| False Idols Fall: 003; Battlelines XIII | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: May 20 2016, 04:32 PM (28 Views) | |
| Kharrion | May 20 2016, 04:32 PM Post #1 |
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May 17, 2016. Noon-ish. Coming off the Pike and heading home, Dietrich drives past the Walmart parking lot, nearly colliding head-on with a Kiessling Transit van. Obscenities are shouted, threats are made, and Dietrich bites his tongue as the van, filled with adults that qualify as “special needs,” pulls off, nearly colliding head-on once more with another vehicle, this time a battered pick-up truck with Rhode Island plates, as they shoot toward Millbury Street. Johan shakes his head and lights up a cigarette, opting to keep a safe distance from the Kiessling van. He pulls into the Dunkin Donuts/Xtra Mart on Providence Street and parks, enjoying the last of his cigarette as a young girl, late teens to early 20s, takes the risk of walking up to his van. Her clothes are ragged and ill-fitting, her face dirty with fresh scratches adorning her cheeks and nose, and her matted hair shoved as far under a battered black and gray beanie as it can. Before she can utter a word, he shakes his head, taking another deep drag and blowing it in her direction. Dismayed, she hangs her head, moving toward a man dressed business casual, 30-something, as he unlocks his car. They speak briefly, her eyes never meeting his, and he laughs, scoffing at whatever request she has. Dietrich looks on, sucking down more of his cigarette, and takes off his sunglasses, tossing them into the center console. The 30-something man tenses his body and begins shouting at the girl, causing her to back off in the meekest of ways, but the man follows. His face starts turning red as the girl continues to try to put space between them but he continues to close it. [The scene opens in Johan’s apartment, swirls of smoke hanging in the air as he stamps out his latest cigarette. A bottle of water, half-full, sits next to his ashtray and a pint of Evan Williams, only a few shots missing, beside it.] Dietrich: “Sure is fuckin’ funny how ya see the world, Johnny. How ya take in the day’s infuhmation and process it so it fits what ya think it shoulda been. One minute, I’m there ta cheer ya on, hopin’ ya send every othah mothafuckah in that ring with ya out on they asses so ya finally get that title shot ya been hopin’ fuh since the ink dried, and the next? Ya hittin’ me with a fuckin’ cash registah, rackin’ up all kinds a’ repaih bills that’s gonna get docked right out ya next paycheck. Where’s the sense in that, man? Bein’ all prepped up and ready ta swing at anythin’ and anyone that came too close ta ya...that’s the kinda shit that costs ya. That’s the kinda shit that’s been keepin’ ya from meanin’ anythin’ ta this sport fuh a few years now, brothah, at least how ya been tryin’ ta do it. See, the ol’ God a’ Violence, the guy that my brothah Piotr and I used ta stay up late and watch when ah folks went ta bed, he acted just like that. The big diff’rence between him and you, man, is that he didn’t give two flyin’ fucks ‘bout wins and losses. As long as he got ta hurt someone? He was cool. As long as he got ta let his demons out and make a few bucks doin’ it? He was happy. This guy, though...this fuckin’ impostah tryin’ ta piggyback the real God a’ Violence’s legacy a’ brutality and shit...damn, Johnny, I’m gettin’ real fuckin’ sick a’ repeatin’ myself ‘bout it.” [He sits down in a rolling chair, leaning back and slamming his size-18 combat boots on the table as he tries to relax.] Dietrich: “Fuh a minute, though, the real Johnny Napalm came out. Not when ya saw me out the cornah a’ ya eyes and took that swing, not when ya almost sent me ovah the rail and down a few flights a’ stairs...” [He pauses, reliving that moment as he forces a smile, ignoring the very real trepidation in the back of his head to grab hold of the unmistakable glee hiding in the corner from realizing that his childhood hero still “has it.”] Dietrich: “...it was when ya couldn’t see shit and still came at me. When ya was blinded by that can a’ mace that Price emptied inta ya eyes, when all ya could do was listen as I set ya back a few hundred bucks, and ya still got up and stahted comin’ ovah ta where I was standin’. I dove inta my van, Price hit the gas and we took off ta Mass General, and the smile on my face, man...” [That same type of smile starts to creep onto his face now. A blend of perverse enjoyment with a palpable undertone of dread.] Dietrich: “...let’s just say that I’ll be seein’ ya real fuckin’ soon, brothah. Maybe soonah than ya’d like.” [Static cut.] May 17, 2016. Noon-ish. The girl turns her back