Runaways (WotY)
Nov 20, 2020 12:20:56 GMT -5
Roy Speede, “The RevolutiDaddy” Wesley, and 5 more like this
Post by Howard Black on Nov 20, 2020 12:20:56 GMT -5
An old Counting Crows song played over in the radio in Howard’s Uber. You know the one – it’s the one everyone knows.
Howard’s eyes stayed glued to his phone, even though his vision kept doubling. He closed one eye, the text coming more legible – his head swam and stomach turned in the back of the Uber. With each breath, he felt a little more smothered and thought more and more about how he completely understood why people hated wearing the things. But most of all, his mind stayed on Twitter, his thumb pulling his feed down to refresh.
Lissie Hope. The woman who should have won Havoc. Who should have gotten past James Nightingale. The woman who sold the world. The woman who was burning under the spotlight. His thumb kept trying to refresh the feed for good news.
11/2/20
?: You sharing?
Howard looked up from his bag, the United States Championship from its confines. Behind him, Lissie Hope stood with crossed arms, her eyebrow cocked expectantly.
Howard Black: Excuse me?
Lissie Hope: That bottle of Gobble-Gobble there.
Lissie gestured. The neck of a bottle of Wild Turkey 101 stuck out of the bag. Howard reluctantly withdrew it and offered it to her – clenching the cork in her teeth, she popped the bottle open. With a spit, she discarded the cork and took a slug.
Lissie Hope: Not bad. And congrats on beating Lockhart.
She offered the bottle back to Howard.
Howard Black: Thanks. Sorry about, um…
Lissie Hope: Nightingale?
Lissie withdrew the bottle and took another swig.
Lissie Hope: Fuck him. Self-righteous prick. Anyway, it doesn’t bother me much as long as she…
Lissie’s voice trailed off. Her eyes misted before immediately composing herself. She offered the bottle back.
Lissie Hope: You shouldn’t be drinking in the locker room. They get mad about that. Just a heads up.
Howard took the bottle. Lissie regarded him expectantly.
Lissie Hope: Well don’t make me drink alone. Yesterday was my birthday, and I had to drink alone then. I thought you were a gentleman.
Howard obliged by taking a long drink, finishing off the last of the bourbon. Pulling it from his lips, he let out a belch. Lissie laughed.
Lissie Hope: You know, Spencer was right: you’re not as big of a prick as you seem. Let’s hang sometime.
She turned, swaying as she walked away. For that brief moment, two lonely people had burned together.
Howard Black stepped out of the Uber and lurched forward to the steps leading to a familiar patio. His hand gripped the bannister, willing himself up to the door. Using one forearm to prop himself up, he fumbled in his pocket; after retrieving his keys, he shifted to leaning against the door to free his hand. He retrieved his phone from its pocket – the lock screen was a photo of him and Sarah on their wedding day. In the light of the screen, he found the correct key and put it in the lock.
@therevolutidaddy
Dandy put his pride away for The Following. That’s what it’s all about.
It’s funny watching you become everything you hate, Mr. Black. Hopefully we meet in Turmoil so I can fuse your spine into your skull.
Pretty incredible how we willed this into existence, huh? Y’know, when we were jawing at each other, it was sort of toothless, huh? “I hope we meet in Turmoil” – we were in totally opposite sides of the bracket. This is the only way we were gunna meet. And now meet we have.
Truth is for as improbable as this result seems, it’s pure poetry. Mind if I get a little solipsistic? Because it seems like our paths have been slowly drifting towards one another for months. From a handful of losses at Uprising to a slow, unintentional Cold War – from me beating Dandy at Execution to us going to war in the Finals of the Trios Tournament. Everyone could talk about Corey Black and WALTER, but that’s old hat. Been there, done that. The story we’re telling here is one of philosophical differences: what separates the men from the children – the left and the right hand path veering off at a fork in the road going two separate ways. And now they’ve met here at Turmoil, with the same title draped over my shoulder as you held for most of the year.
This is an important title to both of us, so it’s only fitting we’re here. What is the United States Championship in Action Wrestling? The B Tier belt. This has been what was given to the runner-up – the person who couldn’t hang in the main event. This is a belt for boys, daring them to prove that they’re men. Wesley, when you held this belt you were a boy – you won it from a boy and then lost it to a boy who lost it to another boy. When Spencer Adams went down at RUSH, he didn’t graduate up the ranks – he regressed to being a lazy coward in the Tag Division. You fought: Alice – now on CruiserClash; Kevin Bishop – no longer with the company; Corey Bull – discredited and lost; Raging Dead – as the name implies; Kidsgrove – loser. Then you lost to Baker, who lost the belt to a loser and ensured the United States Championship would never be more than an afterthought. Not until I came around.
