Born to Run (US Title)
Nov 18, 2020 2:19:38 GMT -5
“The RevolutiDaddy” Wesley, Lissie Hope, and 3 more like this
Post by Howard Black on Nov 18, 2020 2:19:38 GMT -5
Howard flopped out of the ring, struggling to his feet outside to a chorus of boos. Every joint in him screamed – the violent thumping in his chest kept him on shaky legs as he stumbled up the ramp, his eyes never leaving the ring. Corey Black, the King of All Wrestlers, slowly stirred and sat up. He looked down the ramp and made eyes with the Lost Boy – the Finals of the tournament were determined.
As Howard blustered through the curtain, producers looked up from their monitors. The eyes of Torture and Pasternak caught him, both regarding him with silently amusement and neither offering a word. Passing into the hallways of the arena, his eyes darted around looking for someone – anyone.
The locker room was largely cleared. Dropping his United States Championship upon a bench, Howard fished in his bag for his phone.
Ash Blake – The better man won tonight; not particularly a shocker though, was it? Congratulations. Make that prissy bastard Kidsgrove bleed.
Joey Black – LET’S F’N GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooOOO!!!!!!
Carter Shaw – Way to go! Good job, man!
His bag was packed quickly and an Uber called; he was glad there was nobody around in the back – he had a plane to catch.
Howard’s flight landed in Lincoln at 11:00 pm. The city was quiet – it was only a few days ago that Lancaster County issued a closure order to bars and restaurants. That didn’t dissuade him; you can have anything you want if you know the right people. That right person pulled up in a silver Ford F-150. Waylon Jennings blared from the stereo inside – as the window cracked, pungent cigarette smoke rolled out into the chilly Lincoln air.
Joba Chamberlain: Get the fuck in, champ!
Howard clambered in, throwing an arm around the pitcher’s shoulder.
Howard Black: Thanks for the lift and host.
Joba Chamberlain: You can have whatever you want – we got the whole place ready for you. Need some goddamn action in this town.
The pick-up weaved down Highway 2, pulling into a strip on the north side of Lincoln. As the two got out and crossed the parking lot, the neon sign of Chamberlain’s was turned off, the windows were shuttered, and a paper sign reading “CLOSED FOR COVID” greeted them on the door. With a key in the lock, Joba opened the door.
The bar was packed to the brim, the whole of Lincoln letting out a roaring cheer as the Lost Boy stepped through the door. As the horde closed in on him, a million screaming and smiling mouths in unison, the first shot was put in Howard’s hand.
I won’t condescend you, Stu; I know you’re from here, too. Grant, IA – population 92. Goddamn; I thought Chadron was small. But I’ve visited and driven through enough towns like yours; these people were my neighbors and friends. And that’s why I can understand you – I can even sympathize with you. But I can admonish you in that same breath. Because we are cut from the same cloth – we are bred from the same stock – we both know how to whistle Dixie. And for that I look at you and say, “for shame.”
I’m not your enemy, Stu. I’m not out here trying to screw you or deny you anything. Truth be told, I was in your position just over a month ago – I was at the end of my fucking rope, waiting for a break – any break – to come my way and remind me I wasn’t wasting my time. I was on a losing streak, which I shouldn’t have given a crap about because I knew my career was on it’s last legs, but I did because nobody likes feeling like a loser. I felt like a fuckin’ loser when I entered that Battle Royale, and I felt like a loser when you ragdolled me around the ring. I beat you by a fluke, a fluke that will not be repeated. But beat you I did. And that should’ve been it – scout’s honor.
There’s no honor to you, Stu. You hide behind a bureaucratic fetishism of decorum and process, sicc’ing non-profit representatives on me like a fuckin’ Democrat. A Democrat who’d throw a celebration for “the People” and serve up soy dogs with gluten-free buns. And just like a Democrat, we can see you for exactly what you are: a loser in love with losing.
