The King is Dead
Nov 13, 2020 17:06:11 GMT -5
“The RevolutiDaddy” Wesley, Lissie Hope, and 5 more like this
Post by Howard Black on Nov 13, 2020 17:06:11 GMT -5
Howard Black didn't slap any hands or pose for any pictures when he left the ring. He didn’t stop at the top of the stage and hold the belt aloft to the crowd. His eyes were down as he walked up the ramp, the cheers and boos ringing in his ears. It hadn’t occurred to him to put the crucifix necklace dangling between his fingers back around his neck or pick his sweatshirt up from the crumpled heap at ringside. One thing captured his thoughts, replaying over and over again like a broken record player:
Howard Black moves to check on Spencer Adams, placing a hand on the shoulder he’d nearly torn out of hits socket a moment before. Spencer shoves the hand away, his eyes moving up to meet Howard’s. Contempt. Anger. Betrayal. Spencer Adams rolls out of the ring and walks to the back, leaving Howard alone in the ring.
It was clear that Torture had spared no expense with his championship belts – the gold plates on the title were heavy in his tired hand. Looking down at the belt, he noticed one of the straps dragged along the ground, the gold cap at the end of the strap scuffing from friction with the steel beneath him. He could have bent his arm at the elbow or slung it over his shoulder, but he couldn’t be bothered. The belt continued to drag.
Nobody was waiting for him in the back, not at gorilla or in the locker room. But he felt the stares – he knew the silent voices were internally loud. He attempted to put them from his mind as he changed and packed his bag.
Down the hall and taking a left, Howard found the door that exited to the parking lot. As the door opened, microphones were upon him: a horde of locusts with media badges, buzzing with questions. He kept his head down and pushed through them. When they persisted, he pulled the hood on his sweatshirt up and put in his earbuds, hitting play on the Smiths album he’d been listening to earlier that day. But before the song drowned out the chatter, one question caught his ear:
Howard’s eyes were glued to the screen, his heart beating wildly in his stomach as the carnage of the XIII main event unfurled before him. It was only natural he’d want as much film on the Champion as possible before their match, and a cynical voice in the back of his head expected any upsets would be easily written off with Corey’s condition from the infamously bloody event. Then again, there was little love lost for the men on one side – it’d be lying to say he didn’t enjoy them take a few licks.
Howard had little taste for matches of these type; their focus on pure, visceral violence removed all pretense of sportsmanship and technique in favor of vulgar blood sport. It was the sort of “war” for outside enthusiasts to parade around mocking the sport, no different than the ringside brawl between Khabib and McGregor’s camps other than official sanctioning.
Graham Baker was climbing to the roof. Behind him, the wolves of Philidor’s HR Department stalked him to dangerous grounds.
“Where are his teammates?”
The fight between the other five men in the ring continued. As Corey and Frank reestablished themselves against Vayden and Shaw, neither seemed to notice or care the absence of their teammate.
“Stop trying to fight back and go help your partner. He’s outnumbered – Walter can take care of himself.”
The HR Department were on the roof. The odds overwhelmed Baker. In the ring, Walter aided Shaw and Vayden in suplexplexing the Man Made Gods so he could powerbomb them. Graham Baker was alone.
As the Guillotine was tossed off the roof, Howard’s mind went blank. The camera lingered as screams echoed from his speakers. Back on their feet in the ring, Corey and Frank continued fighting Philidor. Howard wasn’t sure if they had any idea what had transpired – or if they were determined to keep fighting – or if they didn’t care.
The match was over. Frank and Corey were in the middle of the ring. Graham Baker was being taken to a hospital. Corey had already turned his attention to the Following alongside Frank and Walter.
Howard stared at the stream for several minutes after it ended. His stomach ached, and his mind sat mostly blank. There was an anger in him – sick and hot – that was coursing through the nerves in his body. He wouldn’t let this go unanswered.
Thanks for the whole retirement tour idea. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna bite your act too badly and come back a year or so later as a permanent fixture.
And let’s clear a little misunderstanding up: I never said I softened Walter up for you – I simply told James Nightingale that his idiotic claim would have had more merit coming from me than him. But that’s all that it is: an idiotic claim. Congratulations, Corey: you put down the Mongrel. I’m not going to discredit or downplay that achievement. I’m not even going to be you and get pissed that Philidor stole the show before the confetti stopped falling – the celebration is all pretense. A victory over Walter to win the AW Championship is all the matters, and maybe if you understood that, we wouldn’t have been subjected to the travesty you’ve belt your championship through these past few weeks.