I understand something about this belt: the Champion makes it, it doesn’t make the Champion. It’s a tall order to have the United States Championship put on your shoulders and be the man, but that’s exactly what I’ve proven capable of doing. In fact, I’ve done in one month more than you accomplished the entire four months you held it – I realize my responsibility. There’s a difference in perspectives between men and boys, one you’re about to learn the hard way. But as I did with Dandy, did with Lockhart, did with Spencer, and did with Corey Black, I’m going to teach you. And as you drag yourself aching and bleeding to the back empty-handed, this is the difference between you and me.
You are fighting in this match to fill your father’s shoes and prove you belong in that top tier – to legitimize the Following as the most dominant faction in Action Wrestling – but you are not fighting for yourself. You do not want to be Wrestler of the Year to be Wrestler of the Year; you want it for all the imaginary legitimacy such an accolade gives you. But it is just that: perfectly imaginary. Wrestler of the Year is a $20 plastic trophy to put on your shelf and collect dust, just like the Trios Tournament – it isn’t something you can put on a resume to get that grocery store cashier job when you’re 55-years-old and too physically and mentally broken to keep fighting.
That’s why since the moment I was announced for this tournament, I haven’t been fighting to win Wrestler of the Year. I didn’t care if I was a quarter, semi, or finalist – you won’t see me listing that “accomplishment”. I’m here for one thing and one thing only: to beat the best in this company. And that has been my path through this past month, culminating with you. I’m going to beat you, Wesley – I’m going to win this tournament and put that little plastic trophy on a shelf in my mantle next to the picture of my in-laws and the ceramic cats Sarah likes to buy. But outside of a novelty goblet I use to drink beer on Husker game day, it won’t be of any importance or value to me – I am the value instilled in it.
But the real prize to me is the scalps: Ryan Lockhart, Spencer Adams, Corey Black, and Wesley. A back-to-back-to-back-to-back run from a competitor everyone had written off back in August as a washed-up loser on an underwhelming vanity run. And now everyone in the back – people like you – who thought they could hardly bat an eye at me know how unwise that is: that I am not an exposed vanilla midget getting sonned by Cassidy Adler – I am not a ring-rusted veteran who’s lost a step to Spencer Adams – that I’m not a fifth-wheel added to the ladder match to pad out the booking.
You know, Wesley, I think back to that ladder match almost every single day – I think about where my path would’ve gone if I’d succeeded in putting down Walter and snatching that belt. Would I be here, this far in this tournament – would I have been able to muster it in me to put down Ryan Lockhart? Corey Black? And the answer is no: I needed that loss to open my eyes. I needed to be one and three going into Clash 100 because it opened my eyes to the means necessary to climb the mountain and put the B-Team belt on my shoulders as I did. And that brings us back to the only interaction we ever had: one little Twitter spat at the beginning of this tournament and after Trios over my remarks on Dandy DiVito.
See, this goes all the way back to Uprising. That night, he lost by the skin of his teeth to Ryan Lockhart, and that night I fell from the top of the ladder with all 300 pounds of Walter landing on my chest. We both found ourselves on our backs when the bell rang, but only one of us picked themselves back up – that much became obvious in the coming weeks.
I’ve said it once – I’ll say it again – I’ll say it until I’m blue in the face: you need to have short-term memory in this sport to succeed. And you need to check your ego at the door; there is no shame in losing to a Carter Shaw or an Ash Blake. You know how many losses Dandy had between All-In and Clash 100 – how little it took for him to hit the “abort” button on being his own man and go back to being a shithead?
1. Carter Shaw
2. Howard Black
You know who else lost at Uprising but didn’t fall into despair? Kyle Kemp. I gotta hand it to him, Wesley, you’re a helluva better investment than Odin Balfore. I’m starting to notice the common design in all these groups that’ve popped up overnight – the Following, the Lost Breed, etc. – and that common thread is a suboptimal talent with the right friends and a penchant for backing the right horses. Kemp’s a talent scout – just as Nightingale and Blake are. And just like Nightingale, he’s smart enough to realize you’re too stupid and insecure to realize you don’t need him. You’re not a snake in the grass like David Sanchez – you’re not quietly waiting for the wall to fall to slide in knife in Kemp’s ribs – you’re Achilles in his tent looking for Agamemnon to pat him on the head.
