Post by Johnny Bacchus on May 18, 2021 21:57:02 GMT -5
She had his shirt twisted around her fist, the soft rip of fabric emanating from the collar. She was sandwiched between him and the door, her lips pressed messily to his – he tasted like tequila and Camel cigarettes, just as always. As their lips broke, she pushed bleached hair out of his face. Her eyes were on his – they were always so alight with impish glee. His smile was infectious.
He was handsome.
The door opened behind her, and the two of them tumbled into his apartment. Fat Miles stood over them.
“DUDE! Where have you been?! Havoc is almost over.”
“I thought it was on at Seven?”
“Seven Eastern!”
“Oh FUCK.”
Johnny Backus pushed himself off his pancaked girlfriend and headed straight for the couch, hurdling the back to land square in the center between Jenn and Fritz.
“Okay tell me everything,” he said, failing to notice Alice roll her eyes and excuse herself for the evening.
“Final two: Lissie/WALTER,” Jenn said as if in a trance, her eyes never leaving the TV.
“Top four was QDT and Corey Black,” Fritz explained, his eyes glued just as intensely as Lissie Hope somehow manages to spear WALTER down, “Jay Omega, Stuart Slane, and Howard Black signed. Kennedy Matthews is back.”
“I mean, who really gives a fuck about that…” Backus mumbled before leaping to his feet and bringing his fist to his mouth, watching Lissie drive WALTER’s face into the mat with the Crown of Thorns, “OH SHIT!”
The three on the couch were on their feet and Fat Miles learned forward in his La-Z-Boy, as Lissie lugged WALTER over the top rope. A war whoop went out through the room.
“Hey!” a voice from the back bellowed, and turned heads revealed it to be Karen looking out the door to her room. “I’m trying to do self-care, can we keep it the fuck down?!”
“Blow it out your ass!” Jenn yelled, the three turning back to watch Lissie on the ropes.
A first big boot hit – she held on. And then a second.
“LET’S FUCKING GO!!”
Chris Avery: HOPE FALLS OFF !! THATS IT!! WALTER HAS WON!! WALTER HAS WON THE 2020 HAVOC RUMBLE!!
As if in unison, Jenn and Fritz fell back to the couch as Fat Miles groaned, the air sucked out of the room. Johnny stayed standing, disappointment palpable in his eyes, his hands still clasped together in front of his mouth.
Chris Avery: THE ERA OF ALEX RICHARDS IS ALREADY IN FULL SWING.. BUT WILL THIS BE THE SUMMER OF WALTER II?! WE'LL SEE YOU ON CLASH NEXT WEEK!!
Billy: GOOD NIGHT FROM MADISON SQUARE GARDEN!! THE 2020 HAVOC RUMBLE IS OVER AND IT’S WALTER WHO STANDS TALL!!
The Action Wrestling logo appeared as Havoc went off the air. With no more doubt that Walter was the definitive winner – and that Lissie was the definitive loser – Johnny finally returned to a sitting position on the couch. His eyes didn’t leave the screen, even as the programming changed on the AW Network. He tapped his clasped fingers to his chin in thought, his lips turned down into a frown.
“Oh well,” he muttered to himself, “there’s always next year.”
There had to be a million things running through Lissie Hope’s head before Battlefield – doing a Meet & Greet was not one of them. Her phone buzzed incessantly with messages from friends, well-wishers, and (of course) her new sponsors. It was a comforting feeling to have such overwhelming support, even under the circumstances of the evening. Nonetheless, it was relieving that Mae understood the situation in the ring. It made it all so much smoother for all parties involved.
That still didn’t mean she was prepared for a Meet & Greet. When the door to her dressing room opened and she watched as her friend nearly dragged a young man by the sleeve behind her, she stifled an internal groan. It was all so much – and she’d heard plenty about this guy around the locker room. Nonetheless, she put on her best face for Mae’s sake.
Mae practically pushed the young man in front of her. Her voice rang loud and excited behind him. “This is Johnny,” she exclaimed, “He signed recently and is a huge fan!”
It was easy enough to turn on the charm, even when the guy in front of you is wearing a floppy Russian hat and Mae’s borrowed sunglasses. But (was his hand shaking?) after he reached up to remove the sunglasses and pull the hat off, he gave a sincere smile. “Hey, I’m sure you’re really busy,” he said sheepishly, “but Mae insisted. I am a big fan, if it’s anything. Won’t take your time, just wanted to say ‘hey’ and hoped you’d sign this shirt.”
