Post by Howard Black on Jan 2, 2021 20:32:34 GMT -5
It was snowing in Nebraska; the weather app on Howard’s phone told him so. He was two hours behind, but it was almost midnight in Lincoln. The temperature there was 12° – in Los Angeles, it was 64°. A life of travel was a life of comparing numbers between here and there. It was the only thing that grounded Howard. But now it only exacerbated the ache.
Growing up, Howard had never liked the snow too much – not many people in Nebraska did. The snow meant chores: shovel the driveway, salt the walk, clear the roof, and scrape the windshield. In rural Nebraska, it was even worse: make sure the animals have comfort, waterproof the tops of the barn and stables, get the drift fences repaired. It had always amused him when people came from a coastal or southern state to visit him and marvel at the snow – how magical and beautiful it seemed as it drifted from the sky the blanket those rolling sand hills of the western half of the state. That sense of magic and wonder always evaporated when they stayed a few days and had to help with chores.
Leaning on the bannister of the motel hallway, smoking a cigarette and looking at the weather app, Howard hadn’t thought much of the snow until that moment. It had snowed on Christmas Eve, too – even for all his cynicism on winter, there was still something about a White Christmas. Then again, Howard had never spent Christmas on the road. Nor Christmas Eve. Nor New Year’s.
But that was the choice Howard had made this year – he’d traded the cold feeling of hardwood floors on his feet and having to lumber down that old, steep stairwell from his bedroom to the living room for the scratchy polyester imitation yarn and chintzy green imitation grass that made up motel floors and hallways. L.A. was in uproar – a weird mixture of the second most populous city in the country on lockdown and an increasingly vocal sect of the population raging against the machine, demanding to return to bars that weren’t open for the holiday evenings. Nobody would be out tonight in Lincoln; even if the lockdown was being fought and the mayor recalled by Larry the Cable Guy, nine inches of snow kept people inside. Lincoln would be quiet tonight.
Howard’s focus on his phone was broken by a tap on his shoulder and the polite but terse reminder from a motel cleaning lady that the open-air hallways were still considered indoors by California law and he couldn’t smoke there. Howard flicked the lit butt over the edge and down a few stories to the parking lot before pulling up his mask and making his way to the stairs; he needed more whiskey and didn’t trust the elevator.
The sidewalk was cracked and poorly maintained – the street gutters were littered with trash, and the wretched, huddling masses seemed to have made camp all over this part of town. The openness of the poverty in California never ceased to shock Howard – Lincoln and Omaha had their fair share of vagrants, but they didn’t las long. It was no place for the unsheltered in the Midwest at this time of year. In the morning, as the snowplows cleared the snow to make way for traffic, it was too likely that workers would have to clear bodies curled up on city benches under the blankets of snow or huddled in vain against the entryways of businesses with no haven save a tattered sleeping bag. And that’s not to consider those in the alleys too narrow to be plowed, waiting patiently until the pack melted enough for them to be discovered. But these conditions didn’t exist in LA.
The corner store was a hole-in-the-wall in a small strip besides a Shell station, sandwiched between a drycleaner and a Mexican restaurant. There was a short queuing line out front – a small establishment one of the few respecting capacity restrictions. Howard stood behind a young Latino couple and a fat and balding middle-aged Arabic man; by the front of the line, a bum sat propped against a dented and graffiti’d newspaper dispenser. Just audible enough to hear, the bum groaned a tune to the queue, holding a white Styrofoam cup which he shook to clink the change inside together. The tune was familiar to Howard: “Poncho and Lefty” by Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard. The Latino couple never batted their eyes as they entered the store to replace an outbound customer, and the fat man never glanced down as he moved to take their position at the front of the line.
Howard withdrew his phone from his pocket, his fingers clenching it in a vice from both sides in case anyone sprung at it. He opened Instagram, flipping through picture updates from friends – it had snowed all day in Lincoln. As the name of Joey Black came up, Howard wondered if the gifts he’d mailed had made it home in time. He pulled up his pictures as the couple left the store and the fat man entered. Howard scrolled through Joey’s uploads as he moved up beside the bum.