Face it, Wesley, you’re an illusionist: you’ll weave dreams of illumination like a guru distributing Shaktipat to the vulnerable, whether it’s Dandy DiVito or Dorian or Wendigo. These are lost, broken souls – and they trust you. But you are the blind leading the blind into the blood-soaked mouth of Kyle Kemp’s meat grinder. You seek to be a father unlike the one you had, but you’re worse than him. He was a monster, and you are a liar – a boy in a man’s wrestling boots all too eager to bestow honorifics on a man like Kyle Kemp. Charles Manson turning over his flock to a Dior cologne-soaked David Koresh.
Why were you so quick to rush to Dandy’s defense? Because you knew I was right, and you couldn’t risk my words getting in his head. Because maybe that derision he’s so rightfully earned for his moral slothfulness might stir something in him more than any personal feelings of inadequacy. I’m just sad to see that you were right: you did bring Dandy success he wanted. Maybe he’ll eventually realize it’s the hollowest kind and one he has no claim to.
See, this is why I’m not the “group” type – people can talk all about how I was a supporting role in the Sentinels or worked so naturally with Crow and Kaz, but I have proven consistently that I am at my best alone. When I’m alone, I hold no responsibility to anyone but myself: I have no banner I need to represent, no team to let down, no manager to take a cut of the credit. I can do that because I accept responsibility for my actions – for my destiny. My future is in my hands; not Kyle Kemp’s, not Ash Blake’s, not Wesley’s.
My goal is simple: twist Wesley’s elbow into a pretzel until he gives up.
The fact is, DreamDaddy, that I have been the Dream Killer this entire tournament. I almost upended Vegas by taking Ryan Lockhart, the returning hero, out in Round One. The next round, I stood across from Spencer Adams, the other half of the Tag Team Champions who was ready to defend his partner’s besmirched honor and fresh off his own upset against the All Father; I beat him, too. Last week, I had everyone sure that it was the end of the line for me – that there was no way I’d be able to bring the King of All Wrestlers to his knees – that I was finally about to have my comeuppance for being so uppity and getting in the way of “destiny”. And we saw how that went.
Now? I’m here to deny you of what you crave most: that validation.
This is not your birthright, and this is not a coronation for you, Wesley. Winning this tournament – even if you could – would not allow you to step out of your father’s shadow; not elevate you from an above-average talent to a star in the eyes of the crowd. It would not make the Following a force of nature to be as loathed and envied as Philidor – probably wouldn’t even earn more than a slap on the back from Kyle Kemp. But I say would because you will not be winning. Because this is not your destiny – it’s mine.
You are here to win Wrestler of the Year. I am here to beat you, so when I turn around and look at that locker room, I can say: “Do you remember that guy you ignored and dismissed? He just tore through the best wrestlers in the company.” That is what Wrestler of the Year is about. That is what beating you means to me. Torture can keep the confetti, the streamers, and the little $20 plastic trophy because I’ll have my money where my mouth is and the bodies on deck.
That, Wesley, is a “Fuck You”. That is how you get your act together. And you will never, never beat me unless you realize my head is worth more to you than that plastic trophy. You aren’t fighting for an accolade; you are fighting to beat Howard Black in a main event. That is your fucking prize, and it is one you will be denied because you. are. weak.
Before you try to project on me, let’s make one thing clear: I’m not your father. I’m nothing like him. And I hope to God my son never, ever ends up like you.
Welcome to the top, Wesley – a top that you have proven time and time again that you do not belong in and cannot hang in. And the worst part about being this high?
Sarah Black: “…Howard?”
The light came on in the stairwell as Sarah Black descended from bed, her eyes squinting in the oppressive brightness of the bulb after being roused from sleep. Howard flung his arms open triumphantly, the US Title clutched in his hand.
Howard Black: Surprise!
Her head canted to the side, her expression one of confusion.
Sarah Black: W-what…?
Howard grinned as he threw the belt over his shoulder. His footsteps were unsteady, the room swaying with his blurred vision. But the sight of Sarah’s big blue eyes filled him with a warmth – warmer than any hit of bourbon – that drew him in like a moth to a flame.