“Sure,” Lissie said as she put on a smile and reached to her vanity for a marker, “Johnny?”
“Yeah,” the young man said as he held out the t-shirt to her. Taking it in her hands, Lissie unfolded the fabric and was met with the splash graphic of herself and Adelaide Ainsworth staring back at her.
“They barely made these in Mens sizes,” she said as she looked up at him puzzledly, “where did you get this?”
“Uprising, in L.A.” he said before adding, “I had to fight some neckbeard for the last one, but arguing the Large was more likely to fit me than him swayed the merch person.”
She looked back down, hesitating as she uncapped the pen. Nonetheless, she scrawled her signature across the graphic of her face and offered it back. Bacchus accepted it gratefully.
“Thanks! It’s great to meet you.”
Lissie maintained her smile, still not quite able to parse him.
“Anything for a fan.”
The smell of frying turkey bacon filled the apartment as Johnny stood over the stove, pushing the strips around to ensure an even fry. A band-aid concealed the healing tattoo on his left ring finger. After brushing a few strands of hair back behind his ear, he instinctively flinched as a pop of grease spattered the lens of his Saint Laurent sunglasses and cheek. Another pop singed a hole in the worn Swallowing shirt he wore; the signature of Addy A was now scrawled beside the faded signature of Lissie Hope (must’ve used a cheap pen). Behind him in the living room, Jenn and Fritterz had been diligently slicing open the innumerable cardboard boxes which now populated the living room.
“I don’t understand,” Fritterz muttered as he pulled out a stack of folded and banded black t-shirts, “why these aren’t being kept in the Oaklandish warehouse for distribution.”
“Lotta them are,” replied Jenn without looking up, still carefully checking the contents against the invoice, “we’re taking these on the road.”
“The road?”
“Can’t exactly sell non-licensed merch at the booth,” said Johnny as he moved a few strips from the skillet to a plate, “so we’re gonna sell them in the parking lot.”
“How much of this can you fit in the AMX?”
“Well, considering the AMX is a two-seater,” replied Johnny as he turned and walked the plate of bacon to the industrial spool, “and I can fit either you or the shirts in the trunk, we’re not gonna take the AMX. I bought a van.”
Fritterz looked up from the plate of bacon to Johnny, surprise on his face.
“You bought a van?”
“I know,” snarked Jenn, “for once I talked him out of spending his fight purse on designer crap.”
“Plus, ninety grand oughta go somewhere. Invest, y’know - make money for us all.”
“And you want me to come along?”
“If you can get time off from the Port, yeah. Jenn can’t run it alone if there’s demand – god willing – and I’ll probably have to be in the back. You in?”
It was a sudden movement as the big guy rose, wrapping his bear-sized arms around Johnny’s torso for a crushing hug. “Of course I am, you fuckin’ idiot! I’ll call the union today about it!”
“Okay,” Johnny grunted in the embrace, “don’t wreck the breadmaker, here. Put me down.”
As soon as he obliged, Fritterz had run off to another room to make the call. Across the room, Jenn and Johnny made eye contact. They shared a smile. From within Johnny’s pocket, his phone pinged with a new email.
Johnny stared at the email. His thumb hovered over the “reply” button. Instead, he savored tapping “Send to Trash.”
It was a midday flight from Oakland to O’Hare. Jenn and Fritterz had loaded the van and left earlier that week; Johnny had stayed to finish affairs in the Town. Luckily, flights were direct, and the hotel was already booked. For now, Johnny sat at a table out front of the Peet’s Coffee next to his gate, scrolling idly through Twitter. The tattooed “16” on his knuckle had healed, and Johnny was only disappointed it wouldn’t be visible beneath his fight gloves.
The flight would be five hours, but Johnny didn’t mind flying. In the past, he’d get ripped at the airport bar beforehand, but he wanted to be in top health for Havoc. Too much was on the line – too many people wanted to see him choke. Last week’s New York Times Sunday Crossword could keep him entertained – especially if he didn’t cheat.
“Excuse me…”
The voice broke his rumination, bringing his eyes up from his phone to the person before him. They weren’t too old – maybe 16-years-old, tops. They wore thick glasses over the facemask, the sides of their head were shaved with a flop of blonde hair hanging before their face. With a trembling hand, they clutched a black shirt and a marker.