The fact of the matter, Stu, is that it’s absolutely laughable you’d come to me and demand anything. You made your bed, and you can lay in it: you’re a tag team wrestler. You came back in this company begging for any opportunity possible – set up a fuckin’ lemonade stand in the back, and the only fly you could attract to buzz around you for any time was Carnivore. I’m sorry Amelia Abernathy didn’t work out – guess you should’ve held out a little longer, and you could’ve bagged Spencer Adams or Ryan Lockhart.
But you think that getting put into a Battle Royale and coming in second place means you’ve moved up in life. Let me tell you, Stu, there’s moments where you have to show your true mettle. I won’t downplay or diminish the fight you brought to me – you left me hurting in the coming weeks. But there’s so little sympathy I can muster for a man who had a chance to grab the bull by the horns and failed.
I like an underdog story, Stu – I am one. And I’m going into the Finals of the Wrestler of the Year tournament as the underdog against Wesley. You may remember that name: he’s the same guy you couldn’t get it done against in Round One. Imagine earning a Wild Card spot just to prove the judges correct: you didn’t belong in the first place. I’m cleaning up your mess – like I hold the belt you so desperately want, I’m gonna also beat the guy you should’ve put up against if you wanted to make an impression. This is what separates real from fake – this is the Cub Scouts from the Boy Scouts – this is the winners from the losers. I’m glad I ignored your challenge for Evolution. Imagine how fucking insignificant I’d have seemed if I chose you over Flash.
It doesn’t matter how you played the game – it matters if you win or lost. You’re starting to get a sense of it, but you’re too stuck in your ways, Scoutmaster. I look at you, and in every way I see an inferior version of myself: pound for pound, I’m a better grappler; my career has peaked in the face of stiff competition while yours has floundered; you’ve got years on me and not even a fraction of my resume; I beat Joey Flash, and you can’t even say his mentor’s name without breaking into a cold sweat. That’s why you hate me, Stu: Howard Black and Stuart Slane can’t exist in the same division because next to Howard Black, Stuart Slane is both redundant and obsolete.
But I’ll tell you what, Stu: I’ll give you the opportunity to be the big man you see yourself and shake my hand after I tap you in front of a social-distanced arena. Or do you think you’re better than Corey Black, too?
Let me fill you in on a little secret, Kid, because I don’t think you’re perceptive or aware enough to get it on your own. Do you know why this country elected and almost re-elected a racist game show host to the highest office we have? No, it’s not because they’re stupid or racist or brainwashed – it’s because of people like you. Yes, people voted for Donald Trump not because they hate Black people or Immigrants – it’s because they hate people like you. You prissy, haughty, high-horse, Hollywood elitist; you get born with a silver spoon, and you dare have the arrogance to condescend or lecture anyone – you spend your time flying private jets to unspecified Virgin Islands cays for $100k-a-plate charity dinners while people suffer. You tut-tut people for their God and guns – you’ll chin-wag about “shit hole countries”- you say people need to live up to the lofty ideas of this country.
You don’t know the United States. You are a smarmy British dickhead married to an actress who is content to play out his family drama in a public forum, like a fucking episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians meets Hogan Knows Best. You want to act above anyone? You, Sam Kidsgrove, are not above anyone. You are the low culture you turn your nose up at, all too eager to throw scraps to the peasantry for their adoration and attention. Strip away the holier-than-thou Bono act, and you’re just another Celebrity Big Brother contestant. That you are either too arrogant or too stupid to think people wouldn’t see through that immediately is exactly why everyone hates you – you want to be warts-and-all but refuse any public and democratic judgement of your actions. Well you can’t have your cake and eat it too, Sam. I see you for the bottom-feeder you are, and we don’t need your kind here.
Let me tell you about that country and those people you so look down on; have you traveled much outside of Hollywood? You’re on the road for this company, but something tells me that your first trip through Mississippi probably showed you why Americans liked their guns so much as you hid from the vulgar types in your hotel room. Allow me to fill you in on the reality of living in America – one you don’t see in LA:
People are suffering. Go take a drive down the I-80 corridor in Wyoming and get a good look at life in the heart of the country. Do you know what a company town is? It’s not a real town by any sense – an oil conglomerate will find a plot of land in the middle of the Badlands – like Sinclair, WY – and they’ll build around the refinery. The housing is laughable – merely rows upon rows of double-wides tastefully segregated away by the dividing interstate. I’ve driven by many – they’re in almost every state if you open your eyes. I’ve seen shoeless children – American children – chasing a tire down the street as a means of entertainment, while their parents – American parents – smoke generic cigarettes and drink generic vodka on the steps leading up to a rotten door which could hardly keep out the cold.
