"It feels good..." by Howard Black & Lissie Hope
Mar 21, 2021 19:05:37 GMT -5
Flop, Azurine Vebbins, and 6 more like this
Post by Lissie Hope ♥ on Mar 21, 2021 19:05:37 GMT -5
The city of Las Vegas glittered like fool's gold through the window of the Sahara. Howard hadn't wanted to be too close to the action –gambling and entertainment had never much been his thing – so the lonely gateway hotel at the northmost tip of South Las Vegas Boulevard suited him just fine. The threat of the on-going pandemic was another consideration; it had been a hard lesson to learn at the end of last year, even if he hadn't publicly admitted it. For the time being? He simply hoped to keep a quiet, low profile. Too many eyes had been on him lately - too many people were asking questions. He'd accepted the room They'd booked for him, but he'd declined the invitation to travel via the company jet. It was too public a setting for too long; expectations were beginning to build around what he'd largely hoped to keep a private affair. Plus he'd needed the road time; it allowed him to clear his head. And to this end he'd further declined Lissie's offer to accompany him on the drive. Things were getting deep. The weight of that depth hung heavy around the Lost Boy's neck, even as he'd spent the week preparing for another run in the ring as her partner. The missteps of last week were little surprise with such a fresh pairing and the emotional charge of the booking. But the chemistry? It was undeniable. This week wouldn't be an issue: that much was certain. What concerned Howard Black as he looked out the window of the Sahara and nursed the bottle of Wild Turkey in his hands was the decision before him. He'd made up his mind – in fact, he'd done so almost three weeks ago in a small coffee shop in Atlanta. But making a decision is the easy part. Putting it into practice? There in lay the rub. There in lay the difficult part. He took another long slug of the bottle and turned from the window, crossing to the nightstand and exchanging it for his phone. After unlocking it, he scrolled through his contacts until a name stared back at him. Sarah. His hand trembled as his thumb hit the call button. It was time for Howard to stop running; it was time to tell his wife the truth. |
Las Vegas is where I learned to prevail. | BLOOM X: POWER | I hadn’t been back to Vegas in almost a year. There was a time when I considered Las Vegas home. I won All-In in front of these fans. I became a World Champion under these lights. But even as my greatest success bloomed, it soon wilted under the burning sun of the desert, and it became home not only to my greatest failure, but of the crippling loss of my brother. Crumbling under the weight of the expectation, I fell short, and the first domino fell in a year of misery until one night in a Miami hotel, high above the earth, I shoved pellets down my throat and subjected myself to the greatest bellyache. I’m back above the earth once again, in a suite paid for by Philidor Holdings. They wanted me to live like royalty, catered to like a goddess. My every whim and desire would be brought to my doorstep. But I didn’t want the finest luxury. I only wanted one thing. One person. Fifteen months ago I was here, and I opened a window and felt the cold chill blast over my vulnerable skin. I wondered how long the fall would be. If my erasure would be quick and painless; if it would be victimless or hematic. But I had Robbie to talk me back off the ledge. I don’t have that anymore. He was taken from me in this city by a gang of jackals. Thank God the windows at the Bellagio were fused shut. I don’t feel comfortable being back here. Walking through that lobby, the sonic ambiance of the music and slot machines and the celebratory euphoria was hypnotic. In their hands, they held orbs of glowing liquid, and I felt coerced and combustible. My heart-rate accelerated, and the fear set in. I couldn’t be there a second longer. Not by myself, anyway. I sprinted to my suite, and drew the curtains. Shut off all the lights. Watched the fountain dance like the finest ballet. “Where are you?” I texted, and he told me the Sahara on the other end of the strip. Why would they house us separately? Did he ask for it? Did he not trust me? I wouldn’t trust me either, to be honest. I think back to Troubador Frank in Atlanta, and all of his infinite wisdom. His kindness, his empathy, and his words of encouragement. Tell that boy how ‘ya really feel, ‘fore he loses the girl for good.” My soul told me to follow him back to his hotel that night, but my mind stopped that in an instant. But here, in Vegas? With nothing to keep me safe in the vacuous void of a room? Or thirty floors down, surrounded by unending risk and temptation? He didn’t owe me anything. But I wanted him anyway. |
