Post by Jules on Jul 22, 2012 17:48:12 GMT -4
(OOC: The RP I submitted for last week's Xtreme Title Challenge. I remember Stryker saying in chat he wanted to read it, so here it is.)
Sunday July 8th 2012
Chicago, IL
Test For The Best
Backstage inside the United Arena a dressing door flung open and banged loudly against the wall. John Dionysus stepped in through the doorway and punched the door as he passed, the action obviously hurt him because he bent over holding his fist close to his body.
“What the hell are you doing,” Vern Wheeler asked from across the other side of the locker room where he was sitting.
A few seconds in this posture and Dionysus sprang up to punch the door again, the sound this time indicating he had struck it harder the second time. Again he bent over, but this time for barely a second before he stood at full height and unloaded a punching combination on the door, the last punch undermining the integrity of the wood and producing a dent. The last punch also broke the skin of the Xtreme Champion and he flopped down into a seating position against the open door.
“Christ John!” Wheeler said with agitation when he saw the door. “Are you serious, man? Look what you did to the door.”
Dionysus pushed himself up from the floor and began pacing around the locker room; blood dripped from the wound on his knuckles. Wheeler inspected the damage to the door, then turned to his client and, keeping his distance, appealed.
“John, you need to get that hand checked out. It’s bleeding pretty badly.”
Dionysus stopped his pacing and looked at his hand. It was smeared in blood and there was a large splinter sticking out of the wound between the first and second knuckles on his right hand. Dionysus pulled the splinter out, blood oozed out of the wound so he quickly covered it with his left hand; Wheeler quickly grabbed a towel and wrapped it around the injured hand, before easing Dionysus into a chair.
“You’re going to have to get this looked at,” Wheeler urged, “it’s bleeding quite badly.”
“It’s just a cut,” Dionysus replied in a monotone.
“I’m going to get someone from the E.M.T.”
Wheeler placed Dionysus left hand on the towel covering the wound and told him to maintain the pressure, then he left, glancing once more at the damage to the door. Left alone Dionysus minds ran over the events that preceded this one just minutes ago.
He had been beaten. No. Not just beaten. Heartbroken. Now everything felt empty and worthless, like a shimmering transience in this moment he felt life lacked substance and any discernible quality. His eyes were seeing but they were not perceiving. Adrift at sea he was lost and without direction.
Test For The Best was supposed to be his moment, but he had barely arrived when it had passed him by. Like a flash. His mind with filled with the same sound – the pounding of the mat in his ear – ONE-TWO-THREE.
And like that – poof – he was out. He was gone. He was finished. Someone else was advancing. Someone else was moving on. That it was Saint at his expense meant nothing to him. He remembered a handshake, but the full gravity of the situation did not pull at him until he has cleared that ramp. Then he was alone. Alone with his sorrow. Alone with his defeat. Alone with his failure.
It was done.
He was done.
Suddenly his reverie was broken by an unfamiliar voice. John Dionysus blinked as a physical symptom of trying to refocus his mind. He opened them wide and looking right at him was a male member of the E.M.T. He repeated his question.
“John, can I remove the towel so I can look at your hand?”
Dionysus nodded and sat passively as the medical man removed the towel and inspected the hand that had stopped bleeding.
“Okay,” the medical said at last, “the bleeding has stopped, so I’m going to clean it up, then apply a bandage.”
Dionysus passively nodded his assent; he was barely listening.
The medical man got to work efficiently and quickly, taking no more than a few minutes to clean the cut, apply an absorbent towel to take in any excess blood and then apply a bandage. He also handed Vern Wheeler some pills and explained they were for the pain.
“Okay John,” the medical man declared as he stood up, “it should heal fine. But in the meantime, try not to be unkind to the doors.”
Wheeler exchanged an awkward smile with the medical man as Dionysus continued to stare into space. The medical man looked down at Dionysus and spoke.
“You know, I thought you did a good job out there. Can’t win ‘em all.”
The medical man had barely finished his attempt at glib encouragement when Dionysus burst out of his chair, lifted the man up by his collar and rammed him against the wall, Dionysus’ eyes wild with rage and his breathing heavy. The medical man look terrified at Dionysus, then glanced at Wheeler who tried to placate his client.
“John, calm down. Come on John, this guy hasn’t done anything. Listen to me.”
The medical man was clearly hurt and was whimpering now, and this seemed to have an effect on the seething Dionysus because his breathing slowed and his eyes lost their wild look. Dionysus looked across at Wheeler, who looked relieved, and let go of the medical man who slumped to the floor and began to sob. Dionysus turned towards the door and as Wheeler began to speak Dionysus planted his left hand over the agent’s face and pushed him to the floor before marching out of the locker room, not forgetting to slam the door behind him.
