Post by Ash Blake on Aug 29, 2021 12:23:16 GMT -5
Hello, Carter. I hope this finds you well.
No, seriously. Truth be told, I don't think we should be able to do this at this point. That I shouldn't be able to talk to you like a colleague, as someone who so clearly has so much more to give to the Company, to the Brand, to the Mission. No, I'm long overdue for the part where my blade is supposed to dig in your side, aren't I? Where I, the wounded and aggrieved, spit venom on your name, declare what you did at Evolution to be an act of treachery, of insubordination and act as such.
At least, that's how the logic of this business goes. The logic of brittle men with brittle hearts and egos that shatter and scatter like dust in the wind the second eyes are no longer on them. Men whose perspectives are so clouded by thoughts of legacy and a hyperfixation on millimeters of pole position that they could never even perceive a purpose greater than themselves. Men like our respective recurring foes as far as that shiny belt in Philidor's possession are concerned: Corey Black and Spencer Adams.
Of course, that puts us in something of a quandary, doesn't it? Because now the positions are flipped and the shoe's on the other foot. You're the champion, and I'm the insurance policy, stapled to your side to ensure that no matter what, Philidor Holdings retains. If I can be honest with you for a minute, Carter, I think this is a hail mary. An attempt to stir things up just enough so that we wind up at each other's throats long enough for you to lose the belt without another finger on the monkey's paw curling.
Because ultimately, at the end of the day, this match is about us. Since October twelfth, twenty-twenty, all roads have led to Philidor Holdings. Since January thirty-first of this year, everything in this wretched promotion, in this godforsaken business, has been about Philidor. We did that, all of us. That's what the Empire business is. And now, we've got the powers that be throwing their hands in the air and deciding that maybe, if they throw enough variables into the equation, they can drive a wedge between us wide enough to make us both lose sight of the task at hand.
I mean, how else would you explain the faces they dragged out of the peanut gallery and threw at our feet under the guise of competition?
While the audience below sat on the edge of their seats, a tense, uneasy silence befalling them as the moment they'd been waiting for drew ever nearer, the mood in the Philidor Box above was one of consternation. Looking down on the crowd below, the Supervisor scowled, idly swirling his martini glass in his hand. Too much had been invested into this moment: deals brokered, jets chartered, resources poured into the moment only to seemingly see it unravel in real time. Neo had been soundly defeated, the Company's grasp on the TV Title non-existent. Lissie Hope and the masked butcher of Reginald Royce didn't even end decisively. And all the while the crowd, the clustered rows of ants below, cheered and ate it all up.
The Supervisor seethed as "No. 99" hit, turning away as Spencer Adams emerged from behind the curtain. His eyes narrowed on the loveseat where Ash Blake sat, legs crossed, transfixed by the screen broadcasting the scene below.
"Surprised you're still here," he said, an unusually forward bitterness in his voice as his lips pulled back in a cold sneer. "Thought you'd be off playing nurse to your little pet project."
Ash turned from the screen to focus on her boss, cocking her head. "Elisabeth's a big girl; she doesn't need to be coddled."
He shrugged, lips twitching into an ironic smile, flashing his rat teeth. "Whatever you say, Miss Blakesley."
Ash's eyes darted back to the screen as "Angry Heart" replaced "No. 99," just in time to see Spender Adams descend the second rope before the broadcast cut to the entranceway to reveal the emerging figure of Carter Shaw, AW Championship in tow.
"Man of the hour," The Supervisor said, his voice distant as he paced around the box. Behind her, Ash heard the clinking of glasses, though her attention wasn't pried from the screen until she heard him clear his throat.
As she turned her head, she saw him reaching for the bottle of Grey Goose, two martini glasses in front of him.
"Have a drink with me."
Maybe I'm being a bit unfair to the others in this match, Carter. After all, this is another potential star-making performance for one Quixote Della Torre — the man who's had more 'star-making performances' than there are stars in the night sky. But every single time you think he's going to turn the corner, that he's going to dig in and really separate himself from the pack, that's when his hands start to reach for his own throat again. And these are the matches where he's cut his teeth and made his name, where he shines just enough to get everyone's eyes on him, right before his hamstring seizes up and he collapses on the track, ten meters from the finish line. Like clockwork.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
But he's a variable. He's an addition. For God's sake, he's something thrown into this match so Alexander Pasternak can pretend he's doing more about the supposed 'Philidor problem' than just slamming his head into a brick wall, hoping it falls down on its own. It's fitting then, almost, to combat that perception by tossing a bone to a man who's never broken through at this level. And yet, I'm unmoved. If this is another one of his alleged star making moments, we're going to ensure this one doesn't just slip from his hands; that it'll evade his grasp altogether.