Howard Black: I don’t know if you’ve been watching Clash –
Sarah Black: I have.
Howard Black: – but guess who is a Finalist for the Wrestler of the Year tournament? And speaking of accomplishments, how about those champion paychecks and fight purses, huh? Not too bad at –
His words were silenced, replaced by the crack of a slap across his face. The confusion had left the face of Sarah Black. Her big blue eyes were unblinking in their stare. Her expression was one of rage.
Her voice was quiet, terse, and pointed like a growling lion encountered by a foolish explorer in her cave. She descended the final step to stand level with him.
Sarah Black: I want you to listen to me, and listen good, Howard Alexander Black. I… don’t give a fuck about your Wrestler of the Year tournament. Or your championship jewelry. You have been gone for three. months. with almost nothing in the way of communication. And you want to stumble in here drunk at two in the fucking morning… and you expect me to be happy to see you?!
Howard’s eyes dropped. His voice lowered.
Howard Black: Sarah, you’re gonna wake Joey…
Her voice rose to a yell, her big blue eyes misting.
Sarah Black: Joey has been with mom and dad for the past two months, Howard! Maybe you’d know that if you reached out to your wife and son.
Howard Black: This is for us!
Sarah Black: Oh? It is?. Please, Mister Prizefighter, tell me about what you do for us.
Howard Black: Why is Joey with mom and dad?
Sarah Black: I asked you a question, Mister Lost Boy United States Champion! You gonna duck from a challenge against a girl?
Howard Black: Why is Joey with mom and dad?
Sarah Black: BECAUSE I’M A FUCKING DOCTOR IN A PANDEMIC WHO CAN’T RAISE A KID ALONE, HOWARD!
The room fell quietly. Sarah’s chest heaved with labored, audible breaths; her voice was like a scalpel in spite of the choked back sobs.
Sarah Black: I want you to realize something, okay? I wake up – and I go to the hospital. Every. Day. And I watch people die. I work twelve. hour. shifts. Shifts of pain and sorrow where I have to tell families they need to say good-bye to their mothers, fathers, and grandparents through a wall of plastic to protect them. I have to tell people that it doesn’t matter if they’re okay with contracting the virus – I cannot professionally allow them to hug … or kiss … or even hold the hand of their loved one for one last time. That is the burden I bear on my shoulders. And what do I do when I get off? I go home, turn on TV, and watch my husband nearly get killed as he tries to kill other people for entertainment.
Do you think I give a fuck about the extra money? I want my husband to hold me when I get home and cry into my pillow. I need you when I have to quarantine for several weeks so I don’t expose Joey after a breach! I would pay you to be here, and you want to wave some stupid fucking fight purse and gold belt buckle at me like I give a shit?
Sarah shoved him, the tears rolling freely down her face.
Sarah Black: Do you remember why this started?! You only picked up fighting to pay the bills while I went to school. You stayed at home until Joey was four.
She gestured around the room.
Sarah Black: Have you forgot who’s career allowed us to make the down payment on this place? Because it sure as shit wasn’t you taking light tubes to the back at the Sokol Auditorium on Thursdays. And god forbid we talk about who’s health insurance and employee discount you used at Bryan to get that stitched up!
As Howard stepped away from her, his strength left. He fell onto his back, the title leaving his hands and skidding across the floor to the door. Sarah collapsed to her knees, her hands coming to her face as she wept openly.
Sarah Black: And you wanna brag about a fucking fight purse when I have slaved away alone for years while you gallivanted around the globe.
She looked up, her big blue eyes meet Howards. She hiccupped – her words shook with pain and rage from her lips, low and deliberate.
Sarah Black: You get the fuck out of here, Howard Black. And don’t come back until you’re done pretending to be breadwinner.
Howard was glad it was a cool night – the weather in Lincoln had snapped back up to lows in the 40’s. It made the walk back to downtown less painful than a trudge through the snow. It was almost 3 am – the streets were still. Everyone was inside for lockdown as is – the time only ensured they wouldn’t be prowling. Only the Lost Boy was still up.
Memorial Stadium’s lights were turned off. The first hotel that Howard reached was the Graduate on the corner of 9th and P. The only room available was the suite, so he paid more than he ever had for a room. The wallpaper in the bathroom was corn flower print and the rug was a cattle skin. Howard Black slept in his clothes on the couch, gripping the US Championship to his chest and dreaming of the adoring cheers of the crowd at Turmoil.
