Post by Level-Two on Mar 23, 2009 23:58:42 GMT -4
''One's'' The Final Passage (1)
It’s that night.
It isn’t anything big, surely not as big as the event I’ll be attending next week, Rasslemania five. No. Taping up my hands, I knew I was fighting for my life. Maybe not in a literal sense, but if I allowed Brian Mc Phee and Jace Brown to continue draining the life blood of the city, by flexing their tenacious grips around it’s jugular, the place in which I once called home would be gone. Everything would be owned by them, and with their power; I’d be forced out one way or another.
I have been here before, and I hated it. An old mirror hung up on a coffee stained wall; I looked away. No need to look in the mirror anymore; my reflection hasn’t changed. I’m still the bad guy. I’m still the guy everyone wants to boo and jeer, and I wouldn’t change it for the world. It wasn’t even a few hours since I had lost my True Experts championship; but yet, I didn’t think about it too much. This environment I was in struck much deeper than a title ever could. I hate this place.
Yet for whatever reason, I found myself crawling back. I know I had to protect myself and the health of the city, I felt as if someway—somehow, I could save a piece of humanity. I’m public enemy number one, but that is simply because the people have been blinded. To those unfortunate men; I’ll be their enemy. They’ll hate me. And with frustration and rage, they will swing with every intent of killing me with a single blow. They don’t see though, that I’m there to help them. To the world my motives make little sense, and perhaps, the world is right. How could so many people be wrong?
‘’Kill him, kill him, kill him’’ They all chanted.
It didn’t even occur to me, that I had left the bathroom, and was walking down a small walk way; where the fans of the blood sport booed me in support of my opponent. Still; I didn’t pay too much attention to it. My mind still wrapped tight around critical thinking, that most people wouldn’t be capable of. I can’t believe I was justifying my actions…
‘’You had to choose a side. Mark Chan, or Brian Mc Phee. I had to fight; it was the only way to protect myself. I had to fight, it was the only way to bring down Brian’s operation, and destroy the fight club operation once again’’
It all made sense. It really did. At the same time, the man that stood in front of me. I’m sure he had his own motivations. I’m sure he was fighting to keep food on the plate of his families. Once in this ring, he had learnt to hate. Been forced to throw a punch, with the intent to cause bodily harm. A dog, bred and trained to fight in this manner…
‘’…I’m sorry’’
I sat on the edge of the bed. The images of my fist being raised high in the air, coated with human blood, still steadily fresh in the back of my head. It wasn’t a celebration pose; nor was it meant for disrespect, it was simply to display who the winner was. I myself walked away with a few cuts and bruises the young brash man refusing to go down with-out a fight, it’s amazing how well we can perform when our life depends on it.
I rummaged through my pockets. After the fight; Mark Chan brought me to the back of his office in a back room of a strip club, I had just won him. At the table he sat, accompanied by two men in suites. Mark wasn’t much different from Dr. Chan, with the exception he treated his fighters a bit better. Although, he still tried to save on every penny. I expected to receive 100 grand for the fight, but only received seventy five percent.
‘’75,000 grand?’’ I asked seated in a small chair in-front of him. ‘’…You told me 100 grand’’
Mark Chan looked to the two men beside of him, as they both smiled. Mark Chan folded his hands in-front of him. ‘’…You didn’t get the kill’’ Mark added.
‘’No, you didn’t say anything about that. You told me 100 grand, period’’ I shot back, not willing to back down for a second. After being used by Dr. Chan, Mark’s cousin, I refused to sit around and let him muscle me around. At the same time, I didn’t quite set any boundaries for myself, these guys were dangerous. They worked like mafia, well calculated and just as cold.
‘’75, 000 grand is better than nothing…’’ Mark continued, gritting his teeth.
‘’It’s about the fucking principle!’’ I shot back.
Long story short, I walked away with less than I had bargained for. Although, I didn’t need the money, but if I could get something from these guys in return, I was going to take it from them. I figured I could put my money to much better use.
The machine beeped. I had visited the fighter at the local hospital after the fight. I figured my face would be the last thing he saw, and sure as he wouldn’t want to be the first thing he saw as well when he woke up. I battled with myself, and eventually loss. I couldn’t stick around. I would just leave the money by his bed; and walk away. I had no business here.
Unloading a stack of bills by his bed-side; I began to slowly turn around and slip out of the emergency room. Upon my exit, he opened his eyes, and managed to call out.
‘’Hey…’’ The man expresses with exhaustion and pain shooting in his voice. I sighed deeply, before turning around. He stared at me, but he wasn’t shocked to see me. Slightly he nodded his head, as I walked back over pulling up a chair as I sat by the machine in which he was hooked up too.