Rats – roaches – raccoons. And across the Interstate, perched on the hill far enough away the foul smells of the refinery won’t sully the air, is the grand estate of the company owner. These people are the lucky ones, growing scabbed and coarse in the dirt. They aren’t decaying like Small Town America.
Small Town America, the one Walt Disney immortalized in Main Street USA, is hemorrhaging. Young people leave for college and don’t come back. Can we blame them? It has no prospects. There’s no jobs – nothing to kill time or visit – you see the same twenty people on Tinder for months, even with your radius set for “100 miles”. So what do they turn to? Drugs. The young people who stay get strung out on meth – or fentanyl – and they slowly waste away. What the fuck else is someone – whose purpose met its ceiling working at a Pizza Hut – supposed to do?
This is America. As you dandies clutch your pearls at Appalachia after watching Deliverance once, the whole of Rust Belt and Plains are dying of cancer. We are not your toothless hillbilly boogeyman – we’re people with hopes. With dreams. Good, decent, hardworking people forced to make the most difficult choice at gunpoint. And then comes a Sam Kidsgrove type calling us “deplorable” for disagreeing with them.
When a person like you flaps their gums, our reaction is to do whatever it is to send you into a tizzy. You get bent out of shape that someone is daring to vote for the orange rape ogre? Well guess what the fuck they’re doing for sure now. They fucking hate you – they will always hate you. And I don’t blame them; why do you think I wrote in “Bernie Sanders” in 2016?
So long as I breathe – so long as I can fight – you will never touch the United States Championship again. You have done nothing for this belt, and you do not deserve this belt – this belt is one born of sweat and tears, begging to be elevated. I did that, Sam. I beat the man who made a mockery of you two weeks ago. And I’m going to do that, Stu, when I beat the man who beat you in Round One to win the Wrestler of the Year Tournament.
You want to know what this belt means to me? It means I signed a very specific deal: one match a month – pay-per-view only – until I retired at Evolution 4; that deal was modified to win this belt, which had fallen to complete disrepair through hot potato’ing with subalterns; then that deal entirely discarded so I could take this belt to its rightful place at the top of the Wrestler of the Year Tournament, week after week. You will never, never take this belt – this is my belt. And like everyone who wrote it off as the B-Tier belt, I have proven I am no B-Tier champion.
As Howard blustered through the curtain, producers looked up from their monitors. The eyes of Torture and Pasternak caught him, both regarding him with silently amusement and neither offering a word. Passing into the hallways of the arena, his eyes darted around looking for someone – anyone.
But there was no Crow McMorris – no Kaz Mazy – no Lissie Hope – no Spencer Adams.
The locker room was largely cleared. Dropping his United States Championship upon a bench, Howard fished in his bag for his phone.
Ash Blake – The better man won tonight; not particularly a shocker though, was it? Congratulations. Make that prissy bastard Kidsgrove bleed.
Joey Black – LET’S F’N GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooOOO!!!!!!
Carter Shaw – Way to go! Good job, man!
His bag was packed quickly and an Uber called; he was glad there was nobody around in the back – he had a plane to catch.
This is America.
It is not pretty. It is not the most respectable. Sometimes you may even detest it for what it is.
But it’s proud – it’s defiant – it fights – it never submits.
This is the America I was born and raised in, deep in the heart of the Heartland. This terroir – the soil under my finger nails and the water in my blood – is me. I’ve spent a career being called a redneck, a bumpkin, a hick – everything under the sun. Call me whatever you want; just also call me Champion.
Howard’s flight landed in Lincoln at 11:00 pm. The city was quiet – it was only a few days ago that Lancaster County issued a closure order to bars and restaurants. That didn’t dissuade him; you can have anything you want if you know the right people. That right person pulled up in a silver Ford F-150. Waylon Jennings blared from the stereo inside – as the window cracked, pungent cigarette smoke rolled out into the chilly Lincoln air.
