Post by Howard Black on Feb 23, 2021 17:35:23 GMT -5
I went to the crossroads, fell down on my knees.
Nobody expected Robert Johnson to live a long life or have a successful career, not from a poor, rural, Black boy living in the South in the 1930’s. But he did. The latter, that is – the former, not so much. But in his twenty-seven years on Earth, Robert Johnson left a big scar, long and jagged and oddly beautiful. And it all started when one lonely night in Mississippi, he went down the crossroads.
Sometimes I think people don’t really get what goes on out in the heart of the country, its old roots that are still sunk way down into the dirt. Ever pulled a stump before? It’s the hardest part of removing a tree – a helluva lot harder than actually cutting the bastard down. You gotta dig deep and wide, hack away at damn near each individual stalk, and even then, there’s the odds you didn’t get the whole thing. They may still be there, feeding in silence and slowly growing back. Until they come up to a head and the tree can grow again.
And in America? Those roots are that Old Time Religion. And that Old Time Religion is arcane.
You see people watching the news talking about QAnon, Trump, wondering how the hell the Religious Right can be the way they are – how you can watch a pastor in a megachurch wave his hand and speak in tongues and rake in a fat congregation. Magick and religion was always predominant in the South, where Christianity intermixed with the old African religions of the enslaved to create Voodoo and Santaria. But it’s been everywhere. In the earliest days, people used dowsing rods for water – offered sacrifices for harvest – burned witches at the stake. You study Mormonism, you can see that streak of old magic that ran through rural America. I think when you live out in the thick of the wild, surrounded by the sky and the wind and the hills and trees, it’s tempting to get lost in it all.
Some locations feel powerful: a hill-top – a secluded grove – a cave – a crossroad. It was at a crossroad that Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil to play the Blues. He’d been a poor, traveling musician up until then – a vagabond who left a wife and child at home to make them money, arriving only to find they perished in his absence. Left with nothing, Johnson made a choice – and he took a trip. That night he walked down with a guitar and an empty bottle of whiskey and returned with the Blues and a Hellhound on his trail.
Oral recounting of the man’s short career talked as if his ability turned overnight. For four glorious years, he recorded the twenty-nine most important songs in maybe all of American music. From busking to big business – it looked inevitable Robert Johnson would move up to Chicago and really make it big. But that Hellhound was still on his trail; it was dangerous to stay stationary for as long as Robert Johnson did.
And then? One night after a gig, the Hellhound caught him. He’d been flirting with a married woman – her husband, of course, didn’t like that. Spiked a bottle of whiskey with cyanide and gave it as a gift. Sonny Boy Williamson tried to stop him – took the bottle and said you never drink from a bottle you didn’t open; Johnson told him to never knock a bottle out of his hand again. And then? Four days later Robert Johnson became the first member of the 27 Club. Robert Johnson got his legacy – the Devil got his due.
I apologize for the ghost story. You can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy.
The OG Bishop Battlebowl Memorial is a bit of a crossroads, isn’t it? We could be literal and talk about the meeting of eight competitors as four paths converge – we could even be a touch more abstract and talk about the implications for Time Bomb, or Havoc, or even Evolution.
Or? We could talk about us: Spencer Adams, Corey Bull, Carter Shaw, Kyle Kemp, Dandy DiVito, CJ Phoenix, Sam Kidsgrove, Howard Black. Eight men at the crossroads. Literally and figuratively. I think the question, gentlemen… why are you here – and what are you willing to do to win Battlebowl?
Corey Bull was at a crossroads. And he made a deal with the Devil.
Since the earliest days of Action Wrestling, the Hatebringer has cast a long, tall shadow of fear over the roster. You can’t downplay the impressiveness of a physical specimen like Bull: big, strong, and still fast. Corey Bull is a rhinoceros – a charging force of pure destruction that’s so heavily brawn that brains could all but be discarded and he’d still decimate over half the roster.
But.
Therein lies the rub.
The other half of the roster has Corey Bull figured out and his number pulled. The Action Wrestling of now is not the Action Wrestling of then: how can Corey Bull impose his physical will in the face of a Walter – how do Corey Bull’s sadistic games with Carter Shaw scale against the chessboard laid out by David Sanchez? It’s no country for old men; eventually a monster among men needs to prove himself worth of his raw gifts and talents? Otherwise, Ash Blake put it best: it’s nothing but wasted potential. I don’t think it took a woman who wouldn’t weigh one hundred, thirty pounds soaking wet beating him to prove that.