‘’I don’t want any trouble. I’ve left you some money, I hope you accept it in goodwill, shit wasn’t supposed to be like this’’ I tell the man; his eyes were swollen, but he managed to open them wide enough to show me he was looking up at me.
‘’…Fighting isn’t that bad when you aren’t the one getting your ass kicked’’ The man whispered softly, cracking a slight smile. I could tell it hurt him just to do so.
‘’We have all been on the opposite side of beatings’’
The man nodded his head softly, to show me that he agreed with my statement. The truth really did hurt, always in more ways that one.
‘’See, I’ve done this as a last resort kind of thing. I have kids, I have a family, and I need to give them a good life. I lost my career, and I refused to lose no more. You showed me though, that sometimes losing isn’t up to the loser, it’s about the winner’’ The man paused. ‘’So why do you fight?’’ The beaten warrior asked me, trying to pull him up in a seated position. With enough determination, and physical focus he is able to sit up, his face still writes a story of one in pain.
‘’I’m no different from you…’’ I tell him; leaning over in my chair. The man gently laughed.
‘’Your not like me. You don’t have a family. No kids. You don’t have to do this for money either. To me, you’re a man that just likes to fight’’
I lowered my head. ‘’My cracked knuckles will tell you otherwise. I fight, because it’s all I know. I’m born and bred for this kind of thing’’
‘’Is there anyway out for you?’’
I nodded my head, looking up at the beaten man. ‘’A gun with a single bullet’’ I reply, taking a long pause. ‘’...and a trigger finger willing to pull it’’
The man reached out extending a hand. A grabbed it, as he tightened his grips, I could feel his pain. I had struck a nerve with him, it was easy to tell. ‘’My name is Mike Appleton…I’ve been there before’’
I let go of his hand. I took a long look at the man who was now discovered as Mike Appleton. More than just a bruised, scared, beaten face. More than just a number under the whims of Brian Mc Phee’s new fight club organization. There were many other men like him out there, who would only suffer similar fates. Men who would suffer in vain and I wouldn’t even know their names. And for what? Softly, I ran my hand across my face, before beating my chest.
‘’Beaten, broken and bruised…I’ve been there before’’
‘’…And the new True Expert champion of the world, Sandy Makel!’’ The announcer’s voice rattled my brain.
‘’...and I’ll be there again’’
It’s been a long time.
A long time since I’ve seen Christy’s dad. It’s been a year since she’s passed away, and not a single day goes by with-out her passing my mind, even if she teases me with her presence for a simplistic split second. It’s more than I deserve. A few weeks ago; I had found out he had forgiven me. After being vindicated by the voice of reason, her dad reached out to reconcile with me. Her dad was the closest thing left to her, so I took the opportunity to extend a hand, despite it being ridden filth, and injustices I couldn’t imagine Christy herself accepting.
‘’…I hope you sincerely accept my apology’’ her dad spoke. I had tuned myself out in regards to what he mainly had to say, partly because my mind had been floating elsewhere. I hadn’t been in her home for months.
‘’No need to apologize’’ I tell her father, as he offered me a coffee, in which I shrugged off respectfully. ‘’…Nothing you’ve said was too far out of line. I’ve been in things I’m not necessarily proud of’’
‘’Like what, son?’’ Christy’ father countered. I thought about it for a second. Trying to calculate the manner in which I would speak, but I was never good with biting my tongue.
‘’Take my career for instance. It seems like everything I have done; no matter how big I have became, no matter how hard I’ve fought; it’s as if none of it matters in the end. As if there is someone else to take my place. As if this world is content with being second par. As if no-one strives for what is best for them, but instead whatever they can manage to grab’’
‘’Maybe you are shooting for impossible goals?’’ Her father tells me. I looked up to him, as he took a sip of his coffee, but I shook my head in protest.
‘’Nothing is impossible. I know its cliché. I know it’s easier to say it, then act on it…but nothing is impossible’’
‘’We can’t bring Christy back…’’ Her father tests my mentality. I looked past him, a large portrait of her hands on the wall, in her memoriam.
‘’That’s only because she’s never left us’’ I reply. Her father looks at me, before nodding his head softly. ‘’...Maybe she’s in a better place, anyhow’’ I tell him, not fully believing what I had said at all. There was no heaven, and even if there was, I sure as HELL wasn’t welcome.
‘’You’re a good guy, Level. Just remember that’’
I replied him with a slight nod. Not wanting to stir up any emotions, I merely showed him that I agreed with him. However, somewhere beneath the surface of my cold heart, I was reminded about the man I really was.
The man who let his girlfriend sit in a hospital with her dying father all to wrestle a single match…
The man who shot a promo in the back of a park, while his best friend Christy was murdered in cold blood just a few miles away from him.
The man who when given the chance to choose between right and wrong, good and evil, he always seems to stick to the old roots. Himself.
