Post by Level-Two on Nov 10, 2008 21:42:21 GMT -4
‘’One’s’’ Frame Of Mind
Ring…ring…ring…
Ring…ring…ring…
Ring…ring…ring
I hung up the phone.
‘God damn it Brian, where the fuck have you gone?’’
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‘’If they fail you once…replace them’’- Anonymous man
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The silence crept. Everything left unshaken, un moved, dead…except one thin layer of cancerous smoke rising above a ash tray on a small wooden table. A hand, a large hand reaching over picking up the lit cigarette before lifting it to his mouth. The end of the cigarette, glowed in the darkness exposing a thin surrounding of the mans face. A thin face; a man of Japanese decent. To Level-One he would be familiar; to the rest of them, they would remain clueless.
‘’What do you mean, Mr. Mc Phee turned down our offer?’’ The man squeezed angrily through his teeth; his voice projecting through the room.
‘’Sir…listen’’ A loud smash rumbles the wooden table, as the man leans over the table looking into the direction of what appears to be four men.
‘’Listen? Fuck you! I don’t listen to you. I tell you what needs to be done and you go out and do it! The only time I listen to you is when you fail. Your lame excuses, the pathetic looks on your faces, the look of failure—is that what the American season is calling these days?’’ The man took a deep breath, before leaning back in his chair. ‘’In times like these I think back…ask myself, what would Dr. Chan do?’’
The men mumbled amongst themselves. Dr. Chan was a vicious man, who caused pain to the very same people Level-One himself cared about. The history was deep, too deep to learn about it now. They breathed on borrowed time.
‘’This fight club…it meant everything to my uncle, Dr. Chan. The man before it? My grandfather owned it, and his father after that…and now? It was tarnished. Burnt to the ground by Level-One himself. What do I do? I ask you to go out, find Brian Mc Phee—to break the spirit of Level-One. And this is what you come back with? You let Brian Mc Phee of all me push you around?’’
The men bow their head in silence. They shook scared in their business suits, the ties choking their neck as there throat expanded with the lack of air they nervous lungs breathed in. Cancerous air…did you not smell the cigarette? ‘’Sir, I can assure you we can move past this. We are not finished. I can trust you to lead us to taking back what’s ours’’ One man shouted; a slight layer of nervousness beating in his voice although he did a pretty good job in hiding it.
The man took a hit of his cigarette, and the sighed. ‘’You see, that’s where you four go wrong. This fight club…it was never yours. It was Dr. Chan’s. You four? You were his security team. Not big thinkers. Not business men. No, you four were men just trying to cash in on the success…do you know what the problem with that was?’’
No answer comes from the men. Just silence. It may have just been better for us all that way.
‘’…The problem with that was you four were only standing in-front of Dr. Chan, incase a bullet came his way. Yes, you were nothing more than a sacrifice. A mindless sheep, who would be the first to meet the slaughter…’’
‘’That is bullshit’’ One man called out, leaning over the table. The man in the chair didn’t budge. The man leaning over the table appeared to have second thoughts, as he closes his eyes and began to stutter. ‘’I…I…I just want the respect…the respect I deserve. We…we have served Dr. Chan and his fight club with honor’’
The man smiled. ‘’Respect you say?’’ The man asked, reaching into his pocket pulling a pistol out. Pressing the barrel against the head of the man, he smiled. ‘’…Remember when you said taking a bullet in the name of Dr. Chan was bullshit? Well, how can we forget. Now, watch in harmony as I show you, you AND you exactly what I was speaking about…’’
BANG, BANG, BANG
…All of the men died that night.
The man scrimmaged through their pockets, finding watches and stacks of dollar bills. Most importantly? Finding out that these four men didn’t fail in every way possible…
So, he opened the sheet of paper…
There lie, the key to a mans freedom.
A page from Level-One's Journal
Have I done it? Have I proven to the world that my energy has not run dry since coming from the EwC? I look at the face, ugly, disturbed, and twisted in doubt when they see me. They look towards last week; someone were only inches away, as I brawled away my debut like some rabid animal. Like a man who couldn’t harness his strength, nor use any technique…just a brawl, at a bar or something. Like an animal. I fought like a fucking animal!
I was done fighting like that. So careless. So ruthless. No, I was just going to go out there and respect the refs call. No matter the swagger my feet carried, no matter the attitude that hung on my shoulders, I was going to fight a wrestling match. I was going to win a wrestling match…the right way. And look at me? Level-One back to his old ways. The big bad guy. The heartless mother fucker. The man with no rules. The worst thing about it? That I can’t deny it. I don’t know if I can be a good guy…not even a good guy, a half decent one. A man that is still himself, yet while fighting with respect & honor. A man who honors the count of three, on the winning or losing end…
So, enough rambling…Mr. Notebook. Mr. Sanitary. I ask you the questions, and you always seem to answer…riddle me this.
…Have I done it?
Yeah…thought so.