Howard’s eyes stayed glued to his phone, even though his vision kept doubling. He closed one eye, the text coming more legible – his head swam and stomach turned in the back of the Uber. With each breath, he felt a little more smothered and thought more and more about how he completely understood why people hated wearing the things. But most of all, his mind stayed on Twitter, his thumb pulling his feed down to refresh.
Lissie Hope. The woman who should have won Havoc. Who should have gotten past James Nightingale. The woman who sold the world. The woman who was burning under the spotlight. His thumb kept trying to refresh the feed for good news.
There was no good news.
11/2/20
?: You sharing?
Howard looked up from his bag, the United States Championship from its confines. Behind him, Lissie Hope stood with crossed arms, her eyebrow cocked expectantly.
Howard Black: Excuse me?
Lissie Hope: That bottle of Gobble-Gobble there.
Lissie gestured. The neck of a bottle of Wild Turkey 101 stuck out of the bag. Howard reluctantly withdrew it and offered it to her – clenching the cork in her teeth, she popped the bottle open. With a spit, she discarded the cork and took a slug.
Lissie Hope: Not bad. And congrats on beating Lockhart.
She offered the bottle back to Howard.
Howard Black: Thanks. Sorry about, um…
Lissie Hope: Nightingale?
Lissie withdrew the bottle and took another swig.
Lissie Hope: Fuck him. Self-righteous prick. Anyway, it doesn’t bother me much as long as she…
Lissie’s voice trailed off. Her eyes misted before immediately composing herself. She offered the bottle back.
Lissie Hope: You shouldn’t be drinking in the locker room. They get mad about that. Just a heads up.
Howard took the bottle. Lissie regarded him expectantly.
Lissie Hope: Well don’t make me drink alone. Yesterday was my birthday, and I had to drink alone then. I thought you were a gentleman.
Howard obliged by taking a long drink, finishing off the last of the bourbon. Pulling it from his lips, he let out a belch. Lissie laughed.
Lissie Hope: You know, Spencer was right: you’re not as big of a prick as you seem. Let’s hang sometime.
She turned, swaying as she walked away. For that brief moment, two lonely people had burned together.
Howard Black stepped out of the Uber and lurched forward to the steps leading to a familiar patio. His hand gripped the bannister, willing himself up to the door. Using one forearm to prop himself up, he fumbled in his pocket; after retrieving his keys, he shifted to leaning against the door to free his hand. He retrieved his phone from its pocket – the lock screen was a photo of him and Sarah on their wedding day. In the light of the screen, he found the correct key and put it in the lock.
Dandy put his pride away for The Following. That’s what it’s all about.
It’s funny watching you become everything you hate, Mr. Black. Hopefully we meet in Turmoil so I can fuse your spine into your skull.
Pretty incredible how we willed this into existence, huh? Y’know, when we were jawing at each other, it was sort of toothless, huh? “I hope we meet in Turmoil” – we were in totally opposite sides of the bracket. This is the only way we were gunna meet. And now meet we have.
Pleased to meet you: I’m Howard Black, the man who’s about to send you home with your arm in the aforementioned to-go box.
Truth is for as improbable as this result seems, it’s pure poetry. Mind if I get a little solipsistic? Because it seems like our paths have been slowly drifting towards one another for months. From a handful of losses at Uprising to a slow, unintentional Cold War – from me beating Dandy at Execution to us going to war in the Finals of the Trios Tournament. Everyone could talk about Corey Black and WALTER, but that’s old hat. Been there, done that. The story we’re telling here is one of philosophical differences: what separates the men from the children – the left and the right hand path veering off at a fork in the road going two separate ways. And now they’ve met here at Turmoil, with the same title draped over my shoulder as you held for most of the year.
This is an important title to both of us, so it’s only fitting we’re here. What is the United States Championship in Action Wrestling? The B Tier belt. This has been what was given to the runner-up – the person who couldn’t hang in the main event. This is a belt for boys, daring them to prove that they’re men. Wesley, when you held this belt you were a boy – you won it from a boy and then lost it to a boy who lost it to another boy. When Spencer Adams went down at RUSH, he didn’t graduate up the ranks – he regressed to being a lazy coward in the Tag Division. You fought: Alice – now on CruiserClash; Kevin Bishop – no longer with the company; Corey Bull – discredited and lost; Raging Dead – as the name implies; Kidsgrove – loser. Then you lost to Baker, who lost the belt to a loser and ensured the United States Championship would never be more than an afterthought. Not until I came around.