Joba Chamberlain: Get the fuck in, champ!
Howard clambered in, throwing an arm around the pitcher’s shoulder.
Howard Black: Thanks for the lift and host.
Joba Chamberlain: You can have whatever you want – we got the whole place ready for you. Need some goddamn action in this town.
The pick-up weaved down Highway 2, pulling into a strip on the north side of Lincoln. As the two got out and crossed the parking lot, the neon sign of Chamberlain’s was turned off, the windows were shuttered, and a paper sign reading “CLOSED FOR COVID” greeted them on the door. With a key in the lock, Joba opened the door.
The bar was packed to the brim, the whole of Lincoln letting out a roaring cheer as the Lost Boy stepped through the door. As the horde closed in on him, a million screaming and smiling mouths in unison, the first shot was put in Howard’s hand.
I won’t condescend you, Stu; I know you’re from here, too. Grant, IA – population 92. Goddamn; I thought Chadron was small. But I’ve visited and driven through enough towns like yours; these people were my neighbors and friends. And that’s why I can understand you – I can even sympathize with you. But I can admonish you in that same breath. Because we are cut from the same cloth – we are bred from the same stock – we both know how to whistle Dixie. And for that I look at you and say, “for shame.”
I’m not your enemy, Stu. I’m not out here trying to screw you or deny you anything. Truth be told, I was in your position just over a month ago – I was at the end of my fucking rope, waiting for a break – any break – to come my way and remind me I wasn’t wasting my time. I was on a losing streak, which I shouldn’t have given a crap about because I knew my career was on it’s last legs, but I did because nobody likes feeling like a loser. I felt like a fuckin’ loser when I entered that Battle Royale, and I felt like a loser when you ragdolled me around the ring. I beat you by a fluke, a fluke that will not be repeated. But beat you I did. And that should’ve been it – scout’s honor.
There’s no honor to you, Stu. You hide behind a bureaucratic fetishism of decorum and process, sicc’ing non-profit representatives on me like a fuckin’ Democrat. A Democrat who’d throw a celebration for “the People” and serve up soy dogs with gluten-free buns. And just like a Democrat, we can see you for exactly what you are: a loser in love with losing.
See, I liked you Stu. You thought I was a small man before, buddy… you’ve really pissed me off. So get ready for a race to the bottom.
The fact of the matter, Stu, is that it’s absolutely laughable you’d come to me and demand anything. You made your bed, and you can lay in it: you’re a tag team wrestler. You came back in this company begging for any opportunity possible – set up a fuckin’ lemonade stand in the back, and the only fly you could attract to buzz around you for any time was Carnivore. I’m sorry Amelia Abernathy didn’t work out – guess you should’ve held out a little longer, and you could’ve bagged Spencer Adams or Ryan Lockhart.
But you think that getting put into a Battle Royale and coming in second place means you’ve moved up in life. Let me tell you, Stu, there’s moments where you have to show your true mettle. I won’t downplay or diminish the fight you brought to me – you left me hurting in the coming weeks. But there’s so little sympathy I can muster for a man who had a chance to grab the bull by the horns and failed.
I like an underdog story, Stu – I am one. And I’m going into the Finals of the Wrestler of the Year tournament as the underdog against Wesley. You may remember that name: he’s the same guy you couldn’t get it done against in Round One. Imagine earning a Wild Card spot just to prove the judges correct: you didn’t belong in the first place. I’m cleaning up your mess – like I hold the belt you so desperately want, I’m gonna also beat the guy you should’ve put up against if you wanted to make an impression. This is what separates real from fake – this is the Cub Scouts from the Boy Scouts – this is the winners from the losers. I’m glad I ignored your challenge for Evolution. Imagine how fucking insignificant I’d have seemed if I chose you over Flash.