Thursday
Audio Blog for John Dionysus fan site.
Saturday
Inside his home John Dionysus was sat alone at the kitchen table, the light low and to his left on the table a bottle of whisky and an empty glass. The bottle of whisky had been sat on the table, untouched and unopened, since Dionysus returned from the liquor store where he bought it. As a matter of fact Dionysus had barely moved in those two days, and his appearance beared a scruffy, unkempt and unwashed look that resembled that.
Looking at the bottle for seemingly the infiniteth time Dionysus finally discovered the courage to reach out and grab it – or, you may look at it, Dionysus’ need for anaesthetic defeated his resolve – unscrewing the bottle cap and filling the glass to the brim with the amber liquid. Immediately its fragrance filled his nostrils and suddenly his nervous system was awash with hormones excreted by a long-lost memory.
However, an alarm blared in Dionysus’ mind and he was frozen by the memory. Instead of reaching out he simply stared at the glass filled with pain-relieving tonic. The moment was interrupted by the kitchen door opening and the light being switched on. It was Francis, Dionysus younger half-brother, returning from a visit to their mother in New York City.
“Jeez Johnny,” Francis began to protest as his nose caught a whiff of the stale smell, then his eyes quickly flashed to the contents of the table Dionysus was sat at. “What the hell, John! You’re drinking again?”
“Go away Francis.”
“Go away? Why? So you sit here and drink yourself into a stupor? I’m not getting let you flush it all away for a measly bottle of booze.”
“I haven’t touched a drop.”
Dionysus raised a hand horizontally and parallel to floor, a sign of his sobriety proven by a steady hand.
“I bought this bottle two days ago, and the funny thing is I only opened it and poured this glass just moments before you walked in the door. For two days I’ve just sat here and looked at it, then when I finally get the damn thing open, poof, you walk in.”
“And if I hadn’t walked in?”
“I hadn’t got that far yet.”
Francis reached out and put a hand on the bottle to retrieve it, but Dionysus grabbed his wrist and shook his head.
“John, we’ve been trying to get in touch with you for days. Wheeler said he’s called, he even had someone come around to see if you were okay, but they got no response.”
“That’s because I haven’t answered the door and I haven’t picked up the phone.”
“Why?”
“Because I just want to be left alone.”
Francis shook his head.
“Why, so you can get drunk again?”
“Right now that doesn’t seem like a terrible idea.”
“Why?” Francis paused, but there was no answer from his half-brother. “Is this because of Test For The Best?”
Dionysus snorted. “Test For The Best. Mayhem. Rasslemania. It was all a damn waste. May as well go back to pissing it all down the drain.”
“You know, I thought you better than that; stronger than that.”
“Well now you know,” Dionysus said with sarcasm, then glaring at Francis spat, “I am weak!”
“And what if I don’t want to believe all that?”
“Are you a moron?” Francis didn’t answer the rhetorical question, Dionysus shouted: “Look me at! I am a joke, a phony, a damn fraud. The only thing I was genuinely good at was getting drunk, so why stop doing something I’m so good at.”
Francis was shaken by the outburst. He hadn’t seen much of his older half-brother during what their mother referred to as ‘the dark years’, he certainly had no memories. Their mother had always insisted that an unquenchable rage lurked inside Dionysus; a self-destructive force that had led Dionysus into a decade-long battle against his inner demons and alcoholism. Everyone had assumed over the course of the last year Dionysus had come through that, but now Francis could see his half-brother remained as fragile as ever. Finally Francis summoned the courage to speak.
“I know you’re better than this, John,” he couldn’t prevent tears forming in his eyes. “I’ve seen you with my own eyes be better than this. Please, I’m begging you, don’t leave us again.”
Dionysus didn’t raise his head to look at his brother when he responded.
“It’s over Francis. It was all a dream and sooner or later you have to accept dreams aren’t real. This is my reality; this is who I really am.”
“That’s bullshit,” Francis replied angrily. “This is John McLeary, a bum who drinks and doesn’t give a dime about anyone but himself. He’s dead. You’re John Dionysus, my true brother who knows what it means to lose it all, and fights with every fibre in his body against that.”
Dionysus looked at his half-brother, barely emitting a physical response to the tears in his eyes.
“That man is a mirage. He doesn’t exist as anything but a figment of my imagination.”
“Why? Because you lost one match.”
“I didn’t just lose one match, Francis, I lost it all. That one match was everything I came back for. That match was everything I worked for in the past year. WWA. APW. CWC. Survive & Conquer. Rasslemania. Mayhem. Ascension. Xtreme Championship. South American Championship. All of these things had validity only in the reflection of one match,” Dionysus paused before finishing his thought, “and I blew it.”