on the 30-something man, making her way to an elderly couple just exiting the store with fresh coffees in hand. Her eyes well up as she speaks to them, their heartstrings being tugged at all the right angles, and the 30-something man takes it upon himself to stand between her and them. He rants and raves, his blood boiling hotter the more he speaks, and the elderly couple move on to their Buick as the girl hangs her head. She wipes her nose and sniffles, moving away from the man as he follows her, his voice blurring into one loud roar of upper middle class resentment. The girl sits down on a small bench by the front door and the man stands in front of her, blocking any potential escape, and continues his berating. Dietrich finishes his cigarette and flicks it errantly on the ground. He sighs, staring forward at the dashboard, and nods. He quickly opens his door and takes his time stepping onto the concrete, the soles of his combat boots echoing in his own mind as time creeps to a crawl. He slams the door behind him and adjusts the bandanna on his forehead, running a finger over wounds both fresh and old before taking a step onto the sidewalk. Johan has had enough. [Very little, if any, time has passed between the last section of promo and now. Dietrich is still seated at his table with his bottle of water, pint of Evan Williams, and combat boots up off the floor. The smile remains, as well, turning to a snicker as his train of thought wanders into newer territory.] Dietrich: “Now, the same can’t be said ‘bout Shaun Sinclaih, though. This piece a’ jerked chick’n right heah, spendin’ his free time callin’ out anybody that he remambahs the name of...shit, boy, I ain’t even sure why I’m wastin’ my fuckin’ time on ya. ‘Cause a’ this?” [Dietrich reaches down to the floor and picks up the EWA Atlantic Coast title, holding it carelessly for the camera to see.] Dietrich: “Is this why I’m ‘sposed ta be listenin’ ta whatevah comes out ya mouth? Fifteen pounds a’ tin and some discount leathah holdin’ it all togethah? The way I see it, brothah, and the way my man Price sees it, is ya just like so many ‘a us was when we stahted out. Young kid, bright-eyed and fulla they own shit, thinkin’ all they need is one good shot at glory ta show the world that they belong in that ring. Ya train and train and train some more, itchin’ ta show off whatcha know, and hey, man, I can respect that. It ain’t like I was always this mean ol’ fuck. See, boy, when I was a kid...and ya can feel free ta stop me if ya heard this yet, even though I figyah that ya smaht enough ta not be seen anywheah in Woostah so long as I got some oxygen in my fuckin’ lungs...but when I was a kid, I thought all I needed was an oppuhtunity. I figyah’d that I’d get my hands dirty with some donnies now and then, sure, but that one wise promotah would take a good look at me and realize what kinda cash they could make. That day came. This fella named Darren Ridel was puttin’ tagethah a group down in North Carolina, and he wanted me ta be the muscle fuh his boys. He wanted me ta do what I was already doin’ jus’ fine on my own, drive down ta Raleigh ev’ry couple a’ weeks, and bring the fuckin’ violence. He had enemies. He had friends. None a’ it mattah’d. Not ta me.” [Dietrich looks at the Atlantic Coast title in his hands, subtly grimacing at it, and then tosses it on the table near his feet.] Dietrich: “See, ‘cause he didn’t realize that somebody else was willin’ ta pay me that much more ta fuck his plans right up. This guy from Boston, somethin’ ‘a an entrahprahneur, didn’t like Ridel all that much, and he doubled my cut to get the fuck outta that piece a’ shit state and come home. ‘Course, I did it. Money talks and I was sick a’ bein’ stuck on the floor a’ some leanah, prettiah dude’s motel room. Then, he arranged fuh me ta head ta New Mexico, and I did it. No more motel rooms, brothah, just a man and his van and whatevah shit I could find down there. Kinda dry down there, if ya feel me. I’m there, I lay every mothafuckah out that comes my way, and he comes callin’ ta bring me back home. Othah business had ta be done.” [He fishes into the pocket of his fatigues, pulling out a pack of L&M reds and a cheap black Bic. Spark, drag, inhale, exhale.] Dietrich: Now, ya heah me say all that, and ya come to ya own conclusions. I ain’t evah gonna complain ‘bout the years I spent livin’ outta my van ‘cause that’s the shit that made me who I am. I ain’t evah gonna piss an’ moan ‘bout workin’ fuh that guy outta Boston ‘cause he made the deal with Price and Gates ta get me where I am now, so don’t think fuh a second that I’m tellin’ ya this ta build some sympathy fuh me. Nah, kid, I’m lettin’ ya know that from day-fuck-one I ain’t