Is it appropriate to feel somewhat insulted by this? Maybe insulted isn’t the right word – disappointed? I guess I figured after last week, we’d get a little more “make or break”. This? This is a pat on the head. This is a hand-hold. A cakewalk. Call it whatever you want. But I figured a real coronation – if that’s what this is supposed to be – would involve real opponents. Here’s the thing though, Howie. This isn’t even really about them. They could’ve served us anyone and it wouldn’t matter — this is about us. How we click, how we gel in that ring. We didn’t have a chance to show it last week, and it’s no secret neither of us are at the top of our game right now, but this is our chance to show it. To show Action Wrestling what could be, if we don’t hesitate to dive in. Headfirst. Fine. Consider it a live drill. I don’t care to dwell on last week – mistakes were made, communication was missed. But at the end of the day? That’s all moving parts to be ironed out. What matters more is cores, souls, raw material, etc. Call it “on paper”, but this is two main event caliber talents – either still on their rise or hitting their prime – versus two scrubs. Winners versus losers. The unstoppable force and immovable object against Donald Trump’s Border Fence. Johnny Bacchus, of all people, son’d these two into a tag team, and that’s about the only interesting thing about the COVID-era Brotherhood. Mr. Abraham tries so hard to get a following, but not even Kyle Kemp thought he’d be of use. So there he goes, dancing behind a pulpit and finding only one loser who’ll listen: enter Byron Bathory. No, Lissie. I don’t think you’ve done justice to the situation. These two have been absolutely humiliated at every turn by a spastic man-child and “the Mugger from Huggerton.” There is no return from this -- not when the two of you combined is four Bacchuses or eight Debra Monroe’s. That two people who shouldn’t be able to sniff the same ring as a Carter Shaw or even a Downfall are propelled to championship gold or the possibility of such is solely on the shoulders of one self-described monster and his dead-eyed creep mentor. And having to tune into these two each week is enough to rain hell on you. This is no different than Spencer Jones picking a fight with a guy with cauliflower ear in a piss-covered bathroom. ‘Which one do you want?’ he says, with the bitch-boy chirping away, flexed out, until he got dropped with a broken eye-socket. Byron, this could be you! Your crowning moment, since you’ve yet to gain one in three months of curtain-jerking. Congratulations, Sin-Eater, you’re getting decked by two Hall of Famers on a fucking trial run, while your master is too busy deep-dicking your girl. Lady Envy and her incorrigable cuck; a match-made in fucking heaven. This is the going to be the only highlight reel you’ll ever have in your career before you disappear into the ether. Just another low-rent Corey Bull that I’mma have to dispatch, and I’m sorry it’s gonna have to happen in the place you call home. Las Vegas might be your playground, Byron, but it’s my fucking domain. I’ve gone through the fucking ringer surrounded by these lights - World Championships and All-In briefcases, big-time losses and the biggest heartbreak - you’re only gonna be a fraction of a memory when all’s said and done. When Howie and Lissie sprout as the next challengers for the Tag Team Championships, we’ll look back fondly on what you meant to that chapter: next-to-fucking-nothing. Do you still believe in God, Mister Abraham? After the Lord delivered you to the Promise Land then promptly closed the Red Sea in on you? I’m not going to get too deep with the theology, but I can tell you this much: your career is not the Book of Job. You are not going to be rewarded for your suffering and failures with riches and blessings untold. You’re going to get beaten. You’re going to get humbled. You’re going to get tapped out. I can hardly muster the venom against you – a sad, fat little puppet being thrust only into this place on the card by the opponents on the other side. Lambs to the slaughter; martyrs to the lions. Bring your Sin Eater, bring your copy of “Kevin Bishop’s The Secret”, and maybe even bring that finishing move you’ve yet to hit and win with. You can’t – and I won’t – let you get in my way. But allow me to confess my sins: Pride and Wrath. You aren’t worth the former, but on Monday? I’ll show you the latter. |
Howard Black hit the button to disconnect the call. His eyes stayed on the phone, his breath ragged with emotion as his mind turned. Certainly, he didn’t notice the lurking presence behind him – not immediately. But that feeling of observation soon made his blood run cold as he turned to face his intruder. How long had he been there? How had he entered unnoticed? These were all questions better unasked when it came to Samson Saltair. What mattered is that Howard was alone in this room – alone save for the company of the Dark Man. Saltair’s expression was cold and stern, his presence looming and massive. Howard had never spent much time with the man one-on-one; he’d never noticed how cold the air seemed to be around him. As the Dark Man approached, every instinct screamed to run – none seemed capable of response. His hands fell on Howard’s shoulders, like two boulders. “We’ve made an investment.” His eyes were pools of black. Howard was unable to break the gaze; it was like the stare of a cobra anticipating to rear. “Consider this our offer.” Those pools of black that were his eyes grew, and Howard fell in. |