“God damn you, John,” Francis exclaimed, “that is ridiculous and you know it. You cannot tell me that the blood you gave at Mayhem, the pain you overcame, and the shortcomings you rectified in the last six months mean nothing because you lost one match?”
“Yes.”
“And what about all those people who believed in you? What about the joy you gave to those who watch you and cheer your name? What about mom who cried tears of pride when she watched you perform in that ring at Test For The Best?”
“All marks of a great con.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Then you are an idiot!” Dionysus shouted. “Look at me, John Dionysus, the redeemed man, but at the first sight of hardship he’s given up: a rotting, snivelling, drunken, decaying living corpse. I conned you all because I made you all think I was better than what I really am. So open your eyes, Francis; open your God damn eyes and take a look at the truth.”
Francis shook his head; he could barely look at Dionysus. “I can deal with you being a drunk, and I can accept it if you come up short sometimes. Nobody is perfect. But I’m not going to stand by and watch you break the hearts of those people that care about you. You want to drink because you’re not resilient enough, or because you can’t handle the pain, then go ahead. But this nihilism is hollow bullshit.”
Francis pushes the bottle towards Dionysus.
“You want to destroy yourself, go ahead, but you’ll be doing it alone.”
Dionysus ignored the taunt; the 17-year old continued.
“But the worst thing isn’t that you still have that desire to drink, it’s that you can sit there and lie to me, lie to everyone, but most of all lie to yourself. You’re not in pain, you don’t even want to drink, otherwise you would have emptied that bottle two days ago. You’re afraid because suddenly in you’re in the dark again. That isn’t pain, and it doesn’t deserve any sympathy.”
Francis stood up. “That’s just cowardice,” he spat, pausing for a moment before adding. “You shame yourself, brother. You’re a disgrace.”
Suddenly Dionysus reacted and in one swift motion grabbed and smashed the bottle on the end of the table, lunged at Francis and pinned him to the floor, the broken bottle, with its menacing sharp teeth laid bare, aimed with ill intent at Francis’ face. Unable to move due to the huge weight differential, Francis could do nothing but look up at the seething face of his brother.
This situation stood frozen for upwards of twenty seconds which played out like ten lifetimes for Francis, his eyes flicking from the face of his half-brother, the angry professional wrestler, and the twitching hand holding the broken bottle. Almost as suddenly as the burst of rage took control of Dionysus the pressure inside was relieved and he tossed the weapon aside. Letting out a heavy sigh, Dionysus flopped onto his side and quietly began to sob.
Francis, frozen, continued to stare at the ceiling, a few moments later letting release a heavy sigh of relief.
Tuesday
Audio Blog for John Dionysus fan site.
Sunday July 8th 2012
Chicago, IL
Test For The Best
Backstage inside the United Arena a dressing door flung open and banged loudly against the wall. John Dionysus stepped in through the doorway and punched the door as he passed, the action obviously hurt him because he bent over holding his fist close to his body.
“What the hell are you doing,” Vern Wheeler asked from across the other side of the locker room where he was sitting.
A few seconds in this posture and Dionysus sprang up to punch the door again, the sound this time indicating he had struck it harder the second time. Again he bent over, but this time for barely a second before he stood at full height and unloaded a punching combination on the door, the last punch undermining the integrity of the wood and producing a dent. The last punch also broke the skin of the Xtreme Champion and he flopped down into a seating position against the open door.
“Christ John!” Wheeler said with agitation when he saw the door. “Are you serious, man? Look what you did to the door.”
Dionysus pushed himself up from the floor and began pacing around the locker room; blood dripped from the wound on his knuckles. Wheeler inspected the damage to the door, then turned to his client and, keeping his distance, appealed.
“John, you need to get that hand checked out. It’s bleeding pretty badly.”
Dionysus stopped his pacing and looked at his hand. It was smeared in blood and there was a large splinter sticking out of the wound between the first and second knuckles on his right hand. Dionysus pulled the splinter out, blood oozed out of the wound so he quickly covered it with his left hand; Wheeler quickly grabbed a towel and wrapped it around the injured hand, before easing Dionysus into a chair.
“You’re going to have to get this looked at,” Wheeler urged, “it’s bleeding quite badly.”
“It’s just a cut,” Dionysus replied in a monotone.
“I’m going to get someone from the E.M.T.”
Wheeler placed Dionysus left hand on the towel covering the wound and told him to maintain the pressure, then he left, glancing once more at the damage to the door. Left alone Dionysus minds ran over the events that preceded this one just minutes ago.
