The Assassination of Corey Black by the Coward Ashley Blake
Jan 31, 2021 13:53:51 GMT -5
Lissie Hope, Carter Shaw, and 3 more like this
Post by Ash Blake on Jan 31, 2021 13:53:51 GMT -5
cant wait to see u again
Me neither, Elliot.
Something told her she'd found what she'd been looking for. She pulled her mask off, stuffing it and the phone into her jacket pocket as she stopped in front of the door that the ruckus was clearing coming from and knocked lightly.
No answer.
Rolling her eyes, she tried again to the same lack of response. It wasn't until the third time she tried that she heard the shuffling of feet in her direction, the light rattle of a chain, and the turning of the doorknob.
Her eyes lit up and the corners of her mouth curled into a grin as the door swung open and Howard Black stood in the doorway with a fistfull of dollars and a thousand yard stare that cut through her about as easily as the labyrinthine halls and paper-thin walls surrounding them.
"Expecting someone else?" she asked, eyes drawn to the money in his hand. An awkward beat passed, as Ash's face flushed once she realized just what she had asked. "Oh, not that I mean to imply that—"
"What do you want?" Howard interrupted, his focus fixing on her. "Why the hell are you here?"
"I think you already know the answer to that question."
Howard took a second to ponder his unexpected visitor's words, craning his neck to see around her, down the empty hall.
She stepped to the side, obstructing his field of vision. "It's just me, Howard. I wouldn't dare impose."
Silence lingered between the pair as they studied each other. A silence Ash broke, her sharkish smile softening.
"Well, if you aren't gonna shut me out, why not invite me in?"
This has been a long time coming, hasn't it, Corey? We're almost down to counting the hours before you finally get to put your hands on me for the countless ways that I've wronged you since I slid my way into an undeserved opportunity and took the contendership right out from under everyone's noses (though, truth be told by now everyone should be used to that; I would've thought there'd be a shelf life to the whole "people being surprised that the corporate shill is actually competent" thing).
But, let's be honest: it really isn't about all that for you, is it? Not say I presume you take the whole "me almost braining you with your own title belt" thing lightly, or that you're champing at the bit to let me off with using a tax write off to turn your legion of droogs against you in the snap of my fingers. I'm sure you're itching to make me pay for those things as well, but I'm also willing to bet those aren't the things that are sitting deep in the pit of your stomach. Those aren't the source bile building in the back of your throat when you see my face or hear my name.
No, as much as the little stunts I've pulled in the past month might draw your ire, you never forget the first. My first transgression, the first peek below the mask, the first time I went and humiliated the "King of All Wrestlers."
October twelfth, twenty-twenty: Clash 100. Corey Black defeats Walter in the main event, taking the belt from the latter's waist and becoming the thirteenth different world champion in Action Wrestling's history. Fitting, given how much that number is associated with you. That was supposed to be your moment. The culmination of your return to the ring, to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that you still had it. Not just that you were the greatest of all time, but that you still are.
But that isn't what happened, was it? No, your moment was taken from you by the emergence of a new power, something foreign, alien, completely incompatible with the wrestling business you know and clearly love. For you it was supposed to be one of the defining moments of your career.
For us, it was just a Monday night in Las Vegas.
And I know I've tried to apologize for stepping on your toes before, and maybe at that point I might have even meant it, Corey. It wasn't supposed to be your night we ruined. Though, I guess in admitting that much, I've slapped you in the face harder than I ever could have by admitting it to be specifically to spite you.
But now, Corey? Almost four months removed from that fateful night, with all the context afforded me?
I'm not the least bit sorry about it. Matter of fact, I'd gladly do it all again just to see that smug look on your face get wiped clean off in real time.
The thick electric odor hung heavy in the air as Ash crossed the threshold into Howard's hotel room, drawing her eyes directly to the smashed television on the floor that it was leaking from. She pursed her lips in wry amusement, shooting a glance towards her host.
"I take it there wasn't anything on?"
Howard didn't respond as returned his wallet to the bedside table and took a seat on the corner of the mattress, a sudden discomfort gait as the adrenaline high faded and his buzz began to dull.
"All due respect, maybe we oughta skip the small talk."
Ash shrugged. "Straight shooter, are ya? No time for the pleasantries? A man after my own heart."
Howard shook his head. "Just not in the mood to beat around the bush; just 'cuz I like you don't mean I trust you any further than I can throw you, so no need to butter me up."