Maybe…maybe The Man I am simply up to your perception. A chameleon willing to become whatever image you mold him to be.
A loser…
A winner…
A champion.
Maybe…maybe the man I am?
…Is the man you simply aren’t?
There is only one.
Level-One.
--
...The fuck is kayfabe?
He is seated in a chair; a big Rasslemania five banner hangs behind him. Cindy Shannon sits nearby, conducting what appears to be a sit down interview. Level-One stares sharp into the camera, with a microphone attached to the top of his shirt. Cindy asks her first question.
‘’What does Rasslemania five mean to you?’’
Rasslemania five. A night in which legends are born and bred. A night in which immortality is possible. We have spent day after day all to work up this one night. It’s something special, it’s something rare. Rasslemania five, is the heart and soul of the APW. More importantly this year, there are only two men that will be headlining the show. However, only one of them bleed for the APW; only one of them have honor, respect, and a beating heart for this place. Rasslemania is only going to receive half of its potential; because the other half simply isn’t there.
‘’I must ask you. What is this other half you are referring too?’’
‘’Cindy, I’m referring to a cancer. The other half of the equation is fucking shit stain on this federation. A cancer that has spread from the very top; into the veins of people who simply are irrelevant to this sport on a grandeur scale. However, before we can first explain the final result of this cancer, you must first understand the root of the cause’’
‘’The floor is yours, Level’’
‘’It was a few months ago, in which I was trying to get noticed. Clearly, my domination streak, and my already legendary name; the APW felt as if I wasn’t trusted enough to earn that world title shot. In turn, they gave it to Trevor Blackwell. Despite the fact that he had received shot after shot, failing each time; under the ‘’no fucking talent clause’’ they relied on him to bring in the money, they invested time and energy into a guy which was virtually no more then dead weight. Dead weight, a fucking casket would waste it’s time carrying.
In between Trevor Blackwell and his countless failed attempts of winning the APW world title, or doing anything remotely irrelevant for that matter; he had injured Sabur. The man cow was merely knocked over, and was too useless to get back up again, he was no champion. Bam. World title vacated. Trevor Blackwell, being the untalented, sand paper personality, overrated piece of shit he was got another shot at a vacated championship. Enter Michael Lively. Despite doing nothing to warrant a title shot whatsoever, and losing to me a week before, he was given the free pass; never failing to collect on the extra $200 on his way past go.
So now we have a disaster. We had Trevor Blackwell Mr. ‘’I can’t get it done the first, second, or third time…can I have a forth?’’ Vs. Michael ‘’Judas’’ Lively, in a world title match. In what was the most pathetic effort to walk away with the world title brought on by Trevor Blackwell himself, since John Green stepped in a Rasslemania main-event last year—Michael ‘’Judas’’ Lively, walked away with the APW world championship. Killing very little credibility it’s ever had, since Kenny Lombardo fucked away with it.
Now, we can go with two ways with this. Trevor Blackwell, quickly knowing he’s isn’t shit unless he ‘’owns’’ it, quickly fucks off back into his whole of black oblivion, but not before taking a few Jews and Mexicans by his side. And Michael Lively in light of his big title win suddenly believes he isn’t a joke anymore. In the case of Trevor Blackwell; he figures since he’s never going to be a big name, unless he colors himself in special washable crayons, on the front of a big card board box, before hanging it on his backyard fence, and somehow manages to constitute a bouncing trampoline; as an actual wrestling ring. Shit, falling down ass first is the only way the useless piece of shit, is ever going to get back on his feet—not before stumbling over due to his own stupidity, and self swelling of the head.
I hope your keeping up, Cindy, because I’m not finished. Trevor Blackwell, suddenly turning a business man; who by the looks of it has invested half of his profits to cup cakes and twinkes. However, it isn’t the shit promotion he opened which brought him his new fortune—but the lemonade stand on the side, he also opened just to turn a profit. Nonetheless, Trevor decides to offer lucky charms and gold coins to his friends backstage, with world title shots, and free blow jobs, because Trevor has found out that peanuts will only sign his paychecks. He offers them all this—if they sell their souls to the devil, and wrestle under his moniker''
‘’I’m sorry, but what exactly does this have to do with Michael Lively? I mean, Michael Lively is still apart of the APW’’
‘’Bitch, I was just about to get to that. See, the reason many faces have been disappearing rightfully so from our television, is because they are hung up on Trevor’s Blackwell’s shelve, right beside his sweaty pink wrestling overalls. They understand that it’s going to take hard work to prosper in the APW; and that your going to have to earn your shots around here, not to mention with the recent inclusion of me, Trevor and his band of bitches knew they wouldn’t be shit in shark invested waters.
