Post by Trey Bouchet on Feb 17, 2021 0:27:16 GMT -5
It’s Mardi Gras! A day for one last flurry of plexcess before the start of Lent.
The pandemic put a kibosh on traditional celebrations. There are no parades or gala balls. Gatherings are to be small. Still, Southeastern Louisiana found ways to recognize the occasion. Trey’s parents have followed the lead of others; transforming their house to a mock-up of a parade float. The classic colors of purple, green, and gold are represented with hanging tapestries. Dozens of fleurs-di-lis decorate the gutters and awning, and a large banner bearing that oft-repeated parade appeal: “Throw Me Somethin’, Mister!” has been staked on the lawn.
“Jayson Price! What’s good?”
Trey Bouchet, dressed warmly, sat on the roof of his birth home. Several bags of Mardi Gras souvenirs rest around him. As he spoke he would dip his hand into one of the sacks, produce an item, and hurl it to those neighbors hearty enough to brave the cold weather. Despite the gloves and the half empty thermos of Irish Coffee in his lap the Cajun Catapult always found his target.
“I’m not going to put on a front: on paper our match next week is the biggest one of my career. Bigger than my trifecta with Teo Blaze. Me, locking up with Jayson Price, Mister Every Title, The Double Grand Slam Champion, an Original Man Made God and Knower of the Pantheon Secret Handshake (™). I should be plexcited. Instead, I’m leery; and not because I’m scared of losing.”
“I’m worried because you might not make it worth my time.”
“See, Price, while neither of us are especially thrilled to be on Clash, we’ve reacted to circumstances differently. I’m determined to make something of my situation. I’m hustling, cultivating alliances with good people- hiya Johnny and Debra!-, punching up at folks I want to scrap with- your ears burning, Shaw?- meanwhile, you’re content with doing the bare minimum.”
“Our match should be what Johnny Bacchus is going to get from Zombie McMorris at Battlefield: a knockdown drag-out between the scrappy young buck and the veteran warhorse. Instead what I think we’ll see Monday isn’t ‘New versus Old’ but ‘Giving a Shit versus Not Giving a Shit’, and if that’s the case I’d rather be booked against Bam Beefer because at least then plexpectations would line up with reality.”
“In short, while Jayson Price versus Trey Bouchet could be a money match if you bothered to make the effort, the odds are against it because of you.”
“And that’s pathetic.”
“Me saying this should piss you off, Price, but I doubt it will. You’ll be happy to show up in Atlanta hungover and unprepared, eat the pin, and then go on social media to brag about how much money you just stole from Torture and Gravedigger. You’ll call them cucks, flash that WCF Hall of Fame ring, and no-sell losing to me because right now in your mind this ‘Give Zero Fucks’ game you’re suplaying is a clever way to troll us.”
“Hey, it worked back in the Dub for your nemesis, right?”
“Well, it doesn’t work for me Price, I might not be plexstatic about being here but believe that I’ll make the most of it. See, I’m going to clue you in on something. The Clash main event scene is more open than it’s been in a lonnnnngggggggg time.”
“WALTER’s off licking his wounds.”
“Wesley’s convalescing.”
“Addy A is AWOL.”
“Lissie’s on CruiserClash.”
“Sanchez is locked up.”
“Now odds are you don’t recognize half those names but believe me: the time is right for someone with talent and ambition to make that leap to the top of the card, and I damn well aim to. That’s why I need you to bring it Monday, Price, because a victory over the Real South Street Nightmare puts me closer to a spot I covet:
“The Elimination Chamber.”
“A guy with my suplexpertise could do a lot of damage in that hellscape and I want to be one of the six trapped in it fighting for the Heavyweight Title. I’m sure you do too, only you’re either too lazy or too scared to actually make the effort.”
“I’m neither, and that’s why between now and Monday if you don’t course correct I’m going to suplex you around that ring until you’re whizzing blood.”
“Really, though, Price: I don’t want that. I need you to care. Beating you in your current sad and shiftless state doesn’t do much for me. A win against a game Jayson Price, though? I’m assuming that guarantees me at least a match at Battlefield.”
“And from Battlefield it’s just a month to Timebomb, that little piece of intellectual property Tort and GD bought the rights for from your old boss. And two days from that is the Chamber.”
“Not much opportunity to build a resume between now and then, but like I said, if you got the drive and the skill it’s doable.”
“And that’s the test for you, Price. You could still do it. From Day One, which was for you the Final One, you should have been making a case you deserve to be The Guy. But instead you’ve acted as though you’re mere presence was enough, and any obligation to do the work was beneath you.”
“You lost to FPV because he wanted it more, you lost to Julian Park because he snuck up on you, and since then it’s like you’re going through the motions.”
“Just like You Know Who, only we can’t plexactly call it ‘treachery’ when AW knew what you were when they picked you up.”
“And if that’s how you want to go out, Price, that sucks, because everybody deserves better from you. Including me.”
“Give me what I want at Clash, for all our sakes.”
“I’ve thrown a lot of junk during our talk, Price, but what I’m aiming your way is worth reaching for; I’m throwing you a line.”
“You gonna grab it, Champ?”