“You’re Johnny Bacchus.”
“Yeah,” he said as he put down his phone and directed his undivided attention, “I am.”
“I’m actually on my way to watch you in Chicago,” the teen said, their voice shaking with nervousness, “Is it too much to ask you to sign my shirt? I’m sorry, I’m really not trying to bother you.”
Johnny reached out and took the shirt. From his pocket, he fished a silver Sharpie.
“Not at all, please – sit down,” he said as he motioned to the empty seat beside him. The teen was far too struck to accept the invitation as Bacchus looked back at the shirt, “And I got a pen. Gotta use a good one or it’ll fade real quick. What’s your name?”
“Sh-shay.”
Across the face of the Zen Chimp, Johnny scrawled:
“Thank you! And good luck… You’re my hero.”
The darted away into the crowd at the terminal, as if determined to conceal themself despite about to board the same flight as him. Johnny’s eyes scanned in vain; accepting they didn’t want to be found, he looked back at the new tattoo on his knuckle and muttered to himself.
He was handsome.
He was charming
He was sexy.
The door opened behind her, and the two of them tumbled into his apartment. Fat Miles stood over them.
“DUDE! Where have you been?! Havoc is almost over.”
“I thought it was on at Seven?”
“Seven Eastern!”
“Oh FUCK.”
He was so fucking immature.
“Okay tell me everything,” he said, failing to notice Alice roll her eyes and excuse herself for the evening.
“Final two: Lissie/WALTER,” Jenn said as if in a trance, her eyes never leaving the TV.
“Top four was QDT and Corey Black,” Fritz explained, his eyes glued just as intensely as Lissie Hope somehow manages to spear WALTER down, “Jay Omega, Stuart Slane, and Howard Black signed. Kennedy Matthews is back.”
“I mean, who really gives a fuck about that…” Backus mumbled before leaping to his feet and bringing his fist to his mouth, watching Lissie drive WALTER’s face into the mat with the Crown of Thorns, “OH SHIT!”
The three on the couch were on their feet and Fat Miles learned forward in his La-Z-Boy, as Lissie lugged WALTER over the top rope. A war whoop went out through the room.
“Hey!” a voice from the back bellowed, and turned heads revealed it to be Karen looking out the door to her room. “I’m trying to do self-care, can we keep it the fuck down?!”
“Blow it out your ass!” Jenn yelled, the three turning back to watch Lissie on the ropes.
A first big boot hit – she held on. And then a second.
“LET’S FUCKING GO!!”
And then the Culling. And Lissie tumbled to the outside.
Chris Avery: HOPE FALLS OFF !! THATS IT!! WALTER HAS WON!! WALTER HAS WON THE 2020 HAVOC RUMBLE!!
As if in unison, Jenn and Fritz fell back to the couch as Fat Miles groaned, the air sucked out of the room. Johnny stayed standing, disappointment palpable in his eyes, his hands still clasped together in front of his mouth.
Chris Avery: THE ERA OF ALEX RICHARDS IS ALREADY IN FULL SWING.. BUT WILL THIS BE THE SUMMER OF WALTER II?! WE'LL SEE YOU ON CLASH NEXT WEEK!!
Billy: GOOD NIGHT FROM MADISON SQUARE GARDEN!! THE 2020 HAVOC RUMBLE IS OVER AND IT’S WALTER WHO STANDS TALL!!
The Action Wrestling logo appeared as Havoc went off the air. With no more doubt that Walter was the definitive winner – and that Lissie was the definitive loser – Johnny finally returned to a sitting position on the couch. His eyes didn’t leave the screen, even as the programming changed on the AW Network. He tapped his clasped fingers to his chin in thought, his lips turned down into a frown.
“Oh well,” he muttered to himself, “there’s always next year.”