But you feel it too, don't you? That sense of the powers that be throwing everything against the wall. That quiet desperation, swimming against the current in the vain hope of getting out from under the iron fist of Philidor Holdings. That's why Pasternak swung for the fences and threw Dune in here, too. Dune, a man with a resume dating back to well before you or I were even blips on the radar in the business. Dune, another freakish specimen with all the physical gifts needed to drag himself back to the mountaintop in the blink of an eye.
Dune, who really should've asked WCF's other god-king how much Philidor Holdings cares for legacies. This is not his moment. He's chucked in here to be another body in the fray, given the same reward as the man he beat. That's not a reward for impressing in his true grand return, that's a slap on the back and an attaboy while Torture frantically searches for whatever Pennsylvanian hospice care facility Seth Lerch is dying of cirrhosis in to get his last bid to purchase the rotting corpse of WCF.
Of course, it'd be foolish to write him off wholesale. Someone that size, that crazed, you take your eye off the prize for one second and you wind up in a hospital bed. It's fortunate, then, that Pasternak just couldn't help himself but to throw the other giant in, too. I'm sure the pair have unfinished business of their own — and who would we be to deprive them of their soon-to-be forever war?
Who would we be to deprive Odin Balfore of the tantalizing taste of glory, before ripping it away from him? You can't look in any direction in this match without locking eyes with someone's self-styled legacy, but Odin Balfore wears his front and center. But that's the thing about legacies, isn't it? Sometimes you just can't escape the shadow. It doesn't matter what Odin Balfore was. What Odin Balfore has been. What is Odin Balfore right now? He's a nostalgia act, puffing his chest to convince the world he's the man he's always been. And it even works, right up until he steps in the ring and you see that he just isn't.
These are the men tossed into this match, the men looking to score the shocking finish. They're the bodies to keep the auspices up, because from the moment the slate was first announced, Carter, it's been about Philidor Holdings, and the respective opponents who've defined our reigns.
They'd had more than a drink.
Ash, face flushed and head swimming, laid on the loveseat, head propped up by the arm rest, as she squinted through her blurry vision at the screen. The room swayed and swirled, seeming to spin around her as she repeatedly blinked.
Then, for a moment, it all stopped as Spencer Adams drove Carter Shaw into the mat. She could've sworn she heard Billy shouting "Vaccine" from the desk as she brought a fist up to her mouth, biting the back of her thumb.
Her heart skipped a beat as Carter narrowly kicked out, a jolt of electricity surged through her body as the cameras lingered on the dumbstruck, exhausted face of Spencer Adams on the mat. She hopped to her feet, smile widening as the final moments of the match played out.
The Supervisor approached, shuffling across the room as "Angry Heart" hit the speakers once more.
"You struck gold with him," he said, trying his hardest not to slur his words.
Ash's ears perked up.
"The rest of that batch, well the less said the better. But him? Fucking diamond, he's gonna be the perfect face for the brand for a long time."
She couldn't help but giggle, shaking her head.
"All due respect," she slurred, turning to face him. "I'm surprised to see you so eager about this, seein' as it means daddy has a new favorite son after all."
"Seein' as," he repeated, mocking the bit of her accent that'd bled through. Ash's face grew hot and she covered her red cheeks with her hand, shaking her head.
"All due respect, Miss Blakesley," he began again after a momentary silence. "Maybe you ought to keep your concerns within your paygrade."
She raised her arms in a show of surrender, pursing her lips. "Understood, sir."
Another silence elapsed between the pair as The Supervisor returned to his spot, looking down and watching as Shaw and Garvey made their way back up the ramp, still serenaded by the sweet sounds of audience disapproval.
"Y'know," Ash could hear him sneering. "You've handled the recent restructuring of this operation's hierarchy well. Better than most in your shoes would've, no doubt. You're just a regular company gal, aren't you?"
"Of course, sir." Ash responded, the corners of her mouth tightening into a plastic grin. Someone has to be.
