Post by Ash Blake on Jan 3, 2021 3:39:48 GMT -5
I had a dream last night. You were there.
As Ash stepped through the door, her eyes reflexively darted around the office, hoping to absorb as much as she could in the milliseconds before she'd have to turn and face its tenant with a plastic smile. In the corporate world, the state of one's office told you more about them than their home — the latter of which were either overpriced studio apartments that looked like a Crate & Barrel advertisement brought to life or gaudy suburban McMansions depending on age. The office was the haven: invariably a reward for promotion or bargaining chip for disloyalty.
So it came as no surprise to Ash that the one she stepped into was so sparsely decorated. No pictures lined the desk, no mementos of a life lived. All that sat in the back of the room was a desk, a chair, and a Newton's Cradle situation in front of a monitor: a child's idea of corporate life. Fitting, then, for the sneering, baby-faced 'prodigy' she called her Supervisor.
"Miss Blakesley," he began, lips curling into a contemptuous smirk. "How nice of you to finally make it out here. Was beginning to think you were avoiding your quarterly review."
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Ash replied, affecting the all-too-familiar glib charm that lingered on her tongue like saccharine.
"I'm sure you wouldn't." The Supervisor rose from his seat, fingers tracing the outline of his desk as he paced around it, taking a seat on the corner as he sized Ash up. "Especially because you're really going to want to heed what I have to say."
Though Ash's smile didn't falter, her eyes darted away from his. He shook his head, letting a mirthless chuckle escape his lips.
"Something tells me you already know what I'm going to say."
A tense silent hung in the air, thick and heavy.
"Go on, say it."
He sucked his teeth.
"Well, you certainly aren't so wowed by my performance that you're offering me your position, I know that."
He laughed the same joyless laugh at his subordinate's response, his mousy lips baring teeth.
"You're definitely right about that, Ash."
"Please, call me Miss Blakesley."
He scoffed, fiddling with his cufflinks. As she watched him, Ash had finally noticed how big the coat was on him, though she stifled a giggle that revelation brought on.
"Is that how you wanna play this?"
"I just think we ought to keep things professional, sir."
Another chuckle as he pushed himself off the desk. Ash swallowed bile.
"Well then, Miss Blakesley, in the spirit of keeping things professional, let me just cut to the chase: The Action Wrestling experiment has thus far been an unmitigated disaster, and who do I have to thank for it? None other than the woman standing in front of me."
"Sir—"
"Not one, but two current invalids we're still paying out to, a raging degenerate who spends more time buying up real estate in some county I've never heard of in a state I forget exists than actually wrestling, a 'rising star' who's stalled in development, and to top it off, the face of our brand unceremoniously eating her first loss to a broken down relic repping a literal drug cartel."
"It looks bad, but—"
"Bad?! This is grounds for some good, old-fashioned fucking sensitivity training, but…" A sudden haunting expression appeared in his eyes as he trailed off, putting the Newton's Cradle in motion. The corners of Ash's lips twitched upwards as she let herself exhale; he'd told her everything she needed to know.
"Let's just say I'm in the holiday spirit."
"Right," Ash shot back, a knowing grin forming on her face.
"I wouldn't get so coy, if I were you. You aren't out of the woods yet." He reached behind him, dragging a manilla folder along the surface of the desk until he could pick it up over the edge.
"As it happens, an issue has come up that I feel you're uniquely qualified to deal with. Unless, of course, you'd rather me pull you from this operation and hand the reins to the intern girl."
Ash's eyebrow raised as she shot a suspicious glance his way. "And what would that be?"
"A friend of ours in the SEC told us about some upstart little dork who thinks he's the next Eliot Ness and wants to open an investigation into certain acquisitions made over the past eighteen months."
"And you don't have the authorization to order a sensitivity training there, either."
The Supervisor brushed off the remark.
"You've come a long way from when you were first hired, Miss Blakesley. We're going to need you to forget all that."
He offered the folder to her with a grin that made Ash's skin crawl.
"Back to square one."
She took the folder from his outstretched hand.
"That'll be all."
You were dressed to the nines, as always.
You held me close, pinched my nose and told me not to fight it.
Then you pulled me under.
You held me close, pinched my nose and told me not to fight it.
Then you pulled me under.
This feels different, somehow. Heaven knows I'm no shrinking violet, I've done this whole promotional song and dance so often now that it normally feels like second nature. My lips start moving and my eyes roll back in my head, the words flow through me, not from me. Maybe it's the setting. Maybe it's the eyes. Maybe an ice-breaker is needed.
