Post by Eric Dane on Nov 2, 2019 16:55:16 GMT -6
People make mistakes.
I should know, I’ve made my fair share of them.
Case in point, six months ago I signed a contract to the biggest dumpster fire in the business. And let me be completely self-aware here for a moment, signing that contract wasn’t the mistake. The mistake was knowing with every fiber of my soul that said dumpster fire was never going to even try to better itself and signing anyway.
What can I say, I had a bucket list.
So I went, and it was every bit the raging inferno of hot trash that I knew it would be. Outside of having the chance to reconnect with some long lost friends, I spent every waking moment beating my fucking head against a fucking wall, wondering why I’d tied myself to a place that over a decade ago went out of its way to ruin both my professional reputation and my livelihood.
As I said, people make mistakes.
I pondered these things and more as I sat enjoying a long lunch at Shinsei in Dallas. I wasn’t due to be anywhere else for a while and hadn’t planned on leaving for home until morning, so when my old buddy from OCW, Jonesy the Menacing Muckraker himself, shot me a text and asked for a sit-down interview I was happy to oblige.
As I finished up my second plate of yellowtail nigiri I caught a glimpse of him walking in, awkward like a teenager about to get his first sniff of a pretty girl’s panties. The host at the door knew that I was waiting on him, I’d given her what I thought was a pretty accurate description of the kid. She quickly herded him over to what could absolutely not be called a quiet corner table.
“Long time, no see, Jonesy,” I said, standing to shake his hand. I got the distinct feeling that he wasn’t used to being treated like a human being, let alone a professional. This business would do that to a guy, chew ‘em up and spit ‘em out. “Have a seat, take a load off.”
“Take a… what?” Like I said, awkward.
I waved him off.
“Sit down, kid.”
His ass had barely brushed the seat before my intrepid server placed a glass of water with a lemon perched on the rim on a beverage napkin in front of him. She smiled and spoke.
“Can I start you with a cocktail? Sake? Maybe something from the sushi bar?” She was quick, curt, non-intrusive and knowledgable. Already she was my favorite waitress in the Dallas-Fort Worth area and I’d only ever eaten here once before.
“Sake,” I answered for him. “Watakake. Two cups. And a couple of orders of the sea-urchin shooters.”
The waitress smiled and scampered away, presumably to do whatever magic it is that servers do to get my order together. Jones had already started squirming in his seat, anxious I’m sure to get underway and probably more than a little bit confused at the order I’d just given for us.
“Isn’t it a little early for-”
“Don’t be a pussy, Jonesy, it’s just sake.”
That wasn’t exactly true. Watakake, the “Demon Slayer,” was a hundred dollar bottle of sake. The drink was historically famous for having comforted many a weary traveler across the Ohi River in Shizuoka prefecture. I’d picked up a taste for it on one of my several dozen loops through Japan when I was a much younger wrestler. I’d chosen it today hoping that it’s sweetness and velvety texture would be enough for my young compatriot to ease into it without a bunch of hacking and coughing and what have you.
Our dutiful waitress brought the bottle and the tiny cups and I poured us both what amounted to just about a shot. I’ll give it to the kid, he knocked his back like an old pro, probably hoping to impress the big bad soon to be World Champion. I gave him an approving nod.
“Alright then,” I said. “Let’s get down to brass tacks.”
Jones chased his sake with the majority of the glass of water in front of him.
Then he cleared his throat.
“Well,” he started. “I guess the easiest question is, why GCWA? Why now? Why not a couple of months ago when OCW closed and everyone else made the move?”
Enjoying my drink, I let his questions linger for just a moment.
“Fuck, I dunno kid, money?”
“That’s it?” Jones cocked an incredulous eyebrow at me. “Money?”
I shrugged.
“Ah… oh, the World Title! Ol’ Jono Barrows has practically cherry-picked it for me and served it up on a sterling silver platter.”
He looked skeptical.
“Look, kid, I’ll level with ya. OCW was great and all, but I was stuck slumming it with schlubs like Bob Grenier right square in the middle of the card, scratching and clawing for my piece of the pie. All for what, a trumped-up hardcore title?”
“You mean the Savage Title?”
I nodded.
“But…” He trailed off momentarily. “You fit into that division like a glove, man.”
My eyes couldn’t have rolled any further without falling out of my face.