I've been thinking about Corey Black a lot lately, Carter. I know, I'm not too thrilled about that either, but when someone's been so intertwined into the better part of the last year of your life, you can't help it. I've been thinking about the myth of Corey Black. The legend. The legacy. I've been thinking about how this man, this unpleasant little imp, is so ingrained in the fabric of this sport. I've been thinking about a common refrain of mine, one I trotted out every single time I faced him.
He's the greatest wrestler of all time. Not only that, he is the wrestling business. No name has shone quite so bright for quite so long and racked up the prestige the way his has. But then you look at him, really look at him, and you see the cracks in this business' foundation start to be laid bare.
Corey Black is an empty, vacuous, spineless black hole of a human being. Tell me, Carter, what does Corey Black stand for? What does he believe in? I mean, I can tell you what he stands against.
He stands against us. Oh, he really hates us. He's made it his mission to see our destruction through, no matter how many bones he has to break sprinting into the wall to see it happen. You know, just like he and the Man Made Gods stood against Walter? Y'know, until they didn't — oh yeah, we're playing all the hits tonight. Better part of a year later and I'm still harping on that like it's January all over again because it really lets you know what his priorities are.
At the end of the day, Corey Black stands for Corey Black. He's entirely consumed by the desire to pad his bloated legacy, losing his mind over inches of pole position. If Graham Baker had done to him what you did at Evo — honestly, if he'd even just thought about it, Corey Black would've thrown him off that rooftop himself. All in pursuit for another belt, another win, another dopamine hit as the marks in the audience lap it up. He couldn't take the belt from Philidor, so he went on a world tour. Which was perfect for him, actually: he could fight the world, he could beat the world, and he didn't have to dwell on the fact that he couldn't be champion of it.
Because that's all he's got. And that's why he's stepped on every rake, because he just cannot see past his own petty, self-serving ambitions. He's the greatest wrestler of all time, but in the year of our Lord twenty-twenty one all that's gotten him is enough cracks at the belt that you'd think he'd have to win one of them by accident. And not even that's happened for him. No, instead, we've taken our pound of flesh time and time again, ripping apart that sterling aura of his brick by boring brick.
Same as it's been all year. Same as it'll be going forward. It's a little bit sad, watching the King in Exile throw rocks at the throne, hoping someone else does the dirty work of destroying us for him so he can swoop in and bloviate all about how he loosened it up for them.
Him and Spencer Adams. The boy-king himself, shouting on the balcony. Mr. AW, Rushmore himself in the flesh, trying his hardest to keep his head above water after his Havoc win threw him right into our crosshairs. Mr. Focus Group, who hasn't had a thought in the last two years that he didn't run by a marketing team first. In a sense, I think I should appreciate that; no one in this business has the power to brand themselves like Spencer Adams. To brand a movement. But to live it? To be it? To see it through? Normally ends up with Spencer Adams standing tall, as everything around him burns to the ground.
Admittedly, I've gone back and forth on Spencer. Whether he's a sniveling little clout chaser or a genuinely good guy, but the answer I always come back to is C.) it doesn't matter. Spencer Adams is a hurricane tearing through the lives of everyone he loves and everyone he cares about. And yet he can't bring that singular focus towards us, the objects of his ire. The people he wants to save AW, save this business from. Because he thinks if he keeps steadfast and stolid, he'll convince us to play his game, to try and beat him on that ground.
To that end, it's a more noble goal than Corey Black, who would eagerly chuck himself in the mud if it meant he could be the first person to pin me. But what he doesn't get is that there's only one rulebook Philidor Holdings follows: Philidor Holdings'. So he's running right along Corey, head first into the wall. Let's just let them do it, Carter. Because you and I have a lot to talk about.
Nothing bad, of course. Just something that needs to be addressed before it becomes an issue. Have a seat, let's have a heart to heart about your pride.
8/23/21
"Miss Blakesley," said the Dark Man as Ash swung open the door to her hotel room. As the light from the hall momentarily flooded the pitch black room, she caught a glimpse of Saltair's massive frame seated at the foot of her bed. Though her heart dropped at the sound of his voice, she wasn't surprised to find him here. Often, one felt Samson Saltair before you saw him: the feeling of dry ice on the back of one's neck or the sensation of weighted shadows.
As the door fell shut behind her, Ash groped along the wall, looking for the switch. Which, when she found and flipped it, she was greeted with Samson standing at the end of the narrow entranceway.
"We must discuss what occurred earlier tonight."