Instead, Philidor beat you. And I’m not talking about the results of XIII, I mean you played straight into their hand. You gave them rental-free space in the head of the Champion, when you should’ve been focused on the Following. Buddy Roman said it, and I’ll repeat it: if you don’t win this tournament after failing to make the finals of Trios, you’re a dead champion walking. You are lucky you survived Philidor at XIII, or this match would be thought of as a formality. Started your reign with a bang and continued it with a whimper. Didn’t take the King too fuckin’ long to get physically, mentally, and morally fat on his throne.
You know, I always wanted you to respect me. How could I not – a young guy coming into my first major company after the Indies and sharing a last name, no relation, to one of the legends of this business. Truth be told, it’s kinda funny that for all the talk of Flash and Fly, there was never any talk comparing us: two guys fighting well above their weight class, demonstrating prodigious grit and determination, unhindered by a snapped elbow. But somewhere down the line, I realized that comparison would never be made because you’d never allow it. I see how you look at me, and I’m sure every time I come up you wish you could slap the surname off my birth certificate. Don’t worry, Corey, that feeling became mutual.
I stopped hoping for invitations to XIII. I stopped wondering if I’d get tapped for a power team. I stopped giving a damn who signed their name under mine. I think that moment came when I watched you put Joey Flash on your shoulders and parade him around a ring after winning WAR. I’d ask how it feels to call a man who almost ended someone’s livelihood “brother”, but you shared that same ring with Jayson Price, the same man who tried to end yours. I’m not gonna speculate further on how much you give a shit, only how disappointed I am in everyone who falls for it.
So go on: tell everyone the things you’ve done, from your historic Hardcore Championship reign to defeating Walter for the AW title. Talk all about how it’s destiny for you to meet Walter in the finals and put an exclamation point on your year – just as it was Lockhart’s destiny to redeem himself through this tournament. Tell the audience how I don’t belong here and I’m a boy in the shadows of a man from our size to our status to our division. I don’t care if you or Torture or Slane or anyone sees me as Wrestler of the Year.
Because for me, Wrestler of the Year simply means raining on your parade.
Put the belt up. You’re so smug and self-assured – so chew the bites you take or write cash the checks you write – so do it again. You want to act like you’re above me? You wanna be the King of All Wrestlers you so brazenly flaunt around? Championship for Championship, motherfucker. It can even be a gentlemen’s concession if they won’t sign up on it above. I’m ready – are you?
It’s pretty fuckin’ rich you’d go on this big warpath against Philidor. Look at you: the mad King of the North in disbelief anyone would dare be so brazen. They say people in this business have short term memory – but I don’t. And I happen to remember a little group called “the Doom Squad” who ginned hype by disrupting the main event and harassing Jaice Wilds for a month or so. Of course, the Doom Squad isn’t around anymore – the Doom Squad didn’t exist except as a vehicle for Corey Black to stick his nose right in the spotlight. I wonder if that’s why Philidor got so deeply under your skin: it isn’t a shell to boost Ash’s profile – isn’t a thinly disguised trap to box Shaw out of the competition – seeks to better men you’d never consider worthy of the caliber to sit at your table. But we learned the caliber allowed to sit at your table.
It’s beyond Walter and goes to your compatriots. I can look past a smirking doofus like Graham Baker saying he’d like to have a beer with Walter – the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. I’m thinking about this little nugget:
You know the one… Pull, tug, bend until it reaches the breaking point again, all to prove a point to ole' Howie.
You're lucky the Following saved you from embarrassment through elimination; I don't forget things. I don't forget the men who act high and mighty, then put themselves on a pedestal beyond good and evil. Amorality isn’t wisdom – it isn’t cunning – it isn’t resourcefulness. It’s cowardice. The same cowardice we saw when you enlisted the mongrel to fight Philidor. You’re no different than the man you preyed upon to reestablish yourself: a diminutive narcissist who’ll feed the trolls and toss all decency out the window the second his pride is bruised.
Here’s the difference between the Doom Squad and Philidor: Jaice didn’t sign up Oblivion or Corey Bull to help him fight you.
