She's Mine (Pt 3) Nov 15, 2020 23:58:03 GMT -5 “The RevolutiDaddy” Wesley, Lissie Hope, and 2 more like this
Post by W A L T E R on Nov 15, 2020 23:58:03 GMT -5
NOT LONG FROM NOW
...You don’t mean that.
Do not purport to tell me my mind, Loretta
I been dragging you around by the fuckin’ ear for two damn years, you think that ain’t leant me a squirt of insight to what’s ‘tween them?
She’s not mine.
You’ve got a choice to make.
******************************************Inside Charlotte's Bechtler Museum, Walter stands solemn in front of a painting, his stare is a thousand yards if it’s one. Etta paces in the background, ever-bouncing the blonde-haired, blue-eyed Heir. The exhibition is for Francisco de Goya, called often the father of modern art. Not its Daddy, that would sound fucking stupid. Without removing his eyes from the piece in front of him, Walter speaks in his usual controlled tone.
Wesley, you are the most talented man to never hold the Action Wrestling World Title.
Walter looks now into the camera.
You should know that. I know you don’t, but you should. If you knew that, you would not stand under the false tutelage of a competitor as middling as Kyle Kemp; you would not look with wide-eyed reverence to your stablemate and prodigal son of both the upper crust and the grandstanding crust punks, Dandy Divito. You would not look up at them for guidance and reassurance and purpose as you so consistently have in the past months; no, you’d look down on them with the disdain that I do. You’d see that your great mentor Kyle Kemp was flushed from this place like so much discarded waste when he realized that he had lost our bloody war despite a fleeting victory.
When I choked the life from your mentor, when I introduced him to The Great Mystery, what came next? Kyle Kemp absconded from this “business”--as you so gruffly refer to it in between requisite “Get off my lawn!” proclamations--and could only return under guise and pseudonym. Is that the path he has shown you, Wesley? When I drop you to the mat, limp and lifeless as Illumignarly's legacy, will you too flee the scene able only to return under a nome de lutter?
I do hope that’s not the case, Wesley, because you are a better man than that. That’s the difference between you and the last body I left in my wake, Graham Baker. You both stand beside men who hold the rarest of accolades in Action Wrestling: having for a count of three, put down the mongrel. Graham, however, was the bastardized, half-blood version of Corey Black; the man will never reach the mountaintop here without introspection I fear him incapable of. But you, you are another story entirely. Your talent, your potential surpasses that of the man whispering in your ear, coaching you with at least some semblance of experience in doing what most here would deem “impossible.” So therein, is the double-edge to your sword, Wesley. You are talented enough to make better use of your cohort’s tutelage than Graham was but the very fact that you stand, by CHOICE, beneath and behind a man clearly your inferior--that is how I know you are not yet ready.
Perhaps you will be in the future. After all, you at least pay lip service to the lesson I’ve offered to every ear open:
"My ability to evolve and adapt is something I pride myself on."
Walter sits down on a bench in front of the same painting, eyes taken slowly from the camera back to it.
You are trying, Wesley. I can see that and it is better than I can say for most of those in this place or on this plane. Unfortunately, simple-minded effort does not promise success. True success via evolution is dependent upon taking the proper path and making the prudent choice at every turn. Would you say that’s what you’ve done here, Wesley? Where has your “ability to evolve” led you so far? One of the first “choices” you made here led you to the side of one Ariel Shadows. Ariel was one of the first to be Culled by my hand and then immediately began to plan her exit. But at the behest of backstage sycophants--amongst whom apparently you were--she stayed. She whined and complained and kvetched about her position in the company despite gold across both shoulders...but she stayed.
Does your time at her side embarrass you, Wesley? It should. If you’ve properly “evolved” since then you should look back at that and shudder. You should see a man whose own insecurities drove him to coddle and caress an inferior being that should have been driven from our ranks. If Ariel was unable to stomach a loss at my hands, if she was unable to seek betterment in the face of failure then you should have been the first to pack her bags. Instead, you tugged on her coat and begged her to stay. And why, Wesley? Why did you play sad sack and convince her time and time again to stay the course with you?
Because you are her, Wesley. You live now--as you did then--with the same insecurities that have driven Ariel from every place she’s ever been. When she cried her pathetic song of insecurity, needing acknowledgement from management, needing that validation, joining the chorus came natural to you because the song was already in your heart. You are a re-brand of a re-brand of a re-brand all in desperate hopes to make sure you matter, to make sure you’re not forgotten the moment you leave the room. Unfortunate then that your slow disintegration of self from Mr. Action to Dream Daddy to Guru Daddy to IllumiDaddy to RevolutiDaddy to whatever sad incarnation comes next...That constant vacillation, your ever-fluctuating choice between meaningless monikers serves only to further you from the minds of those that matter.
