadows where we cannot even see the barrel. I, on the other hand, have offered myself and my philosophy over and over to this place. I have extended my own hand up for those with the humility to hear it, to take it. My purpose and the meaning I bring to this place has been made clear by word and by deed; I have scrawled my message in the blood of the dozens I’ve put down here.
Your great achievements are detailed in emails and filed away in manila folders. You move in silence only because your minds are in that perpetual state. You adhere to a message, you do not send one. That is why leaving me flat on more than one occasion still lacks the meaning or the merit of the ONE time Franklin or Corey have done it. They write their own stories, they create their own narratives, they captain their ships and know that if it sinks--it is all their own. You serve on a destroyer whose direction you have no say in; you besuited apes are chained to the engine room shoveling the coal of your “stablemates” into the fire, too simple to take a place in the bridge.
I know you’ll have done your homework, Samson and Peter. I know you’ll have watched me and you’ll know what I’m capable of; I know it’s for that reason that your superiors have sent you to me specifically. They know the threat I represent to their offers of “order” here in Action Wrestling. They know that evolution takes place in the wild and that corporations are a futile attempt at civilization. Remember now gentlemen that the forthcoming battle is taking place neither in the boardroom nor after one of my competitions. This battle is inside of a ring in Action Wrestling. This battle takes place where I have been the most dominant competitor ever known. I have experienced more things in this ring than you can learn through tapes. I have won a great many times and I have lost. I have brought blood lust and fight out of men that they did not know they were capable of. My experience here has grown me...has EVOLVED me into a MONSTER twice over. You hold no such experience in your hands nor your minds. Your great mystery will meet The Great Mystery and you will know what Evolution has wrought. A mongrel. A beast whose purpose is clear and plain and has been growled from the mountaintops since I’ve arrived here. You? You are Philidor’s Holding Pattern. You are its tools deployed in futile attempts to keep evolution in line, at bay, beholden to some postmodern authoritarian ideals of profit. I do not concern myself with whether or not the train runs on time because I am the locomotive. I make the schedule and I obliterate whatever cattle is so unfortunate as to stand on my tracks. I am the rough beast, slouching toward Bethlehem to be reborn. 2020, the year of Evolution, of my Second Coming:"
“Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.”
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.”
"I WILL BURN PHILIDOR DOWN
IN THE YEAR OF EVOLUTION
I AM REBORN"
Walter takes a step back, giving the floor to the final man to speak. The Last King, the host of XIII. Corey Black steps forward, rubbing his hands together, licking his teeth and looking to the side.
"I bet Philidor is looking to come into this as spoilers, into my own event and run through us like we were just in one of the most physical World Title matches in this company's history.
That is, until the first round of Wrestler of the Year where I removed their golden boy's head from his shoulders. Just like I said I would. It was surely a humbling experience for you, Shaw, as you lay there looking at your useless contract inside your useless briefcase. But you guys had a plan, an assault that would end up good for you - but better for us.
See, the Man Made Gods are enough to topple Philidor. We can handle you without issue. But you went and you attacked a man evolved, too. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. And while I'd love to go eight on three and show the world that Philidor is, in fact, chalk full of yellow bellied bitches - this is XIII baby. This is where dream matches, unnatural partners and chaos happens. Where the unreal becomes reality.
It's also where we wipe out half your visible clients.
Carter Shaw knows the sting of defeat. He's on borrowed time as it is. That 'will he, won't he' shit means literally nothing now. I've gone through hell and came back for more to win this World Heavyweight Championship. There's nothing Carter Shaw can do to pry this from my fingers short of putting me on my deathbed.. and what honorable means that is. The man is a snake, a rat and he is everything I said he is. He's also on a fast track to annihilation. Look around the room, four men that have had our names sullied by Philidor standing together. A collection of talent so vast not even the brass have enough money to throw at us to turn us corporate. You couldn't hire a more dangerous outfit than us.
That's the difference between us. These men can't be purchased. No matter what. Walter already has shown, Hot Shot gave him a pile of money to come beat my ass and he didn't even want it - all he wanted was destruction. Graham Baker and FPV are professionals, they'll fight to the end because they know this fight is the good fight.
That's what you're faced with, Philidor. At XIII we finally return fire. You've fired pot shots in our direction for weeks but Friday.. we finish a battle.
Send all the faceless goons you have, like Jason Voorhees slicing his way through teens, the names don't matter. Send in your janitor, your secretary, your sales team - even your HR Department - we'll bleed them out and send their body parts back to company offices bit by fucking bit.
Is this where I get reprimanded and given a warning? Foul language at the workplace.
This is professional wrestling, it's less a workplace and more a way of life. That's what kills me about Philidor, it isn't whatever their goal is - it's that they think men like Graham Baker or Frank Venable.. or even myself will just roll over and let them walk on us. Why, because you're bigger? You're stronger? You have a multi-million dollar company backing you?