I’m not you, Corey – I never will be. I wouldn’t buddy up with a guy like Frank who thinks growing up with rags gives him a right to flaunt his riches. I wouldn’t keep a Graham Baker in my circle and hold him back because he makes me nervous. I wouldn’t be able to look my wife – or my sister – or any female friend in the eyes after standing alongside Walter. And I wouldn’t shake hands with the devil because I was bent out of shape about someone jumping my dick to make a name for their debut.
Beneath the self-congratulatory attire and behind the belt, I see exactly who you are: an amoral picture of jealousy and bitterness. You’re the only heavyweight in this company a mere inch taller than me, but we both know who the smaller man is. Scrub away, MacBeth, you can’t hide that spot from me.
I’m not the only washed-up nostalgia act who’s overstayed his welcome and is log-jamming the next generation from reaching their full potential in this match. I don’t care about your belt – my belt – your record or mine; I just wonder if you’ve got the self-awareness. Truth be told, the most eye-opening part of this retirement tour has been the resentment I’ve received from the locker room. Rightly so. You ever think about the thoughts on you they aren’t willing to say?
I’m proud of who I am and where I came from. I’m a backwater boy from Chadron, a town of less than 6,000. I’ve repped Nebraska and never left my roots. Are you even from Minneapolis, or did you just choose the biggest city in your state, never daring to associate with your birthplace? I like my odds on that bet, Corey – it took you no time at all to abandon the Midwest to LARP as a Viking King in Norway; can’t even be bothered to host XIII there anymore. You can look down on me, but I look down on you. No charges of hypocrisy you can level at me stick when coming from you. You’ve gone unchecked for too long – too many people have given you a pass because they want a chance to kiss the King’s ring.
The difference between us or anything you can level at me is our degrees of honesty. I’ll say things and fight ugly – that can rub people the wrong way. But I say it out loud, upfront, and at peace with the consequences. I don’t politick – I’m here to win, not to make friends. I don’t need the adoration or the approval: when I tap you out, I’ll accept those boos. But I’m the best. I always have been. And now it should be more apparent than ever. And I make everyone I face better for it.
You don’t have to like or agree with it, but I give tough love opportunities with my position. I don’t “help” people by tossing endorsements or giving “atta boy”s – I call people out and tell them to prove me wrong. I don’t hide from adversity, unlike you; that’s why I’ve got a win over a Philidor Holdings team curated by their people while you curated Ash Blake as far away from you as possible to stack the deck. I should do Carter Shaw a favor and deliver you at his feet; not pinning you right there at Clash 100 was more magnanimous than any measure you’ve shown him. He hadn’t even unclipped the briefcase before every would-be champion had broken out in a cold sweat, trying to discredit and destroy him.
But I’m not afraid. You take this belt from me, I’m still the best. Beating me matters more than any belt I hold or any setting I’m fought in, tournament or otherwise. And I’m just lucky this tournament has shook out the same way for me.
Do you know why you can’t beat me, Corey? Because you’ll never care about beating me – whether a title defense, non-title match, or to win Wrestler of the Year – more than I care about beating you. You want to move onto the Finals to play out your self-absorbed idea of destiny, facing Walter again; I want to ruin Corey Black’s Thanksgiving. You want to hit the reset button on a struggling reign; I want to watch you crawl into Turmoil facing a midcarder’s name pulled out of a hat while I’m in the main event. I don’t ever want you to bet against me again. I don’t ever want you to talk down to me. I don’t want you to ever write me off or discount me. Instead, I want to make you regret overlooking me all these years. From now on, I want the name Howard to leave a rock in your stomach.
You can even keep the fuckin’ surname. I let ZMac keep calling himself Honey Badger after I son’ed him, too.
After he finished folding his clothes, Howard placed the United States championship atop them in his bag. With it zipped closed, he slung it over his shoulder. As he looked one last time out the window of his motel room in Charlotte, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. The page was still open in his browser.
He thought about Spencer Adams. He thought about Graham Baker being taken from XIII in an ambulance. He thought about Corey Black in the middle of that ring, exchanging looks with Walter and Frank. He thought about how Crow had gone home to Taylor.
Howard Black did not want to be alone anymore. His thumb hit the button; it was time to go home. With the plane ticket booked, he left the room for the arena.
I’m ready for you, Corey. Don’t you dare brush what I’m going to do to you off as the act of a hyena picking off a wounded lion. You chose this. You put yourself in a match against Philidor a mere few days before the semi-finals of this tournament. You knew what the consequences were.