Howard closed the app and returned the phone to his pocket as he put the thought from his head to the rock in his stomach. Another patron had left the store, and he proceeded inside. Two cops were loitering by the coffee machine in the back. After a short wait in line between the tempting aisles of candy and chips, Howard reached the front. After a swipe of his credit card, he left with a bottle of Wild Turkey 101, a pack of Camel Filters, and a plastic pint of vodka.
The bum looked up to the plastic pint Howard extended to him. Their eyes met. The huddled, bearded man had a rough and coarse face and a gnarled beard with few teeth left in his mouth – his dirty gloves reached to accept it.
Howard walked back to the motel undisturbed. At the base of the stairs, he cracked the seal and took a swig.
This match is a formality; anybody else in this match who hopes to muster any sort of attempt at going to Revolution to face off against Corey Black needs to understand this. A Corey Black and Howard Black rematch was all but guaranteed the moment the referee’s hand hit the mat at three and my hand was raised over his; it was finalized when it hit the mat at three and my hand was raised over Wesley’s at Turmoil. When I was handed that $20 plastic trophy, I became bonafide. I am the Wrestler of the Year. I am the proven and assured number one contender to the AW Championship. This match is a formality. It is mine to lose. And I have no intention of doing so. If you do not understand the odds you are up against, you have no hope in overcoming me. If you cannot overcome me, you have no hope at overcoming Corey Black.
This is a match between one proven and two unprovens: one untested and the other unsuccessful. That’s a lot of pressure. One career may just be on the line if the latter fails again, but there’s a lot of mystique surrounding the former. And for me? I have nothing left to prove. I only have to deliver. This is not a re-litigation of Turmoil for me; I have nothing to solidify or validate. And regardless of the outcomes of Turmoil, I don’t think you do either, Ash. I’m not going to bother meditating on whether you deserve to be here or not – you are. Welcome to the top of the card. It’s so high up, isn’t it?
We’ve interacted a handful of times, so I won’t be presumptuous or coy. I like you, Ash; I think you’ve got guts, I think you’ve got grit, and I think you’ve got all the intangibles to be something great. You’ve already gotten your promotion in this company – hell, maybe you’ll even earn yourself a promotion in your company. The question, then, will be settled soon: do you deserve it.
There’s something about the Television Title that makes a certain kind of person thrive – I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s a fascinating skill set. Some of us thrive better depending on the circumstances: you put a Carter Shaw in that Division and watch him get pinned by Claire Hawkins, but put him in the big leagues and he’s All In holder. You’ve got some bodies to your name: Corey Bull, Dandy DiVito, Dionysus. You’ve also got Petrov, Randy Buster, Masuda Teijin. I don’t think you’ve been tested, Ash. I don’t think we know who the real Ash Blake is, even after you unmasked. But we’re going to – I’m going to be sure of it.
Thing is, you must be only too keenly aware that not only your mystique is on the line – all of Philidor’s is. Since the great unmasking at Clash 100, you’ve actively taken a backseat in favor of Carter Shaw and Derrick Vayden. You stayed away from the Trios Tournament – you sat in the back at XIII. Downfall may have ended the TV Title reign of Ash Blake, but he didn’t chip the façade of Ash as the designated, corporate-approved Ace of Philidor Holdings.
Corey Black has gone out of his way to debase and humiliate Carter Shaw at every opportunity and ensure he’s too afraid to open that briefcase. He’s dragged your entire team through the mud and forced them to bend a knee at the throne… all except for you. When I see you step into this ring against Wesley and me, I don’t see a former Champion moving up the card – I see a faltering stable realizing it’s walking the tightrope over a gulch dooming it to the same reputation as the Lost Breed.
