The (Bones) of What You Believe
Mar 27, 2021 23:50:13 GMT -5
Carter Shaw, Downfall, and 3 more like this
Post by Ash Blake on Mar 27, 2021 23:50:13 GMT -5
The first time is a nightmare.
Head-throbbing agony as neurons fry and synapses fire
and fire
and fire
until you can feel the folds of your brain rub themselves raw
blood in the water, sharks circling inside your skull.
And you're certain there are faster ways to die of an aneurysm
until you wonder if it's been five seconds, five minutes, or five hours
since you tumbled down the stairs
into the pitch black abyss
and snapped one of your heels.
The 'wet paint' signs were redundant — the heavy, acrid stench seemed to cling to Ash's peacoat as she made her way through the claustrophobically tight hallway towards an all-too-familiar office at the corner. As her hand fell atop the doorknob, she paused for a moment, shook her head and sighed, the corners of her lips curling into a plastic smile. She closed her eyes, turned the knob, and let herself fall into the swinging door.
His office hadn't changed much in the months since she'd last met with him face-to-face. Still the same childish caricature of corporate life, perhaps emboldened by the one new piece of decor she noticed: the bright red drinking bird, the one splash of color in an otherwise drab office space.
"You're early," he said as he looked up from the monitor in front of him, wearing a smile that spread his lips thin enough for his rat teeth to peek through.
"What can I say? Sometimes you just wake up with a spring in your step." Her smile didn't wave as her eyes bored holes through his. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"
The Supervisor shook his head and swallowed. "No, no, not at all, actually. I've already put out the fires and cleaned up the messes made by your new — is colleagues the right word? The snarling manlet with—"
"Thank you, I know who you're talking about."
He rolled his eyes.
"And even if I didn't, the e-mail chain you so inconspicuously CC'd me in on would've been enough to jog the ol' memory," she added before he could get a word in, obfuscating the passive-aggression dripping from her voice with a giggle.
He rose from his seat, sending the Newton's Cradle in motion as he made his way around his desk, towards Ash.
"We're going to have to dock your salary a little." He paused, studying her face, his grin seeming to widen. "Repair costs have to come from somewhere, and considering this wouldn't have happened if— well, you know. I'm sure you understand."
Ash bit her tongue, choking down her words as she cocked her head, shrugging. "Cost of doing business in that industry, isn't it? Of course, I'm sure you didn't call me all the way here just to tell me that."
He shook his head.
"When you're right, you're right. No, that's not the pressing issue, Ashley. That would be: 'What the hell are we going to do with your new recruits."
And as your head splatters on the cement
skull split
hair matted, wet, and sticky
(you always wondered what you'd look like as a redhead)
you wonder if this is the closest you've ever felt to your dad.
It just keeps happening, doesn't it? The second anyone thinks the book's out on me, that I've been exposed in any meaningful way, the script gets flipped and the onlookers in the peanut gallery get knocked back to page one, behind the eight-ball. Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth and Corey Black is a favorite in two straight world title matches until little Ashley Blakesley finds a way to win both of them.
And so the stakes get raised. Now there's five men gunning to take this belt off me. Ten shoulders to be pinned to the mat, five hearts to be broken, and one woman left standing over the wreckage when all's said and done. Oh, I'm sorry, did I ruin the ending of this one, too? I have a bad habit of that, after all: calling my shot and then delivering on every count.
That isn't quite something you can say of yourself, is it, Kyle? No, you're not built for that. You never have been; that's why you hung around under Spencer Adams' wing until you broke out and made a name for yourself… in ostensibly making other people better. Because that's your greatest strength: making others look good.
And please, note the word choice, Kyle. Because I'm not going to make the same assertions so many others have already made, and done so incorrectly. It'd be so easy to treat you like a con artist, a snake oil salesman cynically exploiting talented but emotionally volatile men to desperately keep yourself afloat in the face of your own inadequacies when standing on your own two feet. But I don't think you're anything less than benevolent, Kyle.
I can feel it in my bones, how much you just want to do good by your throng. To make them the best men they're capable of— no, better even. That's why you'd want nothing more than to see my head on a pike; that'll make the weight of what happened to Wesley feel a little lighter on your shoulders. Of course, benevolence only gets you so far.
At some point you actually have to make good on the promise. And you haven't. Because you can't. Because Kyle Kemp the athlete has a ceiling, and hon, so does Kyle Kemp the motivator.
