Post by E.W Montgomery on Jan 6, 2021 9:25:40 GMT -6
Fade in from TV Static
We take you back in time to Friday Night Inferno on 12/11/2020. Yes, we’re going back to 2020, just don’t panic. Instead we are treated to the scene at the end of the TV title match between the Enforcer and E.W Montgomery where Montgomery holds the back of his head after being slammed down onto the TV title belt itself and stumbling about the outside of the ring. Enforcer has already scrambled away as E.W looks around with anger and confusion in his crossed eyes, that is until he locks eyes -- one of them probably -- with his manager Mr. Wrigley.
E.W grabs Mr. Wrigley by the red tie and yells directly into his face as Wrigley tries to scramble away in terror and with a shriek of his own. The scene pauses at that moment getting a perfect shot of the terror on Wrigley’s face.
We once again cut to static.
Until the TV channel switches.
Sitting up against a black background is Christopher J. Wrigley, the same one that was last seen with E.W Montgomery screaming into his face and it looked like he had an oopsie-poopsie in his pants. He still has one of those scared looks on his face, but he’s not running away from anything this time, it’s just him up against a black background. In a very calm manner he begins to speak matter-of-factly.
“My name is Christopher J. Wrigley and if you’re watching this video then something bad has happened to me and I have not checked in with my law firm in a week. That’s right bitches, if I don’t check in once a week then this message goes out and people are going to start looking for me. Or in the worst case scenario start looking for you, because you did something bad to me and thought you could get away with it. But, even in death I’m going to hunt you down, sue you and then I’m going to come back from the grave and haunt your motherfucking ass for all eternity!
Before we get to all of that, we need to first figure out who took me. Like my hog, the list is long and meaty. So, let me list out the top people who I think would have wanted to see me dead. The top five spots go to each of my ex-wives, no order is needed honestly, but if I had to go with a number one I’d say Lanying, wife number three. Don’t let her fool you, she’s a damn Venus fly trap that got me while I was in China. If you find my head or maybe even my penis cut off and stuffed in my mouth that’s for damn sure gonna be Lanying.
Tied for second is Shanice and Deja or as I call them the wonder twins of doom. Their superpower? Draining a man of all his money… so, check my bank accounts! They’ve probably already spent every last cent and on the hunt for more money. Jasmine, my latest misfire, might be too dumb to actually pull off this crime so maybe strike her off the list completely. As for the O.G of the Wrigley wives, Brianna? Just check the bumper of her car because I’ll be stuck to it. Hell, she’ll just cop to that shit.”
Wrigley pauses and rubs his chin in the video thinking a little bit more to who would have him killed.
“Next up, check the partners of the law firm. Fucking crooks, all of them. Scum of the Earth. If they had anything to do with this you'll probably find me next to Jimmy Hoffa's body.”
Wrigley pauses and thinks about what he just said.
“However, if you happen to be the ones watching this... I love you all and keep on looking for me!”
Another pause and time to reflect for Wrigley. This time he puts his index finger up to his lips and begins to think.
“Now let’s get to the other possibility, one of my professional wrestling clients has done the unthinkable and decided to knock me off. Me? Can you believe that? The Manager of Champions, trademark pending, getting snuffed out by some talentless hack that I carried to the promised land? I don’t see it happening, I’m too quick like a cat. However, if you’ve run through the other options though, it’s got to be one of those losers. Now the problem you’re gonna have is that I’ve been involved in professional wrestling since the late 90s, so my list of clients is as long and thick as my Johnson. But, let’s start with the first question you need to ask. Who is my latest client? And did they just lose a title that I brought to them?
Boom. That’s where I’d start. Now, I don’t know what else to tell you other than... hurry up and find my ass before I die! Go get Nicholas Cage and get him talking to a twenty dollar bill or some shit, I don’t care but find my ass before whoever tortures me for another couple of hours! I'm too pretty to be tortured. You all already know what always happens to the black guy in these situations, so hurry the fu--.”
The video cuts feed.
---
There’s a man sitting in a chair.