There’s a reason I stick to myself – I don’t need anyone else relying on me. I don’t like that pressure. It’s nothing person or against you; just not something I’d sign up for. But there’s a gulf between you and Wesley: if Wesley loses, he’ll merely go to the back of the line behind a bench of perfectly imposing figures – there’s nobody left on Philidor’s bench. If you can’t win – and you cannot – you still need to survive. You cannot suffering being down for that three count or slapping your hand on that mat. That’s why I expect you to be the most dangerous person in this match; you have everything to lose.
I will not condescend or dismiss your skill. I have my reservations about your preparedness, but I think with or without the Adler girl’s interference you’d be here. I’ll go as far as to say you deserve it more and are a more interesting opponent than Wesley. I have no lesson to teach you, merely an exhibition match to put on as a formality. One which you are going to lose. But don’t worry – you’ve got Wesley to push in front of you. I’m sure we’ll meet again. Prove it: are diamonds forever or are you just an ephemerald?
I have no such niceties to extend your way, Wes. Frankly, I’d begin to question if I was in the villain if you and your entire lot weren’t so loathsome, but I have less sympathy for you now than I did then. I’ll give you this: you kept your hounds at bay – a fact I’m sure no doubt haunted you as you were carried limping to the back at Turmoil – and you deserve commendation for an honorable match when there’s no honor among thieves. So I’ll grant you this Wesley: you have my respect as a competitor, but you do not have my respect as a man. And I doubt you’ll ever earn it until you prove you deserve it, little boy.
Frankly, I called it like I saw it and was proven right. You went into Wrestler of the Year with the headcount of a winner but the heart of a loser. Once again, I’m standing between you and what you so desperately covet: validation. I told you this last time, and I’ll say it again: that validation is a figment of your insecurity. You are not any closer to being considered one of the greatest wrestlers in this company now than you were before it began. You still will not be regardless of the outcome of this match. That’s not a knock on you, that’s the truth; it’s all fucking irrelevant. I hope you’ve woken up to that fact or you have a snowball’s chance in Hell – somehow, I doubt it.
This match is just like the finals of Wrestler of the Year: you are not fighting for the prize, you’re fighting to beat me. Look me in the eyes, and you’ll know it’s true: even if you were to end this match with your hand raised, it would be utterly meaningless if you simply pinned Ash Blake. You’d be walking into Revolution a foregone conclusion, historians readying their pens to put that big, fat L after your name in the results column. There’s your legacy and your expectations as you’ve written them: a loser. A forgone, expected loser who spent the better part of last year carrying the US Title on his back only to be overlooked in favor of Sam fucking Kidsgrove and WALTER at the Award Show.
The stakes are high for you this week: it’s a new year and a new you, or that’s how everyone thinks of it. What are they calling this – the season premiere of the next season of Clash? Some people are going to wax on about how they have the chance to redefine and reinvent themselves; that this year they can put a new and better themselves forward. These are how fools view the world: come Clash it’ll have been a mere four days since the New Year’s and thirty-seven days since I had my arm hoisted in the ring against you. Years change people – decades change people – just shy of a month and a half doesn’t change people. I’m going back into this ring against you the same man and same competitor I was when I walked in it thirty-seven days ago: a winner. And anyone who tells themselves they’ve changed or grown is lying. You can do something different – you can learn from our last match – but a different strategy and a fresher set of experience does not a different man make. I know your ugliest; I’ve taken it. And you know what mine is.
I’m sending you back to the drawing board again, Wes. I’m doing it twice in a row just to remind you that the definition of madness was repeating the same thing and expecting different results. You don’t belong here: you don’t have the vision, don’t have the drive, don’t have the conviction, don’t have the fucking talent to stand in the same ring as me. I’ll send you back to Kyle Kemp on a stretcher and let him and Dandy decide if they’re gonna make you the next Chase Jackson – we’ll see how much they want a broken down son of a faded legend who’s in his twenties and still plays pretend.
The titles still mean nothing; they are merely formalities. Calling yourself Mister Action doesn’t make you the star of the show; winning the Wrestler of the Year doesn’t make you the king of the mountain; being crowned Number One Contender does not make you a main eventer. You cannot earn your place: you take it. And you will never, never take what is mine.