And you did it on purpose, didn’t you? Heads you win, tails I lose. If you get through this, you get to drag me as the guy who couldn’t beat a post-XIII Corey Black, but if you lose, I get to take the asterisk. How fucking clever of you. Just another burial in the royal catacombs of the king.
I’m not going to let you put me in a plot next to Graham Baker – someone whose loyalty to you was rewarded with a lonely ambulance ride – someone who’s Man Made Gods t-shirt you probably plan to hand to Walter after beating him at Turmoil. I’m not disposable. I’m not going to allow you to treat me like another one of your royal subjects or petty grudge of the day: here today and gone tomorrow as expendably as a tissue. I’m not Philidor, the subject of a fleeting vendetta because you were embarrassed. I’m not Thomas Bates, who will humor you by coming to the ring in a breastplate to play bloodsport. I am not Sam Kidsgrove or Carter Shaw; nothing less than a Burning Hammer is going to keep me down for three.
But I hope you charge me with that stupid bionic elbow of yours. I want it swung at me as much as possible – that’s going to make it so much easier to get ahold of. Because I’m going to tap you out. I’m going to bring the King to his knees before me. And I’m going to do it twisting that steel elbow of yours in a Kimura Lock. I hope Frank is watching so I can show him he was right:
Because I didn’t need to take a barbed wire bat to the face or get steel plates in my elbow. And for all the “fire and flames of Hardcore Wrestling” you’ve walked through, you won’t be walking out of this match. All I needed to beat you was to be Howard Black rather than Corey Black.
I’m simply the better man. Always have been, always will be.
Don’t worry, Corey, I’m sure you’ll still fight Walter for the belt at Turmoil. But it will not be in the Finals of the Wrestler of the Year Tournament. Not after my coup.
In 1897, Tsar Nicholas II’s government arrested Vladimir Lenin. They sent him into exile.
In 1953, Fulgencio Bautista’s forces arrested Fidel Castro after his failed assault on the Moncada Barracks. They sent him into exile.
Howard Black moves to check on Spencer Adams, placing a hand on the shoulder he’d nearly torn out of hits socket a moment before. Spencer shoves the hand away, his eyes moving up to meet Howard’s. Contempt. Anger. Betrayal. Spencer Adams rolls out of the ring and walks to the back, leaving Howard alone in the ring.
“Is it worth it?”
It was clear that Torture had spared no expense with his championship belts – the gold plates on the title were heavy in his tired hand. Looking down at the belt, he noticed one of the straps dragged along the ground, the gold cap at the end of the strap scuffing from friction with the steel beneath him. He could have bent his arm at the elbow or slung it over his shoulder, but he couldn’t be bothered. The belt continued to drag.
Nobody was waiting for him in the back, not at gorilla or in the locker room. But he felt the stares – he knew the silent voices were internally loud. He attempted to put them from his mind as he changed and packed his bag.
Down the hall and taking a left, Howard found the door that exited to the parking lot. As the door opened, microphones were upon him: a horde of locusts with media badges, buzzing with questions. He kept his head down and pushed through them. When they persisted, he pulled the hood on his sweatshirt up and put in his earbuds, hitting play on the Smiths album he’d been listening to earlier that day. But before the song drowned out the chatter, one question caught his ear:
“Are you ready to face the Action Wrestling Champion in the Wrestler of the Year Tournament?”
Farewell to this land’s cheerless marshes
Hemmed in like a boar between arches
His very Lowness with his head in a sling
I’m truly sorry, but it sounds like a wonderful thing.
Howard’s eyes were glued to the screen, his heart beating wildly in his stomach as the carnage of the XIII main event unfurled before him. It was only natural he’d want as much film on the Champion as possible before their match, and a cynical voice in the back of his head expected any upsets would be easily written off with Corey’s condition from the infamously bloody event. Then again, there was little love lost for the men on one side – it’d be lying to say he didn’t enjoy them take a few licks.
Howard had little taste for matches of these type; their focus on pure, visceral violence removed all pretense of sportsmanship and technique in favor of vulgar blood sport. It was the sort of “war” for outside enthusiasts to parade around mocking the sport, no different than the ringside brawl between Khabib and McGregor’s camps other than official sanctioning.
“WHERE IS HE GOING NOW?”
