| False Idols Fall: 004; Battlelines XIII (final) | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: May 25 2016, 09:54 AM (19 Views) | |
| Kharrion | May 25 2016, 09:54 AM Post #1 |
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May 17, 2016. Mid-afternoon. Dietrich opens the door of his apartment and holds the knob with one hand as the other steadies the pack of bottled water over his shoulder. He motions to the panhandling girl to enter, and she does. He follows her, locks the door, and then slams the case of bottled water on the floor. He pulls out a pocket knife and slices a hole in the plastic, pulling out two bottles before handing her one. She thanks him, barely audible, and he nods before walking over to his living room couch. He turns on the TV and kicks back, ripping the cap off the bottle of water and chugging the entirety down. She stands by herself near the door, hanging her head. A few minutes go by of complete silence between them, the only noise coming from whatever is on TV as Johan surfs through each channel, until he looks over at her. “Ya nevah gave me ya name.” [Dietrich sits on a bench in an empty parking garage. It’s the middle of the night and, save for the odd car leaving the bars of downtown Worcester or the occasional pack of drunks, it is dead silent.] Dietrich: “Oppuhtunity. It’s the only thing in life that guarantees any sort a’ equality. We each given a set a’ cahds, dealt ‘em out when we pop out the womb, and how we play ‘em is what determines whethah we die heroes uh land in a paupah’s grave. ‘Course, we ain’t dealt the same hands, ‘cause what kinda fun would that all be? Life ain’t meant ta be fair, man. So let’s take a good look at yaself, Ray. Let’s point out that ya been given shit, handed it on a silvah fuckin’ plattah, that I ain’t. A real nice home, a lotta friends that ah willin’ ta bend ovah backwahds fuh ya and don’t mind that ya can’t pull ya own weight...all that fun gentruhfied bullshit. Let’s focus on the fact that ya the product a’ thousands a’ yeahs a’ human evuhlution and that ev’ry milestone throughout hist’ry has led us ta this point right heah. The Battle a’ Lexin’ton, the Westahn Front, those asshole with they little runnin’ man flag that felt like they deserved moah than e’rybody else ‘round ‘em...they all led ta this moment. Let’s bring up how ya spent most a’ ya thihty-six yeahs on this planet goin’ aftah gold. Gold like this...this thing that I got in my hands.” [Dietrich holds up the Atlantic Coast title, his eyes not moving from a focused spot on the ground.] Dietrich: “Let’s bring up how yeah, sure, ya earned ya shots when ya was greenah than grass, how ya trained and ya spilled ya blood and ya sweat and ya teahs and all that happy hoahseshit and then tossed it all out the window because ya fuhgot ta wear a rubbah one night. Let’s talk ‘bout what ya been doin’ since dustin’ off ya boots, kid. Talk ‘bout the Hi’achy, ‘bout how each time ya think ya got ya desired result in ya hands that somethin’ comes ‘long and snatches it all away. ‘Bout how ya still ain’t seein’ things the way they really ah, the way they gotta be... Let’s talk ‘bout how ya got mad at Chip Mastahs fuh makin’ up some rules that ya ass agreed ta and now ya wanna staht back-ped’lin’ ‘cause they didn’t favah ya. Let’s talk ‘bout that match with NOTHIN’ that was so goddamn great and legendary where ya choked ‘cause a’ some dickhead makin’ a run-in. Let’s talk ‘bout all this shit, Ray. Let’s talk ‘bout how, without ya boys backin’ ya up, ya ain’t meant shit in the EWA. Let’s talk ‘bout doin’ homework and studyin’ and all that fun gahbage. Then let’s talk ‘bout how all these things ya chastisin’ me ovah, how I ain’t actin’ like a champ and how I ain’t doin’ my job a’ researchin’ all ya little quirks and figyahin’ out what makes ya tick, and how ya still ain’t got shit ta show fuh yaself since comin’ back.” [Static cut.] May 17, 2016. Mid-afternoon. She