The important thing Wesley is not who you are or where you’ve stood but WHY you have made those choices. What leads you time and time again to these myriad dead ends? The path you’ve placed foot upon now--with Kyle Kemp perched upon your back, carrot of relevance dangling feet from you face but ever-out-of-reach--may lead not just to another dead end in your career but perhaps in your life.
Your choices have led you to the final four of the Wrestler of the Year, Wesley; congratulations. But your choices have led you to me; I’m sorry. Next time, be not bound by the desperation of your unknown father whose name is unwritten in wrestling's history books. Be not bound by your multitude of past failed partnerships. Be not bound by the insecurities that drive a man to a dozen name and stable changes in his young career. Be bound only by your own potential, your own talent. Choose illumination! Enlightenment! Revolution! For god’s sake man, just choose!
Barry Schwartz dubbed your failing as “the paradox of choice.” Though a large amount of choice is commonly associated with freedom and therefore, happiness, too much choice--as a man of your gifts has been presented--leads to discontent, a lack of fulfillment and even paralysis. That is the state of your crippled, feeble mind, Wesley: dissatisfied paralysis. At Clash, I will match your physical state to your mental one.
It always smells inside that oversized coffin, usually of metal and cleaning supplies but Alyssa has been left there longer than most and her odor permeates the space. Etta grimaces and shields the fair-skinned Heir’s nose; observing in silence, her thoughts blare.
(How fucking long has he had her in here?)
Walter breathes her natural perfume in deep and is reminded of what it meant to him once. But that was before he found out about
Alyssa’s eyes snapped to Walter’s but her words were stillborn in a washcloth-gag.
He’s gone now. Nothing we do from here forward can change that.
Her eyes quiver, dry.
(Not a tear to spare. She’s been in here a long fucking time.)
You made a choice that led him to his fate, that is done now.
(She made a choice. I made a choice. You made a choice.)
But at this moment, you have a new choice to make. I understand this is difficult but forward is the only way, you know that. You can make a choice now to continue our life, the one that I wanted...that I THOUGHT we had.
(He fuckin’ wants her back? He’s choosing her?)
Alyssa’s eyes soften and snap to Walter’s.
My dear Alyssa, do not consider a reunion for our sakes alone but for The Heir...she deserves a mother and a father, she deserves what only we can provide her. Alyssa, I implore you...make the right choice.
Walter approaches Alyssa slowly, their eyes still locked; with a massive hand he gently removes the wash cloth from her mouth. Her cracked lips tremble into the tiniest smile and Walter presses the back of his hand toward her cheek--
Alyssa snapped shut her jaws with every ounce of strength she had. Walter rips away his hand but some of the flesh is left in her mandible. Walter’s heart jumps and his leash stumbles him backwards, a minor shock for his minor infraction. Alyssa spits his own flesh at him.
FUCK YOU! You have no right to judge us! You knew what I was when you chose me!
(He fucking knew?!)
I chose the woman who told me her brother was pathetic, that her brother could not do what I did! Could not stir the same in her! The woman who vowed to be mine--ONLY MINE! I chose to be a fool! Once but never again! The Heir is all I need of you!
He turns his attention to Etta.
(I fuckin' know why.)
We all knew why. But we all wanted to hear it.
I’m going to kill her.
The silence after his declaration is long. Press that button and she may as well be pulling a trigger; they’ve both made their choices but Etta still has hers. It’s made.
(I’ve got to do it.)
She fumbles around her inside jacket pocket.
Before you make that choice, there’s something you should see.
We see now see the painting Walter has been so enamored with; we peer over his shoulder from behind him on the bench.
You purposely choose the ugliest fuckin’ thing in here to ogle all goddamn day?
Loretta, you have your virtues but an appreciation of art--in any form--is not one. This is Saturn Devouring His Son by Francisco de Goya.
This is fuckin’ gross is what it is.
Saturn, or Cronus, was a Titan who ascended by overthrowing his father. It was foretold that Saturn would, in turn, be overthrown by his own progeny so in hopes to avoid it, he devoured each of his offspring. He made that choice in order to persist, to continue about his dominance but of course, he was fooled by his wife and the child who survived---Zeus--did indeed overthrow him.
If you’re suggesting this little girl--
The Heir will need not overthrow me because I am no god, no king, no ruler. Whatever I do or whatever I am, I will invite her to be. I will show her why walking the path of Evolution is the only worth walking and that we are simple servants to it. In Action Wrestling, however, I am Cronus. I am a titan who consumes these offspring month after month to maintain my dominance. Look at Wesley, a man speaking of enlightenment and carving out a path he purports to be a boon to humanity. Whose progeny could that be? Whose message could be watered down and bastardized and turned into the new age schlock that Wesley preaches in between bouts of deep self-doubt and loathing?