The television. It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? I was on the television on a weekly bases, but it was very rare for me to watch it, never mind to watch myself. In fact, watching the T.V was almost therapeutic. I channel surfed as if it was a sport, never staying on the same channel any longer than a few seconds. This could last from anywhere from 2 minutes, to 2 hours. Channel surfing. Picture after picture, image and image…most of them sticking in my head. That’s how I watched T.V
Still, some how I managed to stumble across something that over lay those 3 split seconds. A rare moment in itself. A lady sitting at a small desk, with a sheet of paper in her hands, projects the media’s news.
‘’Today, four men shot dead inside a small warehouse, each with a single bullet wound in the head. The men have all been described to be in their mid forties, and of Japanese decent. Further investigation has told us, that these four men lived in the united states illegal, all under aliases. At the moment the police will not name any suspects, but it is suspected that the death of these four men were gang related’’
My eyes remained open, my heart sunk deep into my stomach, still beating just as fast. The four men were Dr. Chan’s old associates. The same men responsible for kid napping me, beating me, and trying to tarnish my entire career as a wrestler. Their motive? Money. By getting me to throw fights; and fighting in the fight club they owned on the side, they made tons of money. It was a tricky situation, it’s not something I even think about to this day; I try too hard to block it out.
But these men; they got what they were coming for. Still as much as I wanted to feel excitement over their death, my heart told me it was wrong. Those men were the way they were because of Dr. Chan, just like he turned my friend Jacob into a rabid fighting animal. People can change. I saw the change in Jacob. Maybe those men could have turned their lives around like Jacob did? They didn’t deserve to die, no.
I shut off the television. The thoughts of the men’s death running wild in my head. Maybe I could have saved them? Well, I knew it was a death sentence. But so was helping Lee Takashi, my former friend now turned into a raging alcoholic. And so was helping Jacob out of jail…this was a crazy one. I had plans set in motion to break him out, and set him free, he didn’t belong behind bars. Not again, not after what he went through with Dr. Chan, and his stupid fight club.
If there was ever a silver lining to this whole sega it was that Dr. Chan was dead and long gone. His fight club? Burnt crisp to the ground. And all the money I costed them? Well, it was enough to keep them out of business. The fight club would never remain in tact as long as I live, and for that I could sleep.
Two hours later…
I stare up at the ceiling, as if I was looking for an answer. I turn to the side, my alarm clock telling me I have been awake for hours now. Wrong fucking answer. Not this again. Not this sleeping predicament again. And then it occurred to me, this shit wasn’t about the sleep. Nor the match I had coming up the next day…no…
Something was wrong.
A week before
‘’Brian!’’ I called out heading towards the hotel suites door. After a few seconds Brian stumbled out of the kitchen with a beer in hand. Turning around I spotted him, he was damn near wasted, he had more fun at the APW pay-per-view then I thought, I amused myself with the though. In all actuality, he was simply just trying to drink his worries away. ‘’I am heading out for a bit…going to lift those weights you wouldn’t shut up about for the past few days?’’
Brian nodded his head frantically. ‘’Sounds A-okay. I am just going to stay here…I got beer. A-okay, I will be today’’ Brian slurs, as he disappears around the corner. I laugh to myself, before walking out the door…
‘’What a character…’’
The door was slammed shut. Brian slowly backed up, taking a quick peak over at the front door. Placing his beer to the side, he quickly made his way to the door, looking through the glass window…
‘’Clear’’ he uttered to himself. Brian quickly made his way around the corner, and down a small hall, into the small bedroom Level-One stayed in. Level-One didn’t care about the size of his bedroom, the smaller the better he protested. Brian sure as hell didn’t mind. Bringing girls back to the suite, they would always be impressed with the room, he was weird like that…the girls too.
Brian stumbled over to Level-One’s dresser. He took a deep sigh, before nodding his head in pity. ‘’I can’t do this’’ he mumbled, taking a few steps backwards. ‘’Fuck, I need to do this’’ he protested now taking a few steps forward kneeling down by the small dresser. Taking a deep sigh, his hand clutched the handle as he pulled it open…
It was his boxer dour. Brian cursed before slamming it shut. Closing his eyes he took a deep breath, before getting to his feet. ‘’Where would it be?’’ Brian question himself. Looking around the room, he spotted a small desk, with a small book placed on top. Brian quickly stammered over to the table; feelings of paranoia kicking in.
He opened the book, before going through all the pages. The first time he went through the book, no luck. However; taking the book by it’s side and shaking it like a mad man, proved to do his secret in. The page fell out. Brian grabbed it, before pulling it open revealing exactly what It was…
A map to Jacobs’s freedom.
Brian slowly took hold of the sheet of paper, tucking it in his pocket. He would need to examine it closer, get a second and third set of eyes on this to analyze the situation. No worries, Brian uttered to himself. He would have it back in this book before Level-One returned to his suite…
‘’Everything will be alright’’ he huffed.
…So he thought.