answers with a whisper and takes small steps into the living room, sitting down on a chair a few feet from the door. “Sorry?” She answers again, a little louder this time. “Jennifer.” “I’m Johan. Ya can call me Joey.” She thanks him for helping her earlier, trepidatiously calling him “Joey” after letting her sentence all but trail off. He nods and clears his throat before fishing for one of the new packs of L&M reds. He pulls it out, packs it, and rips the cellophane off before turning one cigarette over in the pack – a “lucky” – and pulling one out. He lights it and notices her staring at him, her gaze turning away at any hint of his face turning to hers. He takes a drag and tosses her the pack. “Go fuh it.” [He pulls out his pack of cigarettes, still never looking at the camera, and lights one up.] Dietrich: “See, pal, ya ovah theah babblin’ on ‘bout havin’ great matches, ‘bout puttin’ on a good show fuh all the fans and makin’ sure the little snot-nosed brats go home happy, fuhgettin’ the inev’tability a’ death fuh just a few seconds, and I’m ovah heah doin’ what it is that I been paid ta do: drop some mothafuckahs on they heads. A’ course, that also happened ta lead me ta some gold that, like ev’ry othah piece in this company, ya nevah gonna get a real chance ta feel. Least, not like how ya wanna.” [Drag. Hold. Exhale.] Dietrich: “Now, I ain’t evah been the smahtest guy, the shahpest tool in the shed, uh whatevah, but I ain’t evah needed ta be, neithah. See, Ray, what I got on me, at all times, is two things that ya eithah bohn with uh ya ain’t. One, I got a big-picshah view a’ ev’rythin’, so I ain’t sweatin’ the small shit. And two, I got a bad fuckin’ attitude ‘bout ev’rythin’.” [He takes a drag and smirks, shaking his head.] Dietrich: “I mean, brothah, this shit that ya spewin’ left an’ right ‘bout how ya got screwed ovah heah and cheated theah...man, don’t ya evah feel like complain’ ain’t the right thing ta be doin’? Ya gonna cry ‘bout some othah slight that life threw at ya, Ray? Gonna piss an’ moan ta Stacy an’ Draven aftah the hospital bills come in when I’m done with ya uh just thank her like a good like choiah boy fuh gettin’ the chance ta taste baby food again? If eithah a’ us ah confused, man, it ain’t the guy walkin’ inta Cleveland with gold ‘round his waist. It ain’t the guy ya see sittin’ heah right now, smokin’ a butt, and chillin’ like he ain’t got a care in the world. Oh, wait...” [His eyes widen as a lightbulb goes off in his head, and he nods, chuckling as he talks.] Dietrich: “Ya one a’ those guys that thinks gold actually means somethin’ beyond extra pay, ain’t ya? Yeah, that’s gotta be it. Ya grew up idolizin’ ev’rybody that stepped inta this ring, wantin’ ta fight in the same rings as the greats ya used ta bow down and woahship like they was livin’ gods, uh somethin’. Ya thought ya heroes were about honah and some warriah’s code. Know what kinda dude that makes ya out ta be, Ray?” [He shakes his head, rolling his eyes as he adjusts the black bandanna wrapped around his forehead.] Dietrich: “A fuckin’ gullible one.” [Static cut.] May 17, 2016. Mid-afternoon. Jennifer finishes her cigarette and looks for an ashtray, prompting Dietrich to shove one over to her. She stamps it out and leans back, sipping her water cautiously. She sniffles and then stares at him for a moment too long. “Listen, I ain’t gonna pry ‘bout whatcha doin’ out theah. Drugs, bad home, whatevah...I just ain’t cool with pieces a’ shit like that guy tryin’ ta act tough.” She nods and hides a smile before asking him what he does for a living. He hesitates as he looks at her, his glare turning into a soft gaze before he answers. “Let’s just say that I’m in the fightin’ business.” Silence befalls the room as they continue watching TV, each channel offering another momentary distraction from the day’s worries. Dietrich stands up and yawns, walking over to the kitchen, and Jennifer, again, thanks him. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.” She offers to pay him back somehow, but points out that she has no money. Again, Dietrich ignores her attempts at settling her debt, opening the fridge and pulling out a pack of provolone cheese, a pack of bologna, and a jar of mayonnaise. “Wanna sandwich?” She declines his offer and asks if she can take off her jacket. He nods as he opens a loaf of bread and pulls his pocket knife out once more, using it to slather a little bit of mayonnaise on each slice. He rinses it in the faucet as Jennifer watches from the living room, letting her cigarette ash grow and grow. Johan finishes making his sandwich and wipes his knife clean on his pants, pocketing it as he takes a bite. She watches, finally ashing her cigarette, most of it landing on the floor. Johan stares at it and then looks at her and she scrambles, trying to clean it up until Dietrich lets out a laugh. “Hey, if ya lookin’ fuh a place ta stay the night, I think we can make a deal.” Jennifer’s mouth goes dry as she slowly sits back down, taking a long drag before stamping it out. She blows it out slowly and stares at the floor, nodding. As if on instinct, she begins to disrobe, slowly dropping her jacket on the floor before reaching down to unbuckle her belt. Johan raises an eyebrow and walks forward, placing a hand on her shoulder. “That ain’t what I mean.” [Dietrich strokes his beard with his cigarette between his lips, draping the Atlantic Coast title over his shoulder as if it were a burden.] Dietrich: “Soonah uh latah, pal, ev’rybody that puts on a pair a’ boots and steps between those ropes realizes why pro wrestlin’s called a business more than it is a sport. It ain’t always ‘bout who can pull off a hold bettah than the rest, uh else Lunatikk Cripplah woulda been World champ fuh a’ternity. It ain’t ‘bout raspect uh dignity uh nothin’, uh else this guy I know by the name a’ Hiro Takaiwa would be in the spotlight fuh the rest a’ his life. Nah, Ray, pro wrestlin’s ‘bout one thing: money. ‘Bout how much ya can make while ya still can and how much the brass thinks it can make off a’ ya name. Now, these fellas ya runnin’ ‘foul on, HATE and Cripplah...sure, whatevah, I get it. Ya’ll ain’t seein’ eye-ta-eye on nothin’ right now, and it’s lookin’ like one a’ em, maybe even all a’ ‘em, ah gonna try ta get involved in our little shindig. Maybe Cripplah fin’ly lives up ta his name and breaks ya fuckin’ neck. Maybe HATE decide ta stop bein’ li’l bitches and press they luck when somebody that ain’t willin’ ta roll ovah and sub-out ta ‘em is in the ring. Maybe Johnny Napalm does what we all think he’s gonna do and come down to that ring, try ta get undah my skin, and cost me that champ’s bonus check. Most likely, kid, it’s gonna be just the two a’ us. Ya’ll set up ya li’l grapplin’ holds that make ya look like a fuckin’ mastah, ya’ll find somethin’ ta jump off a’ ta let all those li’l punks in Cleveland think that ya can defy gravity, and me? I’ll be there doin’ the simple shit that works.” [He adjusts his bandanna again, taking another drag.] Dietrich: “So go ahead, Ray. Keep yappin’ ya million-dollah gums ‘bout how I’m afraid a’ whatevah it is ya think I’m scared a’. Talk all ya want ‘bout how a champion should carry himself and how I ain’t doin’ it right, ignorin’ the fact a’ the mattah ‘bout how I got the title and ya don’t. Ramble on ‘bout how ya can’t be beat ‘cause a’ desire, uh somethin’, and bring up how ya taken on legends all ya life and ya still able ta get up and get shit done. ‘Cause you, brothah? Ya used ta fuckin’ with athletes. Me? Heh...” [Johan chuckles, shaking his head as he finishes his cigarette, errantly flicking it off-screen before looking up and into the camera for the first time.] Dietrich: “I’m used ta takin’ on GODS, and I got some deicidal tendencies. See ya soon, pal.” [END.] |
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10:52 AM Jul 11