You can say whatever you need to make yourself think your arrangement with Lowe is involuntary, but you needed this, Corey. And I think if you’re honest, you’ll admit you wanted it. Look where it got you: welcome to another multi-man gimmick match, just like All-In. But you’re stronger now; now, surely, Carter Shaw won’t steal the win from your fingertips.
Corey Bull is at a crossroads. His deal with Lowe led him back to where he started, telling him things will be different. But you should be careful the deals you make, Corey: if things aren’t different, then you’re stuck – so much fucking worse than before.
Sam Kidsgrove is at a crossroads. He hitched his trailer to the Hatebringer to get here.
I’m not going to bother asking if you have any consideration of how shit you look by association, Sam: we both know you’re a burlap sack full of crumpled excuses ready to be dumped on the head of anyone daring to call you out. Poor Sam fuckin’ Kidsgrove – it’s not his fault he’s now one degree of separation with Raging Dead’s murderer, the bookers did this. Just like Frank Venable isn’t a bad guy – he’s just giving James Nightingale a taste of his own medicine by ripping two children from their grandparents and forcing them into the nightmarish foster care system where they’ll be exploited, traumatized, and likely abused – you, Sam, must be actually noble and used Corey Bull as a tool to get you here where you could have the Clinton Foundation sponsor your performance to raise money for Haiti, right?
I don’t say this often, but goddamnit, I fucking hate you, Sam.
My only solace is that since I took your US Title and rebuked that limp-wristed attempt at retribution, you’ve done nothing but hold space. Off the fucking card until Revolution when management pampers your prissy little ass again with a shot against Downfall you didn’t deserve – one you choked on – and then straight into Battlebowl. I double-checked just to be sure, and what do you know: must be pretty nice doing one glorious match before being handed the baddest beast in the tournament to stand behind as a partner.
Sam Kidsgrove is at a crossroads. Everyone understands his irrelevance and questions why he’s here when more worthy opponents – Nightingale, Downfall, Dionysus, Ted Blaze – were saddled with deadweight. But Sam Kidsgrove does not understand that. And that inability to change is exactly why he’s doomed.
The Following are at a crossroads.
I think this has set in for them, and I think Kemp is smart enough to thank his lucky stars he steered the ship back to safety. You’ve come so perilously close to the rocks so many times. That said, the Tag Belts are still in the hands of the two men in this match rather than the Champ’s handlers, so I do have to doff my hat. We could be having a different conversation – yet, we aren’t. You even managed to bring CJ to the top.
But you’re still so damn close to the edge. So, so, damn close.
Think back to Philidor before the turn of the year. Think of the effort Corey Black had put into stamping out the new kids on the block and how close a perfectly executed plan came to being absolutely dead on arrival. It’s difficult to argue that if Ash had failed at Revolution alongside those things who shadow her, we’d even be talking Philidor. Why would we? You can’t sustain that sort of long term failure – the shine wears off.
You get that, right, Kyle? You threw everything you had at making sure Garvey stayed down because your back was against the wall. You succeeded and there’s no sense dwelling on what failure would’ve meant. I respect you: you’ve proven yourself as adept a force and manipulator as the men who mentored you. Stacking the deck in this match is the cherry on top.
Before Kyle Kemp, Dandy DiVito and CJ Phoenix were at the crossroads. They chose to sell their souls.
I can’t say anything about CJ Phoenix – he’s a young, impressionable kid with a career of ups and downs. I followed you back in WCF, and I keep cursory tabs on you now. You’re a good kid, trying to make something – anything – stick. I get it; I was young once. I needed the security and sense of community. Truth be told, I think the highest of you out of your whole bunch.
So what the hell are you doing here, Chase?
You’ve watched the other Chase Jackson, haven’t you? The beatings, the tests of commitment, the gauntlets of punishment for failure. Kyle Kemp has high expectations – ones that have so far eluded you. Instead, you’ve been rewarded for your loyalty, put on the back of DiVito to be carried to the summit.
This is your test. This is what you’ve been groomed for. And when you fail, the consequences are going to be ugly.
Isn’t that right, Winston, you sneering creep? Selling out has boded well for you, hasn’t it? At this point, I doubt anyone hardly remembers Ash Blake caving your teeth in at Clash 100 after your last impotent attempt at personal relevance. That said, I can’t be too angry at your choices – they’ve spared me having to spend any real time in your proximity up until now.
You always have been and still are the most loathsome member of your group – the missing-teeth grinning used car salesman who’s made a career out of lying and backstabbing. It’s impressive you’ve concealed your ulterior motives this long – only rubes would think you’re sincere – and I look forward to watching the whole house of cards Kemp’s so carefully assemble topple to the table the second you think you’ve got a chance to put yourself ahead.