Ahem.
Hello, Main Event! I'm Ashley, you might know me from such hits as 'ruining your champion's coronation as casually as walking the dog'.
It's been a while, hasn't it? Almost three months to the day since the masks came off and the purpose of Philidor Holdings' investment in the realm of professional wrestling was revealed. And all the while I let the featured talents, the men who had been handed lucrative sponsorships to represent the fine company that employs me, take center stage.
Until my sheer consistency week in and week out as TV Champion faltered for one second and I was dealt the first chink to my armor. Downfall holds the belt that had practically been synonymous with me by the time he took it. And while some people would see that as a sign, the need to go back to square one and reinvent themselves, to turtle and cower away, do you know what I did?
Well, I guess I don't need to give the play-by-play. I saw an opportunity to jump beyond the station I had already taken the opportunity to elevate, and so I leapt for it. I reached for that brass ring, and once it was in my grasp, I pulled myself up to the precipice.
And in the process, I just so happened to interrupt a rematch. I hope you don't mind me crashing your party.
Actually, I do hope you mind, Wesley. I hope you see my name on the card next to yours, my face when you're breaking down film, and I hope it digs under your skin. Sticks in your craw. I hope you groan at the mention of my name and you say the four words I know you must be dying to scream: "You don't belong here."
Because I'm stealing your moment for redemption, aren't I? Muddying it at least. You, with the chance to rectify a big, career defining loss from a month ago and to get the opportunity of your career in the process. To finally reach the mountaintop, and to do it at the expense of the midget who already exposed you. To say to everyone who's doubted you, "who's laughing now?"
But then there's me. The variable. The addition that threatens to crumple your nicely-imagined narrative into a ball and chuck it in the trash.
How dare I, right? Can't I see this is your moment?
I'm coming into this match the clear bronze medalist in this little hierarchy. The one who had to claw and scheme her way into a spot thought to be well above my head. I can admit it, Wesley. But I wouldn't get so smug yet, because you've been stuck with the former enough times to have the ramifications of the inconvenient truth dig into you:
You actually have to win bronze.
Don't forget Wesley— you aren't Howard Black. You're in the match because you lost to him, Mr. Silver Medalist. Of course, silver's the color of your career, isn't it? No matter what opportunity is placed in front of you to make the jump to the utter elite, you stall out at the finish line.
You win Battlebowl, but settle for a final five finish.
You win the United States title, and the guy who beats you for it chokes in his first defense.
You're a favorite to win All-In, but Carter Shaw takes your shine along with the briefcase.
You're a finalist to win Wrestler of the Year, you knock off the once seemingly indestructible Walter to get there, and you go out with a whimper to Howard Black.
And it's really not hard to see why those hits keep coming, Wesley. I won't beat around the bush with it. It's you. It's always been you and it will always be you. Because straight up, point blank, you don't have the heart, guts or spine to be anything more than the perennial silver medalist.
Close, but never close enough.
You aren't built for this. If you were in my spot, having your record breaking title reign ended prematurely, you wouldn't be here right now. You'd be off somewhere, licking your wounds, changing your nickname for the fifteenth time and recruiting Ariel Shadows 2.0 to come whisk you back to the tag division. And we'd all be signing "meet the new Wesley, same as the old Wesley."
Because that's the extent of your drive, your fire. To hit the easy licks because you stall out shifting into second gear when the going gets just a little too tough. Accumulate those stats, those big moral victories, the accolades that look pretty on a resume but hold less weight than a two-dimensional object. All so you can get on an internet listicle twenty years from now as the number one wrestler to never hold a world title. So when your knees give out on you before your 40th birthday, you can sit on your front porch drinking Natty Ice and telling your sons that you could've been a contender. Because that's your upside.
Not because you don't have the talent to go out and grab it. You do. You physically can. But you are never going to because you don't have the ambition for that. You don't have the drive of someone willing to put their life on the line to get what they want; you just have enough drive to take every shortcut you can on your way to a spot you don't deserve.
I guess daddy's boys are the same regardless of industry.
You want to see that drive? That fire? Look no further than the man who already beat you. When you held that same belt he has around his waist right now, you were content to stay in your line like the good little company boy you are. You didn't want to rock the boat, draw any undue attention to yourself. You were content to let yourself be second best once again.