“HE’S HURT! HIS BODY IS WRECKED FROM EARLIER TONIGHT! THIS MIGHT BE HIS ONLY OFFENSE!”
“Where are his teammates?”
The fight between the other five men in the ring continued. As Corey and Frank reestablished themselves against Vayden and Shaw, neither seemed to notice or care the absence of their teammate.
“Stop trying to fight back and go help your partner. He’s outnumbered – Walter can take care of himself.”
The HR Department were on the roof. The odds overwhelmed Baker. In the ring, Walter aided Shaw and Vayden in suplexplexing the Man Made Gods so he could powerbomb them. Graham Baker was alone.
As the Guillotine was tossed off the roof, Howard’s mind went blank. The camera lingered as screams echoed from his speakers. Back on their feet in the ring, Corey and Frank continued fighting Philidor. Howard wasn’t sure if they had any idea what had transpired – or if they were determined to keep fighting – or if they didn’t care.
The match was over. Frank and Corey were in the middle of the ring. Graham Baker was being taken to a hospital. Corey had already turned his attention to the Following alongside Frank and Walter.
Howard stared at the stream for several minutes after it ended. His stomach ached, and his mind sat mostly blank. There was an anger in him – sick and hot – that was coursing through the nerves in his body. He wouldn’t let this go unanswered.
Graham, don't you ever crave to appear on the front of the Daily Mail
Dressed in your father's bridal veil?
Thanks for the whole retirement tour idea. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna bite your act too badly and come back a year or so later as a permanent fixture.
And let’s clear a little misunderstanding up: I never said I softened Walter up for you – I simply told James Nightingale that his idiotic claim would have had more merit coming from me than him. But that’s all that it is: an idiotic claim. Congratulations, Corey: you put down the Mongrel. I’m not going to discredit or downplay that achievement. I’m not even going to be you and get pissed that Philidor stole the show before the confetti stopped falling – the celebration is all pretense. A victory over Walter to win the AW Championship is all the matters, and maybe if you understood that, we wouldn’t have been subjected to the travesty you’ve belt your championship through these past few weeks.
Instead, Philidor beat you. And I’m not talking about the results of XIII, I mean you played straight into their hand. You gave them rental-free space in the head of the Champion, when you should’ve been focused on the Following. Buddy Roman said it, and I’ll repeat it: if you don’t win this tournament after failing to make the finals of Trios, you’re a dead champion walking. You are lucky you survived Philidor at XIII, or this match would be thought of as a formality. Started your reign with a bang and continued it with a whimper. Didn’t take the King too fuckin’ long to get physically, mentally, and morally fat on his throne.
You know, I always wanted you to respect me. How could I not – a young guy coming into my first major company after the Indies and sharing a last name, no relation, to one of the legends of this business. Truth be told, it’s kinda funny that for all the talk of Flash and Fly, there was never any talk comparing us: two guys fighting well above their weight class, demonstrating prodigious grit and determination, unhindered by a snapped elbow. But somewhere down the line, I realized that comparison would never be made because you’d never allow it. I see how you look at me, and I’m sure every time I come up you wish you could slap the surname off my birth certificate. Don’t worry, Corey, that feeling became mutual.
I stopped hoping for invitations to XIII. I stopped wondering if I’d get tapped for a power team. I stopped giving a damn who signed their name under mine. I think that moment came when I watched you put Joey Flash on your shoulders and parade him around a ring after winning WAR. I’d ask how it feels to call a man who almost ended someone’s livelihood “brother”, but you shared that same ring with Jayson Price, the same man who tried to end yours. I’m not gonna speculate further on how much you give a shit, only how disappointed I am in everyone who falls for it.
So go on: tell everyone the things you’ve done, from your historic Hardcore Championship reign to defeating Walter for the AW title. Talk all about how it’s destiny for you to meet Walter in the finals and put an exclamation point on your year – just as it was Lockhart’s destiny to redeem himself through this tournament. Tell the audience how I don’t belong here and I’m a boy in the shadows of a man from our size to our status to our division. I don’t care if you or Torture or Slane or anyone sees me as Wrestler of the Year.
Because for me, Wrestler of the Year simply means raining on your parade.
Put the belt up. You’re so smug and self-assured – so chew the bites you take or write cash the checks you write – so do it again. You want to act like you’re above me? You wanna be the King of All Wrestlers you so brazenly flaunt around? Championship for Championship, motherfucker. It can even be a gentlemen’s concession if they won’t sign up on it above. I’m ready – are you?