He had been beaten. No. Not just beaten. Heartbroken. Now everything felt empty and worthless, like a shimmering transience in this moment he felt life lacked substance and any discernible quality. His eyes were seeing but they were not perceiving. Adrift at sea he was lost and without direction.
Test For The Best was supposed to be his moment, but he had barely arrived when it had passed him by. Like a flash. His mind with filled with the same sound – the pounding of the mat in his ear – ONE-TWO-THREE.
And like that – poof – he was out. He was gone. He was finished. Someone else was advancing. Someone else was moving on. That it was Saint at his expense meant nothing to him. He remembered a handshake, but the full gravity of the situation did not pull at him until he has cleared that ramp. Then he was alone. Alone with his sorrow. Alone with his defeat. Alone with his failure.
It was done.
He was done.
Suddenly his reverie was broken by an unfamiliar voice. John Dionysus blinked as a physical symptom of trying to refocus his mind. He opened them wide and looking right at him was a male member of the E.M.T. He repeated his question.
“John, can I remove the towel so I can look at your hand?”
Dionysus nodded and sat passively as the medical man removed the towel and inspected the hand that had stopped bleeding.
“Okay,” the medical said at last, “the bleeding has stopped, so I’m going to clean it up, then apply a bandage.”
Dionysus passively nodded his assent; he was barely listening.
The medical man got to work efficiently and quickly, taking no more than a few minutes to clean the cut, apply an absorbent towel to take in any excess blood and then apply a bandage. He also handed Vern Wheeler some pills and explained they were for the pain.
“Okay John,” the medical man declared as he stood up, “it should heal fine. But in the meantime, try not to be unkind to the doors.”
Wheeler exchanged an awkward smile with the medical man as Dionysus continued to stare into space. The medical man looked down at Dionysus and spoke.
“You know, I thought you did a good job out there. Can’t win ‘em all.”
The medical man had barely finished his attempt at glib encouragement when Dionysus burst out of his chair, lifted the man up by his collar and rammed him against the wall, Dionysus’ eyes wild with rage and his breathing heavy. The medical man look terrified at Dionysus, then glanced at Wheeler who tried to placate his client.
“John, calm down. Come on John, this guy hasn’t done anything. Listen to me.”
The medical man was clearly hurt and was whimpering now, and this seemed to have an effect on the seething Dionysus because his breathing slowed and his eyes lost their wild look. Dionysus looked across at Wheeler, who looked relieved, and let go of the medical man who slumped to the floor and began to sob. Dionysus turned towards the door and as Wheeler began to speak Dionysus planted his left hand over the agent’s face and pushed him to the floor before marching out of the locker room, not forgetting to slam the door behind him.
*
Thursday
Audio Blog for John Dionysus fan site.
Four days since Test For The Best. Physically the pain has subsided, but mentally the wounds still ooze.
Is it better to lose having fallen at the final hurdle, or to have dropped at the sight of the first knowing that you had no rightful place on the starting line?
At least in the case of the latter you can be reassured that there is one avenue closed off to, that certainly simplifies the options. But is that anyway to live? Without options.
Right now I feel like a man who has had his heart torn out of his chest. Why? Because everything feels so invalid. I cannot deny that every move and every breath of excursion was done for Sunday night. All the problems I overcame to get myself back into the ring, all the conditioning work, all the shots I’ve taken, all the men I put down; it was all done for Sunday night and Test For The Best.
And then you realise that it was all in vain because all that was proven was that you were there. Maybe some people can look back at that and be proud, but that is no achievement in my eyes. I didn’t go to Test For The Best to be part of the spectacle, but that is all I was. Like a string on tinsel placed indiscriminately on a Christmas tree. Pointless. Irrelevant. Uninteresting.
And it doesn’t matter that I still wear a Championship belt around my waist, because nobody gives a damn about that, right? Because all it’s proven is that I am the king of the underlings; a Lord amongst a substratum that nobody cares about.
Well that isn’t what I am here to do. This is a tough business I know, but we’re all in it for one thing.
To be the best of the best.
Nobody wants second prize; nobody wants to be the decoration. If I can’t shoot for the top I want no shot at all.
That may hurt some people, especially those who feel they can rely on me.
I’m sorry, but I can’t live the lie anymore.
Is it better to lose having fallen at the final hurdle, or to have dropped at the sight of the first knowing that you had no rightful place on the starting line?
At least in the case of the latter you can be reassured that there is one avenue closed off to, that certainly simplifies the options. But is that anyway to live? Without options.