The weekend came. A Sunday. A day was normal families spend time with their family, but he didn’t have one. A Sunday. A day where normal families spend time and church honoring the man they call god, but when he called on god, god didn’t answer…and then he hated god. Sunday. Unlike the normal people, I spent my time plotting. The Sunday approached, and so did I.
I walked into the room of my suite, it was the smallest room in the house. I didn’t care about the materialistic shit I owned, despite this big suite. I only ever got it, because Brian stayed here with me, and I thought it would be the least I could do for his work no matter how big of a slacker he was. Plus; it did help him with the chicks he brought home.
I walked over to my desk; where my note book sat undisturbed on the table top. I haven’t gotten to it for the entire week; I found that unusual for even myself. I thought about my match with the APW, and how I was disappointed with the outcome. I didn’t fight the way I wanted too, and I didn’t leave the impact I vowed too. I needed to correct my mistake this week, nothing less I would accept.
I wrote a small paragraph, a rant of sorts. I always found my writings to be somewhat motivational, every once and a while I read a page I wrote a few months back just to compare them to where I am right now. I guess you could call me a writer of some sort, professional wrestler above all, though.
Still; something popped up in my head. There was only one week left. One week until my plans to break Jacob out of the jail was approaching. I had to add the finishing touches, make note of the objects I managed to scrounge up in the past week, and make note of any changes in the structure of the prison and how they operated. I didn’t have all night to dig a whole; this was high risk, quick and desperate.
I counted 9 pages back, from the one I was writing on. I knew that’s where I left my plans. So 9 pages I went back, like a kid in the candy store my adrenaline pumped only to find…
My plans missing.
And then it occurred to me. All those un answered phone calls on Brian’s end? He was hiding from me. He was who stole my plans. And while I figured it could have made it’s way into worse hands, I erupted in anger. How could he? How could that motherfucker invade my privacy? And then what? He runs like a gun man, stealing my shit? What kind of friend does that? The only reason he still had a job was because he was my friend. Yeah, it hurt. It stung. It occurred to me that Brian was no good for me…not for my new image, not for my new path…no. Brian was about dishonor, mis trust, and everything I once had become.
I reached into my pocket pulling out the cell phone…while he may not answer it, my message would be crystal clear.
‘’Brian, I know why you left. Meet me at the café down the street from the APW arena after my match. We need to discuss…are future together’’ I stayed before angrily hanging up the phone.
‘’If they fail…replace them’’- Level-One
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Silicone breasts, plastic looking face, a box of dye, a lock of blonde hair. You love it, you lust it, and you fuck it. Bodies chopped up in garbage’s, dirty sewers, dumpsters, and the blood in the streets...one is real, one is fake. Mr. Wilson, Mr. Wilson, my ears are open…so let’s hear YOUR take?
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Alright, let’s just cut to the fucking chase boys and girls; and Lively's parental guardian, who I swear is somewhere in between. My first match on Meltdown, it didn’t work out too good. It didn’t go as per planned. You see, while I wasn’t unfortunate enough to be pinned by that walking joke of a former APW world champion, I still didn’t walk out with satisfaction of breaking him down, I didn’t receive what I was looking for. And with that said? We have a problem.
If you think for one second, I am satisfied with draws…ties…narrow wins, or any bullshit alike, you are sadly mistaken. See, while men like YOU streets Wilson love to attack people from behind like some bad ass, run like a coward, and escape with victory the size of pubes Michael Lively’s mother pulls out her teeth on a weekly bases, and then go around to brag about it like it’s worth a half a shit. Me? I don’t operate that way. I systematically destroy opponents. Long before they even have the opportunity of stepping in between the ropes with talent like myself. Long before they even have the opportunity to stumble over their lack of talent on their way down to the ramp leading to the fucking ring! Their best chance? Their best chance is the same fucking chance Dr. Phate got last week…
A ref paid off to keep the hype man going…
So, what do you got under your sleeves Mr. Streets? Because if it’s anything similar to what the referee pulled last week, I will beat every last black strip off his shirt, and use the white ones to bitch slap your ass into oblivion and beyond. I will not settle for anything less. And fuck, that’s saying enough considering I am facing you. I have been here for a week, and I have already been demoted to fighting useless, no talented fuck ups. I guess, the best thing for the both of us is that my promotion comes at your expense, you broke fuck.
But look at me. I am going back to my old ways. Spitting my own venom, that puts the tears of hurt into your eyes. The truth is, this part has always been apart of me. While, I can still count a match down the middle, I can still fight with honor—I’ll always berate the shit out of you, especially when I don’t respect you. Guess what, shit stain? I don’t respect you.
Look at you, spent month upon month. Time and time again, get your ass stomped out by some Mexican alien, which was drunk of his face half the time he wrestled. And what, you finally win one? You know, it’s not hard to catch a hit of lightening while your naked, standing out in the rain, and have your tongue attached to an exposed telephone wire.