"I think you could throw me pretty far Howard, if you put your mind to it," Ash said, cocking her head.
"Yeah, sure, whatever. Save us both the time and give me your sales pitch already."
A beat passed as Ash stood, frozen in contemplation, before she stepped forward, approaching Howard and dropping to a knee in front of the bed, looking him square in the eye, a curious expression on her face.
"How about you give me the sales pitch?"
Howard kept his stare, unfazed.
"Come on, you sound so confident you know how this is all going to go, what do you think I'm going to say to you?"
Wordlessly, Howard hopped off the edge of the bed to his feet, Ash following him to a vertical base. He twisted his lips into a smile mimicking hers, more mirthless than mocking.
"You're going to tell me all about how much more I have to give. You're gonna offer me stock options and a comprehensive healthcare plan. And when I still seem reticent, you'll even offer to put my son through college on your company's dime; a magnanimous gesture surely done out of the goodness of your heart, not just for a tax write-off. And in exchange all I have to do is sign on the dotted line and hand my soul over to you."
Ash scoffed, her gaze unwavering despite the sudden discomfort behind her eyes.
"Hand your soul over to us? Just who do you think we are?"
Howard brushed past her, forcing her to turn to keep her eyes on him.
"Is this the part where you tell me how you and yours aren't the bad guys? Where you justify the little supervillain act you've been pulling ever since you pinned Wesley? Explain away, Ash. I'm all ears."
His words seemed to land like a punch below the belt; she bit her lip, eyes darting to the floor as he unsteadily turned on a heel, eyes drilling into her skull.
"You know Hamilton, don't you?"
He shook his head, begrudgingly playing along with his guest's obvious deflection.
"The play? I've heard of it, at least."
"God, I wish that were me," Ash replied with a weak giggle. "No, I got dragged to it once — long story, work related — but I sat through it, the whole time utterly astounded. I couldn't believe they'd have the guts to present Alexander Hamilton of all people, an adamant abolitionist right up until he married into a wealthy slave-owning family, as an unambiguous Revolutionary hero. Celebrated him for his convictions when in reality, he had none."
Howard rolled his eyes. "Is there a point to this, or are you just stalling until I forget what I asked in the first place?"
"The point is, if those same people who so blindly ate up that narrative of Hamilton are the ones who want to put Corey Black of all people on a pedestal, I'm pleased as punch to be his Aaron Burr. Let them drape him in the garb of a hero, and I'll see if he'll still be standing when the bullet catches him right between his ribs."
I'm not in the least bit sorry Corey, because the more I think about it — the more I replay the events of Clash 100 in my head — the more I realize that, to be completely honest, I have nothing to apologize for. After all, I wasn't the one who took it so personally. As much I'm sure you need it to have been, it was never about you.
But that isn't how you and your ilk took it, was it? No, of course not. It was your moment we ruined, not Walter's. It was you who was taken down a peg, it was you that we embarrassed, whose body we put on display to show our power.
Put simply, it was your sovereignty we challenged with our mere existence, wasn't it King? Because how could the King of All Wrestlers lay claim to that namesake when he allowed himself to be victimized so on this, the most momentous night of his AW renaissance? Surely, the usurpers would be circling like vultures, ready to pick whatever pounds of flesh Philidor Holdings left on the bone.
You needed to do something. You needed to puff your chest out and take control of the narrative. You needed to stare your victimizers down and swing back at them.
And swing back you did. Except, there was one small problem, wasn't there? There was someone else who felt personally affronted by our grand entrance and wanted their retribution, too. Someone whose allegiance you unquestioningly took, if for one night only.
See, I'm not going to sit here and make ostentatious claims like "Philidor Holdings has owned Corey Black since October twelveth."
No, no, Corey: Philidor Holdings owned you the second you dared get into bed with Walter. You remember him, don't you? Man Evolved? The man you and yours branded the Mongrel and vowed to "put down?"
The man you yourself called "animalistic scum" who belonged in a hole in the ground "twelve feet deep" because he "didn't deserve the same treatment everyone else gets." Yeah, I'm sure you remember him. Because to hate someone with that passion, that fire, that conviction isn't something you just forget.
Unless, of course, your ego's been personally bruised; in that case, you're perfectly willing to blacken your soul by willingly associating with the Devil incarnate. Make no mistake, Corey: no matter how low your opinion must be of me, there's one thing I'm pretty sure you must have gleaned. I would never debase myself — I would never embarrass the company I represent — to try and find common ground with a heinous freak like Walter.