A brand new Tesla in beautiful matte-black finish arrived at the Bellagio Hotel for me. I read back through our series of texts, wondering if there was a hidden meaning in any of his hesitation. The driver, an older gentlemen dressed in a fitted suit, watched as I entered the backseat. Our eyes met in the rear-view mirror. “All alone, sweetheart?” he asked softly, and I nodded my head. “Such a pretty girl, I figure a man would be taking you out tonight,” His fingers tapped his own phone, reading the destination. “Were heading over to the Sahara?” he asked, puzzled. Leaving the regal Bellagio for the more subdued Sahara, and alone, was evidently not a common occurrence. I nodded absently and thought back to that night in Atlanta. I thought about how he made me feel when we danced. Frank’s smokey, seasoned baritone was exactly the voice I had needed to hear that night; a voice meant for me to absorb. The electricity I felt when Howard’s touch grazed my skin, his rough, calloused fingertips still gave me goosebumps just thinking about it. But then, it all got to real for him. He could tell I was falling for him, right there, and he made his escape. Frank was kind enough to seek me out, penetrating the walls I’d erected. He knew I was feeling insignificant and desperate. Insecure and small; just as small as Howard admitted he felt in front of that painting. There was a sincerity to Howie, a common ground we shared. It wasn’t just our physical attraction, but a spiritual one. Maybe I’m being unfair to place this burden on him. But Howard keeps me safe. My recovery isn’t hindered by him. He wants to see me prevail, just as I’ve always done in this city. There’s something about Las Vegas that brings out the best in me. The most courageous version of me. When I’m here, I can do anything. “What room is he in?” I texted to Olive, and she responded almost immediately. The drive towards the Sahara was silent; I’m sure the driver was bursting with questions, but noticed I was too preoccupied for mindless banter. I was on a mission. I was going to tell Howard I felt. Finally. I felt the anchors shackled to my feet as I walked towards his room, as if my ankles were buried in the sand of the Mojave desert. But there was something blooming in the distant. Maybe a better life; for me, and for him. I reached his door, and tapped my knuckles against the frame. |
Howard is exiting a limo. He's not alone: his fingers are enlaced with Lissie's as they walk down a red carpet. Cameras are flashing around them like hundreds of eyes. At the end of the carpet awaits a podium and Ash Blake; she's going to announce the signing of Philidor Holding's newest sponsorship: the Lost Boy, Howard Black. As he makes his way down the aisle, it feels good. Howard, Carter, and Lissie are in the gym. The timing is evened out - there are no miscues. Howard and Carter share a bourbon; Lissie doesn't seem to mind. The sip after a long work-out feels good. The bell is ringing as a song i s blaring over the P.A. Lissie is helping Howard to his feet as he lets go of Dandy DiVito; she's smiling and has tears beginning to well in her eyes. Adilene Floyd: Your winners, and the NEW Action Wrestling Tag Team Champions... "the White Roses of Philidor Holdings" Howard Black and Lissie Hope! A belt is in his hand, and another one is in hers. Her arms are looped around his neck as she pulls herself against him and he can feel her tears dampening his chest. The crowd at Evolution 4 is losing their mind. Victory alongside Lissie feels good. They're all standing on a podium before another sea of reporters. The AW Championship looks good on Carter's shoulder, and he beams. Lissie and Howie hold their own belts, and Ash Blake stands to the side watching like a proud parent. Reporter: So Carter, what if either of these two are next in line? Seems only fair with their careers and this historic tag reign. Carter Shaw: They can bring it on, too! I'd love to step in the ring with Howie or Lissie. Lissie Hope: We're gonna do rock-paper-scissors to decide. The three laugh, as the cameras continue to flash. The camaraderie feels good. Lissie is beneath him and she's raw, bare, and beautiful. They move together, their only encumbrance being the sheets wrapped around their waists. He can feel her fingers digging into his shoulders, hear her airy breaths, taste her lipstick, and smell her perfume and sweat. Being with her feels good. And then Howard was back in his hotel room, a knocking on the door bringing him to reality. Samson's hands still clutched his shoulders. "You know what you need to do. And what you want to do." He released the grip, allowing Howard to turn to the door. His feet were of clay, and his throat felt tight. His heart raced in his chest. |
I heard him fidget with the chain on the other side of the door-frame, until he finally pulled it open. Standing in the glow of the overhead lightbulb, his expression showed confusion, enthusiasm, appreciation, regret. All at once. My emotions were in overdrive. I could feel my heart screaming for him to want me, but nothing could escape from my throat. I couldn’t say anything at all. I threw my arms around his neck and pulled him close, planting my lips on his. I felt a rush of adrenaline, a sensation I hadn’t experienced in years. It was different than Spencer, but it was much more exciting. There were so many elements of the unknown. He tasted of whiskey. I knew the aroma all too well, one I had been deprived of for ninety days. And while I was unsure if I could fight off the power it held over me for so long, I knew I could maintain my control over the demons that run rampant over Las Vegas if I had Howard by my side. “…this feels good,” I thought to myself. |