From the Tumblr blog of "JohnnyBacchusOfficial", formerly "SpitOnMeSwallowing" 5/24/21 Oh man, so you guys probably gotta be a little confused between the absence and rebranding. And, um.. 😬 As Harv would probably say: Ta-da? Yeah, cat's out the bag. It's really surreal to be writing this while now a part of this. If y'all been following (or probs Swallowing), I hope you’ll forgive the change in "focus" on a few folks. But it feels good to put a face out for you guys! I feel like Lil Nas X if he was white and bisexual (don't worry, Montero would sound the same). That said, let's get what we all wanna really talk about: Havoc Season, baybee. When I'd tell someone I was into professional wrestling and get an eyeroll, I'd invite them to a Havoc Viewing Party. We always threw dope viewing parties before I got signed, and our Havoc Drinking Game is down to a science. For the newbs to this blog here because they think I'm dreamy 🥺 here's how the game's played: (Best paired with something actually palatable unlike those weird AllRecipes cocktails Regan keeps pushing) 1. Choose a number between one and fifty (last year was the first time the number was greater). Whoever comes out at the number is your wrestler. 2. Every time they eliminate someone, assign someone else a drink. 3. Every time they are on the apron, take a drink. 4. Every time they pull fuckshit like sliding under the bottom rope to chill outside, assign someone a shot. 5. When they are eliminated, finish your drink. 6. Whenever there's a surprise return or debut, don't give a shit. 7. If you wanna have liver failure, take a drink every time Billy says "SHITFIRE"! It's a shame I won't be able to play this year. As Drake said, take a shot for me 😘 |
There had to be a million things running through Lissie Hope’s head before Battlefield – doing a Meet & Greet was not one of them. Her phone buzzed incessantly with messages from friends, well-wishers, and (of course) her new sponsors. It was a comforting feeling to have such overwhelming support, even under the circumstances of the evening. Nonetheless, it was relieving that Mae understood the situation in the ring. It made it all so much smoother for all parties involved.
That still didn’t mean she was prepared for a Meet & Greet. When the door to her dressing room opened and she watched as her friend nearly dragged a young man by the sleeve behind her, she stifled an internal groan. It was all so much – and she’d heard plenty about this guy around the locker room. Nonetheless, she put on her best face for Mae’s sake.
Mae practically pushed the young man in front of her. Her voice rang loud and excited behind him. “This is Johnny,” she exclaimed, “He signed recently and is a huge fan!”
It was easy enough to turn on the charm, even when the guy in front of you is wearing a floppy Russian hat and Mae’s borrowed sunglasses. But (was his hand shaking?) after he reached up to remove the sunglasses and pull the hat off, he gave a sincere smile. “Hey, I’m sure you’re really busy,” he said sheepishly, “but Mae insisted. I am a big fan, if it’s anything. Won’t take your time, just wanted to say ‘hey’ and hoped you’d sign this shirt.”
“Sure,” Lissie said as she put on a smile and reached to her vanity for a marker, “Johnny?”
“Yeah,” the young man said as he held out the t-shirt to her. Taking it in her hands, Lissie unfolded the fabric and was met with the splash graphic of herself and Adelaide Ainsworth staring back at her.
“They barely made these in Mens sizes,” she said as she looked up at him puzzledly, “where did you get this?”
“Uprising, in L.A.” he said before adding, “I had to fight some neckbeard for the last one, but arguing the Large was more likely to fit me than him swayed the merch person.”
She looked back down, hesitating as she uncapped the pen. Nonetheless, she scrawled her signature across the graphic of her face and offered it back. Bacchus accepted it gratefully.
“Thanks! It’s great to meet you.”
Lissie maintained her smile, still not quite able to parse him.
“Anything for a fan.”