Ash gulped as The Dark Man turned and ushered her into her room, he gestured towards the office chair on the far end of the room. A wordless command Ash followed, turning it to face him before taking a seat.
A silence hung over the pair as Ash fidgeted in her seat, eyes studying him up and down, though careful not to linger too long on his eyes. Finally, Samson stepped closer, inspecting his subordinate.
"It would appear that Mr. Shaw is of the belief that he's the one running things." His words came out barely above a whisper, reaching Ash's ears as if he were behind her, though she was looking him directly in the face. "This is not the first time since the beginning of this operation that those boundaries have been pushed."
Ash didn't speak. She couldn't speak. Even the simple acts of sitting still and breathing were arduous as the full weight of his gaze cut through her like a hot knife through butter.
"Though this infraction is not as severe as the previous one, it is clear that such behavior must be curbed."
He approached even closer, his frame obscuring some of the light, casting harsh shadows across his face.
"A disciplinary hearing will be scheduled shortly, be sure to inform Mr. Shaw of the necessity of his cooperation with the proceedings."
"W-with all due respect, sir," Ash blurted, her voice momentarily caught in the back of her throat as the Dark Man cocked his head. "I'm well aware of how much weight my input holds in matters such as these, but I'm not entirely certain that's necessary."
Ash could feel her heart pounding in the back of her mouth as Samson glared at her, unfazed.
"And what would you suggest?"
"Car— Mr. Shaw has no issue with taking direction; he just needs to be reminded who works for whom."
The Dark Man pondered Ash's words for a moment, and lowered himself into a crouch, bringing himself eye-level with his seated underling.
"This is not an opportunity; this is a requirement. Get your house in order."
Ash nodded as he rose back to a vertical base.
"Yes sir, Mr. Saltair."
I said it the day Philidor Holdings officially entered this rotten little industry: we are not in the wrestling business. We're in the empire business. And forgive me, but I think that's why I'm so hung up on this idea of legacy at the moment. I see the people in the wrestling business so worried about how they'll be remembered, what people are going to say about them when they're old and gray and dead. In the pantheon of this business, where will Corey Black be remembered? Where will Odin Balfore? Spencer Adams?
But you're never going to ask that question about Ash Blake. Because it's never been about that for me. Legacies are past tense, and we're looking to build something without end. A perpetual present. The sun never sets. That's the Empire Business.
Strolling into the biggest wrestling promotion in the world, Action Wrestling, with the primetime CBS show, the nine figure deals for streaming services, the countless partnerships, this juggernaut in the realm of all sports, not just wrestling, and bringing it to its knees in about four months? That's the Empire Business.
Taking a legend in this sport in Torture, a ruthless businessman, and rendering him a yipping chihuahua who still does business with the same corporation he loathes? That's the Empire Business.
It's never been about the respect, or the admiration, or leaving it in the ring. It's been about being the ring. Being the only game in town and making everybody play by our rules. And in all counts, we've not just succeeded, but exceeded. They might as well change the name of the show to Philidor Holdings presents: Monday Night Clash with how thoroughly we've controlled the spotlight.
On our terms.
On our time.
Playing by our rules.
So tell me, Carter, why are you seemingly so desperate to play by Spencer Adams' rules? Why bend over backwards to play gotcha with Corey Black after you punked him on his own home field?
What, are you gonna logic and reason your way into Spencer Adams' respect? You're going to pin Corey Black perfectly clean and he won't find something to be mad about after? Let them cry. Let them feel cheated, and then laugh when they try the same exact thing in the rematch but more this time.
You want to be respected as a 'fighting champion' by who? The crowd? The same glowy-eyed psychos who cheer when the undercard guys maim each other on Corey Black's vanity shows? The same raving mob you rightfully call hypocrites every chance you get? Look at your position, and look at theirs. Look at your position, and look at Spencer. At Corey.
Trappings aside, nicknames aside, you are in an elevated position now, Carter, and it's time you start acting like it. You proved me wrong in my performance review; you're shining so brightly right now. Words can not express how proud I am of you, how you've embraced being a member of the Philidor Holdings family, how you carried yourself in dealing with David Sanchez and The Following.
Which is why it's so disappointing to see you with the belt, jump at everyone who throws a barb at you. You're Caesar insisting he fight in the Colosseum.
Let's show them what the Empire Business looks like, yeah?
You won't have to worry about me playing Brutus at all, I understand my place in this hierarchy.
I'm the insurance policy.
You showed me how to play that part.