Tell me Kyle, how have you made anyone under your spell better? Is Winston better off with that tag title belt around his waist instead of being in the world title hunt? Has he reached new heights? No, for all you preach about betterment, he hasn't gotten halfway back up the mountaintop. I don't think you need me to tell you this, Kyle, but Winston DiVito's career arc since he's joined up with you has been that of a hanging victim: plummeting to the Earth, held in place by his own broken neck.
Oh well, you got another tag title run out of it, so who's the real winner there?
Wesley's gonna be on the shelf longer than a can of Spaghetti-Os, Chase Jackson's the same man he's been his whole life, I mean I guess the other Chase Jackson's now the number six contender for the Cruiserweight Title; that's the only thing he's got going for him that you didn't literally hold his hand for.
Odin Balfore didn't have his seventeenth two-week long career renaissance until well after he ditched you. Because that's the upside of anyone under your care: they break free and spend half a year undoing the damage the patron saint of second place did to them.
It's not surprising, really. What the hell does a perennial all-star like Dandy DiVito (I gag at the thought no matter how true it is) have to learn from a 4A underachiever like you? How to treat the tag titles like a hovel to squat in? Every second he spends under your care tells us more about him than it will ever tell us about you.
I mean, hell, what's the worst thing I could say to you? Oh, right. The truth: if Wesley weren't half-crippled, it'd be him in this match and not you.
Of course, how could I ever talk about Kyle Kemp without mentioning the man who big leagued him into becoming a Branch Davidian nightmare-mess? Hey, Spencer. It is 2021, so I guess, welcome to your annual failed attempt at chasing the dragon that is the world title before you coerce someone else into being your sidekick and spinning out into your fifth tag title run. Because, truthfully, isn't that all you are as a competitor in this post-2018 world? Clinging desperately to as many mid-tier title wins as you can get your grubby little hands on as you circle the drain, clinging desperately to the sides to avoid washing out altogether?
Because that's you. That's the Spencer Adams way, throw everything and everyone else under the bus if it means you get an inch of pole position. And the sad part is, I don't even think you realize you're doing it. I don't think you're a bad person, Spencer. It's just that bad things keep happening to you, don't they? And when it rains, it pours.
Maybe that's why you walk around like you're invincible. Because I guess on some level, you are. When faced with half the tragedy you've been saddled with, most of the roster would curl up and die. But not you. There's seemingly nothing that can put you down for the count. They're just inconvenient little speed bumps on your road back to the top, nothing that turning the hook of your theme music into a power anthem can't solve, right?
But tell me, Spence: is Robbie Adams 'gon' be alright'? Is Slab City? Was Lissie Hope alright when she was with you? Yeah, you remember her, right? I'd hope that wound is still fresh enough for her to register for you as more than 'woman whose tragedy you can cynically mine to make people feel bad for you'.
You're invincible because it's never you that gets hurt. It's everyone you know and everyone you love. Even the guys who don't wind up in a hospital bed or a casket get made just the slightest bit worse for having known you. Kyle Kemp stayed in your shadow so long that he snapped and became the shriveled husk clinging to his alleged kingmaking abilities we see today, still stuck in the shadows of the men he's nominally in charge of.
I take no pleasure in saying this Spencer, so don't think I'm twisting the knife for my own sake. But if you get the chance, you should kill yourself before the world has to see how you 'bounce back' after destroying Faith, too. I would, if I were you. I wouldn't be able to stand being the cause of so much suffering for people I care about. Maybe we're just built different.
Mr. Common Denominator. It's you. It'll always be you.
You're Spencer Adams. There's no antidote for that.
Then you open your eyes
and see it
the heart
chained
suspended in the cold basement
of 44 Union Square
beating
pulsing
the sound of drums cutting through the ringing in your ears.
And as it writhes
and squirms
and rattles the chains
it blackens before your eyes
pulse slowing as the surface is strangled with malignant lumps
hissing foul air and oozing bile
Speaking of cynically exploiting the death of a loved one for clout, how about we look past the man in the mask towards the guy pointing him in my direction. Hi, Pete. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.
I'm sorry, did you think I'd fall into the trap of not seeing the marionette strings and treating your pet monster as if he were anything other than that? No, you don't attack the weapon, you disarm the man holding it. Of course, despite the gang of freakshows you and Reginald Royce have been assembling, you only have a hold on one leash. And that grip's been slipping for a hot second, hasn't it?
