Post by Spencer Adams on Dec 14, 2020 21:18:40 GMT -5
The scene fades into a familiar image from yesteryear, a face painted Spencer Adams sat on a wooden stool underneath a singular swinging light bulb. He sits up and adjusts, breathing in the musty scent of the broom closet turned war bunker.
Spencer: Let me skip the bullshit and the preceding speech about how much I missed being here. If you’re watching this, I want you to look me in my eyes and understand one thing. I am not here to tell a single lie. I would be faking it if I told you that I hold what I did in WCF up in this high place where I look back with the nostalgic lens. I don’t have the abrasive green and black logo in a picture frame on my nightstand like a sad Wolverine meme. That’s Odin Balfore shit, that’s Stuart Slane shit. Working a show under the WCF brand in 2020 simply to make a fucking statement? That’s Spencer Adams shit.
This is where I spent my early days grinding. In a lot of ways, WCF did make me who I am, but it’s only because I know what it’s like not to be selected by the powers that be and how it feels when you’re forced to crawl through miles of Joey Flash and Howard Black matchups to even have a fucking chance at being somebody in this business. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t trade any of it for the world, because it ultimately helped me find my way to UCI and AW and grow into the competitor with a guaranteed ticket into the hall of fame of the actual biggest brand in the history of the sport..but it’s important that we treat this as exactly what it is.
I’m not here to reverse my record under Seth Lerch’s roof. My rookie year was a mixed bag with a lot of promise. I was not yet a hall of fame talent or anywhere close to someone capable of a world title at the peak of this company’s relevance or achieving triple crown honors, but I am now. People aren’t blowing smoke up your ass when they stress the importance of hard work and I am living proof of that. What I’m saying is that I’m not here, because of who I was. I am here because of who I am. I’m here..because The Antidote became everything that marginally more successful peers used to tell me I could.
WCF is where I got to sharpen my claws and while Odin Balfore and Stuart Slane are likely to recall their own success here and act as if it carries weight in the matchup ahead, it’s where they chose to stay and have their own claws removed. I honed my craft by punching up, but what did my competition do? They hung back after Mexico and the mass exodus of actual talent that came with it. If you’re a big fucking dummy, you can call it loyalty. If you’re on Planet Earth with the rest of us, you know it’s taking the easy route.
For Slane, it was more obvious. He didn’t step over a Corey Black or Torture type talent to get there. Slane added the belt to his mantle by taking out Jeff Purse on his ninety-second return attempt in the same era as a modern Oblivion reign. It didn’t matter to Slane that the meaning of that belt was diminished beforehand, because Slane is content with taking whatever he can get. Post exodus Slane was a man with an asterisks around his waist and a “I am fucking mid” dogwhistle nestled between his lips like a middle school gym teacher.
Odin on the other hand...decided to stumble straight fucking into a Grime equivalent loss, because why plug the holes on the ship and just spend the end times enjoying one of the two headlining spots with Stephen Singh when you can lay down and take it from a no talent, red state hillbilly? Odin saw Slane coast to a shit era title reign and promptly told him to hold his beer, knowing full well the one thing he’s better at than others is doing shit worse. He settled for even less, because while he will never fail to tell you about his own endless history in this business, he’s perfectly content with dumping on it himself or letting glorified jobbers do the same.
Slane will go out to the ring with a nod and a “yes, sir” like the surface level nice boy and deep rooted boot licker that he is and always has been. Odin will step over the top rope with a belly full of salt and anger over the fact that he’s not main eventing for the world title and has to compete for any other prize against a cruiserweight sized adversary and a Jim Varney knock off with a strict Soylent diet, as if he’s owed anything more. As IF the dumb bastard hasn’t been trending downward faster than he can steal and repackage the opening line of a Zombie McMorris promo.
Odin’s right too. I’m not his boy. I’m not chummy with goofy relics who want to wubba lubba dub dub their way to important moments in time like these and turn themselves into a pickle in the final act. I’m in this match to read it’s real story to Odin and Stu, the one about how far I’ve come since my days with Wrestling Championship Federation and just how far they fell even before they stepped out from under its banner. I’m here to remind Seth Lerch and his former board members of just how much they fucked up on the Spencer Adams scouting report. At The Final One, I hoist the WCF TV title high above my head as its final champion. Three men and only one heart left between us. Place your fucking bets.