Post by Matt on Dec 9, 2022 0:25:44 GMT -5
Allow me a moment of weakness, if you will. I wish to revel in what I consider a rather successful opening salvo.
As irritating as it might be that the Rumble match was won by everyone’s favorite weight loss MLM “before” photo, taking second place in that match with the field that showed up is nothing to sneeze at. Especially when Scott Syren decided to be the sore loser that he is after I eliminated him.
C’est la vie.
Regardless, the result set in stone my path forward. A far more interesting path, if I do say so myself. That’s a story for another time, however, as I have the challenge I issued at Massacre to address first.
Hello Dylan, whether you wanted it or not, you now have my attention.
I’m certain you’re thinking to yourself “why?” It’s a valid question, and I’m sure you’ll puff out your chest and declare that it’s because you’re a hot commodity.
Allow me to set the record straight, I don’t really give a rat’s ass about how you think you’re an A-Lister or any of that other nonsense. No, what I’m interested in is the symbolism here.
I’ve heard you and Mike Zybala consider yourselves the “gatekeepers” here. The heart and soul of OCW.
Just what I need to make another statement of my intent before I move on to face Sahara Duke for the pretty belt she's slung over her shoulder, and since Mike Zybala is busy with getting his own career ended in a fiery car crash of a match you’ll have to do.
Not that I’m planning on overlooking you, Dylan. You’re a former Craze and Savage Champion, after all. It’s been a while since you held gold, but one would hope you haven’t let your skills atrophy too much while you’ve been spinning your wheels without a title.
If we’re being honest, I need your help, Dylan. I know just how much the fans and the children in the back can grouse about an outside talent coming in and taking away the hard-won plunder one of their regulars secured for themselves. Of course, everyone with two brain cells to rub together can see this is simply nature taking its course.
OCW fans though, they just aren’t used to seeing my caliber of talent in a ring before them. They’re used to begging for scraps. I want to give them a feast for their eyes! It benefits you too. After all, being in the ring with a true Titan of this industry will make you look that much better, even if the end result is academic. Getting the shit kicked out of you by a guy like me is going to elevate your profile quite a bit.
Think about it.
My own thoughts have regrettably needed to be elsewhere for the time being, however. Don’t worry your pretty little head off though, I’ll be plenty focused by the time our match rolls around. I just needed to address the nasty business with Sandy and how that will ultimately play out.
Thankfully I have been the recipient of two major bits of good news. First, she’ll make a full recovery.
Second, there’s no suspicion of any funny business. You know, something like her ex carrying out some harebrained demand made of him to pay back a debt to a psychopathic fortune teller.
That would be really stupid and I’m glad the authorities aren’t so foolish as to pursue that kind of angle.
Much to my chagrin, Sandy insisted I return Nathan to his grandparents rather than keep him around until she made a full recovery, but considering the circumstances I decided that it was best that I didn’t push my luck.
That didn’t make it any easier.
So much so that I end up making a few other ill-advised decisions.
How else do you explain jumping a fence and walking to an abandoned quarry in the middle of the night with a twelve-pack of beer when you’re not a teenager?
Even worse, going ahead and doing so while being yelled at.
“For fuck’s sake Shane, I thought the whole point of going to Dame was to get your shit together!”
The vision of loveliness screaming at me as I stand near the edge of the pit is Destiny Daniels, and the last time we were in the same place she doused me in gasoline and lit me on fire.
Okay, I hallucinated that one.
Prior to that, I hit her with a shovel and buried her in a shallow grave in a cellar.
That probably also didn’t happen. You know how life is, the details can just blur together.
“That was the idea, yeah.”
I stare down at the bottle of beer in my hand, the twist cap still securely in place. If I’m imagining her, it’s not because I’m drunk.
“Well your ideas are crap.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”
It’s a long way down to the bottom of the quarry, assuming you went down the safe way. A nosedive would probably get you down there in record time. Not the kind of record I’m interested in, so taking a step back is definitely in order. Thankfully other than the fences no be bothered really guarding the area these days. People aren’t dumb enough to come here, after all, so all the old trailer serving as an office collects dust like everything else here.
“Do you ever have anything constructive to say, anyways? It’s always “that’s a bad idea, Shane”. Maybe try being supportive for once, I’d honestly appreciate that.”
Destiny shoots me an incredulous look as she crosses over to where I’m standing, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag before blowing the smoke into my face.
“When you decide to do something worth supporting I’d fucking love to do exactly that. Unfortunately for the both of us, that’s a life skill you never bothered to develop.”