You finally win, and then what do you do? You toss it all away. You HAND it all the way. You lose to Fyre Angel. First off, who the hell is Fyre Angel? And why does she spell her name like that? What was she missing a fucking key on her keyboard? Was she deprived of books while growing up? There is some water leaking out of that cesspool that useless bitch sprouted out from, and fuck I figure you of all people Streets Wilson know more about it than anyone here, since you pretty much did a nose drive and drowned yourself in it last week on Meltdown.
You know, it’s also fitting the show was called Meltdown too. I mean, the ‘’ice cold streets’’ did get melted down by a ’’hot fiery fire crotch’’ in what would probably mark the shortest title rein in APW history. Well, on the upside—your biggest accomplishment was winning that title (a fucking trash can lid worth .99 cents sold by the man in the card board box, with wholes the size of donuts in his sleeve) and your biggest failure? Now that’s hard. Where could we start?
Let’s face it, Wilson. Your whole gimmick is played out. It’s a song already sung. A game already beat. And about 10 years too old. Your antics don’t scare anyone. Your attitude is laugh worthy at best. And your gimmick, is currently being used by 100 other low grade wrestlers, trying to earn the quick buck. If you really wanted to do something with your life, turning up sluts at your street corner will be the best option for you. Because ‘’the mid carder nobody gives a fuck about’’ is bound to be your spot, for the reminder of your already ‘’gone way too long’’ career. It’s stomach turning now, just do yourself the favor.
You know, on paper I do have my work cut out for me. I mean, Streets Wilson? You’re a man that can do anything. First, you’re a street fighter. This means you let your knuckles do the talking, even if no one is bothering to listen. And then? As the entire world saw, your hard core. You are Xtreme. The two inch dildo. Mr. Bitch Tits. The man that blows all his shots…in the ring of course. Your too cool for the PG kids, too cool for the rest of us. Not only are you a street fighter not only are you XXXTreme, your also a karate master. A man who harness both his talent and power, in the arena of a dojo. A man who bows down to a bowl pork fried rice, and won ton soup. You sir, you’re a bad ass…
…you don’t want to see this guys round house kick.
Streets Wilson, it looks like you have quite the resume. Looks like you are very well rounded. Pulling a fortune cookie out of your ass, it tells me that you are going to save kids in Africa too? Oh, you work horse. Always giving it your all. Since your so goddamn busy more so than the rest of us, I am sure the world will excuse you if you actually fail to show up to our little match come overdrive.
(Wink, wink. Nudge. Nudge)
It’s not hard to see Mr. Wilson, which your whole style doesn’t add up. It’s a random assortment of shit strewn together; simply because you don’t know who you are. You don’t know what you want to be. And while you parade out-side in the streets like some curb side hood-rat, you know as well as I do it’s simply a ploy to gain attention. I don’t have much doubt that you came up with a silver spoon down in your mouth, a knitted sweater, and the tightest pair of pants you couldn’t even find in Dr. Phates closet if you looked. Your nothing more than a fake.
How do I know this? Because people from the ‘’Streets’’ don’t actually take pride from coming from there. I mean, sure deep down it feels good knowing your survived that side of your life…but once you have a chance like us? A chance to dance on the big stage? You don’t spend every last second talking about something so low, and so degrading on the social ladder. Yes ‘’Streets’’ I too came from poverty, I too walked the streets with no where to go. It wasn’t fun. I am not proud. It’s not something I talk about too often. Because this? This right here? It’s much, much, better than a cold night on the streets.
The fact that you seem proud, strikes me as odd. Nobody in those streets, like being there. They may claim otherwise for street status, but deep down they want what I currently have. The money. The groupies. The big contracts. Hell, that’s what you want. And that’s why you play this ridiculous gimmick. A mere cry for attention. To add a coat of paint to your obviously dull personality. The box of razors you got on your shelve at home? They are cutting themselves right now as we speak. You Mr. Wilson, your pathetic.
So let me ask you this. Are you going to take your loss like a man with balls? Or a women with a bleeding clit? You make up your decision. See while I can push you on down the card in your direction to complete and utter nothingness. I cannot and refuse to make you a main-eventer. In other words? You will not beat me, I will not lie down for you. So, let’s just get a head start---and cross that off your Christmas wish list.
What the APW needs is men like me; putting on a show whenever they step through the curtain. Not men who call upon the media to make excuses for them. You had a bad night? You were under the stormy weather? You couldn’t get computer access to your before the match anime porn to calm you before you lost your title? Or how about this, you smoked some lace shit which resulted in your losing your title last week?
What’s it this time? What’s your excuse when not only do I verbally, but physically bitch slap you in-front of the whole world, Mr. Streets? Instead of hiding behind bullshit, prefabricated stories that wouldn’t make a lick of sense—if common sense was French kissing it. When I beat you? How about you grab your balls and finally drop themselves, and just admit.
You don’t have it anymore. You never had it to begin with.
Level-One is better than you.
Oh, and my favorite…‘’I felt the motherfucking impact…and I failed to survive’’ I’ll see you at overdrive, Mr. Wilson.