Furthermore, our own APW champion Michael Lively has decided to pull double duty, and compete under Trevor Blackwell’s command. It’s clear that Michael Lively, being the cocky, stuck up, delusional moron he is, is willing to trade everything in to wrestle under a guy whom has about as much as respect in this business; as Hitler appearing at an barmizpha. Nonetheless, this isn’t my biggest beef. No, not at all. Because it’s up to Michael lively, on how he wants to waste his career. Not all of us are meant to be important.
However, I will NOT stand by allowing this entire be spat upon; because Michael Lively feels like wiping his tears away from his face and taking the ball home with him. Here we are; on the grandest stage of them all, and Michael Lively has the balls to show us hideous production footage of him winning some piece tin can, made out of a car door in some scrap yard? Fuck that shit. You want to parade in around wearing a title that hasn’t been around long enough for single person to take seriously, in a promotion ran by an untalented piece of shit, with absolutely no heart in his goddamn chest?
Michael Lively, I am going to take the APW world championship out of your grips, and spit on you like you did me, and then I am going to take steaming shit right on your ‘’Insane’’ championship belt, and really make it something worth fighting for. And when the ‘’Insane wrestling championship’’ promotion finally realizes that the man heading it; was doing so for his own egotism injection shot, and you are all hitting the unemployment line, in which you once came; you’ll realize your mistake. You’ll realize that you’ve passed up opportunities for a live time, for a man with a 15 second image, a 10 person circle jerk, in which has blown it’s load before it got a chance to give a fuck.''
‘’…Those are some heated words, Level’’
‘’I’m not finished. You have ran under the shit smelling armpit of Trevor Blackwell, and now that you know your time here on top is finished, your going to go out like the shit crawling cockroach you are. I have a boot and I’m exercising my right to squash you like the spineless piece of shit you are, lively. You go. Chase your dreams of 15 minutes of fame. Run off while the novelty is still alive, because by the time you get there. By the time you’re sweating, and breathing out whatever air Trevor lets you after being synched between his butt cheeks for so long, you’ll finally realize that he wasn’t in it for the long haul. A vision in which has came just as fast as it will go.
You aren’t shit to me. I hear you running your mouth; but you don’t have a goddamn thing to back up the words in which you preach. You are telling me my time is up; but you don’t dedicate that, I do. I have beaten you before, and I will beat you again. Go on. Defend your new found championship. You can sleep tight knowing that I’m not desperate enough to walk in there and take that from you too. Play it safe, nobody ever got past me doing anything otherwise’’
‘’To switch topics, how do you feel about Lively’s claims in which he says you purposely threw the True Experts championship away, as a way to avoid him in the gauntlet?’’
‘’It’s a joke. It’s the most ignorant thing the man could say. So, I through away the most glorious belt in all of the wrestling, simply so I could buy myself a mere week of the wrath of Michael Lively? Give me a break. Michael Lively sits here telling the world that he brings his best when the championship is on the line. And that’s exactly why you don’t belong in the APW. We don’t need a world heavyweight champion, who only gives it 110% when he’s headlining a pay-per-view. The APW needs someone willing bust their ass, day in, night out, someone who they can rely on.
This belt is more than taking stupid fucking bumps, and bleeding like a stuck pig. This belt is more that a few cool body breaking high spots, and a few sick bumps. This belt stands for pure wrestling. A lost art form. So while your jumping off fucking scaffolds like some spot monkey, for a championship that is bound to be defunct in about six months, I hope you have the fucking gull to pick up your broken bones, the gallon’s of blood spilt, swallow your fucking pride, and to man up and tell me…''
‘’Hey, Level, you were right’’
''Cindy, this could’ve been a big match. This could’ve been a great match. One that the wrestling world will be talking about for ages to come. But Michael Lively? Our world ‘’champion?’’ He isn’t much of a champion. He’s a boy. He’s a spineless sewage rat. A piece of shit that simply doesn’t belong in the main-event, nor does he have the right to carry that championship a minute longer than he already has.
Michael Lively, he doesn’t stand a chance. He knows this, and so instead of putting it all on the line, he’s collecting saliva. He’s ready to hawk a big one on the APW; but see, I’m not stupid. I see this coming, and I’m going to take the hit. For with the blood on my hands by the end of the night, his spit will be washed away, my blood will shine brighter than anything Lively himself could imagine
Michael Lively, wants to go out with a bang at the biggest event of his life? Then, I’ll be bringing in the explosives. I’m going to shove it up his ass, and hand Trevor Blackwell the detonator. It’s either Michael Lively, or his fucking federation.
Rasslemania five, I am going to tear Michael Lively apart. Throw them to the scavengers, along with his tin can. And then they can spend their time trying to piece their glorious ‘’champion’’ together again.''
Suddenly, Level-One stands up. Ripping the microphone off his shirt, tossing it to the ground, leaving Michael Lively with his final message.
The APW will have a REAL world champion at Rasslemania five.