It doesn’t matter how you played the game – it matters if you win or lost. You’re starting to get a sense of it, but you’re too stuck in your ways, Scoutmaster. I look at you, and in every way I see an inferior version of myself: pound for pound, I’m a better grappler; my career has peaked in the face of stiff competition while yours has floundered; you’ve got years on me and not even a fraction of my resume; I beat Joey Flash, and you can’t even say his mentor’s name without breaking into a cold sweat. That’s why you hate me, Stu: Howard Black and Stuart Slane can’t exist in the same division because next to Howard Black, Stuart Slane is both redundant and obsolete.
But I’ll tell you what, Stu: I’ll give you the opportunity to be the big man you see yourself and shake my hand after I tap you in front of a social-distanced arena. Or do you think you’re better than Corey Black, too?
Speaking of people who think they’re better than others, we come to Sam Kidsgrove.
Let me fill you in on a little secret, Kid, because I don’t think you’re perceptive or aware enough to get it on your own. Do you know why this country elected and almost re-elected a racist game show host to the highest office we have? No, it’s not because they’re stupid or racist or brainwashed – it’s because of people like you. Yes, people voted for Donald Trump not because they hate Black people or Immigrants – it’s because they hate people like you. You prissy, haughty, high-horse, Hollywood elitist; you get born with a silver spoon, and you dare have the arrogance to condescend or lecture anyone – you spend your time flying private jets to unspecified Virgin Islands cays for $100k-a-plate charity dinners while people suffer. You tut-tut people for their God and guns – you’ll chin-wag about “shit hole countries”- you say people need to live up to the lofty ideas of this country.
Well I have a Goddamn newsflash for you, Sam.
You don’t know the United States. You are a smarmy British dickhead married to an actress who is content to play out his family drama in a public forum, like a fucking episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians meets Hogan Knows Best. You want to act above anyone? You, Sam Kidsgrove, are not above anyone. You are the low culture you turn your nose up at, all too eager to throw scraps to the peasantry for their adoration and attention. Strip away the holier-than-thou Bono act, and you’re just another Celebrity Big Brother contestant. That you are either too arrogant or too stupid to think people wouldn’t see through that immediately is exactly why everyone hates you – you want to be warts-and-all but refuse any public and democratic judgement of your actions. Well you can’t have your cake and eat it too, Sam. I see you for the bottom-feeder you are, and we don’t need your kind here.
Let me tell you about that country and those people you so look down on; have you traveled much outside of Hollywood? You’re on the road for this company, but something tells me that your first trip through Mississippi probably showed you why Americans liked their guns so much as you hid from the vulgar types in your hotel room. Allow me to fill you in on the reality of living in America – one you don’t see in LA:
People are suffering. Go take a drive down the I-80 corridor in Wyoming and get a good look at life in the heart of the country. Do you know what a company town is? It’s not a real town by any sense – an oil conglomerate will find a plot of land in the middle of the Badlands – like Sinclair, WY – and they’ll build around the refinery. The housing is laughable – merely rows upon rows of double-wides tastefully segregated away by the dividing interstate. I’ve driven by many – they’re in almost every state if you open your eyes. I’ve seen shoeless children – American children – chasing a tire down the street as a means of entertainment, while their parents – American parents – smoke generic cigarettes and drink generic vodka on the steps leading up to a rotten door which could hardly keep out the cold.
Rats – roaches – raccoons. And across the Interstate, perched on the hill far enough away the foul smells of the refinery won’t sully the air, is the grand estate of the company owner. These people are the lucky ones, growing scabbed and coarse in the dirt. They aren’t decaying like Small Town America.
Small Town America, the one Walt Disney immortalized in Main Street USA, is hemorrhaging. Young people leave for college and don’t come back. Can we blame them? It has no prospects. There’s no jobs – nothing to kill time or visit – you see the same twenty people on Tinder for months, even with your radius set for “100 miles”. So what do they turn to? Drugs. The young people who stay get strung out on meth – or fentanyl – and they slowly waste away. What the fuck else is someone – whose purpose met its ceiling working at a Pizza Hut – supposed to do?