Ring…ring…ring…
Ring…ring…ring…
Ring…ring…ring
I hung up the phone.
‘God damn it Brian, where the fuck have you gone?’’
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
‘’If they fail you once…replace them’’- Anonymous man
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The silence crept. Everything left unshaken, un moved, dead…except one thin layer of cancerous smoke rising above a ash tray on a small wooden table. A hand, a large hand reaching over picking up the lit cigarette before lifting it to his mouth. The end of the cigarette, glowed in the darkness exposing a thin surrounding of the mans face. A thin face; a man of Japanese decent. To Level-One he would be familiar; to the rest of them, they would remain clueless.
‘’What do you mean, Mr. Mc Phee turned down our offer?’’ The man squeezed angrily through his teeth; his voice projecting through the room.
‘’Sir…listen’’ A loud smash rumbles the wooden table, as the man leans over the table looking into the direction of what appears to be four men.
‘’Listen? Fuck you! I don’t listen to you. I tell you what needs to be done and you go out and do it! The only time I listen to you is when you fail. Your lame excuses, the pathetic looks on your faces, the look of failure—is that what the American season is calling these days?’’ The man took a deep breath, before leaning back in his chair. ‘’In times like these I think back…ask myself, what would Dr. Chan do?’’
The men mumbled amongst themselves. Dr. Chan was a vicious man, who caused pain to the very same people Level-One himself cared about. The history was deep, too deep to learn about it now. They breathed on borrowed time.
‘’This fight club…it meant everything to my uncle, Dr. Chan. The man before it? My grandfather owned it, and his father after that…and now? It was tarnished. Burnt to the ground by Level-One himself. What do I do? I ask you to go out, find Brian Mc Phee—to break the spirit of Level-One. And this is what you come back with? You let Brian Mc Phee of all me push you around?’’
The men bow their head in silence. They shook scared in their business suits, the ties choking their neck as there throat expanded with the lack of air they nervous lungs breathed in. Cancerous air…did you not smell the cigarette? ‘’Sir, I can assure you we can move past this. We are not finished. I can trust you to lead us to taking back what’s ours’’ One man shouted; a slight layer of nervousness beating in his voice although he did a pretty good job in hiding it.
The man took a hit of his cigarette, and the sighed. ‘’You see, that’s where you four go wrong. This fight club…it was never yours. It was Dr. Chan’s. You four? You were his security team. Not big thinkers. Not business men. No, you four were men just trying to cash in on the success…do you know what the problem with that was?’’
No answer comes from the men. Just silence. It may have just been better for us all that way.
‘’…The problem with that was you four were only standing in-front of Dr. Chan, incase a bullet came his way. Yes, you were nothing more than a sacrifice. A mindless sheep, who would be the first to meet the slaughter…’’
‘’That is bullshit’’ One man called out, leaning over the table. The man in the chair didn’t budge. The man leaning over the table appeared to have second thoughts, as he closes his eyes and began to stutter. ‘’I…I…I just want the respect…the respect I deserve. We…we have served Dr. Chan and his fight club with honor’’
The man smiled. ‘’Respect you say?’’ The man asked, reaching into his pocket pulling a pistol out. Pressing the barrel against the head of the man, he smiled. ‘’…Remember when you said taking a bullet in the name of Dr. Chan was bullshit? Well, how can we forget. Now, watch in harmony as I show you, you AND you exactly what I was speaking about…’’
BANG, BANG, BANG
…All of the men died that night.
The man scrimmaged through their pockets, finding watches and stacks of dollar bills. Most importantly? Finding out that these four men didn’t fail in every way possible…
So, he opened the sheet of paper…
There lie, the key to a mans freedom.
A page from Level-One's Journal
Have I done it? Have I proven to the world that my energy has not run dry since coming from the EwC? I look at the face, ugly, disturbed, and twisted in doubt when they see me. They look towards last week; someone were only inches away, as I brawled away my debut like some rabid animal. Like a man who couldn’t harness his strength, nor use any technique…just a brawl, at a bar or something. Like an animal. I fought like a fucking animal!
I was done fighting like that. So careless. So ruthless. No, I was just going to go out there and respect the refs call. No matter the swagger my feet carried, no matter the attitude that hung on my shoulders, I was going to fight a wrestling match. I was going to win a wrestling match…the right way. And look at me? Level-One back to his old ways. The big bad guy. The heartless mother fucker. The man with no rules. The worst thing about it? That I can’t deny it. I don’t know if I can be a good guy…not even a good guy, a half decent one. A man that is still himself, yet while fighting with respect & honor. A man who honors the count of three, on the winning or losing end…
So, enough rambling…Mr. Notebook. Mr. Sanitary. I ask you the questions, and you always seem to answer…riddle me this.
…Have I done it?
Yeah…thought so.