After all, I don't seem to remember United States Champion Frank Lowe. That's what this is all about for you, isn't it, Pete? To make the man responsible for your cousin's death suffer. I get it, I do. People don't want to admit it, but there's something noble in the quest for vengeance. For retribution that wasn't granted to you by the courts or even the company that let your cousin die. But, again, I just don't seem to remember US Champ Frank Lowe.
Because you loosened your grip on the chain around your Butcher's neck long enough for him to take an inch. Now he has a nice leather strap around his waist and the tail's starting to wag the dog. You don't want him pointed in my direction, not truly. You want him feeding Frankie a fistful of his own hair. But a weapon's a weapon, Pete, and no amount of combat experience overseas can prepare you to aim Der Metzger in any direction, let alone the one you want.
What do you want, Pete? Maybe it's time you admit that, to yourself if no one else. What is the point of all of this? Devil's Gate? Please tell me it started out noble, Pete. I don't think my heart could take it if it weren't. You wanted to make a guilty man pay when every institution in place gave him a slap on the wrist. But along the way you lost the plot, didn't you? You got high on your own supply the thought of exceeding what your cousin was able to accomplish creeped into your brain.
After all, isn't success the best revenge? So instead of aiming your weapon at the man who caused your family such anguish, you let him follow the rising tide and put me in the crosshairs. Please, Pete. Metzger. My arms are out wide in the finest Jesus Christ pose since the man himself; hit me with your best shot. Put your money where the mystique is and make me the martyr to your rapid ascent.
And when your hand gets smacked away from the cookie jar, Pete, point your mongrel-lite in the direction of someone who deserves it. I promise I won't even make a production of pointing out the sniveling self-service of you waiting until the magic ran out before making a concerted effort to target your cousin's killer.
Auf wiedersehen, Pete. Next time, stay in your lane.
And, I guess if I were any of the other four surrounding us, this is the part where I'd tell you to do the same, Trey. Because that's the book on you, isn't it? Even if I'm the only one not too smug to read past the cover, we all know what the cover's screaming.
I don't think that about you, though. In fact, I respect the hell out of you, Trey. Don't worry — I do have ears — and I know the feeling isn't mutual. But you can't stop me from looking at you and smiling. Finally, someone who can walk the walk. I believe you when you say you're incorruptible. And I firmly believe that you think you're doing the right thing. That kind of clarity is nice. Rare for this business, but nice when it happens.
That said, though, I have to ask you point blank: What do you think you're fighting for? You're the one standing up, puffing out his chest, and putting your neck on the line, and for what? The very company that put the book out on you in the first place? I may not believe it Trey, but I'll say the quiet part out loud in case you think your colleagues think any different of you:
You don't belong here. You're a child playing dress up in his dad's suit. You're a niche fad — you're the suplex guy. I'm sure the only person in this match who saw you beating Sam Kidsgrove before it happened was me. Because those are the people you're throwing yourself over the barbed wire for: a bunch of self-absorbed, self-serving imps who couldn't care less about your crusade, let alone throw a sword in your behalf.
But you know that, don't you? That's why your posse looks the way it does; you couldn't get anyone else to care. That's the unfortunate truth of this business, the only time you can get someone to look past their own nose is when they're looking down on you.
So once again, I ask: what are you fighting for? Do you even really know what you want, or are you going to have the weird little red-haired guy speak for you again? That's always the mark of a true revolutionary, after all: hiding behind the silver tongue of the man meant to back him up while he writes checks with his mouth that you won't be able to cash.
Apologies for deflating the balloon, Trey. I figured I'd let you down easy. After all, Mr. Incorruptible, you said it, in perhaps not as few words: Sam Kidsgrove wasn't built to take on Philidor.
You were almost right, then, with a small caveat: what makes you think you are? You can talk the talk (or have someone else do it for you) all you want; at the end of the day it will still never be about whether or not I can beat you at your game.
Corey Black is the Greatest Wrestler of all Time, and we've not played his game for a second in the months that we've been intertwined. You're much better than you get credit for but you're not him; how far do you think your moral compass will take you when you don't have half the skill as him?
After all, you're only incorruptible until your first bite of forbidden fruit, and your face is perfect for an Etsy pastiche T-shirt of "Guerrillero Heroico" until you wind up like Che Guevara.
I really wish you wouldn't make us do the things you so desperately want us to do to you.
After all, with friends like Johnny Bacchus, do you really want us as enemies?