This is America. As you dandies clutch your pearls at Appalachia after watching Deliverance once, the whole of Rust Belt and Plains are dying of cancer. We are not your toothless hillbilly boogeyman – we’re people with hopes. With dreams. Good, decent, hardworking people forced to make the most difficult choice at gunpoint. And then comes a Sam Kidsgrove type calling us “deplorable” for disagreeing with them.
The utter, detached arrogance of you, you fucking Tea-Swiller.
When a person like you flaps their gums, our reaction is to do whatever it is to send you into a tizzy. You get bent out of shape that someone is daring to vote for the orange rape ogre? Well guess what the fuck they’re doing for sure now. They fucking hate you – they will always hate you. And I don’t blame them; why do you think I wrote in “Bernie Sanders” in 2016?
That is the downtrodden you so patronizingly tried to tell me about a month ago. Lemme ask something – how many fucking pizza party benefits did you do for them, Mr. Deschanel?
So long as I breathe – so long as I can fight – you will never touch the United States Championship again. You have done nothing for this belt, and you do not deserve this belt – this belt is one born of sweat and tears, begging to be elevated. I did that, Sam. I beat the man who made a mockery of you two weeks ago. And I’m going to do that, Stu, when I beat the man who beat you in Round One to win the Wrestler of the Year Tournament.
You want to know what this belt means to me? It means I signed a very specific deal: one match a month – pay-per-view only – until I retired at Evolution 4; that deal was modified to win this belt, which had fallen to complete disrepair through hot potato’ing with subalterns; then that deal entirely discarded so I could take this belt to its rightful place at the top of the Wrestler of the Year Tournament, week after week. You will never, never take this belt – this is my belt. And like everyone who wrote it off as the B-Tier belt, I have proven I am no B-Tier champion.
You cannot fill my shoes.
You cannot bear my burden.
And after I crush you both simultaneously, I’ll crush Wesley and hoist this belt in the air as Championship of the Year.
Welcome to the top division in AW.
My division.
Enjoy the view – It’s Such a Long Way Down.
My division.
Enjoy the view – It’s Such a Long Way Down.
The juke box blared Bruce Springsteen as the clock struck 1:30 am. The cigarette dangled loosely from Howard’s lips as Joba pulled him in for a picture – the United States Championship draped over the former Yankees pitcher’s shoulder.
Joba Chamberlain: Goddamn, that looks good. Say cheese, Champ!
Howard rallied a smile – the room around him was wobbling. As Joba slapped the belt on his shoulder, he didn’t notice the cigarette fall from his lips onto his lap.
Joba Chamberlain: Goddamn, that thing is bad ass. Fuckin’ heavy, too – they didn’t cheapskate on the gold.
The ember singed Howard’s leg, causing him to wince and let it fall to the floor beneath him. He considered reaching down for it, but an exploratory lean forward proved perilous. A half-finished pour of Wild Turkey 101 sat in front of him – someone had placed it on the United States Championship. A loud and raspy cough echoed from the far end of the bar, a young woman cover her mouth with her hand before returning to idly stir her drink with her index finger.
Joba Chamberlain: Hey, everyone it’s way too late – we gotta keep it down if we don’t want to cops poking around! Let’s not end a good night bad.
Howard leaned back in his bar stool; it swayed just enough for him to adjust forward. Fishing his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, he lit his last one. It tasted awful – burnt and coarse like cardboard and raisins. He quickly put it out in the ash tray and rose from his seat; he didn’t know what he was still doing at Chamberlain’s.
Joba Chamberlain: Yo, Champ, where you goin’, man?
Howard stopped and turned, a small smile cracking upon his lips.
Howard Black: Home.
Joba Chamberlain: Aw, man, the party’s just getting started!
Howard wheeled to examine the patrons of the bar – only a handful remained. He shook his head.
Howard Black: Gotta go see m’wife.
Turning from the bar, Howard shuffled toward the door. It was difficult to coordinate. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he unlocked it on the third try and called an Uber. Then he opened Twitter and sobered up:
TMZ Sports @tmz_Sports - 0m We have it on good authority that it was AW superstar Lissie Hope who was taken to the emergency room at 2:57 this morning. Her current condition is unknown. More info as we get it! |