The television. It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? I was on the television on a weekly bases, but it was very rare for me to watch it, never mind to watch myself. In fact, watching the T.V was almost therapeutic. I channel surfed as if it was a sport, never staying on the same channel any longer than a few seconds. This could last from anywhere from 2 minutes, to 2 hours. Channel surfing. Picture after picture, image and image…most of them sticking in my head. That’s how I watched T.V
Still, some how I managed to stumble across something that over lay those 3 split seconds. A rare moment in itself. A lady sitting at a small desk, with a sheet of paper in her hands, projects the media’s news.
‘’Today, four men shot dead inside a small warehouse, each with a single bullet wound in the head. The men have all been described to be in their mid forties, and of Japanese decent. Further investigation has told us, that these four men lived in the united states illegal, all under aliases. At the moment the police will not name any suspects, but it is suspected that the death of these four men were gang related’’
My eyes remained open, my heart sunk deep into my stomach, still beating just as fast. The four men were Dr. Chan’s old associates. The same men responsible for kid napping me, beating me, and trying to tarnish my entire career as a wrestler. Their motive? Money. By getting me to throw fights; and fighting in the fight club they owned on the side, they made tons of money. It was a tricky situation, it’s not something I even think about to this day; I try too hard to block it out.
But these men; they got what they were coming for. Still as much as I wanted to feel excitement over their death, my heart told me it was wrong. Those men were the way they were because of Dr. Chan, just like he turned my friend Jacob into a rabid fighting animal. People can change. I saw the change in Jacob. Maybe those men could have turned their lives around like Jacob did? They didn’t deserve to die, no.
I shut off the television. The thoughts of the men’s death running wild in my head. Maybe I could have saved them? Well, I knew it was a death sentence. But so was helping Lee Takashi, my former friend now turned into a raging alcoholic. And so was helping Jacob out of jail…this was a crazy one. I had plans set in motion to break him out, and set him free, he didn’t belong behind bars. Not again, not after what he went through with Dr. Chan, and his stupid fight club.
If there was ever a silver lining to this whole sega it was that Dr. Chan was dead and long gone. His fight club? Burnt crisp to the ground. And all the money I costed them? Well, it was enough to keep them out of business. The fight club would never remain in tact as long as I live, and for that I could sleep.
Two hours later…
I stare up at the ceiling, as if I was looking for an answer. I turn to the side, my alarm clock telling me I have been awake for hours now. Wrong fucking answer. Not this again. Not this sleeping predicament again. And then it occurred to me, this shit wasn’t about the sleep. Nor the match I had coming up the next day…no…
Something was wrong.
A week before
‘’Brian!’’ I called out heading towards the hotel suites door. After a few seconds Brian stumbled out of the kitchen with a beer in hand. Turning around I spotted him, he was damn near wasted, he had more fun at the APW pay-per-view then I thought, I amused myself with the though. In all actuality, he was simply just trying to drink his worries away. ‘’I am heading out for a bit…going to lift those weights you wouldn’t shut up about for the past few days?’’
Brian nodded his head frantically. ‘’Sounds A-okay. I am just going to stay here…I got beer. A-okay, I will be today’’ Brian slurs, as he disappears around the corner. I laugh to myself, before walking out the door…
‘’What a character…’’
The door was slammed shut. Brian slowly backed up, taking a quick peak over at the front door. Placing his beer to the side, he quickly made his way to the door, looking through the glass window…
‘’Clear’’ he uttered to himself. Brian quickly made his way around the corner, and down a small hall, into the small bedroom Level-One stayed in. Level-One didn’t care about the size of his bedroom, the smaller the better he protested. Brian sure as hell didn’t mind. Bringing girls back to the suite, they would always be impressed with the room, he was weird like that…the girls too.
Brian stumbled over to Level-One’s dresser. He took a deep sigh, before nodding his head in pity. ‘’I can’t do this’’ he mumbled, taking a few steps backwards. ‘’Fuck, I need to do this’’ he protested now taking a few steps forward kneeling down by the small dresser. Taking a deep sigh, his hand clutched the handle as he pulled it open…
It was his boxer dour. Brian cursed before slamming it shut. Closing his eyes he took a deep breath, before getting to his feet. ‘’Where would it be?’’ Brian question himself. Looking around the room, he spotted a small desk, with a small book placed on top. Brian quickly stammered over to the table; feelings of paranoia kicking in.
He opened the book, before going through all the pages. The first time he went through the book, no luck. However; taking the book by it’s side and shaking it like a mad man, proved to do his secret in. The page fell out. Brian grabbed it, before pulling it open revealing exactly what It was…
A map to Jacobs’s freedom.
Brian slowly took hold of the sheet of paper, tucking it in his pocket. He would need to examine it closer, get a second and third set of eyes on this to analyze the situation. No worries, Brian uttered to himself. He would have it back in this book before Level-One returned to his suite…
‘’Everything will be alright’’ he huffed.
…So he thought.