Disclaimer: Trevor Blackwell and freinds, can skip straight to the fucking trash talk. Thank you.
It’s that night.
It isn’t anything big, surely not as big as the event I’ll be attending next week, Rasslemania five. No. Taping up my hands, I knew I was fighting for my life. Maybe not in a literal sense, but if I allowed Brian Mc Phee and Jace Brown to continue draining the life blood of the city, by flexing their tenacious grips around it’s jugular, the place in which I once called home would be gone. Everything would be owned by them, and with their power; I’d be forced out one way or another.
I have been here before, and I hated it. An old mirror hung up on a coffee stained wall; I looked away. No need to look in the mirror anymore; my reflection hasn’t changed. I’m still the bad guy. I’m still the guy everyone wants to boo and jeer, and I wouldn’t change it for the world. It wasn’t even a few hours since I had lost my True Experts championship; but yet, I didn’t think about it too much. This environment I was in struck much deeper than a title ever could. I hate this place.
Yet for whatever reason, I found myself crawling back. I know I had to protect myself and the health of the city, I felt as if someway—somehow, I could save a piece of humanity. I’m public enemy number one, but that is simply because the people have been blinded. To those unfortunate men; I’ll be their enemy. They’ll hate me. And with frustration and rage, they will swing with every intent of killing me with a single blow. They don’t see though, that I’m there to help them. To the world my motives make little sense, and perhaps, the world is right. How could so many people be wrong?
‘’Kill him, kill him, kill him’’ They all chanted.
It didn’t even occur to me, that I had left the bathroom, and was walking down a small walk way; where the fans of the blood sport booed me in support of my opponent. Still; I didn’t pay too much attention to it. My mind still wrapped tight around critical thinking, that most people wouldn’t be capable of. I can’t believe I was justifying my actions…
‘’You had to choose a side. Mark Chan, or Brian Mc Phee. I had to fight; it was the only way to protect myself. I had to fight, it was the only way to bring down Brian’s operation, and destroy the fight club operation once again’’
It all made sense. It really did. At the same time, the man that stood in front of me. I’m sure he had his own motivations. I’m sure he was fighting to keep food on the plate of his families. Once in this ring, he had learnt to hate. Been forced to throw a punch, with the intent to cause bodily harm. A dog, bred and trained to fight in this manner…
‘’…I’m sorry’’
I sat on the edge of the bed. The images of my fist being raised high in the air, coated with human blood, still steadily fresh in the back of my head. It wasn’t a celebration pose; nor was it meant for disrespect, it was simply to display who the winner was. I myself walked away with a few cuts and bruises the young brash man refusing to go down with-out a fight, it’s amazing how well we can perform when our life depends on it.
I rummaged through my pockets. After the fight; Mark Chan brought me to the back of his office in a back room of a strip club, I had just won him. At the table he sat, accompanied by two men in suites. Mark wasn’t much different from Dr. Chan, with the exception he treated his fighters a bit better. Although, he still tried to save on every penny. I expected to receive 100 grand for the fight, but only received seventy five percent.
‘’75,000 grand?’’ I asked seated in a small chair in-front of him. ‘’…You told me 100 grand’’
Mark Chan looked to the two men beside of him, as they both smiled. Mark Chan folded his hands in-front of him. ‘’…You didn’t get the kill’’ Mark added.
‘’No, you didn’t say anything about that. You told me 100 grand, period’’ I shot back, not willing to back down for a second. After being used by Dr. Chan, Mark’s cousin, I refused to sit around and let him muscle me around. At the same time, I didn’t quite set any boundaries for myself, these guys were dangerous. They worked like mafia, well calculated and just as cold.
‘’75, 000 grand is better than nothing…’’ Mark continued, gritting his teeth.
‘’It’s about the fucking principle!’’ I shot back.
Long story short, I walked away with less than I had bargained for. Although, I didn’t need the money, but if I could get something from these guys in return, I was going to take it from them. I figured I could put my money to much better use.
The machine beeped. I had visited the fighter at the local hospital after the fight. I figured my face would be the last thing he saw, and sure as he wouldn’t want to be the first thing he saw as well when he woke up. I battled with myself, and eventually loss. I couldn’t stick around. I would just leave the money by his bed; and walk away. I had no business here.
Unloading a stack of bills by his bed-side; I began to slowly turn around and slip out of the emergency room. Upon my exit, he opened his eyes, and managed to call out.
‘’Hey…’’ The man expresses with exhaustion and pain shooting in his voice. I sighed deeply, before turning around. He stared at me, but he wasn’t shocked to see me. Slightly he nodded his head, as I walked back over pulling up a chair as I sat by the machine in which he was hooked up too.