This match is a formality. I am the most dominant wrestler in this company, a man who has proven himself to consistently over-perform all expectations and reveal them as mistaken. Neither of you are in a position to lose – and yet, I have nothing to lose. But that’s why you’ll never overcome me: you can never need this more than me. This match, just like every match, means everything to me; without it, I have nothing and am nobody. I am not the Following – I am not Philidor – I am simply the Lost Boy. I am going to verify what everyone has finally began to understand… and at Revolution, I am going to be the first person in Action Wrestling history to unite the belts.
Welcome to the Howard Black show. It doesn’t matter if anyone wanted it or not – it is what it is, and it’s not changing any time soon. It cannot. But you’ll both understand when the bell rings, the match is over, and my hand is held high. Then you’ll both understand that it’s such a long way down.
Howard couldn’t stand the Wrestler of the Year trophy. It was tall – it was unwieldly – it was ugly. He’d admit, he was wrong in assuming it would be a $20 plastic trophy, the kind that can be purchased and custom engraved in a store to hand out after Little League games or high school wrestling meets; this was a legitimate gold cup. It was plated rather than solid – one could only imagine how much heavier and expensive solid gold would be – but that wasn’t much of a sin. It didn’t change that the trophy, no matter what, was too tall, too wide, and too big. Even if it was made out of plastic, it would require a second suitcase just to lug it around and still stand nearly as tall as himself when set on the floor. That it was gold plated rather than plastic made it all the worse.
Howard sat on the edge of the motel bed, wearing a pair of jeans and a white crew neck with his crucifix dangling from his neck. His hands held the open bottle of Wild Turkey and fingers held a lit cigarette that wafted smoke out the open bathroom window, not that he particularly cared if he was caught. His phone played a station of 70’s country music; his attention was on the trophy sat between himself and the TV.
Picking himself up, he took a final drag of the cigarette before stubbing it out and disposing of it inside the big gold cup. With his hands wrapped around the columns which flanked it and supported the platform, he hoisted the trophy and walked to the motel door, pulling it open and stepping out into the hall with no regard to his lack of shoes. He hardly noticed a bit of broken glass nick his heel or the trail of blood he left behind him as he descended the stairs and hung a hard right out of the parking lot and around the back.
Behind the motel, Howard hesitated. After placing the trophy on the ground, he stepped back to regard it. It was brand new; there was hardly any tarnish on the gold plating beyond the cinder- black smear of ash along the front. Even the marble was real.
But the consideration was a formality. He hoisted the statue up again, crossing to the dumpster. With a heave, it flung into the top and clanged loudly against the empty bottom. Turning away, Howard attempted feel joy at the decision; the relief of the burden was the most he could muster.
He left the alley, hung a left back into the parking lot, and ascended the stairs. Back in the room, he took to the bathroom to treat the cut on his foot with rubbing alcohol and a bandage, relieved to find it was only the heel which would bleed a lot but not hamper his performance. The sting of the alcohol pad on the wound finally brought that rock in his stomach up to be a tear in his eye.
Out in the main room, Howard’s phone sat on the table. On the phone was the Instagram app, and earlier Howard had been scrolling through it to see a picture his son had posted. Joey Black had been out in the snow, blanketed thick and still falling. He wore his winter clothes: a thick jacket, thick gloves, and a knit beanie over his floppy chestnut locks. Also in the picture was his mother, Sarah Black. She was staring into the lens with those big blue beautiful eyes, only in her regular house clothes as if pulled out abruptly for the photo. She smiled at the camera happily; the fingers on her hands were bare. Also on his phone was the weather app. It was past midnight in Lincoln; the snow had finally stopped falling.