Right now I feel like a man who has had his heart torn out of his chest. Why? Because everything feels so invalid. I cannot deny that every move and every breath of excursion was done for Sunday night. All the problems I overcame to get myself back into the ring, all the conditioning work, all the shots I’ve taken, all the men I put down; it was all done for Sunday night and Test For The Best.
And then you realise that it was all in vain because all that was proven was that you were there. Maybe some people can look back at that and be proud, but that is no achievement in my eyes. I didn’t go to Test For The Best to be part of the spectacle, but that is all I was. Like a string on tinsel placed indiscriminately on a Christmas tree. Pointless. Irrelevant. Uninteresting.
And it doesn’t matter that I still wear a Championship belt around my waist, because nobody gives a damn about that, right? Because all it’s proven is that I am the king of the underlings; a Lord amongst a substratum that nobody cares about.
Well that isn’t what I am here to do. This is a tough business I know, but we’re all in it for one thing.
To be the best of the best.
Nobody wants second prize; nobody wants to be the decoration. If I can’t shoot for the top I want no shot at all.
That may hurt some people, especially those who feel they can rely on me.
I’m sorry, but I can’t live the lie anymore.
*
Saturday
Inside his home John Dionysus was sat alone at the kitchen table, the light low and to his left on the table a bottle of whisky and an empty glass. The bottle of whisky had been sat on the table, untouched and unopened, since Dionysus returned from the liquor store where he bought it. As a matter of fact Dionysus had barely moved in those two days, and his appearance beared a scruffy, unkempt and unwashed look that resembled that.
Looking at the bottle for seemingly the infiniteth time Dionysus finally discovered the courage to reach out and grab it – or, you may look at it, Dionysus’ need for anaesthetic defeated his resolve – unscrewing the bottle cap and filling the glass to the brim with the amber liquid. Immediately its fragrance filled his nostrils and suddenly his nervous system was awash with hormones excreted by a long-lost memory.
However, an alarm blared in Dionysus’ mind and he was frozen by the memory. Instead of reaching out he simply stared at the glass filled with pain-relieving tonic. The moment was interrupted by the kitchen door opening and the light being switched on. It was Francis, Dionysus younger half-brother, returning from a visit to their mother in New York City.
“Jeez Johnny,” Francis began to protest as his nose caught a whiff of the stale smell, then his eyes quickly flashed to the contents of the table Dionysus was sat at. “What the hell, John! You’re drinking again?”
“Go away Francis.”
“Go away? Why? So you sit here and drink yourself into a stupor? I’m not getting let you flush it all away for a measly bottle of booze.”
“I haven’t touched a drop.”
Dionysus raised a hand horizontally and parallel to floor, a sign of his sobriety proven by a steady hand.
“I bought this bottle two days ago, and the funny thing is I only opened it and poured this glass just moments before you walked in the door. For two days I’ve just sat here and looked at it, then when I finally get the damn thing open, poof, you walk in.”
“And if I hadn’t walked in?”
“I hadn’t got that far yet.”
Francis reached out and put a hand on the bottle to retrieve it, but Dionysus grabbed his wrist and shook his head.
“John, we’ve been trying to get in touch with you for days. Wheeler said he’s called, he even had someone come around to see if you were okay, but they got no response.”
“That’s because I haven’t answered the door and I haven’t picked up the phone.”
“Why?”
“Because I just want to be left alone.”
Francis shook his head.
“Why, so you can get drunk again?”
“Right now that doesn’t seem like a terrible idea.”
“Why?” Francis paused, but there was no answer from his half-brother. “Is this because of Test For The Best?”
Dionysus snorted. “Test For The Best. Mayhem. Rasslemania. It was all a damn waste. May as well go back to pissing it all down the drain.”
“You know, I thought you better than that; stronger than that.”
“Well now you know,” Dionysus said with sarcasm, then glaring at Francis spat, “I am weak!”
“And what if I don’t want to believe all that?”
“Are you a moron?” Francis didn’t answer the rhetorical question, Dionysus shouted: “Look me at! I am a joke, a phony, a damn fraud. The only thing I was genuinely good at was getting drunk, so why stop doing something I’m so good at.”
Francis was shaken by the outburst. He hadn’t seen much of his older half-brother during what their mother referred to as ‘the dark years’, he certainly had no memories. Their mother had always insisted that an unquenchable rage lurked inside Dionysus; a self-destructive force that had led Dionysus into a decade-long battle against his inner demons and alcoholism. Everyone had assumed over the course of the last year Dionysus had come through that, but now Francis could see his half-brother remained as fragile as ever. Finally Francis summoned the courage to speak.