“Why would I? I’m so damn good at the whole self-sabotage thing. Gotta run with what I do best.”
“Being a prick? Yeah, you’ve definitely taken that as far as you can. First you hit me with a shovel over a girl, then you poison your ex? Class act.”
Some people just can’t let shit go, can they? Tsk.
“Yeah well, I needed a clean slate, but apparently I made a miscalculation on how to get one.”
“That’s one way of putting it. Where is the bitch anyways? You try to ditch me for her and now she’s AWOL.”
I didn’t really need to have that particular sore spot poked. I’ve barely heard from Avalon Blackthorn in over a month at this point, as she’s been busy dealing with her own unfinished business with her mentor Amber Ryan-Bane. Not my place to interfere, even if I would really like to. Still, I needed to defend her here.
Or am I defending myself? Sometimes it’s difficult to say, isn’t it?
“You don’t need to be talking about her like that.”
“Fuck her and fuck you too.”
“Real mature.”
“You’re one to talk, considering how you’ve acted since you met her. Grow up Shane, she doesn’t love you, no one could.”
Impulse is a hell of a thing, as I watch the can in my hand smash against the side of Destiny’s head. She stumbles, and my hands grab the fabric of her coat as I launch her over the edge of the quarry. It wasn’t a graceful tumble downward for her, and the broken heap that ultimately ends up at the bottom of the hole didn’t resemble the woman I’ve known for many years.
My foot nudges the box containing the remaining beer down after her, smashing and exploding against the jagged edges of the rocks.
Not quite pouring out a forty, but it would have to do.
I stare down into the darkness for a few more moments before I reach into my pocket and pull out my cell phone and dial a number.
“Dame, it’s Shane. I’m ready for the next card.”
I can hear the shuffling of cards in the background as I await a verbal response to my request.
Is this a mistake? Probably, but I didn’t have much else going on for me outside of my career at the moment.
Who knows? Maybe I will actually learn something. Doubtful, but stranger things have happened.
Dylan Thomas has title reigns, after all.
“The Rival.”
The line goes dead, and I can do nothing other than scream a few choice profanities as I head back to my car.
I would need time to address that particular step, if it does refer to who I think it does. I haven’t heard a peep from her since I was last in the ring with her back in 2016.
Pain in the ass.
Change of plans, Dylan. My gracious offer is no longer on the table. I don’t give a shit whether or not there’s any real benefit for you. I’m pissed off and it’s officially your problem.
Serious talk time, between the middling performance you put up at the Rumble and the fact that you couldn’t even beat Mike Mason of all people when a shot at the OCW Championship was on the line.
Couldn’t even get it up for that. A lesser man than me would insert a bedroom inadequacy joke here, but I’ll at least spare your dignity from that particular blow.
That’s between you and your no doubt very depressed wife.
Now, I’m sure you’re going to give some long-winded tirade about how you’re important and big and tough and dammit people should like you or whatever else you need to do to massage your ego to withstand the beating it’s going to take at Massacre.
It’s fine, I know how that is. You’re hardly the first person who’s called OCW home that I’ve had to slap around and knock down several pegs in order to prove a point about my own ability and how silly it is to think any of you could hang with me.
But hey, look at the bright side! You can go back to pretending that you’re important after the fact. You’re the A-Lister! You’ll be back to rubbing elbows with other famous people who talk shit about how fake you are the moment you step away from them at a party in no time flat!
I have the utmost faith in your ability to bounce back and convince yourself of your own self-importance after I bounce your skull off of the mat a dozen or so times on Monday.
After all, you’ve deluded yourself into thinking you’re the “heart and soul” of OCW, despite all the legends who have passed through here and the presence of far better, more deserving recipients of such a moniker.
Heart and soul. How unfortunate for you that I plan on bringing the blood and guts.
I’m coming for you, Dylan. I’ll be seeing you on Monday.
Jumping the fence a second time has me feeling my age a bit, but I do end up getting over it and back to my car. I bang my head against the steering wheel a few times before putting the keys in the ignition to get away from here.
“Satisfied?”
I roll my eyes as I glance over to Destiny riding shotgun, a cigarette between her lips as she sits with her arms crossed.
No, no I’m not. I never am.
“I have to go find Nikita.”
More smoke gets blown into the cabin as Destiny lets out a sigh.
“Whatever the hell for?”
“Closure, I’m guessing.”
“Riiiiiiight.”
My eyes meet Destiny’s own, and I can do little more than shrug before throwing the car into drive.