But you were certainly willing to sell out whatever morals you had to do exactly that. You, Frank, and the other one: you know, the guy you let get nearly crippled because you were too busy watching Walter's back while he put you on his and carried your whole pathetic group to your big revenge win over us. I'm sure that made Graham Baker's back hurt just a little bit less in his hospital bed.
You pathetic fucking midget. I'm just about tall enough to look you in the eye without craning my neck, but your soul's looking up at me like I'm seven feet tall, so do us both a favor and can any hopes of taking the moral high ground, because we both know where you've been. And there's nothing I could ever do to you that'll blacken my heart more than you did to yourself to get back at us.
Because the Emperor has no clothes, the King stands for nothing, and Corey Black didn't let Philidor Holdings worm our way into the deepest, darkest parts of his reptilian brain just because we hurt his precious feelings.
Did you, Corey?
No, it was because what we did to you — the opening salvo, if you will — laid bare a harsher truth than you could dare hope to admit. That we didn't embarrass you, humiliate you, ruin your moment.
Ultimately, we showed you mercy. And you couldn't stand that.
"Right. Then what?"
Ash's eyes widened in seeming surprise, though she forced herself to remain smiling.
"Then what?"
"'Your bullet catches him right between the ribs', and then what? You think that'll all of a sudden make everyone see it from your perspective?"
Ash shook her head, allowing her eyes to meet Howard's once more.
"Now, why would I want that?"
Howard shrugged, nonplussed.
"Just figured a good PR spin would be important to your bosses."
"Howard, Howard, Howard," she repeated, shaking her head. "If my bosses wanted good PR, they'd have forced me to swallow my disgust and do an ad spot with Sam Kidsgrove. And I'd sooner throw myself off a cliff before dancing for the approval of the same people who make heroes out of the Kidsgroves and Man Made Gods of the world."
"Because you made it big, and that makes you better than them, right?" Howard said, a sudden, subconscious venom dripping into his voice as he jabbed an accusatory finger in Ash's direction.
"Because I've seen them around every corner," Ash exploded, voice raised, as she approached her host. "Because those people who call me some psychotic corporate shill are the same reason I strangle any semblance of affect from my voice; all because they talk down to you the second they hear the slightest hint of a twang. Like they're so much smarter, bless their hearts."
She paused to catch her breath; her hands began to shake. Her eyes pierced through Howard, looking right through him.
"Don't look at me like that," she added as her face flushed, barely louder than a murmur. "I wasn't the one who smashed a TV."
Howard studied her, shaking his head.
"Why does that seem like the first honest thing you've said all night?"
Ash didn't answer, her eyes darting to the floor.
"It's the first thing you said that doesn't like you're reading off a cue card."
The past is a grotesque animal, Corey, so forgive me if I don't care to dig too deeply into yours. I'm sure that might come as something of a relief, after all there's only so many times you can hear some snot-nosed punk who clearly hasn't put in their ten thousand hours call you old and washed up before you snap. No, the only piece of your history I'd want to unearth isn't even ancient; we aren't even a full year removed from it.
I'm sure you know where I'm going with this, Mr. "Longest Title Reign in AW History." It's hard to ignore a run of that stature, it'll always be the elephant in the room. Three hundred, forty-four days atop a division built more on blood and guts than skill and science. Which isn't necessarily an insult; it's astonishing the human body can take that type of abuse so regularly and not keel over, let alone continue to reign supreme.
I look at that Corey Black, the one who carved out that reign, and I see a titan. A juggernaut. A man so woven into the fabric of the title that the thought of trying to take it from him seems like a fool's errand. Like I would be better served not bothering to show up.
It's a hell of a shot, but wait for the chaser.
Because we're not fighting for the Hardcore Title, Corey. This is for the new belt around your waist, and just as Hardcore Champion Corey Black was dominant…
...World Champion Corey Black is the biggest cuckold to ever hold the belt. You, the man who was supposed to be the man, the champion of champions, the King of all Wrestlers, couldn't even keep your coronation from going off without a hitch. On your crowning night, who stood tall?
Not the World Champion. Not the face of the brand. Not the savior the promotion needed to clear out Walter.
It was me, Television Champion.
It was Noris Cranley, Pure Champion.
It was Carter Shaw, who held the power to rip the belt right off you that night.