I understand something about this belt: the Champion makes it, it doesn’t make the Champion. It’s a tall order to have the United States Championship put on your shoulders and be the man, but that’s exactly what I’ve proven capable of doing. In fact, I’ve done in one month more than you accomplished the entire four months you held it – I realize my responsibility. There’s a difference in perspectives between men and boys, one you’re about to learn the hard way. But as I did with Dandy, did with Lockhart, did with Spencer, and did with Corey Black, I’m going to teach you. And as you drag yourself aching and bleeding to the back empty-handed, this is the difference between you and me.
You are fighting in this match to fill your father’s shoes and prove you belong in that top tier – to legitimize the Following as the most dominant faction in Action Wrestling – but you are not fighting for yourself. You do not want to be Wrestler of the Year to be Wrestler of the Year; you want it for all the imaginary legitimacy such an accolade gives you. But it is just that: perfectly imaginary. Wrestler of the Year is a $20 plastic trophy to put on your shelf and collect dust, just like the Trios Tournament – it isn’t something you can put on a resume to get that grocery store cashier job when you’re 55-years-old and too physically and mentally broken to keep fighting.
That’s why since the moment I was announced for this tournament, I haven’t been fighting to win Wrestler of the Year. I didn’t care if I was a quarter, semi, or finalist – you won’t see me listing that “accomplishment”. I’m here for one thing and one thing only: to beat the best in this company. And that has been my path through this past month, culminating with you. I’m going to beat you, Wesley – I’m going to win this tournament and put that little plastic trophy on a shelf in my mantle next to the picture of my in-laws and the ceramic cats Sarah likes to buy. But outside of a novelty goblet I use to drink beer on Husker game day, it won’t be of any importance or value to me – I am the value instilled in it.
But the real prize to me is the scalps: Ryan Lockhart, Spencer Adams, Corey Black, and Wesley. A back-to-back-to-back-to-back run from a competitor everyone had written off back in August as a washed-up loser on an underwhelming vanity run. And now everyone in the back – people like you – who thought they could hardly bat an eye at me know how unwise that is: that I am not an exposed vanilla midget getting sonned by Cassidy Adler – I am not a ring-rusted veteran who’s lost a step to Spencer Adams – that I’m not a fifth-wheel added to the ladder match to pad out the booking.
You know, Wesley, I think back to that ladder match almost every single day – I think about where my path would’ve gone if I’d succeeded in putting down Walter and snatching that belt. Would I be here, this far in this tournament – would I have been able to muster it in me to put down Ryan Lockhart? Corey Black? And the answer is no: I needed that loss to open my eyes. I needed to be one and three going into Clash 100 because it opened my eyes to the means necessary to climb the mountain and put the B-Team belt on my shoulders as I did. And that brings us back to the only interaction we ever had: one little Twitter spat at the beginning of this tournament and after Trios over my remarks on Dandy DiVito.
See, this goes all the way back to Uprising. That night, he lost by the skin of his teeth to Ryan Lockhart, and that night I fell from the top of the ladder with all 300 pounds of Walter landing on my chest. We both found ourselves on our backs when the bell rang, but only one of us picked themselves back up – that much became obvious in the coming weeks.
I’ve said it once – I’ll say it again – I’ll say it until I’m blue in the face: you need to have short-term memory in this sport to succeed. And you need to check your ego at the door; there is no shame in losing to a Carter Shaw or an Ash Blake. You know how many losses Dandy had between All-In and Clash 100 – how little it took for him to hit the “abort” button on being his own man and go back to being a shithead?
1. Carter Shaw
2. Howard Black
Talk about fucking spineless.
You know who else lost at Uprising but didn’t fall into despair? Kyle Kemp. I gotta hand it to him, Wesley, you’re a helluva better investment than Odin Balfore. I’m starting to notice the common design in all these groups that’ve popped up overnight – the Following, the Lost Breed, etc. – and that common thread is a suboptimal talent with the right friends and a penchant for backing the right horses. Kemp’s a talent scout – just as Nightingale and Blake are. And just like Nightingale, he’s smart enough to realize you’re too stupid and insecure to realize you don’t need him. You’re not a snake in the grass like David Sanchez – you’re not quietly waiting for the wall to fall to slide in knife in Kemp’s ribs – you’re Achilles in his tent looking for Agamemnon to pat him on the head.