‘’I don’t want any trouble. I’ve left you some money, I hope you accept it in goodwill, shit wasn’t supposed to be like this’’ I tell the man; his eyes were swollen, but he managed to open them wide enough to show me he was looking up at me.
‘’…Fighting isn’t that bad when you aren’t the one getting your ass kicked’’ The man whispered softly, cracking a slight smile. I could tell it hurt him just to do so.
‘’We have all been on the opposite side of beatings’’
The man nodded his head softly, to show me that he agreed with my statement. The truth really did hurt, always in more ways that one.
‘’See, I’ve done this as a last resort kind of thing. I have kids, I have a family, and I need to give them a good life. I lost my career, and I refused to lose no more. You showed me though, that sometimes losing isn’t up to the loser, it’s about the winner’’ The man paused. ‘’So why do you fight?’’ The beaten warrior asked me, trying to pull him up in a seated position. With enough determination, and physical focus he is able to sit up, his face still writes a story of one in pain.
‘’I’m no different from you…’’ I tell him; leaning over in my chair. The man gently laughed.
‘’Your not like me. You don’t have a family. No kids. You don’t have to do this for money either. To me, you’re a man that just likes to fight’’
I lowered my head. ‘’My cracked knuckles will tell you otherwise. I fight, because it’s all I know. I’m born and bred for this kind of thing’’
‘’Is there anyway out for you?’’
I nodded my head, looking up at the beaten man. ‘’A gun with a single bullet’’ I reply, taking a long pause. ‘’...and a trigger finger willing to pull it’’
The man reached out extending a hand. A grabbed it, as he tightened his grips, I could feel his pain. I had struck a nerve with him, it was easy to tell. ‘’My name is Mike Appleton…I’ve been there before’’
I let go of his hand. I took a long look at the man who was now discovered as Mike Appleton. More than just a bruised, scared, beaten face. More than just a number under the whims of Brian Mc Phee’s new fight club organization. There were many other men like him out there, who would only suffer similar fates. Men who would suffer in vain and I wouldn’t even know their names. And for what? Softly, I ran my hand across my face, before beating my chest.
‘’Beaten, broken and bruised…I’ve been there before’’
‘’…And the new True Expert champion of the world, Sandy Makel!’’ The announcer’s voice rattled my brain.
‘’...and I’ll be there again’’
It’s been a long time.
A long time since I’ve seen Christy’s dad. It’s been a year since she’s passed away, and not a single day goes by with-out her passing my mind, even if she teases me with her presence for a simplistic split second. It’s more than I deserve. A few weeks ago; I had found out he had forgiven me. After being vindicated by the voice of reason, her dad reached out to reconcile with me. Her dad was the closest thing left to her, so I took the opportunity to extend a hand, despite it being ridden filth, and injustices I couldn’t imagine Christy herself accepting.
‘’…I hope you sincerely accept my apology’’ her dad spoke. I had tuned myself out in regards to what he mainly had to say, partly because my mind had been floating elsewhere. I hadn’t been in her home for months.
‘’No need to apologize’’ I tell her father, as he offered me a coffee, in which I shrugged off respectfully. ‘’…Nothing you’ve said was too far out of line. I’ve been in things I’m not necessarily proud of’’
‘’Like what, son?’’ Christy’ father countered. I thought about it for a second. Trying to calculate the manner in which I would speak, but I was never good with biting my tongue.
‘’Take my career for instance. It seems like everything I have done; no matter how big I have became, no matter how hard I’ve fought; it’s as if none of it matters in the end. As if there is someone else to take my place. As if this world is content with being second par. As if no-one strives for what is best for them, but instead whatever they can manage to grab’’
‘’Maybe you are shooting for impossible goals?’’ Her father tells me. I looked up to him, as he took a sip of his coffee, but I shook my head in protest.
‘’Nothing is impossible. I know its cliché. I know it’s easier to say it, then act on it…but nothing is impossible’’
‘’We can’t bring Christy back…’’ Her father tests my mentality. I looked past him, a large portrait of her hands on the wall, in her memoriam.
‘’That’s only because she’s never left us’’ I reply. Her father looks at me, before nodding his head softly. ‘’...Maybe she’s in a better place, anyhow’’ I tell him, not fully believing what I had said at all. There was no heaven, and even if there was, I sure as HELL wasn’t welcome.
‘’You’re a good guy, Level. Just remember that’’
I replied him with a slight nod. Not wanting to stir up any emotions, I merely showed him that I agreed with him. However, somewhere beneath the surface of my cold heart, I was reminded about the man I really was.
The man who let his girlfriend sit in a hospital with her dying father all to wrestle a single match…
The man who shot a promo in the back of a park, while his best friend Christy was murdered in cold blood just a few miles away from him.
The man who when given the chance to choose between right and wrong, good and evil, he always seems to stick to the old roots. Himself.