The weekend came. A Sunday. A day was normal families spend time with their family, but he didn’t have one. A Sunday. A day where normal families spend time and church honoring the man they call god, but when he called on god, god didn’t answer…and then he hated god. Sunday. Unlike the normal people, I spent my time plotting. The Sunday approached, and so did I.
I walked into the room of my suite, it was the smallest room in the house. I didn’t care about the materialistic shit I owned, despite this big suite. I only ever got it, because Brian stayed here with me, and I thought it would be the least I could do for his work no matter how big of a slacker he was. Plus; it did help him with the chicks he brought home.
I walked over to my desk; where my note book sat undisturbed on the table top. I haven’t gotten to it for the entire week; I found that unusual for even myself. I thought about my match with the APW, and how I was disappointed with the outcome. I didn’t fight the way I wanted too, and I didn’t leave the impact I vowed too. I needed to correct my mistake this week, nothing less I would accept.
I wrote a small paragraph, a rant of sorts. I always found my writings to be somewhat motivational, every once and a while I read a page I wrote a few months back just to compare them to where I am right now. I guess you could call me a writer of some sort, professional wrestler above all, though.
Still; something popped up in my head. There was only one week left. One week until my plans to break Jacob out of the jail was approaching. I had to add the finishing touches, make note of the objects I managed to scrounge up in the past week, and make note of any changes in the structure of the prison and how they operated. I didn’t have all night to dig a whole; this was high risk, quick and desperate.
I counted 9 pages back, from the one I was writing on. I knew that’s where I left my plans. So 9 pages I went back, like a kid in the candy store my adrenaline pumped only to find…
My plans missing.
And then it occurred to me. All those un answered phone calls on Brian’s end? He was hiding from me. He was who stole my plans. And while I figured it could have made it’s way into worse hands, I erupted in anger. How could he? How could that motherfucker invade my privacy? And then what? He runs like a gun man, stealing my shit? What kind of friend does that? The only reason he still had a job was because he was my friend. Yeah, it hurt. It stung. It occurred to me that Brian was no good for me…not for my new image, not for my new path…no. Brian was about dishonor, mis trust, and everything I once had become.
I reached into my pocket pulling out the cell phone…while he may not answer it, my message would be crystal clear.
‘’Brian, I know why you left. Meet me at the café down the street from the APW arena after my match. We need to discuss…are future together’’ I stayed before angrily hanging up the phone.
‘’If they fail…replace them’’- Level-One
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Silicone breasts, plastic looking face, a box of dye, a lock of blonde hair. You love it, you lust it, and you fuck it. Bodies chopped up in garbage’s, dirty sewers, dumpsters, and the blood in the streets...one is real, one is fake. Mr. Wilson, Mr. Wilson, my ears are open…so let’s hear YOUR take?
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Alright, let’s just cut to the fucking chase boys and girls; and Lively's parental guardian, who I swear is somewhere in between. My first match on Meltdown, it didn’t work out too good. It didn’t go as per planned. You see, while I wasn’t unfortunate enough to be pinned by that walking joke of a former APW world champion, I still didn’t walk out with satisfaction of breaking him down, I didn’t receive what I was looking for. And with that said? We have a problem.
If you think for one second, I am satisfied with draws…ties…narrow wins, or any bullshit alike, you are sadly mistaken. See, while men like YOU streets Wilson love to attack people from behind like some bad ass, run like a coward, and escape with victory the size of pubes Michael Lively’s mother pulls out her teeth on a weekly bases, and then go around to brag about it like it’s worth a half a shit. Me? I don’t operate that way. I systematically destroy opponents. Long before they even have the opportunity of stepping in between the ropes with talent like myself. Long before they even have the opportunity to stumble over their lack of talent on their way down to the ramp leading to the fucking ring! Their best chance? Their best chance is the same fucking chance Dr. Phate got last week…
A ref paid off to keep the hype man going…
So, what do you got under your sleeves Mr. Streets? Because if it’s anything similar to what the referee pulled last week, I will beat every last black strip off his shirt, and use the white ones to bitch slap your ass into oblivion and beyond. I will not settle for anything less. And fuck, that’s saying enough considering I am facing you. I have been here for a week, and I have already been demoted to fighting useless, no talented fuck ups. I guess, the best thing for the both of us is that my promotion comes at your expense, you broke fuck.
But look at me. I am going back to my old ways. Spitting my own venom, that puts the tears of hurt into your eyes. The truth is, this part has always been apart of me. While, I can still count a match down the middle, I can still fight with honor—I’ll always berate the shit out of you, especially when I don’t respect you. Guess what, shit stain? I don’t respect you.
Look at you, spent month upon month. Time and time again, get your ass stomped out by some Mexican alien, which was drunk of his face half the time he wrestled. And what, you finally win one? You know, it’s not hard to catch a hit of lightening while your naked, standing out in the rain, and have your tongue attached to an exposed telephone wire.