5/25/21 If you’ve been following this blog from before, you know that my start as a wrestling fanboy was with HoodSlam. If you don’t know what HoodSlam is, get a flight to Oakland while they’re still cheap and go to a show – it’s life changing if you’re a little weirdo queer punker like me. If Jenn hadn’t convinced me to go to my first show – which featured a guy in a rabbit suit named “Drugz Bunny” taking light tubes to dudes with drag show sets in between matches – I probably wouldn’t be here right now. I know we’re supposed to talk Havoc, but HoodSlam deeply influenced my ethos in and out of the ring. HoodSlam is uncomplicated; there isn’t all this snake shit, just a bunch of people beating each other bloody. HoodSlam has never hired a Walter – you can leave a HoodSlam show and feel good. It sucks you can’t leave Evolution feeling good, huh? We have a pretty limited sample size, so it’s difficult to say what makes a Havoc winner (and until Walter last year, no Havoc winner had won at Evo). That said, one thing is clear: Evolution has never had a happy ending. From Spencer’s retention via shenanigans to Lockhart’s affirmation of dominance to Walter getting to stuff his face with celebratory cake, when have we ever been able to turn off Evolution with a glow in our chests beyond the enjoyment of good wrestling? Call me an idealist. Maybe it’s the mark in me still viewing the company I now work for through the prism of whimsical weirdos and warriors rather than a cut-throat bloodsport. But I think Action Wrestling deserves a happy ending. It’s good news, oddly, that Ash Blake is the Champion because there is one constant with the Havoc winner: they’re always a foil to the Champion. The authentic, unchanging Wade Moor trying it alone versus the insecure chameleon Spencer Adams and his minions. The journeyman trying to assert himself as a contender Michael X versus the Golden Boy Action Wrestling Original, Ryan Lockhart. The misogynistic, pseudo-intellectual Walter versus the incorrigible, whimsical king, Alex Richards. The corporate pragmatist versus…? If any of my competitors are lurking on this blog (looking at you, Max) let me state this plainly: anyone hoping to win Havoc needs to understand the challenge of the Champion. Havoc will be the most difficult fight of your life, but the Champion needs to be the hardest fight of your life. Havoc is not the summit: it is merely the path to it. Only one flag has been successfully planted there: Walter’s. With Ash Blake as the keeper of this threshold, it begs the question as to what is a tolerable outcome. This year is not like last, and it’s likely that over half of the Top Ten will be populated by potential victors who, in this context, are absolutely unacceptable. Walter. Der Metzger. James Nightingale. Lissie Hope. Downfall. Carter Shaw. And those who’d get mauled at Evo: Corey Black. Kyle Kemp. Odin Balfore. Spencer Adams. That any these names could appear across from Ash’s should be stomach-turning. After a year of a COVID isolation, Donny’s oinking coup attempt, the castration of Corey Black, and the return of someone who should have a potassium chloride IV in his arm… well, we just shouldn’t have to choose between the lesser of two evils to root for. Or see an obvious loser make their death march. Feel free to tell me how Wrestler Y is a “real badass” or “it’s Wrestler Z’s year” (don't bother mentioning Wrestler X because we already know they won and they fucked right off the second they lost; I'll let you guess if I'm talking about Mikey or Walter). Lecture me about how Lissie Hope or Spencer Adams have been waiting patiently for this opportunity to add another feather in their cap. We deserve a happy ending. I believed that as a viewer at home and believe it more as a guy lacing his boots in the back. Now, I just have the means to do it. So, hi, Ash, I'm your foil: a queer punker from Oakland who spends his time getting high and money on stupid shit. And I'm going to take that belt back from you at Evolution because nobody understands the task at hand more than me. |
The smell of frying turkey bacon filled the apartment as Johnny stood over the stove, pushing the strips around to ensure an even fry. A band-aid concealed the healing tattoo on his left ring finger. After brushing a few strands of hair back behind his ear, he instinctively flinched as a pop of grease spattered the lens of his Saint Laurent sunglasses and cheek. Another pop singed a hole in the worn Swallowing shirt he wore; the signature of Addy A was now scrawled beside the faded signature of Lissie Hope (must’ve used a cheap pen). Behind him in the living room, Jenn and Fritterz had been diligently slicing open the innumerable cardboard boxes which now populated the living room.
“I don’t understand,” Fritterz muttered as he pulled out a stack of folded and banded black t-shirts, “why these aren’t being kept in the Oaklandish warehouse for distribution.”
“Lotta them are,” replied Jenn without looking up, still carefully checking the contents against the invoice, “we’re taking these on the road.”
“The road?”
“Can’t exactly sell non-licensed merch at the booth,” said Johnny as he moved a few strips from the skillet to a plate, “so we’re gonna sell them in the parking lot.”
“How much of this can you fit in the AMX?”
“Well, considering the AMX is a two-seater,” replied Johnny as he turned and walked the plate of bacon to the industrial spool, “and I can fit either you or the shirts in the trunk, we’re not gonna take the AMX. I bought a van.”
Fritterz looked up from the plate of bacon to Johnny, surprise on his face.
“You bought a van?”
“I know,” snarked Jenn, “for once I talked him out of spending his fight purse on designer crap.”
“Plus, ninety grand oughta go somewhere. Invest, y’know - make money for us all.”
“And you want me to come along?”