Maybe…maybe The Man I am simply up to your perception. A chameleon willing to become whatever image you mold him to be.
A loser…
A winner…
A champion.
Maybe…maybe the man I am?
…Is the man you simply aren’t?
There is only one.
Level-One.
--
...The fuck is kayfabe?
He is seated in a chair; a big Rasslemania five banner hangs behind him. Cindy Shannon sits nearby, conducting what appears to be a sit down interview. Level-One stares sharp into the camera, with a microphone attached to the top of his shirt. Cindy asks her first question.
‘’What does Rasslemania five mean to you?’’
Rasslemania five. A night in which legends are born and bred. A night in which immortality is possible. We have spent day after day all to work up this one night. It’s something special, it’s something rare. Rasslemania five, is the heart and soul of the APW. More importantly this year, there are only two men that will be headlining the show. However, only one of them bleed for the APW; only one of them have honor, respect, and a beating heart for this place. Rasslemania is only going to receive half of its potential; because the other half simply isn’t there.
‘’I must ask you. What is this other half you are referring too?’’
‘’Cindy, I’m referring to a cancer. The other half of the equation is fucking shit stain on this federation. A cancer that has spread from the very top; into the veins of people who simply are irrelevant to this sport on a grandeur scale. However, before we can first explain the final result of this cancer, you must first understand the root of the cause’’
‘’The floor is yours, Level’’
‘’It was a few months ago, in which I was trying to get noticed. Clearly, my domination streak, and my already legendary name; the APW felt as if I wasn’t trusted enough to earn that world title shot. In turn, they gave it to Trevor Blackwell. Despite the fact that he had received shot after shot, failing each time; under the ‘’no fucking talent clause’’ they relied on him to bring in the money, they invested time and energy into a guy which was virtually no more then dead weight. Dead weight, a fucking casket would waste it’s time carrying.
In between Trevor Blackwell and his countless failed attempts of winning the APW world title, or doing anything remotely irrelevant for that matter; he had injured Sabur. The man cow was merely knocked over, and was too useless to get back up again, he was no champion. Bam. World title vacated. Trevor Blackwell, being the untalented, sand paper personality, overrated piece of shit he was got another shot at a vacated championship. Enter Michael Lively. Despite doing nothing to warrant a title shot whatsoever, and losing to me a week before, he was given the free pass; never failing to collect on the extra $200 on his way past go.
So now we have a disaster. We had Trevor Blackwell Mr. ‘’I can’t get it done the first, second, or third time…can I have a forth?’’ Vs. Michael ‘’Judas’’ Lively, in a world title match. In what was the most pathetic effort to walk away with the world title brought on by Trevor Blackwell himself, since John Green stepped in a Rasslemania main-event last year—Michael ‘’Judas’’ Lively, walked away with the APW world championship. Killing very little credibility it’s ever had, since Kenny Lombardo fucked away with it.
Now, we can go with two ways with this. Trevor Blackwell, quickly knowing he’s isn’t shit unless he ‘’owns’’ it, quickly fucks off back into his whole of black oblivion, but not before taking a few Jews and Mexicans by his side. And Michael Lively in light of his big title win suddenly believes he isn’t a joke anymore. In the case of Trevor Blackwell; he figures since he’s never going to be a big name, unless he colors himself in special washable crayons, on the front of a big card board box, before hanging it on his backyard fence, and somehow manages to constitute a bouncing trampoline; as an actual wrestling ring. Shit, falling down ass first is the only way the useless piece of shit, is ever going to get back on his feet—not before stumbling over due to his own stupidity, and self swelling of the head.
I hope your keeping up, Cindy, because I’m not finished. Trevor Blackwell, suddenly turning a business man; who by the looks of it has invested half of his profits to cup cakes and twinkes. However, it isn’t the shit promotion he opened which brought him his new fortune—but the lemonade stand on the side, he also opened just to turn a profit. Nonetheless, Trevor decides to offer lucky charms and gold coins to his friends backstage, with world title shots, and free blow jobs, because Trevor has found out that peanuts will only sign his paychecks. He offers them all this—if they sell their souls to the devil, and wrestle under his moniker''
‘’I’m sorry, but what exactly does this have to do with Michael Lively? I mean, Michael Lively is still apart of the APW’’
‘’Bitch, I was just about to get to that. See, the reason many faces have been disappearing rightfully so from our television, is because they are hung up on Trevor’s Blackwell’s shelve, right beside his sweaty pink wrestling overalls. They understand that it’s going to take hard work to prosper in the APW; and that your going to have to earn your shots around here, not to mention with the recent inclusion of me, Trevor and his band of bitches knew they wouldn’t be shit in shark invested waters.