“I beat people up because I can, and because I’m good at it. I don’t need a participation trophy to tell everybody how violent I can be when necessary. The only championships I’m concerned with denote the best in the league, Jones. That is to say, the World Heavyweight Championship.”
The pieces were starting to fit together for the kid.
“So everything you said in OCW, you were full of shit?”
I nodded.
“Pretty much.”
He considered this.
“So, what’s different now?”
I poured us both more sake.
“Absolutely nothing.”
“You’re still full of shit?” He was starting to get it.
I smiled. “You’re goddamned right.”
“And you’re here for the World Title?”
“Yup.”
“That’s it?”
“No, kid, what are ya, deaf? I told you, money. They’re payin’ me a king’s ransom per-appearance with more bonuses tacked on the back end than you could throw a stick at. Coming to GCWA is a very lucrative opportunity for me, and come November 10th not only will I be a World Champion again, but I’ll cash a check that doubles your annual salary.”
I can see the gears turning behind Jonesy’s eyes. Clearly, he’s not ready to accept that at this point in my career it’s more about the paycheck than the glory.
“I see.” The kid downs his sake. He seems crestfallen.
“Look.” My sake is gone next. I pour us both another. “I’m no hero, kid. Haven’t been one for a long, long time. I have no great cause to fight for and I have no great enemy to defeat. Twenty-five years in this business and I’m the last guy left from my heyday. Don’t ask me why, or how, because I don’t fuckin’ know. Sad to say, but the last mountains I have left to climb are about my legacy, and that means collecting hardware and surpassing milestones.”
A somewhat awkward moment passed.
“What about Bifford?” It was a good enough question. Bifford was the Champion after all, and he would be standing in my way come High Rollers next weekend in Vegas.
Knocking back another shot of sake I could feel my face scrunching up at the very mention of his name. I haven’t yet been able to put my finger on why, but I’d been harboring a mild contempt for that fat-titted fuck since the first time I laid eyes on him.
It didn’t help his cause that he was in the middle of getting embarrassed by a carbon copy of me who exploited every single weakness in Biff’s game on Twitter and then laughed his way into an easy victory. It also didn’t help that Bifford’s way of coping was to pretend it never happened.
The guy was a chump, in my not so humble opinion.
“Fuck Bifford,” I said, dismissively. “That guy hasn’t got a snowball’s chance in hell of lasting fifteen minutes with me come High Rollers, let alone winning the match.”
“But-”
“What?” I interrupted. “Why did I have his finish banned?”
“Well, yeah.” Jones cleared his throat. “I mean, you did go pretty far out of your way, right? If Bifford isn’t such a big deal, why waste the effort?”
I cocked an eyebrow right back at him.
“First of all, I never said Biff wasn’t a big deal. He’s a four-hundred pound World Champion, even if he weren’t the champ he’s fuckin’ huge and that gives him an automatic advantage. Past that, I’ve had my neck fused and I’d like to take as few jumping fucking piledrivers as is possible for the entirety of what’s left of my career.”
Jones nods as if he gets it.
“If you take his size, that piledriver, mix in a little gravity and a fair bit of Newton’s Laws, what you end up with is the algebraic equation for the end of my career. I ain’t ever been in the habit of taking stupid chances, and that’s true even more so now than ever before.”
“I see. So what you’re saying is that it’s a foregone conclusion, come next Sunday you’re the new World Champion and Bifford is dust?”
I stared at him, not trying very hard to hide the look on my face.
“Are you fuckin’ drunk, or just not paying attention?”
Well. That escalated. A shockingly silent moment drug on for a while. During that bit of time, the sea-urchin shooters that I’d ordered were delivered. That waitress that I liked checked in, refilling waters and being an all-around dandy. Once she’d scurried off again, I broke the silence at the table.
“Look, Jonesy, I understand that you’ve spent the better part of your career around the kinds of assholes and fuckwits that make missing the point look like an Olympic competition, but let me assure you of one thing, kid, I ain’t that fuckin’ guy.”
Again, he nods.
“Am I gonna beat Bifford like he owes me money? Yes. Am I gonna take his belt from him like it’s Halloween and I’m the neighborhood bully looking for a free candy haul? Absolutely. Am I gonna do it because he’s a sad sack of fuck who doesn’t deserve to be in the same ring with me?”
Jonesy raises another eyebrow at me. I give him a smirk in response.