You didn't have enough time to even stick a fork into Walter before the rabble came for your head and almost lopped it clean off with the first swing of the axe. That's how quickly the tables turned.
The supposed man to beat, who holds the top prize, doesn't even make it to the finals of Wrestler of the Year because he gets outmatched by the United States Champion in Howard Black: a man whose whole shtick at that point was proclaiming his belt the most prestigious in the company.
And you certainly proved him wrong, didn't you?
Every single time you've been called upon to be the man you advertise yourself to be since that belt's been around your waist, you've been unable to finish the job. To assert your dominance. To be the man you were not even a year ago.
What's the matter, Corey? Did you get all fat and happy after beating Walter? You did it, you were the one who put down the mongrel right up until you needed him to do your dirty work for you. Was that the rush you needed? Did that fill you up?
Of course, that would be the easy answer, wouldn't it? The cop-out. At this point in your career, what else do you have left to prove?
But that's never been it. Not really. You know it as well as I do, that's why you roped Walter into your little revenge scheme. That's why you rode him instead of looking after your boy. That's why we're here now, almost four months removed from the fateful night our paths first crossed.
Not because of our intrusion, but because of our mercy.
The fact of the matter is, you wake up every morning knowing in the back of your mind that you shouldn't have that belt right now. Carter should have called his shot then and there. At least then you'd have your closure. Then you'd have your real chance for revenge. Instead all you could do was impotently gesture at scaring him out of even trying to step to you.
But that's not what happened. You got to walk out of the arena that night clutching the belt tight. We gave you that moment. Gifted you. Set it out on a silver platter for you to embrace, and you go and throw it right back in our faces. You just couldn't let it go. And it ate at you, dug deep under the skin until you sold your soul for a shot at your pound of flesh.
Because you knew something in the moment that we ruined your moment but left you the belt: we might not have owned you until you went crawling to Walter, but we didn't exactly leave empty handed that night, did we?
No, even though it's been in your possession since October twelveth, you've never really owned the belt. It's never been yours. You've just been the person dragging it around with you everywhere you go. Trying to put it around your waist, but it just doesn't quite fit.
You haven't been cuckolded by fate, Corey. Nor bad luck or lack of skill.
You've been cuckolded by us.
You may have been the one to beat Walter, but since that fateful day in October, Philidor Holdings has owned that belt. It's just been leased to you.
But you couldn't handle that arrangement. You had to bite the hand the feeds. And thus, it's become time to collect.
You knew this day was coming, be honest. You just thought it was going to be Shaw in the other corner, and not yours truly.
Why not start your new life today?
"But you get it though, don't you?" Ash finally responded, finding her voice. "It's why you claim Lincoln instead of Chadron."
Howard raised an eyebrow.
"It's more convenient, people know where the former is, after all. I don't think hometowns like ours are meant to be known outside a fifty mile square radius from the 'welcome to' sign. Hell, my graduating class was thirty people on the dot, myself included; pretty sure not a soul of us wanted to be stuck there for the rest of our lives. More's the pity that two of 'em are already buried in good ol' Chase County."
An awkward, uncomfortable silence lingered between the two. Howard opened his mouth to speak, was cut off before a sound left his mouth.
"Last time I went back was for the second's funeral, would've been my senior year of college. I used to tutor him, he was set to be a big time quarterback 'til he got Theismann'd his senior year. Two guesses what did him in."
She laughed a croaking, humorless laugh.
"Spent the whole time there — well, the parts I was sober for anyway — feelin' like I found what I was looking for when I went away in the first place. When I got back to my dorm in College Station, I was so homesick I couldn't get out of bed for a couple days; almost dropped out and moved back. I guess that's the small town curse: you spend your whole life trying to get away, only to realize that hook will never leave."
"Why didn't you?" Howard interjected.
"Why didn't I…?"
"Drop out. Move back."
A soft smile formed on her face. "I guess, even though I wanted it to be true, I couldn't shake this feeling, like I was a tourist. And I think everyone around me, people I'd known all my life, could sense that before even I could. You can hear it, in the way they talk to you, tellin' stories at you like you weren't right there in the middle of it. And it dawned on me, the morning I finally got myself out of bed, that just because I wake up with a heartache, missin' everybody, it doesn't mean I belong there. And sticking around where you don't belong just isn't good for anybody. Does that make sense?"
Howard nodded, a questioning gleam in his eyes.
"I think so."