At this point I don’t care about the true reason for what Dame is up to, I’m ready to start.
As irritating as it might be that the Rumble match was won by everyone’s favorite weight loss MLM “before” photo, taking second place in that match with the field that showed up is nothing to sneeze at. Especially when Scott Syren decided to be the sore loser that he is after I eliminated him.
C’est la vie.
Regardless, the result set in stone my path forward. A far more interesting path, if I do say so myself. That’s a story for another time, however, as I have the challenge I issued at Massacre to address first.
Hello Dylan, whether you wanted it or not, you now have my attention.
I’m certain you’re thinking to yourself “why?” It’s a valid question, and I’m sure you’ll puff out your chest and declare that it’s because you’re a hot commodity.
Allow me to set the record straight, I don’t really give a rat’s ass about how you think you’re an A-Lister or any of that other nonsense. No, what I’m interested in is the symbolism here.
I’ve heard you and Mike Zybala consider yourselves the “gatekeepers” here. The heart and soul of OCW.
Just what I need to make another statement of my intent before I move on to face Sahara Duke for the pretty belt she's slung over her shoulder, and since Mike Zybala is busy with getting his own career ended in a fiery car crash of a match you’ll have to do.
Not that I’m planning on overlooking you, Dylan. You’re a former Craze and Savage Champion, after all. It’s been a while since you held gold, but one would hope you haven’t let your skills atrophy too much while you’ve been spinning your wheels without a title.
If we’re being honest, I need your help, Dylan. I know just how much the fans and the children in the back can grouse about an outside talent coming in and taking away the hard-won plunder one of their regulars secured for themselves. Of course, everyone with two brain cells to rub together can see this is simply nature taking its course.
OCW fans though, they just aren’t used to seeing my caliber of talent in a ring before them. They’re used to begging for scraps. I want to give them a feast for their eyes! It benefits you too. After all, being in the ring with a true Titan of this industry will make you look that much better, even if the end result is academic. Getting the shit kicked out of you by a guy like me is going to elevate your profile quite a bit.
Think about it.
My own thoughts have regrettably needed to be elsewhere for the time being, however. Don’t worry your pretty little head off though, I’ll be plenty focused by the time our match rolls around. I just needed to address the nasty business with Sandy and how that will ultimately play out.
Thankfully I have been the recipient of two major bits of good news. First, she’ll make a full recovery.
Second, there’s no suspicion of any funny business. You know, something like her ex carrying out some harebrained demand made of him to pay back a debt to a psychopathic fortune teller.
That would be really stupid and I’m glad the authorities aren’t so foolish as to pursue that kind of angle.
Much to my chagrin, Sandy insisted I return Nathan to his grandparents rather than keep him around until she made a full recovery, but considering the circumstances I decided that it was best that I didn’t push my luck.
That didn’t make it any easier.
So much so that I end up making a few other ill-advised decisions.
How else do you explain jumping a fence and walking to an abandoned quarry in the middle of the night with a twelve-pack of beer when you’re not a teenager?
Even worse, going ahead and doing so while being yelled at.
“For fuck’s sake Shane, I thought the whole point of going to Dame was to get your shit together!”
The vision of loveliness screaming at me as I stand near the edge of the pit is Destiny Daniels, and the last time we were in the same place she doused me in gasoline and lit me on fire.
Okay, I hallucinated that one.
Prior to that, I hit her with a shovel and buried her in a shallow grave in a cellar.
That probably also didn’t happen. You know how life is, the details can just blur together.
“That was the idea, yeah.”
I stare down at the bottle of beer in my hand, the twist cap still securely in place. If I’m imagining her, it’s not because I’m drunk.
“Well your ideas are crap.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”
It’s a long way down to the bottom of the quarry, assuming you went down the safe way. A nosedive would probably get you down there in record time. Not the kind of record I’m interested in, so taking a step back is definitely in order. Thankfully other than the fences no be bothered really guarding the area these days. People aren’t dumb enough to come here, after all, so all the old trailer serving as an office collects dust like everything else here.
“Do you ever have anything constructive to say, anyways? It’s always “that’s a bad idea, Shane”. Maybe try being supportive for once, I’d honestly appreciate that.”
Destiny shoots me an incredulous look as she crosses over to where I’m standing, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag before blowing the smoke into my face.
“When you decide to do something worth supporting I’d fucking love to do exactly that. Unfortunately for the both of us, that’s a life skill you never bothered to develop.”
“Why would I? I’m so damn good at the whole self-sabotage thing. Gotta run with what I do best.”