I’m ready to stun the world.
I’m ready to drag the king beneath the goddamn guillotine.
And I’m ready to take your title, so I can give that piece of shit B-Tier belt to you like you deserve. The Action Wrestling Championship, that is.
It’s beyond Walter and goes to your compatriots. I can look past a smirking doofus like Graham Baker saying he’d like to have a beer with Walter – the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. I’m thinking about this little nugget:
[Source] Frank Venable said:
The moment he's out there with us, you start targeting that arm of his.You know the one… Pull, tug, bend until it reaches the breaking point again, all to prove a point to ole' Howie.
You're lucky the Following saved you from embarrassment through elimination; I don't forget things. I don't forget the men who act high and mighty, then put themselves on a pedestal beyond good and evil. Amorality isn’t wisdom – it isn’t cunning – it isn’t resourcefulness. It’s cowardice. The same cowardice we saw when you enlisted the mongrel to fight Philidor. You’re no different than the man you preyed upon to reestablish yourself: a diminutive narcissist who’ll feed the trolls and toss all decency out the window the second his pride is bruised.
Here’s the difference between the Doom Squad and Philidor: Jaice didn’t sign up Oblivion or Corey Bull to help him fight you.
I’m not you, Corey – I never will be. I wouldn’t buddy up with a guy like Frank who thinks growing up with rags gives him a right to flaunt his riches. I wouldn’t keep a Graham Baker in my circle and hold him back because he makes me nervous. I wouldn’t be able to look my wife – or my sister – or any female friend in the eyes after standing alongside Walter. And I wouldn’t shake hands with the devil because I was bent out of shape about someone jumping my dick to make a name for their debut.
Beneath the self-congratulatory attire and behind the belt, I see exactly who you are: an amoral picture of jealousy and bitterness. You’re the only heavyweight in this company a mere inch taller than me, but we both know who the smaller man is. Scrub away, MacBeth, you can’t hide that spot from me.
I’m not the only washed-up nostalgia act who’s overstayed his welcome and is log-jamming the next generation from reaching their full potential in this match. I don’t care about your belt – my belt – your record or mine; I just wonder if you’ve got the self-awareness. Truth be told, the most eye-opening part of this retirement tour has been the resentment I’ve received from the locker room. Rightly so. You ever think about the thoughts on you they aren’t willing to say?
I’m proud of who I am and where I came from. I’m a backwater boy from Chadron, a town of less than 6,000. I’ve repped Nebraska and never left my roots. Are you even from Minneapolis, or did you just choose the biggest city in your state, never daring to associate with your birthplace? I like my odds on that bet, Corey – it took you no time at all to abandon the Midwest to LARP as a Viking King in Norway; can’t even be bothered to host XIII there anymore. You can look down on me, but I look down on you. No charges of hypocrisy you can level at me stick when coming from you. You’ve gone unchecked for too long – too many people have given you a pass because they want a chance to kiss the King’s ring.
I see through your pyrite band.
The difference between us or anything you can level at me is our degrees of honesty. I’ll say things and fight ugly – that can rub people the wrong way. But I say it out loud, upfront, and at peace with the consequences. I don’t politick – I’m here to win, not to make friends. I don’t need the adoration or the approval: when I tap you out, I’ll accept those boos. But I’m the best. I always have been. And now it should be more apparent than ever. And I make everyone I face better for it.
You don’t have to like or agree with it, but I give tough love opportunities with my position. I don’t “help” people by tossing endorsements or giving “atta boy”s – I call people out and tell them to prove me wrong. I don’t hide from adversity, unlike you; that’s why I’ve got a win over a Philidor Holdings team curated by their people while you curated Ash Blake as far away from you as possible to stack the deck. I should do Carter Shaw a favor and deliver you at his feet; not pinning you right there at Clash 100 was more magnanimous than any measure you’ve shown him. He hadn’t even unclipped the briefcase before every would-be champion had broken out in a cold sweat, trying to discredit and destroy him.
But I’m not afraid. You take this belt from me, I’m still the best. Beating me matters more than any belt I hold or any setting I’m fought in, tournament or otherwise. And I’m just lucky this tournament has shook out the same way for me.