On New Year’s you’ll have nothing to do – no champagne to pop, no Auld Lang Sine to sing, no last and first kiss of the year to give – so you’ll get stoned. You’ll get so stoned you’ll pass out at 10 pm and wake up at 1:30 am to a batch of texts and missed calls from up to an hour ago, knowing everyone who stayed up to send regards has unquestionably gone to sleep at what’s now 3:30 am CST. You’ll drink a glass of water in an important attempt to stave off the headache in the morning, and you’ll abstain for a few days so you can be clear when you go to work.
Growing up, Howard had never liked the snow too much – not many people in Nebraska did. The snow meant chores: shovel the driveway, salt the walk, clear the roof, and scrape the windshield. In rural Nebraska, it was even worse: make sure the animals have comfort, waterproof the tops of the barn and stables, get the drift fences repaired. It had always amused him when people came from a coastal or southern state to visit him and marvel at the snow – how magical and beautiful it seemed as it drifted from the sky the blanket those rolling sand hills of the western half of the state. That sense of magic and wonder always evaporated when they stayed a few days and had to help with chores.
Leaning on the bannister of the motel hallway, smoking a cigarette and looking at the weather app, Howard hadn’t thought much of the snow until that moment. It had snowed on Christmas Eve, too – even for all his cynicism on winter, there was still something about a White Christmas. Then again, Howard had never spent Christmas on the road. Nor Christmas Eve. Nor New Year’s.
But that was the choice Howard had made this year – he’d traded the cold feeling of hardwood floors on his feet and having to lumber down that old, steep stairwell from his bedroom to the living room for the scratchy polyester imitation yarn and chintzy green imitation grass that made up motel floors and hallways. L.A. was in uproar – a weird mixture of the second most populous city in the country on lockdown and an increasingly vocal sect of the population raging against the machine, demanding to return to bars that weren’t open for the holiday evenings. Nobody would be out tonight in Lincoln; even if the lockdown was being fought and the mayor recalled by Larry the Cable Guy, nine inches of snow kept people inside. Lincoln would be quiet tonight.
Howard’s focus on his phone was broken by a tap on his shoulder and the polite but terse reminder from a motel cleaning lady that the open-air hallways were still considered indoors by California law and he couldn’t smoke there. Howard flicked the lit butt over the edge and down a few stories to the parking lot before pulling up his mask and making his way to the stairs; he needed more whiskey and didn’t trust the elevator.
The sidewalk was cracked and poorly maintained – the street gutters were littered with trash, and the wretched, huddling masses seemed to have made camp all over this part of town. The openness of the poverty in California never ceased to shock Howard – Lincoln and Omaha had their fair share of vagrants, but they didn’t las long. It was no place for the unsheltered in the Midwest at this time of year. In the morning, as the snowplows cleared the snow to make way for traffic, it was too likely that workers would have to clear bodies curled up on city benches under the blankets of snow or huddled in vain against the entryways of businesses with no haven save a tattered sleeping bag. And that’s not to consider those in the alleys too narrow to be plowed, waiting patiently until the pack melted enough for them to be discovered. But these conditions didn’t exist in LA.
The corner store was a hole-in-the-wall in a small strip besides a Shell station, sandwiched between a drycleaner and a Mexican restaurant. There was a short queuing line out front – a small establishment one of the few respecting capacity restrictions. Howard stood behind a young Latino couple and a fat and balding middle-aged Arabic man; by the front of the line, a bum sat propped against a dented and graffiti’d newspaper dispenser. Just audible enough to hear, the bum groaned a tune to the queue, holding a white Styrofoam cup which he shook to clink the change inside together. The tune was familiar to Howard: “Poncho and Lefty” by Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard. The Latino couple never batted their eyes as they entered the store to replace an outbound customer, and the fat man never glanced down as he moved to take their position at the front of the line.
“Livin’ on the road, my friend, was gonna keep you free and clean,
And now you wear your skin like iron, your breath as hard as kerosene.”
“You weren’t your momma’s only boy, but her favorite one it seems.
She began to cry when you said goodbye and sank into your dreams.”
“Pancho needs your prayers it’s true, but save a few for Lefty, too.
He only did what he had to do, and now he’s growing old.”