“Being a prick? Yeah, you’ve definitely taken that as far as you can. First you hit me with a shovel over a girl, then you poison your ex? Class act.”
Some people just can’t let shit go, can they? Tsk.
“Yeah well, I needed a clean slate, but apparently I made a miscalculation on how to get one.”
“That’s one way of putting it. Where is the bitch anyways? You try to ditch me for her and now she’s AWOL.”
I didn’t really need to have that particular sore spot poked. I’ve barely heard from Avalon Blackthorn in over a month at this point, as she’s been busy dealing with her own unfinished business with her mentor Amber Ryan-Bane. Not my place to interfere, even if I would really like to. Still, I needed to defend her here.
Or am I defending myself? Sometimes it’s difficult to say, isn’t it?
“You don’t need to be talking about her like that.”
“Fuck her and fuck you too.”
“Real mature.”
“You’re one to talk, considering how you’ve acted since you met her. Grow up Shane, she doesn’t love you, no one could.”
Impulse is a hell of a thing, as I watch the can in my hand smash against the side of Destiny’s head. She stumbles, and my hands grab the fabric of her coat as I launch her over the edge of the quarry. It wasn’t a graceful tumble downward for her, and the broken heap that ultimately ends up at the bottom of the hole didn’t resemble the woman I’ve known for many years.
My foot nudges the box containing the remaining beer down after her, smashing and exploding against the jagged edges of the rocks.
Not quite pouring out a forty, but it would have to do.
I stare down into the darkness for a few more moments before I reach into my pocket and pull out my cell phone and dial a number.
“Dame, it’s Shane. I’m ready for the next card.”
I can hear the shuffling of cards in the background as I await a verbal response to my request.
Is this a mistake? Probably, but I didn’t have much else going on for me outside of my career at the moment.
Who knows? Maybe I will actually learn something. Doubtful, but stranger things have happened.
Dylan Thomas has title reigns, after all.
“The Rival.”
The line goes dead, and I can do nothing other than scream a few choice profanities as I head back to my car.
I would need time to address that particular step, if it does refer to who I think it does. I haven’t heard a peep from her since I was last in the ring with her back in 2016.
Pain in the ass.
Change of plans, Dylan. My gracious offer is no longer on the table. I don’t give a shit whether or not there’s any real benefit for you. I’m pissed off and it’s officially your problem.
Serious talk time, between the middling performance you put up at the Rumble and the fact that you couldn’t even beat Mike Mason of all people when a shot at the OCW Championship was on the line.
Couldn’t even get it up for that. A lesser man than me would insert a bedroom inadequacy joke here, but I’ll at least spare your dignity from that particular blow.
That’s between you and your no doubt very depressed wife.
Now, I’m sure you’re going to give some long-winded tirade about how you’re important and big and tough and dammit people should like you or whatever else you need to do to massage your ego to withstand the beating it’s going to take at Massacre.
It’s fine, I know how that is. You’re hardly the first person who’s called OCW home that I’ve had to slap around and knock down several pegs in order to prove a point about my own ability and how silly it is to think any of you could hang with me.
But hey, look at the bright side! You can go back to pretending that you’re important after the fact. You’re the A-Lister! You’ll be back to rubbing elbows with other famous people who talk shit about how fake you are the moment you step away from them at a party in no time flat!
I have the utmost faith in your ability to bounce back and convince yourself of your own self-importance after I bounce your skull off of the mat a dozen or so times on Monday.
After all, you’ve deluded yourself into thinking you’re the “heart and soul” of OCW, despite all the legends who have passed through here and the presence of far better, more deserving recipients of such a moniker.
Heart and soul. How unfortunate for you that I plan on bringing the blood and guts.
I’m coming for you, Dylan. I’ll be seeing you on Monday.
Jumping the fence a second time has me feeling my age a bit, but I do end up getting over it and back to my car. I bang my head against the steering wheel a few times before putting the keys in the ignition to get away from here.
“Satisfied?”
I roll my eyes as I glance over to Destiny riding shotgun, a cigarette between her lips as she sits with her arms crossed.
No, no I’m not. I never am.
“I have to go find Nikita.”
More smoke gets blown into the cabin as Destiny lets out a sigh.
“Whatever the hell for?”
“Closure, I’m guessing.”
“Riiiiiiight.”
My eyes meet Destiny’s own, and I can do little more than shrug before throwing the car into drive.
At this point I don’t care about the true reason for what Dame is up to, I’m ready to start.