Face it, Wesley, you’re an illusionist: you’ll weave dreams of illumination like a guru distributing Shaktipat to the vulnerable, whether it’s Dandy DiVito or Dorian or Wendigo. These are lost, broken souls – and they trust you. But you are the blind leading the blind into the blood-soaked mouth of Kyle Kemp’s meat grinder. You seek to be a father unlike the one you had, but you’re worse than him. He was a monster, and you are a liar – a boy in a man’s wrestling boots all too eager to bestow honorifics on a man like Kyle Kemp. Charles Manson turning over his flock to a Dior cologne-soaked David Koresh.
Why were you so quick to rush to Dandy’s defense? Because you knew I was right, and you couldn’t risk my words getting in his head. Because maybe that derision he’s so rightfully earned for his moral slothfulness might stir something in him more than any personal feelings of inadequacy. I’m just sad to see that you were right: you did bring Dandy success he wanted. Maybe he’ll eventually realize it’s the hollowest kind and one he has no claim to.
See, this is why I’m not the “group” type – people can talk all about how I was a supporting role in the Sentinels or worked so naturally with Crow and Kaz, but I have proven consistently that I am at my best alone. When I’m alone, I hold no responsibility to anyone but myself: I have no banner I need to represent, no team to let down, no manager to take a cut of the credit. I can do that because I accept responsibility for my actions – for my destiny. My future is in my hands; not Kyle Kemp’s, not Ash Blake’s, not Wesley’s.
I am going to be Wrestler of the Year because I have no pressure.
No desires.
No designs.
My goal is simple: twist Wesley’s elbow into a pretzel until he gives up.
The fact is, DreamDaddy, that I have been the Dream Killer this entire tournament. I almost upended Vegas by taking Ryan Lockhart, the returning hero, out in Round One. The next round, I stood across from Spencer Adams, the other half of the Tag Team Champions who was ready to defend his partner’s besmirched honor and fresh off his own upset against the All Father; I beat him, too. Last week, I had everyone sure that it was the end of the line for me – that there was no way I’d be able to bring the King of All Wrestlers to his knees – that I was finally about to have my comeuppance for being so uppity and getting in the way of “destiny”. And we saw how that went.
Now? I’m here to deny you of what you crave most: that validation.
This is not your birthright, and this is not a coronation for you, Wesley. Winning this tournament – even if you could – would not allow you to step out of your father’s shadow; not elevate you from an above-average talent to a star in the eyes of the crowd. It would not make the Following a force of nature to be as loathed and envied as Philidor – probably wouldn’t even earn more than a slap on the back from Kyle Kemp. But I say would because you will not be winning. Because this is not your destiny – it’s mine.
You are here to win Wrestler of the Year. I am here to beat you, so when I turn around and look at that locker room, I can say: “Do you remember that guy you ignored and dismissed? He just tore through the best wrestlers in the company.” That is what Wrestler of the Year is about. That is what beating you means to me. Torture can keep the confetti, the streamers, and the little $20 plastic trophy because I’ll have my money where my mouth is and the bodies on deck.
That, Wesley, is a “Fuck You”. That is how you get your act together. And you will never, never beat me unless you realize my head is worth more to you than that plastic trophy. You aren’t fighting for an accolade; you are fighting to beat Howard Black in a main event. That is your fucking prize, and it is one you will be denied because you. are. weak.
Before you try to project on me, let’s make one thing clear: I’m not your father. I’m nothing like him. And I hope to God my son never, ever ends up like you.
Welcome to the top, Wesley – a top that you have proven time and time again that you do not belong in and cannot hang in. And the worst part about being this high?
It’s such a long way down.
Sarah Black: “…Howard?”
The light came on in the stairwell as Sarah Black descended from bed, her eyes squinting in the oppressive brightness of the bulb after being roused from sleep. Howard flung his arms open triumphantly, the US Title clutched in his hand.
Howard Black: Surprise!
Her head canted to the side, her expression one of confusion.
Sarah Black: W-what…?
Howard grinned as he threw the belt over his shoulder. His footsteps were unsteady, the room swaying with his blurred vision. But the sight of Sarah’s big blue eyes filled him with a warmth – warmer than any hit of bourbon – that drew him in like a moth to a flame.
Howard Black: I don’t know if you’ve been watching Clash –
Sarah Black: I have.