The bum looked up to the plastic pint Howard extended to him. Their eyes met. The huddled, bearded man had a rough and coarse face and a gnarled beard with few teeth left in his mouth – his dirty gloves reached to accept it.
“Happy New Year.”
Howard walked back to the motel undisturbed. At the base of the stairs, he cracked the seal and took a swig.
This match is a formality; anybody else in this match who hopes to muster any sort of attempt at going to Revolution to face off against Corey Black needs to understand this. A Corey Black and Howard Black rematch was all but guaranteed the moment the referee’s hand hit the mat at three and my hand was raised over his; it was finalized when it hit the mat at three and my hand was raised over Wesley’s at Turmoil. When I was handed that $20 plastic trophy, I became bonafide. I am the Wrestler of the Year. I am the proven and assured number one contender to the AW Championship. This match is a formality. It is mine to lose. And I have no intention of doing so. If you do not understand the odds you are up against, you have no hope in overcoming me. If you cannot overcome me, you have no hope at overcoming Corey Black.
This is a match between one proven and two unprovens: one untested and the other unsuccessful. That’s a lot of pressure. One career may just be on the line if the latter fails again, but there’s a lot of mystique surrounding the former. And for me? I have nothing left to prove. I only have to deliver. This is not a re-litigation of Turmoil for me; I have nothing to solidify or validate. And regardless of the outcomes of Turmoil, I don’t think you do either, Ash. I’m not going to bother meditating on whether you deserve to be here or not – you are. Welcome to the top of the card. It’s so high up, isn’t it?
We’ve interacted a handful of times, so I won’t be presumptuous or coy. I like you, Ash; I think you’ve got guts, I think you’ve got grit, and I think you’ve got all the intangibles to be something great. You’ve already gotten your promotion in this company – hell, maybe you’ll even earn yourself a promotion in your company. The question, then, will be settled soon: do you deserve it.
There’s something about the Television Title that makes a certain kind of person thrive – I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s a fascinating skill set. Some of us thrive better depending on the circumstances: you put a Carter Shaw in that Division and watch him get pinned by Claire Hawkins, but put him in the big leagues and he’s All In holder. You’ve got some bodies to your name: Corey Bull, Dandy DiVito, Dionysus. You’ve also got Petrov, Randy Buster, Masuda Teijin. I don’t think you’ve been tested, Ash. I don’t think we know who the real Ash Blake is, even after you unmasked. But we’re going to – I’m going to be sure of it.
Thing is, you must be only too keenly aware that not only your mystique is on the line – all of Philidor’s is. Since the great unmasking at Clash 100, you’ve actively taken a backseat in favor of Carter Shaw and Derrick Vayden. You stayed away from the Trios Tournament – you sat in the back at XIII. Downfall may have ended the TV Title reign of Ash Blake, but he didn’t chip the façade of Ash as the designated, corporate-approved Ace of Philidor Holdings.
That has never been in a position of vulnerability. Not until now.
Corey Black has gone out of his way to debase and humiliate Carter Shaw at every opportunity and ensure he’s too afraid to open that briefcase. He’s dragged your entire team through the mud and forced them to bend a knee at the throne… all except for you. When I see you step into this ring against Wesley and me, I don’t see a former Champion moving up the card – I see a faltering stable realizing it’s walking the tightrope over a gulch dooming it to the same reputation as the Lost Breed.
There’s a reason I stick to myself – I don’t need anyone else relying on me. I don’t like that pressure. It’s nothing person or against you; just not something I’d sign up for. But there’s a gulf between you and Wesley: if Wesley loses, he’ll merely go to the back of the line behind a bench of perfectly imposing figures – there’s nobody left on Philidor’s bench. If you can’t win – and you cannot – you still need to survive. You cannot suffering being down for that three count or slapping your hand on that mat. That’s why I expect you to be the most dangerous person in this match; you have everything to lose.