Howard Black won the belt, declared it the highest prize in the company and dared anyone who disagreed with him to essentially suck his dick, then he went out and proved it by winning Wrestler of the Year, knocking off Corey Black in the process. He put a target on his back because he claimed he was the best and wanted to prove it.
Hell, I won a belt lower on the totem pole, and that didn't stop me from leading my colleagues in robbing Corey Black of his joyous moment. I lost that belt and weaseled my way into this match. I have made my entire career out of punching above my weight class, of not letting the idea of being 'ready' or 'deserving' of it stop me from going out and grabbing the things I want.
There's levels to this, Wes, and you and I are just built different.
With people like you, it's always would've, could've, should've. If that's so, then prove it. Come on Wesley, prove me wrong. Spit these words back in my face as you rip this opportunity from my hands. Because I don't think you will. It doesn't matter what's on the line. It doesn't matter how much this match means to you.
You don't have it in you.
Because underneath all the bluster and bravado, you're a chickenshit little coward who fled under Kyle Kemp's wing to learn the art of being second best from the master himself.
Your daddy ought to be proud; you're a spitting image.
At first I fought.
But you shushed me and insisted I stop.
You told me you heard a sailor talk about drowning once.
He described the feeling as 'going home'.
And like the fast learner I am, I listened.
And went limp.
And watched the moonlight disperse around me, eyes stinging of saltwater.
But you shushed me and insisted I stop.
You told me you heard a sailor talk about drowning once.
He described the feeling as 'going home'.
And like the fast learner I am, I listened.
And went limp.
And watched the moonlight disperse around me, eyes stinging of saltwater.
But then there's you, Howard. I won't get presumptuous and use the diminutive; we may be on good terms, but we aren't exactly friends yet.
Especially not this week, when we're slated to do terrible things to and around one another for the chance to take the belt right out of that sanctimonious hypocrite Corey Black's grubby hands. But I can't seem to shake that lack of ill-will towards you. I wouldn't call myself vindictive, Howard, but the people drawn to this business tend to do a good job of making you want to separate a few teeth from the skull.
But not you. I'm sure some people will hear that and think 'why is he the exception', but you just can't trust those types to get it, right? They're soft people with soft worldviews who've never had their back against the wall. Who've never had to scrape and claw for everything they have and thus don't get the concept of having a chip on their shoulder. Because they've never
I know what that feels like, Howard. It's you against the world. You and you alone. No one's coming to save you. And you better start believing in yourself because no one else will. How do you think I got to where I am, in both industries? Why do you think I'm here?
Why do you think I picked the people I did to sponsor? I could've gone flashy, tried to lock down the tried and true superstars, but they're far from feeling that hunger. That drive. They haven't had to rely on themselves only for so long they forgot what it feels like to finally have someone else in their corner. Someone who does believe in them as much as they believe in themselves. They have a whole industry praising them, holding them up; it was our mission statement to make stars, not purchase them fully-formed.
But I'm touching on something here, Howard. Something I don't think you're going to want to hear. At this rate, I'm afraid you are the tried and true superstar. Look at the betting odds, you're the favorite. You don't have a single thing to prove to me, to the fans, and certainly not Wesley.
And unfortunately, that's when you're at your most vulnerable. When you're on top of the world, you're all but inviting anyone with the guts to do it to knock you down a peg.
You've been an underdog your whole career— scratch that, your whole life. The undersized former football player from rural Nebraska should never have escaped the indies, let alone forged a career compelling enough to warrant all the pomp and circumstance of a retirement tour. The fact that you're standing here at all is a testament to your sheer grit and tenacity. You always outperform when you're the 'dog.
But there's a flipside to that, isn't there? When you're the favorite, when you're the guy to beat, you just don't have it like you do when the shoe's on the other foot. When the stakes are firmly centered on you.
Because you don't need the validation of being the best. Of being 'the guy'. That's not what drives you, it's never been what drives you. What you need is the shrill voice ringing in your ears, telling you that you're worthless. That you're going to fail, and you shouldn't even bother showing up.
You need to prove yourself to everyone. You need to shut up every doubter, make every smart analyst counting you out, every bookmaker in Vegas favoring your opponent. Because that's how Howard Black wins. When the world is against him.
When you're the guy everyone hopes and expects to win, you get punked by the Adler twins at the height of their insufferability. When you're the favorite over Spencer Adams after beating Joey Flash, you stop, drop, and twitch.