been the kinda guy to have somebody talk shit ta me and just let it slide. Ya wanna shot at that belt? Ya wanna prove ya a big man and put Ozzy’s trainin’ ta good use?” [Drag. Inhale. Exhale. Dietrich: “Ya know where ta find me.” [Static cut.] May 17, 2016. Noon-ish. The 30-something man, red in the face and his nose inches from the girl’s, shouts every complaint that Fox News has told him he should have at her. He directs each ounce of personal resentment he harbors from his own inadequacies to her, positioning her in his own Randian narrative. The girl cries, her fists balled white as the 30-something man dares her to strike. She motions left and then darts right to escape but he grabs her by the arm and pulls her close, pointing to his BMW as he starts dragging her over, explaining that he intends to make her “earn it.” Dietrich grabs him by the collar and slams him against his own hood, denting it in the process. He picks the 30-something man up and brings their faces so close that the stitches adorning Dietrich’s face graze the 30-something’s nose. His mind swarms with words and ideas, ways to make the man disappear without a trace and ways to make his name synonymous with shame and exile, but none of them can form into coherent thoughts, bleeding together into one menagerie of self-vindicated brutality. Only two words form, the space between them dense and thick and dripping with the purity of true threat. “Go. Home.” Dietrich releases the man forcefully, almost throwing him against his car, and he stumbles as he jumps behind the wheel. A fumbling of his keys later and the BMW screeches out of the parking lot, heading into the same direction as the Kiessling Transit van. The girl sits back down on the bench, biting her tongue to stop any noise from escaping her, and Dietrich turns to her. He nods and enters the store, buying a case of bottled water and two packs of L&M reds. He exits the store and looks at the girl, studying her face as she wipes whatever tears made their way down her face away. He walks over to his van and opens the back, putting the case of bottled water next to his duffel bag before slamming it shut and opening the passenger door. She looks over and he motions for her to enter, taking a deep relaxing breath before, as calmly as possible, calling out to her. “...ya wanna grab some lunch?” [Within a beat, he sits up straight and collects his Atlantic Coast title, holding in front of him as a bit of stray ash falls from his cigarette and onto the center medallion.] Dietrich: “I’ll be the man still holdin’ this thing right heah. I’ll be the guy that still gets a few extra bucks in his paycheck ‘cause a’ it. I’ll be the bastahd that sent Ray Willmott back home fuh good.” [He takes a drag and blows the smoke, dropping the belt back on the table. Johan ashes errantly to the floor and stands up, grabbing the pint of Evan Williams as he does so.] Dietrich: “See, right now, all a’ ya’s ah thinkin’ that I’m jus’ full a’ shit and talkin’ ‘bout some tough guy bullshit. First I tell Napalm that I’ll be seein’ him real soon, which ya know ain’t a lie since we been at each othah’s throats fuh a couple a’ months now, and then I tell some kid who ain’t even seen what his own blood looks like when it hits that canvas ta shut his mouth. Yeah, sure, Napes ain’t what he used ta be, and Sinclaih’s just another donnie that’s tryin’ ta sound like a tough guy, but I’m still the one sayin’ all this shit and sittin’ fuckin’ pretty. So what the fuck does any a’ that gotta do with Ray Willmott?” [He takes a big drag and practically rips the cap off of the bottle, taking a swig and then using the back of his hand to wipe his mouth.] Dietrich: “Lemme tell ya what it has ta do with him. This guy Ray Willmott, paht a’ the Hi’ahchy, which claims ta be the most elite group a’ shitkickahs that this sport has evah seen, was gone MIA fuh eight fuckin’ yeahs. This guy Ray Willmott, who was out tearin’ shit up in rings all ovah the world when I was just growin’ my shoht an’ curlies, has some sorta legacy that he’s been tryin’ ta rebuild. This guy, Ray Willmott...is a fuckin’ cowahdly pussy-ass chump bitch. Ray, I ain’t gonna talk down ta ya like ya some wet-behind-ya-eahs rookie uh some agin’ would-be hero that don’t know how ta call it a careeah, and I sure as shit ain’t gonna sugah-coat it fuh ya, eithah. I’ma talk down ta Earth in a language that all a’ ya’s can easily undahstand.” [Dietrich takes a deep, long drag of his cigarette, and ashes directly – intentionally – on the Atlantic Coast title.] Dietrich: “I ain’t wantin’ ya ta take this as a personal jab, brothah, ‘cause it ain’t...actually, fuck that, yeah, it kinda is. ‘Cause when ya av’rage dude on the street that