“If you can get time off from the Port, yeah. Jenn can’t run it alone if there’s demand – god willing – and I’ll probably have to be in the back. You in?”
It was a sudden movement as the big guy rose, wrapping his bear-sized arms around Johnny’s torso for a crushing hug. “Of course I am, you fuckin’ idiot! I’ll call the union today about it!”
“Okay,” Johnny grunted in the embrace, “don’t wreck the breadmaker, here. Put me down.”
As soon as he obliged, Fritterz had run off to another room to make the call. Across the room, Jenn and Johnny made eye contact. They shared a smile. From within Johnny’s pocket, his phone pinged with a new email.
From: Pasternak@ActionWrestling.com
CC: Torture@ActionWrestling.com
Subject: Merch
Johnny:
Okay, you’ve passed. We’d like to offer you your first shirt: AW Official and sold at the venues and online shop. Fly into HQ in Vegas the Monday before Havoc, and our artists will go over design ideas with you.
Alexander Pasternak
CC: Torture@ActionWrestling.com
Subject: Merch
Johnny:
Okay, you’ve passed. We’d like to offer you your first shirt: AW Official and sold at the venues and online shop. Fly into HQ in Vegas the Monday before Havoc, and our artists will go over design ideas with you.
Alexander Pasternak
5/29/21 First things first: we got the first shirt out through Oaklandish RIGHT NOW. We’ve had them at the b&m downtown for the past week, but they’re also available online and we’ll have a squad in the parking lots going forward, so look for them.  Shouts to my boy Alex for the design; we’re getting you out of the diner kitchen one day, baybee! This will probably be my last post until Havoc. A lotta guys in the “lmfao tier” are gonna get nothing (Hajeet, John Blade, Max Daemon, etc.), but for all the rest, I got words, words, words like Hamlet. Especially because if Corey Black, Spencer Adams, Downfall, Odin Balfore, or Kyle Kemp acknowledge me I’ll be flattered but unsurprised if they don’t. I’m not stressing. Talk is cheap unless it comes from me – then it’s 24k. Actions speak louder than words, my Louies are diamond-encrusted, and I got a Midas Kick that’ll give you gold teeth. I’m going Johnny Knockouts, 9-0, the best on the stick in the company – so go ahead and look past me. I couldn’t be a more thoroughbred dark horse for this race if I was trained and doped up by Bob Baffert – and more than three-fourths of the time I’m doing this at half skill so less than a quarter of you can follow along. Consider it a warning shot to anyone guarding the door to Evolution: fuck all that “happy to be here shit”, I will swerve on everyone who tells me to stay in my lane. Speaking of lanes, don’t think I’ve missed Jay Mack on that hustle. Adi Gold, James Raven, the Mop, or any other Twitter darlings looking to come up in my ring: the only thing you goofies are going over is the top rope (that said, if Emery shows, I will mark out, kiss you on the forehead, and then dump your ass out). Dion, I like your, and you’re gonna give it that Harvey Marx Golden Globe-worthy performance, but your odds of getting past me are less than Sam Kidsgrove playing Andre Jenson in a movie about Teo Blaze winning this year. I’ll call a Spayde a spayed and your whole show 201 & Done, from Soldado to Teijin To everyone else I’ve mushed to hold this belt, the definition of madness is thinking you switched it up while I haven’t and the result will be any different. And to Matthias, I’ve polished up the division so nobody mistakes our fingerprints on it. I hope you started learning “On the Good Ship Lollipop” Reo and that other guy lmfao. Razzles, if you’re watching, you can borrow them for a special entrance. I’ll clean Neo’s clock, box JB out like Harv, make it Rayne on Donovan, and leave Park jilling herself. Unfortunately, Claire, the revolution will not be Televised, but you can have my sloppy seconds, Rampage. I won’t hog your time, Regan, but I keep the flatiron hot for any Bunghole who has beef and don’t hang with any Lowe-down Bull-shit. Addy bb, hate to inform you I’m a sub in the sheets but dom in the streets, though I’m looking forward to seeing them soles as you topple out. Philidor’s gotta be close because I smell pussy – is that you, Shaw? As long as I’m in this match, y’all got less Hope making the top ten than Blackheart does earning her ten month chip. If you think I’m letting you crawl out of hibernation and pulling this shit again, Walter, you’re as dumb as I think you are. You’ll get why after I