That's why you puff your chest out so much with that belt, isn't it? You needed to get everyone nice and pissed off so that everyone was dreaming of your downfall so you can get that sweet fuel, that motivation. It's never been about winning the match with you, it's always been about beating your opponent.
That's why you took your suspension so personally in the most confounding way possible. Because it's not just enough that you're right, or even that you have to be right, but you have to be the victim of some injustice. And if you kept pressing the matter, you probably would've gotten it dismissed, but then you couldn't let it seep into you and keep you hungry.
That suspension was the nicest Christmas present this company could've given you, wasn't it? You get to be aggrieved. You get to sit back like Michael Jordan and say "And I took that personally."
But I hate to tell you this, Howard: check the books. You aren't the underdog here. You're the favorite. And now there's nowhere to hide. No one doubting or negging you, this your match to win. This is your opportunity to seize. This is your world champion to dethrone.
So where are you going to get your motivation? Where's that extra oomph coming from? Because there's another inconvenient truth coming: I do pretty damn well when everyone bets against me, too.
Just ask Dandy DiVito if the sight of you doesn't send him into cold sweats.
Because I do have something to prove here. I have to prove that I belong here, that the company I love dearly and shamelessly represent belongs here. I have to prove my success up to this point wasn't a hot run by an inexperienced rook in way over her head. I have to prove every single smug bastard who thinks this is going to be a walk in the park for you wrong one by one.
But you?
You don't have anything to prove to those people.
You don't have anything to prove to me.
You don't have anything to prove to Wesley that you didn't the first time.
And, I'm so sorry Howard, but I think that's the worst thing in the world that I can say to you.
"This doesn't feel like coming home," I spoke in gurgles, gagging as water filled my mouth.
You didn't respond. You seldom do.
"When the river comes home it takes everything with it."
And so again I thrashed.
And clawed.
And fought.
Until you pulled from the water and into the light.
You didn't respond. You seldom do.
"When the river comes home it takes everything with it."
And so again I thrashed.
And clawed.
And fought.
Until you pulled from the water and into the light.
As Ash crossed the threshold into the tiny 'stage apartment' a subsidiary of a subsidiary of Philidor paid the rent for, she cursed the all-too-familiar lack of design sense. Typical corporate taste; all the pieces were there, but not quite lived in. As she stepped into the living room, she half-expected the bookshelf to be filled with the same five books in different patterns, though the variety they opted for was less than inspiring.
Still, that wasn't important, she reasoned with herself, bringing the bottle of butterscotch schnapps dangling from her fingers to her lips and taking a pull. What was important was the man on his way. She'd read the file handed to her dozens of times on the ride from HQ, to the point where she could recite the details in her sleep:
Jacob Elliot Dalton (of course he went by his middle name)
Married, 2 kids
First-time adulterer
Unacknowledged drinking problem
"Can't pick what scares you, I guess," Ash pondered to no one as she took another drink.
And another.
And yet another as she waited, her heart beginning to race as the minutes dragged on. Until finally the knock came at the door, and her anxiety washed away as she placed the bottle on the coffee table.
She let her body loosen up and a confident smile work its way across her face as she made her way to the door. It was time to become the mask once more.
"Hey Elliot," she whispered, red-nosed and giggling as she ushered him in.
"It's great to finally meet you, Grace," he responded, looking her over. "Seeing you in person, wow. I swear I know you from somewhere, though."
She blushed, eyes darting to the floor and then back up. "Just one of those faces, I guess."
He cocked his head, placing his thumb under her chin and pushing it up. "Yeah, guess so."
They stayed in that position for a moment, just looking each other in the eye. "Uh, come in, come in! Make yourself at home."
The two shared an awkward laugh as he ventured deeper into the apartment, only offering a cursory glance of the surroundings. "Sucker," she muttered under her breath as she followed.
"What was that?"
"I was just thinking, you always said you wanted to take me dancing but with all that's going on… nevermind that. I just mean that we could, do that here, alone?"
Shake off the rust, she snapped silently to herself.
"Well, not quite alone," Elliot said, pointing to the wall mirror hanging above the sofa.
"Guess not,"
As the music began, she let herself fall into his arms as the pair swayed in the living room, moving in slow rotations. Looking up at him, each rotation brought forth a different face.
She saw Carter Shaw.
Derrick Vayden.
Jim Mud.
Noris Cranley.
Olive Adler.
And in the mirror, she saw herself and Samson Saltair.