knows two shits ‘bout pro wrestlin’ heahs the name ‘Ray Willmott,’ they instantly think a’ all those World titles ya held fuhevah and a day ago. They think a’ when ya took ya oldah brothah, polished his ass off, and then held the Tag belts high up fuh e’rybody ta see. Then they wondah where ya went. Then, when they heah that ya back, they wondah why ya went away fuh so long, so it’s time ta come clean, pal. Why the fuck ya tuck tail and sprint off inta the wildahness, man? Stick ya dick in the wrong guy’s wife? Just need ta run away and find yaself doin’ some Eat Pray Love bullshit? Damn, man...” [Drag. Blow. Sip. Wipe.] Dietrich: “See, ya can say a lot a’ shit ‘bout ol’ Johan Dietrich. Yeah, I’m just a piece a’ trash from Woostah that likes ta bleed out othah dumb mothafuckahs. Yeah, I ain’t the nicest guy in the world, and I been ‘round some a’ the seediah elements that this sport and life, in gen’ral, got ta offah. There’s a big diff’rence between us, though, and ya wanna know what it is? I ain’t nevah run from nothin’ in my entiah fuckin’ life.” [Sip, drag, exhale.] Dietrich: “I ain’t nevah hid from nobody. I ain’t nevah had a need fuh five othah dudes ta watch my back, neithah. My big brothah, Piotr, used ta do that fuh me when we was kids, and I’d scream at him e’ry single fuckin’ time he got in my shit. I’d swing at him, I’d kick him, and I’d accept the beatin’ he’d lay on me aftah I failed, but I ain’t nevah run from shit. Ya wanna know how he died? My oldah brothah, Piotr? See, I was thirteen yeahs old, and these pieces a’ shit from anothah school didn’t like that Pete and one a’ they ex’s was hittin’ it off, so they come ta rough me up a bit. Split my lip, knocked out a couple a’ teeth, and I even got a scah when one a’ ‘em broke a bottle ovah my head. See?” [Dietrich leans forward, running his fingers across a long scar that runs from where his neck vertebrae meet his skull toward his left ear. He stands up straight again, clearing his throat, and takes a drag.] Dietrich: “Now, Piotr, we ain’t always see eye-ta-eye on shit, such is the struggle a’ brothahs, but we was always there fuh each othah. So he stahts goin’ down the street aftah I get inta the hospital, knowin’ where these fucks liked ta hang, and a cah driven by some drunk asshole goes off-road and made him a fuckin’ grease stain. Aftah a couple a’ weeks, I was good as fuckin’ new, Ray. I put on my boots, I grabbed Pete’s brand new Louisville Sluggah that our old man got him fuh Christmas, and I went down that same road that he got hit. I saw the mark where the cah hit him, saw some stains that the town cleanin’ crew couldn’t mop up just yet, and I knew that what I was ‘bout ta do was the right move. I found ‘em at one of they houses. Folks gone, pahty time, all they friends hangin’ ‘round, drinkin’ they old man’s liquah and smokin’ cheap weed they bought at the Palladium...I found the guy with the bottle, right? I walk right up ta him and ask him if he remembahs me, and those fresh scahs ain’t exactly hidin’ who I was. Before anybody could do a damn thing... ...I swung that bat and broke his fuckin’ jaw.” [He takes one last drag and stamps the cigarette out on the center medallion of the Atlantic Coast title, not even looking at it as he does so.] Dietrich: “Then I kept swingin’, and swingin’, and swingin’, and I ain’t stopped ‘til the siren was so loud that I couldn’t even fuckin’ think anymore. I spent that night in a cell, spent the next couple a’ yeahs floatin’ ‘round diff’rent schools and bein’ in-an’-out a’ juvie, all while ya was ridin’ high and livin’ the good life. So when ya disappeah fuh eight yeahs and come back actin’ like any a’ us owe ya anythin’, actin’ like nothin’ evah happened in ya absence, and then try gunnin’ fuh my title? Play hide an’ seek fuh neahly a fuckin’ decade and then pop back up and try ta take away paht a’ my fuckin’ paycheck? Shit, man...all I can say is FUCK YOU. Guys like you, Ray, ah just a dime a fuckin’ dozen these days. Old-timahs, closah to cashin’ in they 401k’s and filin’ fuh Social Security than they ah they prime yeahs, comin’ out the goddam woodwork and tryin’ ta keep e’rybody undah thirty in the shadows. All a’ ya’s ah guilty a’ that shit. Willmott, Napalm, X-Calibah...all a’ ya’s. So when ya head to that ring on May 31st in Cleveland, when ya heah ya shitty li’l Hot Topic music play and ya get all hyped up like ya just did a huge speedball, uh somethin’, and then it stops and ya see me comin’ down the ramp with that big smile on my face? Heh...I’m guessin’ ya gonna know what’s up. I’ll see ya real fuckin’ soon, Ray. I’ll be seein’ all a’ ya’s real fuckin’ soon.” [END.] |
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10:52 AM Jul 11