“Naw, not at all. I’m gonna beat him because I’m a better technician than he is. Because I hit harder than he does. Because I’m smarter, and I plan for everything. I didn’t get The Biff End banned just because I don’t wanna take the chance of getting dropped on my neck, I got it banned so that Bifford is without his most powerful weapon.”
Jones hasn’t touched his sushi. Mine is mostly gone.
“Ya see kid, it ain’t about sportsmanship. It’s about controlling the board, keeping the variables out of play, and dominating the opponent physically, mentally, and taking any other advantage that I can take to come out the other side with my arm raised and that belt strapped around my waist.”
I can see that the kid isn’t going to ask any more questions, so I continue pontificating.
“So you see, Bifford isn’t so much of a threat as he is an unwilling participant in a game that’s taking place real fuckin’ high above his paygrade. He’s less an opponent and more a means to an end. I mean, I’ve gotta take the belt from somebody, right?
Jones shrugs in agreeance.
“Good. Now. Eat your fuckin’ sushi, man, that shit ain’t cheap.”
I should know, I’ve made my fair share of them.
Case in point, six months ago I signed a contract to the biggest dumpster fire in the business. And let me be completely self-aware here for a moment, signing that contract wasn’t the mistake. The mistake was knowing with every fiber of my soul that said dumpster fire was never going to even try to better itself and signing anyway.
What can I say, I had a bucket list.
So I went, and it was every bit the raging inferno of hot trash that I knew it would be. Outside of having the chance to reconnect with some long lost friends, I spent every waking moment beating my fucking head against a fucking wall, wondering why I’d tied myself to a place that over a decade ago went out of its way to ruin both my professional reputation and my livelihood.
As I said, people make mistakes.
I pondered these things and more as I sat enjoying a long lunch at Shinsei in Dallas. I wasn’t due to be anywhere else for a while and hadn’t planned on leaving for home until morning, so when my old buddy from OCW, Jonesy the Menacing Muckraker himself, shot me a text and asked for a sit-down interview I was happy to oblige.
As I finished up my second plate of yellowtail nigiri I caught a glimpse of him walking in, awkward like a teenager about to get his first sniff of a pretty girl’s panties. The host at the door knew that I was waiting on him, I’d given her what I thought was a pretty accurate description of the kid. She quickly herded him over to what could absolutely not be called a quiet corner table.
“Long time, no see, Jonesy,” I said, standing to shake his hand. I got the distinct feeling that he wasn’t used to being treated like a human being, let alone a professional. This business would do that to a guy, chew ‘em up and spit ‘em out. “Have a seat, take a load off.”
“Take a… what?” Like I said, awkward.
I waved him off.
“Sit down, kid.”
His ass had barely brushed the seat before my intrepid server placed a glass of water with a lemon perched on the rim on a beverage napkin in front of him. She smiled and spoke.
“Can I start you with a cocktail? Sake? Maybe something from the sushi bar?” She was quick, curt, non-intrusive and knowledgable. Already she was my favorite waitress in the Dallas-Fort Worth area and I’d only ever eaten here once before.
“Sake,” I answered for him. “Watakake. Two cups. And a couple of orders of the sea-urchin shooters.”
The waitress smiled and scampered away, presumably to do whatever magic it is that servers do to get my order together. Jones had already started squirming in his seat, anxious I’m sure to get underway and probably more than a little bit confused at the order I’d just given for us.
“Isn’t it a little early for-”
“Don’t be a pussy, Jonesy, it’s just sake.”
That wasn’t exactly true. Watakake, the “Demon Slayer,” was a hundred dollar bottle of sake. The drink was historically famous for having comforted many a weary traveler across the Ohi River in Shizuoka prefecture. I’d picked up a taste for it on one of my several dozen loops through Japan when I was a much younger wrestler. I’d chosen it today hoping that it’s sweetness and velvety texture would be enough for my young compatriot to ease into it without a bunch of hacking and coughing and what have you.
Our dutiful waitress brought the bottle and the tiny cups and I poured us both what amounted to just about a shot. I’ll give it to the kid, he knocked his back like an old pro, probably hoping to impress the big bad soon to be World Champion. I gave him an approving nod.
“Alright then,” I said. “Let’s get down to brass tacks.”
Jones chased his sake with the majority of the glass of water in front of him.
Then he cleared his throat.
“Well,” he started. “I guess the easiest question is, why GCWA? Why now? Why not a couple of months ago when OCW closed and everyone else made the move?”
Enjoying my drink, I let his questions linger for just a moment.
“Fuck, I dunno kid, money?”