kick a few new folds in your brain. You and Odin deserve each other: two oversized, over-decorated, and over-indulged manlets wasting our time smelling their own farts on the mic and sulking off the moment their recurring 15 minutes of fame comes to its predictable and anemic end. In the name of the All-Father getting Son’ed by the Holy Spirit (me). Amxn. I’ll do this solo-dolo and embarrass a full squad. CJ and Dandy, I like you guys, but you’re gonna be following the leader when I drop Kemp like he does the ball. I’m not a Man Made God, but I’m one with the People, hoisting a hammer and sickle to bring down false idols. And I may not believe in angels, but I’m a lost breed of young savagery showing no mercy. So Harp on me, Reggie, and I’ll Murk your Squad to Twizt you Insane out of Pure Petti-ness. Still looking forward to wiping that smile off Metzger’s mask. And whether you’re past, present, or future I’ll be giving any Hall of Famer a walk of shame when I Wade with Moor Speede than a Kata-Pult up Normandy beach to Dig D-Day’s Grave and break his Hart. So here you go, Pasternak – here’s what I think my test looks like. I’m not doing it for you and Torture. I never needed to. This one’s for me. But it’s also for Trey. Debbie. Mae. Everyone who’s been on this journey with me or lives vicariously through it. I ain’t just a mark anymore. I’ve spent too many hours in that gym and filled too many notebooks with lines to get the Kid Brother treatment. You can stack Metzger, Walter, Balfour, Bull, and Harv on my shoulders, and I’ll still have the strength to carry the Pure Title through an Exploding Barbed-Wire Match with CJ Phoenix, take his Hardcore Title, and lay them both at the feet of Ash Blake in the main event. I’ll walk into that match covered in bruises, contusions, burns, cuts, and blood… but I’ll walk out of it still undefeated. I oughta send Ash Blake’s supervisor a fruit basket. Simply put, I’m going to press a crown of thorns down on Ash’s brow and have her leaving AW on a Chapter 11. So watch me cock back, swing through, and kill two birds with one stone: Deny Lissie and Carter by winning Havoc. Take back the title from Ash Blake.  No. Sleep. Till Evo. |
It was a midday flight from Oakland to O’Hare. Jenn and Fritterz had loaded the van and left earlier that week; Johnny had stayed to finish affairs in the Town. Luckily, flights were direct, and the hotel was already booked. For now, Johnny sat at a table out front of the Peet’s Coffee next to his gate, scrolling idly through Twitter. The tattooed “16” on his knuckle had healed, and Johnny was only disappointed it wouldn’t be visible beneath his fight gloves.
The flight would be five hours, but Johnny didn’t mind flying. In the past, he’d get ripped at the airport bar beforehand, but he wanted to be in top health for Havoc. Too much was on the line – too many people wanted to see him choke. Last week’s New York Times Sunday Crossword could keep him entertained – especially if he didn’t cheat.
“Excuse me…”
The voice broke his rumination, bringing his eyes up from his phone to the person before him. They weren’t too old – maybe 16-years-old, tops. They wore thick glasses over the facemask, the sides of their head were shaved with a flop of blonde hair hanging before their face. With a trembling hand, they clutched a black shirt and a marker.
“You’re Johnny Bacchus.”
“Yeah,” he said as he put down his phone and directed his undivided attention, “I am.”
“I’m actually on my way to watch you in Chicago,” the teen said, their voice shaking with nervousness, “Is it too much to ask you to sign my shirt? I’m sorry, I’m really not trying to bother you.”
Johnny reached out and took the shirt. From his pocket, he fished a silver Sharpie.
“Not at all, please – sit down,” he said as he motioned to the empty seat beside him. The teen was far too struck to accept the invitation as Bacchus looked back at the shirt, “And I got a pen. Gotta use a good one or it’ll fade real quick. What’s your name?”
“Sh-shay.”
Across the face of the Zen Chimp, Johnny scrawled:
❤ You Shay
J Bacchus
He offered it back with a smile. The teen took it, their face bright red.“Thank you! And good luck… You’re my hero.”
The darted away into the crowd at the terminal, as if determined to conceal themself despite about to board the same flight as him. Johnny’s eyes scanned in vain; accepting they didn’t want to be found, he looked back at the new tattoo on his knuckle and muttered to himself.
“Hero…”