We have heart, motherfuckers. Decades upon decades of careers all lined up and ready to eviscerate what you stand for. Does money buy you happiness? Sure, I’ve subscribed to that theory for a while. But my integrity is priceless. Our standing in Action Wrestling isn’t for sale.
We have the drive and will to succeed. To buck back at the tyrannical nature of Philidor. The 'it's too good to be true' offers of wealth, backing and success. You need a lot more than that to be a successful pro wrestler. A life filled with excess and women may await you, but you'll be left with that hole in your heart knowing you didn't do it on your own. You didn't build an empire, one came to you and added you to the pile like a generic fucking Lego piece.
If that's what you want your legacy to be then so be it. Who am I to sit here and preach to a man who found a sister, was directly responsible for her being kidnapped, and now she wants nothing to do with him? Why would a guy who watched as his best friend was killed listen to a twenty year veteran like me? You’re younger yet but you’re not stupid, boys. Especially you, Derrick. You have a family to fight for, I get it man. Being owned by a company though, that’s how you fast track yourself to the dumpster. What do you do then Philidor is done with you, or they find another bright young star that shines just a little more? When they see the broken spirit they invested in?
Are Shaw and Vayden better than Philidor? I thought so. Maybe the green tinted glasses are giving a new meaning to this world, maybe they have ideas for what they are getting that'll help them out - but at the end of the day, the juice wasn't worth that squeeze. All the money and power in the world wouldn't be enough for an average person to cross the Man Made Gods and Walter like you have.
Maybe it's an opportunity, you were given a floor plan and among the foundation was targeting the main event of Clash 100. It could have been anyone. Any person on the roster not on the payroll would have felt the same feeling of elation and had it ripped away from them just so Philidor could announce their presence.
But it wasn't a random member of the roster. It wasn't just anyone.
It was the King of All Wrestlers.
That, Philidor, is when you fucked up.
Every last one of you have targets painted on your heads and my elbow is locked on. At XIII it continues with HR and Vayden. This World Championship won't stop me from turning your skulls to dust. From the bottom all the way to the top, I will Game of Death it until Philidor is left crumbling. A decayed shell that once handed favors out to bright young men turning them into victims. An afterthought in the professional wrestling world. A black eye, a brown stain but a forgotten one.
I won't ever forget, though.
And I'm not the only one. There's three other men chomping at the bit to get their hands around your throats on Friday, countless others in the company that would rally and send you packing. You thought you had the numbers, you thought you had the advantage - you're the fucking minority.
And while you may have an army... we have a mongrel.
A set of World Champions spanning decades and companies, Philidor. Whomever you are, sitting in that office pulling the strings, know this. You’re in the wrestling world now. While you have a business run monarchy, a wealth driven system of peasants at your beck and call, foot on the throat of all the men and women you have on the payroll - opulence is not the king here. The unfortunate part is that all of the cannon fodder from Philidor in this match think they are important pieces of this machine, a cog in the system, they do not realize that they are nothing but warm bodies huddled in a bunker that we are about to blast through with napalm.
I rule over this land not by wealth, not by politics, but by the blood, sweat and tears I have given for this sport. By my love not for the gains and the grandeur, but for competition. For XIII and the art of the deathmatch. For testing myself against the best and brightest this sport has to offer. This is why a corporation will never usurp my crown, they fight for nothing but profit margins and a bottom line. Sent to die by a woman backed by investors without their leader. Bend the knee or we take your life.
Long live professional wrestling.
Long live the Last King.
Long live Action Wrestling.
Long live XIII."
The four men stand there, united in their fight. An understanding among them. Corey steps forward and retrieves his phone from Etta, she’s clearly not impressed with the proceedings. Alas, a barkeep emerges and pours four drinks. Three whiskeys and a Diet Coke. The men retrieve their desired liquid. Frank is the first to break the silence.
“Well.. I guess that’s it, then.”
“I guess so,” retorts Graham, holding his whiskey close.
“We’ll see you on Friday, Walter,” responds Corey, looking directly in the eye of the mongrel. “And I’ll see you at Turmoil.”
A sneer forms over the man evolved’s face, he thrusts his drink out in front of him in a toast.
“Man Made Gods,” he says. The other three hesitate but entertain the offer, clinking their glasses with his and all respond at the same time.
“Walter.”
All the drinks are downed in one gulp, Walter places his glass upside down on the bar and heads for the door, Etta following close behind. They disappear into the night as the door slams shut, leaving the Man Made Gods alone. Not a word is said, though. Instead, they all make eye contact, look at one another and nod. Baker grabs his jacket and they leave through the door leading back into the club, the pounding bass and lasers firing off in the distance.