You clutch your side
a dull throbbing ache working its way up your right shoulder
and you remind no one in particular that Malaria is a parasitic infection
though you insist there's no reason why you know so much about it
From beyond the abyss you feel a set of eyes fixed on you.
A figure, something unnatural wearing an ill-fitting human suit
charting you up, every rotten organ on display
"I knew that rat-fucking midget Howard Black couldn't be trusted," The Supervisor snarled, pounding his desk with an open palm. As her teeth sank into her tongue, Ash couldn't help but look away to stifle an embarrassed smile, her face flushing.
"Hindsight is twenty/twenty, sir."
He shrugged, cocking his head and dropping to a slight crouch, trying to catch her eyes.
"It wouldn't be hindsight if you didn't think you could have your cake and eat it, too."
"It's being handled."
Her nervous grin faded as she looked back up at him, replaced with a stern scowl, her hands sliding free from her coat pockets.
"It still leaves the elephant in the room. One of the efforts was a success, so that still leaves the question of—"
"Initiation," Ash finished, reflexively clenching and opening her fist as she stared through him.
"The last batch took to it swimmingly, even if as a whole they've disappointed otherwise." He approached Ash, with a sigh, the clacking of the Newton's cradle reverberating through her ears cut through the ostensible silence. "You don't think Ms. Hope will wash out, do you?"
"Not one bit."
"And you don't think she'll let that midget lead her astray?"
Ash shook her head, letting a grin form on her face. "I think she feels just as disrespected by the stunt Howie pulled as we do; maybe more. After all, it wasn't our ability to make decisions for ourselves he called into question to play the martyr."
"Then maybe we shouldn't waste any time making it official. Get her out from under any undue influences; better safe than sorry, right?"
"Well yeah, but…" Ash trailed off, a sudden tightness in her throat.
She turned away from The Supervisor, coughing into the crook of her elbow as she felt her mouth dry, her pallid tongue scraping against the back of her teeth like sun-bleached bone.
"I just don't think that she uh…"
"It's just that she's not read—"
"Hmm?" responded The Supervisor as Ash swallowed hard and steeled herself, moisture returning to her mouth as her expression soured.
"She hasn't earned it yet, sir."
Until you wake up
body cold from a nap on the cement
with a pounding headache and vomit on your dress
And then there was one. Last — I can't help but cherish how I might be the only person who can say this convincingly — and certainly least, Corey Black. There's a catharsis in knowing that I could almost end it there and everyone would just sort of get it at this point. After all, this whole spat between you and I has been a lot more than just two matches in which I've taken wins from you. It's a whole five and a half months where you've been scratching and clawing to grab onto one thing to hold over my head.
I know, you must be sick and tired of hearing me say it, no matter how true it's been this whole time. I get it, I'm almost tired of saying it, myself. It's hardly becoming of me to keep rubbing salt in the same open wound; but hell, I'm not the one who keeps stepping on the same rakes. I'm not the one stuffing the branch in my bike tires and blaming you when I wipe out. But I am the one looking down at you, asking myself a one word question: what?
What more could I possibly take from you? What more could I possibly want? After all: your belt? Mine. Your self-declared title? Call me The Usurper babe, because I couldn't care less what the King in Exile thinks of my sovereignty.
Both times I called my shot, and both times I delivered because it will never matter who you are, Corey. I've said it before and I'll shout it from the mountaintop until I'm blue in the face: you're the greatest to ever grace this sport. And it didn't help you any the first time. It didn't help you any the second time.
It didn't stop you from hiding under Walter's skirt until he dragged you to the only time you could ever claim victory over Philidor Holdings, LLC. It didn't stop you from almost crippling Noris Cranley just to try and get into my head because — let me emphasize — the greatest wrestler of all time needed to knock me off my game to have a fighting chance. And it definitely hasn't stopped you from hamstringing yourself at every turn.
Because the only thing you're worse at than playing our game, is making us play yours. Please, Corey, ram your head into the brick wall again and again, hoping for a different outcome.
You remember what I said last time, don't you? That you needed this. You needed to destroy me to regain the ground you so graciously handed to me in the name of trying to get under my skin. It's still true, isn't it? You need to be the one to make me eat my words; you could win it all but you wouldn't get half the respect if anyone else takes the honor of being the first to definitively beat me.
Me? I still only have to do one thing: win. And I don't even have to put you down to get that. Which is good, actually.
Truth be told, pinning you is getting kinda boring.
You mutter some profanity
and rip the tag off the back
because it's not like you can return it now.
Sunk costs, and all that.