“I know you’re better than this, John,” he couldn’t prevent tears forming in his eyes. “I’ve seen you with my own eyes be better than this. Please, I’m begging you, don’t leave us again.”
Dionysus didn’t raise his head to look at his brother when he responded.
“It’s over Francis. It was all a dream and sooner or later you have to accept dreams aren’t real. This is my reality; this is who I really am.”
“That’s bullshit,” Francis replied angrily. “This is John McLeary, a bum who drinks and doesn’t give a dime about anyone but himself. He’s dead. You’re John Dionysus, my true brother who knows what it means to lose it all, and fights with every fibre in his body against that.”
Dionysus looked at his half-brother, barely emitting a physical response to the tears in his eyes.
“That man is a mirage. He doesn’t exist as anything but a figment of my imagination.”
“Why? Because you lost one match.”
“I didn’t just lose one match, Francis, I lost it all. That one match was everything I came back for. That match was everything I worked for in the past year. WWA. APW. CWC. Survive & Conquer. Rasslemania. Mayhem. Ascension. Xtreme Championship. South American Championship. All of these things had validity only in the reflection of one match,” Dionysus paused before finishing his thought, “and I blew it.”
“God damn you, John,” Francis exclaimed, “that is ridiculous and you know it. You cannot tell me that the blood you gave at Mayhem, the pain you overcame, and the shortcomings you rectified in the last six months mean nothing because you lost one match?”
“Yes.”
“And what about all those people who believed in you? What about the joy you gave to those who watch you and cheer your name? What about mom who cried tears of pride when she watched you perform in that ring at Test For The Best?”
“All marks of a great con.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Then you are an idiot!” Dionysus shouted. “Look at me, John Dionysus, the redeemed man, but at the first sight of hardship he’s given up: a rotting, snivelling, drunken, decaying living corpse. I conned you all because I made you all think I was better than what I really am. So open your eyes, Francis; open your God damn eyes and take a look at the truth.”
Francis shook his head; he could barely look at Dionysus. “I can deal with you being a drunk, and I can accept it if you come up short sometimes. Nobody is perfect. But I’m not going to stand by and watch you break the hearts of those people that care about you. You want to drink because you’re not resilient enough, or because you can’t handle the pain, then go ahead. But this nihilism is hollow bullshit.”
Francis pushes the bottle towards Dionysus.
“You want to destroy yourself, go ahead, but you’ll be doing it alone.”
Dionysus ignored the taunt; the 17-year old continued.
“But the worst thing isn’t that you still have that desire to drink, it’s that you can sit there and lie to me, lie to everyone, but most of all lie to yourself. You’re not in pain, you don’t even want to drink, otherwise you would have emptied that bottle two days ago. You’re afraid because suddenly in you’re in the dark again. That isn’t pain, and it doesn’t deserve any sympathy.”
Francis stood up. “That’s just cowardice,” he spat, pausing for a moment before adding. “You shame yourself, brother. You’re a disgrace.”
Suddenly Dionysus reacted and in one swift motion grabbed and smashed the bottle on the end of the table, lunged at Francis and pinned him to the floor, the broken bottle, with its menacing sharp teeth laid bare, aimed with ill intent at Francis’ face. Unable to move due to the huge weight differential, Francis could do nothing but look up at the seething face of his brother.
This situation stood frozen for upwards of twenty seconds which played out like ten lifetimes for Francis, his eyes flicking from the face of his half-brother, the angry professional wrestler, and the twitching hand holding the broken bottle. Almost as suddenly as the burst of rage took control of Dionysus the pressure inside was relieved and he tossed the weapon aside. Letting out a heavy sigh, Dionysus flopped onto his side and quietly began to sob.
Francis, frozen, continued to stare at the ceiling, a few moments later letting release a heavy sigh of relief.
*
Tuesday
Audio Blog for John Dionysus fan site.
I can’t deny the last week or so has been the toughest time in my career to date. I’ve seen some low points in my fifteen years as a wrestler, but more often than not they were viewed from a barely elevated position. In such cases the tumble is uncomfortable, but carries no more impact than the body can handle. But last Sunday as I dragged my beaten body backstage after Keaton Saint pinned me and crushed my Undisputed Title hopes I found myself realising the fall this time was from a much greater height and this one was going to hurt.
Whether it was virtue or vice there was a thought lurking before the event that I could rise and pass the test. I won’t lie: I even harboured that thought myself. Maybe that pedestal was built of sand upon a beach with a fast approaching tide, and like a merciless wave Keaton Saint came by and washed away my false hopes. But at the end of the day the fault doesn’t lie with the materials, but in the ill-thought of the architect. Maybe my latest campaign was built of a fragile substance, but the job now has to be to rebuild, but this time to ensure what I build is of stones and mortar.