It’s E.W Montgomery. His massive frame gives him away even though most of his body sits in the shadows, and the smoke pouring from his mouth into the air. There's a bottle of Jack in one hand and in the other what remains of a cigarillo which has been smoked nearly to complete ash at this point. That massive paw of a hand takes the remaining butt of the cigarillo and jabs it violently into a pile of other cigarillo butts in a nearby tray knocking a few to the ground in the process. Not that it matters nor will it be cleaned up anytime soon. E.W swigs from his bottle guzzling a good portion of that magic juice down his throat and allowing some of it to dribble down his handlebar mustache next to the dried tears from his eyes.
He looks drunk.
He looks tired.
He looks rough.
“God granted me the opportunity to have this life. God gave me the ability to get into the ring with these hands and do what was needed to make a life out of a career that chews up and spits out so many other men and women. God gave me the strength to recover from the beatings I have taken in that career, from the simple broken bones, to the blood spurts from my skull as they stitched me up, to even to the mental toll that the road takes on a person. God granted me the strength to do that all and still be here in the year two thousand and twenty one.
I first stepped into the ring in the late nineteen eighties and many of those men and women that I started with I have stood at their funerals. I have survived, and God willing I will continue to survive even after all that I have been through over this past month.
Even though I am pretty sure I turned my back on God.”
E.W takes another big swig from his bottle of Jack.
“I walked down to the same damn crossroads that Robert Johnson did a hundred years ago and sold my soul to the Devil herself. All because I lost faith in my God given abilities. All because I wanted to feel gold in my hands one more time in my career before the last of my friends stand and my funeral. And when you dance with the Devil, the Devil doesn’t change. The Devil changes you.
She has a twisted sense of humor too.
I felt that gold in my hands one more time, indeed. I had that television title in my grasp so damn tight that I thought it was my purpose for living. I thought nothing less than death itself would be needed to tear that title belt from these hands. These God given hands of mine. One defense? I should have known, it set up to be too perfect. I should have seen it coming, the Devil playing her little tricks on me… the title belt laying there in the ring. She set the damn thing up like a Buster Keaton prop and I should have saw it coming from a mile away.
Funny. So fucking funny I forgot to laugh.”
E.W pauses once again shaking his head in disgust at himself.
“But I guess that’s what I get for selling my soul. But, I’m not about to call it a career yet... I’ve got one more thing to do in this business, and that’s get my damn soul back. Piece by fucking piece if I have to. How do I do that? I start by finishing off the last drop of booze to ever touch these lips, and then I smoke the very last one of this cigarillos that I own and I scrape my ass out of this chair and head back into the goddamn ring.
I don’t care who is standing across from me anymore. I've turned my back on God and the Devil, I ain't got nobody left in my corner. It might just be my time, my last match might now be just around the corner. However, my goals are no longer connected to gold, I seek a higher purpose now.
I don’t care if Graves if you can magically transform yourself from a man to a woman or even into a bus. My war doesn’t concern what you can do, because all you have to worry about is what I can still do. Call yourself a psychopath all you want, Graves. Call yourself the most violent woman in all of professional wrestling. I ain’t buying it for one second and honestly the magic shit is much more plausible.
But go ahead and load up the shotgun and take aim at this old dog all you want, because honestly? You’re going to have to magically wish yourself another pair of balls to actually fire a shot at me! You want to end my career? You think I'm Old Yeller now? I’ve buried too many dumb motherfuckers who’ve said the same damn thing and I’m still here in twenty-twenty-one. I’ll be here in twenty-twenty-two, but you? You’re an afterthought at best, a temporary blip on the radar screen who will magically disappear.
You do your best though, Graves. Come at me all you can this Friday, and try to be the Queen of Violence all you want... I need another good laugh.”
E.W pours the last bit of the bottle of Jack Daniels down his throat and tosses the bottle over his shoulder as he wipes away the remains on his mustache. E.W goes to stand up, but almost at that perfect moment the lights in the room suddenly go on. E.W is sitting at the end table of a large conference room in a really nice looking executive chair. Two men dressed in suits grab the attention of the massive Arkansas native, who is doing his best to remain standing at this point. The one man flashes his badge towards E.W.
DETECTIVE: “Earl Montgomery? We need to talk to you about your friend Christopher J. Wrigley’s whereabouts.”
E.W looks a little confused, though it could be the booze.
“Wrigley? Haven’t seen him in at least a month...”
DETECTIVE: “Yeah, that’s the problem. Let’s take a ride and we can ask you some questions about a video that's surfaced recently.”
With that we fade to black.