You finally win, and then what do you do? You toss it all away. You HAND it all the way. You lose to Fyre Angel. First off, who the hell is Fyre Angel? And why does she spell her name like that? What was she missing a fucking key on her keyboard? Was she deprived of books while growing up? There is some water leaking out of that cesspool that useless bitch sprouted out from, and fuck I figure you of all people Streets Wilson know more about it than anyone here, since you pretty much did a nose drive and drowned yourself in it last week on Meltdown.
You know, it’s also fitting the show was called Meltdown too. I mean, the ‘’ice cold streets’’ did get melted down by a ’’hot fiery fire crotch’’ in what would probably mark the shortest title rein in APW history. Well, on the upside—your biggest accomplishment was winning that title (a fucking trash can lid worth .99 cents sold by the man in the card board box, with wholes the size of donuts in his sleeve) and your biggest failure? Now that’s hard. Where could we start?
Let’s face it, Wilson. Your whole gimmick is played out. It’s a song already sung. A game already beat. And about 10 years too old. Your antics don’t scare anyone. Your attitude is laugh worthy at best. And your gimmick, is currently being used by 100 other low grade wrestlers, trying to earn the quick buck. If you really wanted to do something with your life, turning up sluts at your street corner will be the best option for you. Because ‘’the mid carder nobody gives a fuck about’’ is bound to be your spot, for the reminder of your already ‘’gone way too long’’ career. It’s stomach turning now, just do yourself the favor.
You know, on paper I do have my work cut out for me. I mean, Streets Wilson? You’re a man that can do anything. First, you’re a street fighter. This means you let your knuckles do the talking, even if no one is bothering to listen. And then? As the entire world saw, your hard core. You are Xtreme. The two inch dildo. Mr. Bitch Tits. The man that blows all his shots…in the ring of course. Your too cool for the PG kids, too cool for the rest of us. Not only are you a street fighter not only are you XXXTreme, your also a karate master. A man who harness both his talent and power, in the arena of a dojo. A man who bows down to a bowl pork fried rice, and won ton soup. You sir, you’re a bad ass…
…you don’t want to see this guys round house kick.
Streets Wilson, it looks like you have quite the resume. Looks like you are very well rounded. Pulling a fortune cookie out of your ass, it tells me that you are going to save kids in Africa too? Oh, you work horse. Always giving it your all. Since your so goddamn busy more so than the rest of us, I am sure the world will excuse you if you actually fail to show up to our little match come overdrive.
(Wink, wink. Nudge. Nudge)
It’s not hard to see Mr. Wilson, which your whole style doesn’t add up. It’s a random assortment of shit strewn together; simply because you don’t know who you are. You don’t know what you want to be. And while you parade out-side in the streets like some curb side hood-rat, you know as well as I do it’s simply a ploy to gain attention. I don’t have much doubt that you came up with a silver spoon down in your mouth, a knitted sweater, and the tightest pair of pants you couldn’t even find in Dr. Phates closet if you looked. Your nothing more than a fake.
How do I know this? Because people from the ‘’Streets’’ don’t actually take pride from coming from there. I mean, sure deep down it feels good knowing your survived that side of your life…but once you have a chance like us? A chance to dance on the big stage? You don’t spend every last second talking about something so low, and so degrading on the social ladder. Yes ‘’Streets’’ I too came from poverty, I too walked the streets with no where to go. It wasn’t fun. I am not proud. It’s not something I talk about too often. Because this? This right here? It’s much, much, better than a cold night on the streets.
The fact that you seem proud, strikes me as odd. Nobody in those streets, like being there. They may claim otherwise for street status, but deep down they want what I currently have. The money. The groupies. The big contracts. Hell, that’s what you want. And that’s why you play this ridiculous gimmick. A mere cry for attention. To add a coat of paint to your obviously dull personality. The box of razors you got on your shelve at home? They are cutting themselves right now as we speak. You Mr. Wilson, your pathetic.
So let me ask you this. Are you going to take your loss like a man with balls? Or a women with a bleeding clit? You make up your decision. See while I can push you on down the card in your direction to complete and utter nothingness. I cannot and refuse to make you a main-eventer. In other words? You will not beat me, I will not lie down for you. So, let’s just get a head start---and cross that off your Christmas wish list.
What the APW needs is men like me; putting on a show whenever they step through the curtain. Not men who call upon the media to make excuses for them. You had a bad night? You were under the stormy weather? You couldn’t get computer access to your before the match anime porn to calm you before you lost your title? Or how about this, you smoked some lace shit which resulted in your losing your title last week?
What’s it this time? What’s your excuse when not only do I verbally, but physically bitch slap you in-front of the whole world, Mr. Streets? Instead of hiding behind bullshit, prefabricated stories that wouldn’t make a lick of sense—if common sense was French kissing it. When I beat you? How about you grab your balls and finally drop themselves, and just admit.
You don’t have it anymore. You never had it to begin with.
Level-One is better than you.
Oh, and my favorite…‘’I felt the motherfucking impact…and I failed to survive’’ I’ll see you at overdrive, Mr. Wilson.