Howard Black: – but guess who is a Finalist for the Wrestler of the Year tournament? And speaking of accomplishments, how about those champion paychecks and fight purses, huh? Not too bad at –
His words were silenced, replaced by the crack of a slap across his face. The confusion had left the face of Sarah Black. Her big blue eyes were unblinking in their stare. Her expression was one of rage.
Her voice was quiet, terse, and pointed like a growling lion encountered by a foolish explorer in her cave. She descended the final step to stand level with him.
Sarah Black: I want you to listen to me, and listen good, Howard Alexander Black. I… don’t give a fuck about your Wrestler of the Year tournament. Or your championship jewelry. You have been gone for three. months. with almost nothing in the way of communication. And you want to stumble in here drunk at two in the fucking morning… and you expect me to be happy to see you?!
Howard’s eyes dropped. His voice lowered.
Howard Black: Sarah, you’re gonna wake Joey…
Her voice rose to a yell, her big blue eyes misting.
Sarah Black: Joey has been with mom and dad for the past two months, Howard! Maybe you’d know that if you reached out to your wife and son.
Howard Black: This is for us!
Sarah Black: Oh? It is?. Please, Mister Prizefighter, tell me about what you do for us.
Howard Black: Why is Joey with mom and dad?
Sarah Black: I asked you a question, Mister Lost Boy United States Champion! You gonna duck from a challenge against a girl?
Howard Black: Why is Joey with mom and dad?
Sarah Black: BECAUSE I’M A FUCKING DOCTOR IN A PANDEMIC WHO CAN’T RAISE A KID ALONE, HOWARD!
The room fell quietly. Sarah’s chest heaved with labored, audible breaths; her voice was like a scalpel in spite of the choked back sobs.
Sarah Black: I want you to realize something, okay? I wake up – and I go to the hospital. Every. Day. And I watch people die. I work twelve. hour. shifts. Shifts of pain and sorrow where I have to tell families they need to say good-bye to their mothers, fathers, and grandparents through a wall of plastic to protect them. I have to tell people that it doesn’t matter if they’re okay with contracting the virus – I cannot professionally allow them to hug … or kiss … or even hold the hand of their loved one for one last time. That is the burden I bear on my shoulders. And what do I do when I get off? I go home, turn on TV, and watch my husband nearly get killed as he tries to kill other people for entertainment.
Do you think I give a fuck about the extra money? I want my husband to hold me when I get home and cry into my pillow. I need you when I have to quarantine for several weeks so I don’t expose Joey after a breach! I would pay you to be here, and you want to wave some stupid fucking fight purse and gold belt buckle at me like I give a shit?
Sarah shoved him, the tears rolling freely down her face.
Sarah Black: Do you remember why this started?! You only picked up fighting to pay the bills while I went to school. You stayed at home until Joey was four.
She gestured around the room.
Sarah Black: Have you forgot who’s career allowed us to make the down payment on this place? Because it sure as shit wasn’t you taking light tubes to the back at the Sokol Auditorium on Thursdays. And god forbid we talk about who’s health insurance and employee discount you used at Bryan to get that stitched up!
As Howard stepped away from her, his strength left. He fell onto his back, the title leaving his hands and skidding across the floor to the door. Sarah collapsed to her knees, her hands coming to her face as she wept openly.
Sarah Black: And you wanna brag about a fucking fight purse when I have slaved away alone for years while you gallivanted around the globe.
She looked up, her big blue eyes meet Howards. She hiccupped – her words shook with pain and rage from her lips, low and deliberate.
Sarah Black: You get the fuck out of here, Howard Black. And don’t come back until you’re done pretending to be breadwinner.
Howard was glad it was a cool night – the weather in Lincoln had snapped back up to lows in the 40’s. It made the walk back to downtown less painful than a trudge through the snow. It was almost 3 am – the streets were still. Everyone was inside for lockdown as is – the time only ensured they wouldn’t be prowling. Only the Lost Boy was still up.
Somewhere Corey Black was undergoing concussion protocol…
Graham Baker was recovering in Norway…
Lissie Hope was fighting for her life in Miami…
Crow McMorris was cuddling up next to Taylor…
Sarah Black was sobbing in her bed, having given up on sleeping for the rest of the night…
Stuart Slane was approaching the ring with rage in his eyes…
Spencer Adams was pushing Howard’s hand away, his eyes full of pain and betrayal as he rolled out of the ring…
Was it worth it?
When everybody loves you, you can never be lonely.