Or maybe not. Maybe the jokes really are on us, and you truly are a good little apostle. You’ve been neutered and cucked so thoroughly, perhaps I won’t be so surprised when you toss yourself over the top rope. But that’s your own little crossroad, isn’t it?
The Follow are at a crossroads. In stacking the deck, they’ve ironically painted the biggest target they could on themselves. Will they bend or break? And how much will individual glory play? And who else could be watching?
Carter Shaw is at a crossroads.
In fact, Carter, there is no one more at a crossroads than you. Of all the men walking into this match, you should be heads and shoulders positioned as the biggest thing. You’re an undisputed future AW Champion, a blue chip prospect who has found success in any and every endeavor. You’re Mister All-In – you’ve got the begrudging respect of damn near the entire roster and incited enough fear in Corey Black’s heart that he went as out of his way to discourage any cash-in attempts.
But?
For all of the accolades – all of the praise and accomplishments and awards – you’re stuck. This is what happens when you’re too evidently a threat: the stupid will flee from you, the smart will attempt to destroy you, and the clever will subvert you. If the first s Corey Bull and the second is Corey Black, which do you think is Ash Blake?
You know that belt is yours. It was yours before Philidor – even when Ash Blake was holding the TV Championship. I wonder what would’ve happened if they’d seen in Downfall what they saw in you and Ash had taken a similar path of recruitment. But whatever it was, when you found yourself at the crossroads of your path to the top of the card, you took the deal.
Deals have consequences, Carter.
I wonder how teaming with Kemp felt. I won’t think too deep in your “will they/won’t they”, and if you’re smart, you won’t either; Kyle Kemp and his nasty parlor tricks are no different than Ash. But it is tempting, isn’t it? As tempting as it must be every time you see Ash let her guard down.
Carter Shaw is at a crossroads. His star is losing its shine rapidly, and so long as he’s second fiddle in his own faction to the Champion, he’ll have to accept that… or go rogue. Nobody is blind to this – the wolves have already come out. Carter Shaw is distracted. And distraction is what all his enemies bank on.
Spencer Adams is at a crossroads.
You’ve had maybe the longest and most decorated career of any man in this match. Your name carries across three companies, and in every single one, you’ve found yourself a prime player. The past year has been checkered for you: tag team, singles run, tag team, singles run. Still? Success. Through each pivot, each twist and turn, you’ve found yourself coming out ahead. You are the sole singles champion in this match – that’s not for nothing. The question is if you can still go back up one more time.
You’re distracted, just as much as Shaw. I don’t care to address our elephant in the room right now, but we both know it. I’d talk to you about it, but I don’t think you’d listen. So it is what it is. I’m in this match – I’m the one who helped you get here and vice-versa. It doesn’t have to be this way. But I have the sad feeling it will.
I could tell you I’m sorry for that match last year when I went too far – for the jabs I took at you before that ladder match and my own bitterness at losing to you. But that’s a later conversation. I’m also not self-absorbed enough to think I’m the only one who holds your attention; I’ve heard your name’s been real sweet on Kemp’s lips. And, of course, there’s Carter Shaw who’s been creeping just as much as you may think I am – you’ve watched him, too, right?
Spencer Adams is at a crossroads. He just may have one more hoorah in him, but the wolves are all around him. More than anyone else, Spencer Adams has the most shored position in this match. But Spencer Adams is also an island – one of his own volition. And it’s hard having nobody at your back when you’ve got honor among thieves. And speaking of thieves…
Howard Black is at a crossroad.
In four months, I am supposed to be wrestling my swan song. Or at least, that was the plan. I pulled my contract out the other day and looked at the terms – the assumption being it would be a match a month, but in reality… twelve set dates. The terms of my contract are fulfilled – right now, if I wanted, I could pack my bag and go home.
Go home to fix a busted body – a busted marriage – a busted family.
Every morning when I wake up in my motel and drive down to the gym or arena, I ask myself the same question – why? Why am I in this stupid tournament? Why didn’t I step aside and offer my spot to somebody more deserving after fulfilling my obligation and helping Spencer Adams up the mountain? Why I am going to attempt to add another feather in my cap with this tournament – one I certainly don’t need?
I am at the crossroads. I have easily enough in the tank to continue my career if I wanted. There’s interest and investment in me doing so. And I could be great again. The Devil is waiting at the crossroads – and I’m going to win Battlebowl.
God, forgive me. There’s a hellhound on my trail.