I’ve sat around and felt sorry for myself, I won’t deny that. There have been times when I thought to myself ‘I’m through’ and this is as good as it is ever going to get. I know opportunities are finite and the window is open for a mere short length of time. Test For The Best was a missed opportunity; the real tough part, the part that dragged me down, was that I may never see another. I worked so hard for six months here in APW just get myself into a position where I thought it could be my time, but I was wrong. That is a bitter pill to swallow, and believe me that comes from a guy who has downed his fair share of bitter pills. But that’s the thing you got to learn in life: Belief is a curious master, but Hope is a more deceitful one. It will drag you halfway up the mountain then demand you find your own way to the top when you’ve neither the tools nor the preparation.
It was hope that led me to what was a false belief; it was hope that hung me out to dry to be cut down by the competition that was better than me.
It was hope I put too much stock in at Test For The Best. It is in hope I will trust no more.
I can’t take my chances any more with that. The structure, and the foundations upon which it rests, has to be made of more secure things than Hope and Chance. It has to be built on me, who I am, what I can do, what I can achieve.
Next time opportunity comes calling I’m gonna be relying on me, not the vagaries of Hope or Chance.
That brings me to this week and the foreseeable future. You see, somewhere in the mix something darn important got lost. That’s another problem with hope: it forces you to extend your sight beyond the horizon so that what is plainly in front of you, what remains of importance, is lost in an obstructive fog. While I got my mind caught up in gallivanting after the Undisputed Title I gave no thought to and forgot all about the very thing that got me here.
The APW Xtreme Championship.
I can’t deny it hurts me to hear so many APW Megastars speak so disparagingly about a Championship many of them know so little about. Since the day I won the belt I have always asserted that I would give the division and the championship the utmost respect, and even though I have never considered myself a pure hardcore wrestler I have always been driven by my goal to prove this belt isn’t just about hitting with or being hit by weapons, some sideshow for the freaks that pass through this industry, but that hardcore wrestling presents a unique challenge to wrestlers, a challenge that stands on a par with any other save the Undisputed or World Championships themselves.
I was seduced by the Test and as a result I betrayed my wife with a mistress whose flirtations were not genuine. Now it is time for me to renew my vows, to start making good on the promises of fidelity I have made every time I have stepped inside the ring with this belt around my waist; now is the time for me to defend this title and this division against all of those Megastars who want to run it down; it is time now to put the Xtreme division right at the heart of APW, to show off its credentials and show everyone that this belt is proud and by all it should be coveted.
So this week I begin what I hope will be the first of many challenges, and the initiation of a new tradition on Overdrive. I’ve always said I will be a fighting champion, and whoever wants a shot is entitled to it. That invitation is open to all and sundry from this week and every week until somebody is good enough to come along and take it from me.
I know some close to me feel this is a foolish decision because I am putting myself into a handicapped position by not knowing who may step out from the back. But that doesn’t matter to me. Not because I feel inside my bones that I am and will be better than anyone who takes up this challenge, but because this is the challenge I believe I need; this is the tradition and the excitement I believe the Xtreme division demands.
I know whoever comes calling will be focussed and determined and as hungry as I was when I won this belt all those months ago in APW’s first and only Ultimate-X match. My job on Overdrive is to show that person and to show the world that in spite of my recent pretentions I am still as hungry and still as passionate about this championship as I ever was.
So whoever steps up be warned. I was not born a hardcore wrestler, but I have grown into this role, and I take my responsibilities as champion seriously. Just ask Michael Harris, a multi-time hardcore champion and legend. Twice he came knocking at my door and twice I took a beating from him like he had given no other, and twice I dragged my bloody carcass off the mat and put him down. I have wrestled men like Kurt Noble, Terry Marvin and the great Level-One himself, taken them to the limit and on occasions beaten them – all as the Xtreme Champion, proof personified that I am not holding this belt as some niche wrestler, but as one that is adaptable, resilient, belligerent and bloody-minded, and willing to make sacrifices that so few are willing to make.
I am John Dionysus. I am the Xtreme Champion. I am proud of it. I have spilled blood for this Championship and I will spill more to keep it. Not because of the power it gives me, but because of what it proves, because of what it represents, and, most of all, because this is the foundation on which I should build my legacy.
Not the grains of sand on which hope rest, but the bricks and mortar made of blood, sweat and tears.