I will not condescend or dismiss your skill. I have my reservations about your preparedness, but I think with or without the Adler girl’s interference you’d be here. I’ll go as far as to say you deserve it more and are a more interesting opponent than Wesley. I have no lesson to teach you, merely an exhibition match to put on as a formality. One which you are going to lose. But don’t worry – you’ve got Wesley to push in front of you. I’m sure we’ll meet again. Prove it: are diamonds forever or are you just an ephemerald?
I have no such niceties to extend your way, Wes. Frankly, I’d begin to question if I was in the villain if you and your entire lot weren’t so loathsome, but I have less sympathy for you now than I did then. I’ll give you this: you kept your hounds at bay – a fact I’m sure no doubt haunted you as you were carried limping to the back at Turmoil – and you deserve commendation for an honorable match when there’s no honor among thieves. So I’ll grant you this Wesley: you have my respect as a competitor, but you do not have my respect as a man. And I doubt you’ll ever earn it until you prove you deserve it, little boy.
Frankly, I called it like I saw it and was proven right. You went into Wrestler of the Year with the headcount of a winner but the heart of a loser. Once again, I’m standing between you and what you so desperately covet: validation. I told you this last time, and I’ll say it again: that validation is a figment of your insecurity. You are not any closer to being considered one of the greatest wrestlers in this company now than you were before it began. You still will not be regardless of the outcome of this match. That’s not a knock on you, that’s the truth; it’s all fucking irrelevant. I hope you’ve woken up to that fact or you have a snowball’s chance in Hell – somehow, I doubt it.
This match is just like the finals of Wrestler of the Year: you are not fighting for the prize, you’re fighting to beat me. Look me in the eyes, and you’ll know it’s true: even if you were to end this match with your hand raised, it would be utterly meaningless if you simply pinned Ash Blake. You’d be walking into Revolution a foregone conclusion, historians readying their pens to put that big, fat L after your name in the results column. There’s your legacy and your expectations as you’ve written them: a loser. A forgone, expected loser who spent the better part of last year carrying the US Title on his back only to be overlooked in favor of Sam fucking Kidsgrove and WALTER at the Award Show.
The stakes are high for you this week: it’s a new year and a new you, or that’s how everyone thinks of it. What are they calling this – the season premiere of the next season of Clash? Some people are going to wax on about how they have the chance to redefine and reinvent themselves; that this year they can put a new and better themselves forward. These are how fools view the world: come Clash it’ll have been a mere four days since the New Year’s and thirty-seven days since I had my arm hoisted in the ring against you. Years change people – decades change people – just shy of a month and a half doesn’t change people. I’m going back into this ring against you the same man and same competitor I was when I walked in it thirty-seven days ago: a winner. And anyone who tells themselves they’ve changed or grown is lying. You can do something different – you can learn from our last match – but a different strategy and a fresher set of experience does not a different man make. I know your ugliest; I’ve taken it. And you know what mine is.
For all the experience and new perspective you may have from that match against me, I know this: it takes two Seventh Seals to beat you – you don’t know what it takes to beat me.
I’m sending you back to the drawing board again, Wes. I’m doing it twice in a row just to remind you that the definition of madness was repeating the same thing and expecting different results. You don’t belong here: you don’t have the vision, don’t have the drive, don’t have the conviction, don’t have the fucking talent to stand in the same ring as me. I’ll send you back to Kyle Kemp on a stretcher and let him and Dandy decide if they’re gonna make you the next Chase Jackson – we’ll see how much they want a broken down son of a faded legend who’s in his twenties and still plays pretend.
The titles still mean nothing; they are merely formalities. Calling yourself Mister Action doesn’t make you the star of the show; winning the Wrestler of the Year doesn’t make you the king of the mountain; being crowned Number One Contender does not make you a main eventer. You cannot earn your place: you take it. And you will never, never take what is mine.
This match is a formality. I am the most dominant wrestler in this company, a man who has proven himself to consistently over-perform all expectations and reveal them as mistaken. Neither of you are in a position to lose – and yet, I have nothing to lose. But that’s why you’ll never overcome me: you can never need this more than me. This match, just like every match, means everything to me; without it, I have nothing and am nobody. I am not the Following – I am not Philidor – I am simply the Lost Boy. I am going to verify what everyone has finally began to understand… and at Revolution, I am going to be the first person in Action Wrestling history to unite the belts.