Furthermore, our own APW champion Michael Lively has decided to pull double duty, and compete under Trevor Blackwell’s command. It’s clear that Michael Lively, being the cocky, stuck up, delusional moron he is, is willing to trade everything in to wrestle under a guy whom has about as much as respect in this business; as Hitler appearing at an barmizpha. Nonetheless, this isn’t my biggest beef. No, not at all. Because it’s up to Michael lively, on how he wants to waste his career. Not all of us are meant to be important.
However, I will NOT stand by allowing this entire be spat upon; because Michael Lively feels like wiping his tears away from his face and taking the ball home with him. Here we are; on the grandest stage of them all, and Michael Lively has the balls to show us hideous production footage of him winning some piece tin can, made out of a car door in some scrap yard? Fuck that shit. You want to parade in around wearing a title that hasn’t been around long enough for single person to take seriously, in a promotion ran by an untalented piece of shit, with absolutely no heart in his goddamn chest?
Michael Lively, I am going to take the APW world championship out of your grips, and spit on you like you did me, and then I am going to take steaming shit right on your ‘’Insane’’ championship belt, and really make it something worth fighting for. And when the ‘’Insane wrestling championship’’ promotion finally realizes that the man heading it; was doing so for his own egotism injection shot, and you are all hitting the unemployment line, in which you once came; you’ll realize your mistake. You’ll realize that you’ve passed up opportunities for a live time, for a man with a 15 second image, a 10 person circle jerk, in which has blown it’s load before it got a chance to give a fuck.''
‘’…Those are some heated words, Level’’
‘’I’m not finished. You have ran under the shit smelling armpit of Trevor Blackwell, and now that you know your time here on top is finished, your going to go out like the shit crawling cockroach you are. I have a boot and I’m exercising my right to squash you like the spineless piece of shit you are, lively. You go. Chase your dreams of 15 minutes of fame. Run off while the novelty is still alive, because by the time you get there. By the time you’re sweating, and breathing out whatever air Trevor lets you after being synched between his butt cheeks for so long, you’ll finally realize that he wasn’t in it for the long haul. A vision in which has came just as fast as it will go.
You aren’t shit to me. I hear you running your mouth; but you don’t have a goddamn thing to back up the words in which you preach. You are telling me my time is up; but you don’t dedicate that, I do. I have beaten you before, and I will beat you again. Go on. Defend your new found championship. You can sleep tight knowing that I’m not desperate enough to walk in there and take that from you too. Play it safe, nobody ever got past me doing anything otherwise’’
‘’To switch topics, how do you feel about Lively’s claims in which he says you purposely threw the True Experts championship away, as a way to avoid him in the gauntlet?’’
‘’It’s a joke. It’s the most ignorant thing the man could say. So, I through away the most glorious belt in all of the wrestling, simply so I could buy myself a mere week of the wrath of Michael Lively? Give me a break. Michael Lively sits here telling the world that he brings his best when the championship is on the line. And that’s exactly why you don’t belong in the APW. We don’t need a world heavyweight champion, who only gives it 110% when he’s headlining a pay-per-view. The APW needs someone willing bust their ass, day in, night out, someone who they can rely on.
This belt is more than taking stupid fucking bumps, and bleeding like a stuck pig. This belt is more that a few cool body breaking high spots, and a few sick bumps. This belt stands for pure wrestling. A lost art form. So while your jumping off fucking scaffolds like some spot monkey, for a championship that is bound to be defunct in about six months, I hope you have the fucking gull to pick up your broken bones, the gallon’s of blood spilt, swallow your fucking pride, and to man up and tell me…''
‘’Hey, Level, you were right’’
''Cindy, this could’ve been a big match. This could’ve been a great match. One that the wrestling world will be talking about for ages to come. But Michael Lively? Our world ‘’champion?’’ He isn’t much of a champion. He’s a boy. He’s a spineless sewage rat. A piece of shit that simply doesn’t belong in the main-event, nor does he have the right to carry that championship a minute longer than he already has.
Michael Lively, he doesn’t stand a chance. He knows this, and so instead of putting it all on the line, he’s collecting saliva. He’s ready to hawk a big one on the APW; but see, I’m not stupid. I see this coming, and I’m going to take the hit. For with the blood on my hands by the end of the night, his spit will be washed away, my blood will shine brighter than anything Lively himself could imagine
Michael Lively, wants to go out with a bang at the biggest event of his life? Then, I’ll be bringing in the explosives. I’m going to shove it up his ass, and hand Trevor Blackwell the detonator. It’s either Michael Lively, or his fucking federation.
Rasslemania five, I am going to tear Michael Lively apart. Throw them to the scavengers, along with his tin can. And then they can spend their time trying to piece their glorious ‘’champion’’ together again.''
Suddenly, Level-One stands up. Ripping the microphone off his shirt, tossing it to the ground, leaving Michael Lively with his final message.
The APW will have a REAL world champion at Rasslemania five.