I do not demand the meek and meager who populate this place stand across from me to be devoured, they are fed to me by forces beyond either of us. I choose not to blindly, mindlessly destroy all that would threaten me; no I look at each of you with a jeweler’s loupe in hopes to find a worthy Zeus. I’ve turned you over and inside out, Wesley and I wanted so badly to have found a man worthy of something more than being torn asunder in my grip.
Instead I find a man speaking with such reverence for the halcyon days of the yesteryear.
“Remember when” is the lowest fuckin’ form of conversation.
Well said, Loretta. Is that paraphrased from--
I suppose if we stretch the definition of “art” toward its breaking point, I could feign being impressed. But yes, nostalgia for the past is a simple mind’s past time. The only thing more telling to me that Wesley’s claims of reinvention are patently false are the words with which he refers to what we do:
Those are the words you use to describe the purest competition we have, the realest measure of man and his abilities. That is how I know you are not the Man Evolved’s kin nor his successor. You are not the one to knock me from my pedestal as the Monster of Action Wrestling, as the great Titan judging you each unworthy in all your own, particular and specific ways. You cannot outwork me in the ring because of what you believe the word “work” to mean, Wesley.
Your words are not those of a great warrior meant to usurp a force of nature but those of some corporate shill, some weak-minded Martin Shkreli scratching out a “career” to be remembered by. Ask Kyle, Wesley. Ask if that fight was part of “business” or if it was a fight tooth and nail for life itself. Ask Kyle if the man who will keep me from enshrining 2020 as the year of Evolution would ever throw a Rumplestiltskinian tantrum and demand the attention of Torture all the while with gold on their shoulder. Do you know how that tiny entitled man ended?
"In his rage drove his right foot so far into the ground that it sank in up to his waist; then in a passion he seized the left foot with both hands and tore himself in two."
I know you will not do such a thing. For starters, I intend to do it first. Secondly, to do such a thing would require a passion you do not possess. It would require a fire in the belly that you’ve been unable to keep stoked for more than months at a time here. Every time things took a turn, you nearly turned your back. How proud your deadbeat father must be to watch his son sullenly beg a woman to re-sign with Action Wrestling os that you can “take it on together.” How he turns to the bottle and laments to the sky, “What is the point?”
That is why you stand now with The Following. Kyle assigns your simple mind a simple task and with its completion, you feel some semblance of meaning. He advises you to train them and when you complete that most basic of chore, suddenly your soul swells as though what you did...matters. It doesn’t. Because you didn’t CHOOSE it, Wesley. All your choices so far have been so unwaveringly terrible...you chose a best friend who would fornicate with the woman you chose to make your wife. You’ve chosen to align yourself with the likes of Ariel Shadows, Geri Miller, Derrick Vayden, Estrella Luiz.
And now you choose The Following, a spot wisely vacated by Odin Balfore after a few fruitless months. I am not surprised, Wesley. You looked at the above list of “choices” you’ve made thus far in your personal and professional career and realized you may not be fit to make them; take the decision from your hands, free your mind of man’s great burden. And give it to...anyone really.
I have a question, Wesley: how long until The Following is folded into the ever-growing rolodex of Philidor Holdings? You see that writing on the walls, don’t you? I’ll Cull you from this tournament and the Trios Championship will be your cohorts’ only claim to moderate success. That lying hologram of “better” will begin to flicker. You will be three more men desperate for any advantage they can obtain. And Philidor are the corporate vultures that speak your language: this business, this industry. More important than WHEN will that inevitable docile takeover happen, is will you care? Of what import is it to you, Wesley? The man who so needed direction. The man who handed the reigns of his chosen career, of the only semblance of a LIFE he has left to a former midcard champion that approached him in a bar like the despondent prostitute searching for his next trick. You’re content so long as someone else is making the decisions. So long as someone else can now be responsible for your failures. So long as the great burden of choice has been lifted from your shoulders.
With that in mind, Wesley, you can thank me. You have no choice nor chance on Monday. I will do us both the service of placing my hands around the neck of another of my bastardized progeny unfit to unseat me, and I will remove from your feeble mind even the choice of whether or not to take your next breath. I am taking it all from you, Wesley. It’s what you’ve always wanted.
I BURN IT DOWN
AND BE REBORN
Etta hands Walter the piece of paper she had pocketed at Roger’s apartment. His eyes scan the print quickly, left to right from top to bottom. Brow furled, he shakes his head and his eyes repeat the pattern. The Beast stumbles backwards, shot by an unknown bullet. His breath is gone and he melts to the floor, only the wall keeping him seated upright. His lunchbox of a hand clangs to the metal floor; as it falls open the paper rests gently.
That violent flare is gone from his eyes, full instead of anguish and hurt leaving his leash asleep and his mind conscious to this unbearable pain. These unfamiliar eyes meet Etta’s but then shift to The Heir in her arms.
I’m going to kill her.