You cannot stop me.
Welcome to the Howard Black show. It doesn’t matter if anyone wanted it or not – it is what it is, and it’s not changing any time soon. It cannot. But you’ll both understand when the bell rings, the match is over, and my hand is held high. Then you’ll both understand that it’s such a long way down.
Howard couldn’t stand the Wrestler of the Year trophy. It was tall – it was unwieldly – it was ugly. He’d admit, he was wrong in assuming it would be a $20 plastic trophy, the kind that can be purchased and custom engraved in a store to hand out after Little League games or high school wrestling meets; this was a legitimate gold cup. It was plated rather than solid – one could only imagine how much heavier and expensive solid gold would be – but that wasn’t much of a sin. It didn’t change that the trophy, no matter what, was too tall, too wide, and too big. Even if it was made out of plastic, it would require a second suitcase just to lug it around and still stand nearly as tall as himself when set on the floor. That it was gold plated rather than plastic made it all the worse.
Howard sat on the edge of the motel bed, wearing a pair of jeans and a white crew neck with his crucifix dangling from his neck. His hands held the open bottle of Wild Turkey and fingers held a lit cigarette that wafted smoke out the open bathroom window, not that he particularly cared if he was caught. His phone played a station of 70’s country music; his attention was on the trophy sat between himself and the TV.
Picking himself up, he took a final drag of the cigarette before stubbing it out and disposing of it inside the big gold cup. With his hands wrapped around the columns which flanked it and supported the platform, he hoisted the trophy and walked to the motel door, pulling it open and stepping out into the hall with no regard to his lack of shoes. He hardly noticed a bit of broken glass nick his heel or the trail of blood he left behind him as he descended the stairs and hung a hard right out of the parking lot and around the back.
Behind the motel, Howard hesitated. After placing the trophy on the ground, he stepped back to regard it. It was brand new; there was hardly any tarnish on the gold plating beyond the cinder- black smear of ash along the front. Even the marble was real.
But the consideration was a formality. He hoisted the statue up again, crossing to the dumpster. With a heave, it flung into the top and clanged loudly against the empty bottom. Turning away, Howard attempted feel joy at the decision; the relief of the burden was the most he could muster.
He left the alley, hung a left back into the parking lot, and ascended the stairs. Back in the room, he took to the bathroom to treat the cut on his foot with rubbing alcohol and a bandage, relieved to find it was only the heel which would bleed a lot but not hamper his performance. The sting of the alcohol pad on the wound finally brought that rock in his stomach up to be a tear in his eye.
Out in the main room, Howard’s phone sat on the table. On the phone was the Instagram app, and earlier Howard had been scrolling through it to see a picture his son had posted. Joey Black had been out in the snow, blanketed thick and still falling. He wore his winter clothes: a thick jacket, thick gloves, and a knit beanie over his floppy chestnut locks. Also in the picture was his mother, Sarah Black. She was staring into the lens with those big blue beautiful eyes, only in her regular house clothes as if pulled out abruptly for the photo. She smiled at the camera happily; the fingers on her hands were bare. Also on his phone was the weather app. It was past midnight in Lincoln; the snow had finally stopped falling.
On New Year’s you’ll have nothing to do – no champagne to pop, no Auld Lang Sine to sing, no last and first kiss of the year to give – so you’ll get stoned. You’ll get so stoned you’ll pass out at 10 pm and wake up at 1:30 am to a batch of texts and missed calls from up to an hour ago, knowing everyone who stayed up to send regards has unquestionably gone to sleep at what’s now 3:30 am CST. You’ll drink a glass of water in an important attempt to stave off the headache in the morning, and you’ll abstain for a few days so you can be clear when you go to work.
After all, what else can you do? Work is all you have keeping you going.