Do you know why you can’t beat me, Corey? Because you’ll never care about beating me – whether a title defense, non-title match, or to win Wrestler of the Year – more than I care about beating you. You want to move onto the Finals to play out your self-absorbed idea of destiny, facing Walter again; I want to ruin Corey Black’s Thanksgiving. You want to hit the reset button on a struggling reign; I want to watch you crawl into Turmoil facing a midcarder’s name pulled out of a hat while I’m in the main event. I don’t ever want you to bet against me again. I don’t ever want you to talk down to me. I don’t want you to ever write me off or discount me. Instead, I want to make you regret overlooking me all these years. From now on, I want the name Howard to leave a rock in your stomach.
You can even keep the fuckin’ surname. I let ZMac keep calling himself Honey Badger after I son’ed him, too.
We can go for a walk where it’s quiet and dry and talk about precious things
But when you’re tied to you father’s apron, no one talks about castration
After he finished folding his clothes, Howard placed the United States championship atop them in his bag. With it zipped closed, he slung it over his shoulder. As he looked one last time out the window of his motel room in Charlotte, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. The page was still open in his browser.
He thought about Spencer Adams. He thought about Graham Baker being taken from XIII in an ambulance. He thought about Corey Black in the middle of that ring, exchanging looks with Walter and Frank. He thought about how Crow had gone home to Taylor.
Howard Black did not want to be alone anymore. His thumb hit the button; it was time to go home. With the plane ticket booked, he left the room for the arena.
Charlotte, NC - > Lincoln, NE - > St. Petersberg, FL
We can go for a walk where it’s quiet and dry and talk about precious things
But when you’re tied to you father’s apron, no one talks about castration
I’m ready for you, Corey. Don’t you dare brush what I’m going to do to you off as the act of a hyena picking off a wounded lion. You chose this. You put yourself in a match against Philidor a mere few days before the semi-finals of this tournament. You knew what the consequences were.
And you did it on purpose, didn’t you? Heads you win, tails I lose. If you get through this, you get to drag me as the guy who couldn’t beat a post-XIII Corey Black, but if you lose, I get to take the asterisk. How fucking clever of you. Just another burial in the royal catacombs of the king.
I’m not going to let you put me in a plot next to Graham Baker – someone whose loyalty to you was rewarded with a lonely ambulance ride – someone who’s Man Made Gods t-shirt you probably plan to hand to Walter after beating him at Turmoil. I’m not disposable. I’m not going to allow you to treat me like another one of your royal subjects or petty grudge of the day: here today and gone tomorrow as expendably as a tissue. I’m not Philidor, the subject of a fleeting vendetta because you were embarrassed. I’m not Thomas Bates, who will humor you by coming to the ring in a breastplate to play bloodsport. I am not Sam Kidsgrove or Carter Shaw; nothing less than a Burning Hammer is going to keep me down for three.
But I am the revolutionary about to drag you through the streets covered in red paint before I punish you for your arrogance.
But I hope you charge me with that stupid bionic elbow of yours. I want it swung at me as much as possible – that’s going to make it so much easier to get ahold of. Because I’m going to tap you out. I’m going to bring the King to his knees before me. And I’m going to do it twisting that steel elbow of yours in a Kimura Lock. I hope Frank is watching so I can show him he was right:
[Source] Frank Venable said:
Howard Black ain't Corey Black, you feel me? He's not gone through the shit you have, doesn't have the plates in him like you do.Because I didn’t need to take a barbed wire bat to the face or get steel plates in my elbow. And for all the “fire and flames of Hardcore Wrestling” you’ve walked through, you won’t be walking out of this match. All I needed to beat you was to be Howard Black rather than Corey Black.
I’m simply the better man. Always have been, always will be.
Don’t worry, Corey, I’m sure you’ll still fight Walter for the belt at Turmoil. But it will not be in the Finals of the Wrestler of the Year Tournament. Not after my coup.
In 1897, Tsar Nicholas II’s government arrested Vladimir Lenin. They sent him into exile.
In 1953, Fulgencio Bautista’s forces arrested Fidel Castro after his failed assault on the Moncada Barracks. They sent him into exile.
I am Robespierre. I am Trotsky. I am L'Ouverture. I am Guevara. I am Washington.
You should not have ignored me.
The King is dead, long live the King.
The King is dead, long live the King.
Past the pubs that saps your body and the Church who’ll snatch your money
The King is dead, boys
And it’s so lonely on a limb