Whether it was virtue or vice there was a thought lurking before the event that I could rise and pass the test. I won’t lie: I even harboured that thought myself. Maybe that pedestal was built of sand upon a beach with a fast approaching tide, and like a merciless wave Keaton Saint came by and washed away my false hopes. But at the end of the day the fault doesn’t lie with the materials, but in the ill-thought of the architect. Maybe my latest campaign was built of a fragile substance, but the job now has to be to rebuild, but this time to ensure what I build is of stones and mortar.
I’ve sat around and felt sorry for myself, I won’t deny that. There have been times when I thought to myself ‘I’m through’ and this is as good as it is ever going to get. I know opportunities are finite and the window is open for a mere short length of time. Test For The Best was a missed opportunity; the real tough part, the part that dragged me down, was that I may never see another. I worked so hard for six months here in APW just get myself into a position where I thought it could be my time, but I was wrong. That is a bitter pill to swallow, and believe me that comes from a guy who has downed his fair share of bitter pills. But that’s the thing you got to learn in life: Belief is a curious master, but Hope is a more deceitful one. It will drag you halfway up the mountain then demand you find your own way to the top when you’ve neither the tools nor the preparation.
It was hope that led me to what was a false belief; it was hope that hung me out to dry to be cut down by the competition that was better than me.
It was hope I put too much stock in at Test For The Best. It is in hope I will trust no more.
I can’t take my chances any more with that. The structure, and the foundations upon which it rests, has to be made of more secure things than Hope and Chance. It has to be built on me, who I am, what I can do, what I can achieve.
Next time opportunity comes calling I’m gonna be relying on me, not the vagaries of Hope or Chance.
That brings me to this week and the foreseeable future. You see, somewhere in the mix something darn important got lost. That’s another problem with hope: it forces you to extend your sight beyond the horizon so that what is plainly in front of you, what remains of importance, is lost in an obstructive fog. While I got my mind caught up in gallivanting after the Undisputed Title I gave no thought to and forgot all about the very thing that got me here.
The APW Xtreme Championship.
I can’t deny it hurts me to hear so many APW Megastars speak so disparagingly about a Championship many of them know so little about. Since the day I won the belt I have always asserted that I would give the division and the championship the utmost respect, and even though I have never considered myself a pure hardcore wrestler I have always been driven by my goal to prove this belt isn’t just about hitting with or being hit by weapons, some sideshow for the freaks that pass through this industry, but that hardcore wrestling presents a unique challenge to wrestlers, a challenge that stands on a par with any other save the Undisputed or World Championships themselves.
I was seduced by the Test and as a result I betrayed my wife with a mistress whose flirtations were not genuine. Now it is time for me to renew my vows, to start making good on the promises of fidelity I have made every time I have stepped inside the ring with this belt around my waist; now is the time for me to defend this title and this division against all of those Megastars who want to run it down; it is time now to put the Xtreme division right at the heart of APW, to show off its credentials and show everyone that this belt is proud and by all it should be coveted.
So this week I begin what I hope will be the first of many challenges, and the initiation of a new tradition on Overdrive. I’ve always said I will be a fighting champion, and whoever wants a shot is entitled to it. That invitation is open to all and sundry from this week and every week until somebody is good enough to come along and take it from me.
I know some close to me feel this is a foolish decision because I am putting myself into a handicapped position by not knowing who may step out from the back. But that doesn’t matter to me. Not because I feel inside my bones that I am and will be better than anyone who takes up this challenge, but because this is the challenge I believe I need; this is the tradition and the excitement I believe the Xtreme division demands.
I know whoever comes calling will be focussed and determined and as hungry as I was when I won this belt all those months ago in APW’s first and only Ultimate-X match. My job on Overdrive is to show that person and to show the world that in spite of my recent pretentions I am still as hungry and still as passionate about this championship as I ever was.
So whoever steps up be warned. I was not born a hardcore wrestler, but I have grown into this role, and I take my responsibilities as champion seriously. Just ask Michael Harris, a multi-time hardcore champion and legend. Twice he came knocking at my door and twice I took a beating from him like he had given no other, and twice I dragged my bloody carcass off the mat and put him down. I have wrestled men like Kurt Noble, Terry Marvin and the great Level-One himself, taken them to the limit and on occasions beaten them – all as the Xtreme Champion, proof personified that I am not holding this belt as some niche wrestler, but as one that is adaptable, resilient, belligerent and bloody-minded, and willing to make sacrifices that so few are willing to make.
I am John Dionysus. I am the Xtreme Champion. I am proud of it. I have spilled blood for this Championship and I will spill more to keep it. Not because of the power it gives me, but because of what it proves, because of what it represents, and, most of all, because this is the foundation on which I should build my legacy.
Not the grains of sand on which hope rest, but the bricks and mortar made of blood, sweat and tears.