“That’s it?” Jones cocked an incredulous eyebrow at me. “Money?”
I shrugged.
“Ah… oh, the World Title! Ol’ Jono Barrows has practically cherry-picked it for me and served it up on a sterling silver platter.”
He looked skeptical.
“Look, kid, I’ll level with ya. OCW was great and all, but I was stuck slumming it with schlubs like Bob Grenier right square in the middle of the card, scratching and clawing for my piece of the pie. All for what, a trumped-up hardcore title?”
“You mean the Savage Title?”
I nodded.
“But…” He trailed off momentarily. “You fit into that division like a glove, man.”
My eyes couldn’t have rolled any further without falling out of my face.
“I beat people up because I can, and because I’m good at it. I don’t need a participation trophy to tell everybody how violent I can be when necessary. The only championships I’m concerned with denote the best in the league, Jones. That is to say, the World Heavyweight Championship.”
The pieces were starting to fit together for the kid.
“So everything you said in OCW, you were full of shit?”
I nodded.
“Pretty much.”
He considered this.
“So, what’s different now?”
I poured us both more sake.
“Absolutely nothing.”
“You’re still full of shit?” He was starting to get it.
I smiled. “You’re goddamned right.”
“And you’re here for the World Title?”
“Yup.”
“That’s it?”
“No, kid, what are ya, deaf? I told you, money. They’re payin’ me a king’s ransom per-appearance with more bonuses tacked on the back end than you could throw a stick at. Coming to GCWA is a very lucrative opportunity for me, and come November 10th not only will I be a World Champion again, but I’ll cash a check that doubles your annual salary.”
I can see the gears turning behind Jonesy’s eyes. Clearly, he’s not ready to accept that at this point in my career it’s more about the paycheck than the glory.
“I see.” The kid downs his sake. He seems crestfallen.
“Look.” My sake is gone next. I pour us both another. “I’m no hero, kid. Haven’t been one for a long, long time. I have no great cause to fight for and I have no great enemy to defeat. Twenty-five years in this business and I’m the last guy left from my heyday. Don’t ask me why, or how, because I don’t fuckin’ know. Sad to say, but the last mountains I have left to climb are about my legacy, and that means collecting hardware and surpassing milestones.”
A somewhat awkward moment passed.
“What about Bifford?” It was a good enough question. Bifford was the Champion after all, and he would be standing in my way come High Rollers next weekend in Vegas.
Knocking back another shot of sake I could feel my face scrunching up at the very mention of his name. I haven’t yet been able to put my finger on why, but I’d been harboring a mild contempt for that fat-titted fuck since the first time I laid eyes on him.
It didn’t help his cause that he was in the middle of getting embarrassed by a carbon copy of me who exploited every single weakness in Biff’s game on Twitter and then laughed his way into an easy victory. It also didn’t help that Bifford’s way of coping was to pretend it never happened.
The guy was a chump, in my not so humble opinion.
“Fuck Bifford,” I said, dismissively. “That guy hasn’t got a snowball’s chance in hell of lasting fifteen minutes with me come High Rollers, let alone winning the match.”
“But-”
“What?” I interrupted. “Why did I have his finish banned?”
“Well, yeah.” Jones cleared his throat. “I mean, you did go pretty far out of your way, right? If Bifford isn’t such a big deal, why waste the effort?”
I cocked an eyebrow right back at him.
“First of all, I never said Biff wasn’t a big deal. He’s a four-hundred pound World Champion, even if he weren’t the champ he’s fuckin’ huge and that gives him an automatic advantage. Past that, I’ve had my neck fused and I’d like to take as few jumping fucking piledrivers as is possible for the entirety of what’s left of my career.”
Jones nods as if he gets it.
“If you take his size, that piledriver, mix in a little gravity and a fair bit of Newton’s Laws, what you end up with is the algebraic equation for the end of my career. I ain’t ever been in the habit of taking stupid chances, and that’s true even more so now than ever before.”
“I see. So what you’re saying is that it’s a foregone conclusion, come next Sunday you’re the new World Champion and Bifford is dust?”
I stared at him, not trying very hard to hide the look on my face.
“Are you fuckin’ drunk, or just not paying attention?”
Well. That escalated. A shockingly silent moment drug on for a while. During that bit of time, the sea-urchin shooters that I’d ordered were delivered. That waitress that I liked checked in, refilling waters and being an all-around dandy. Once she’d scurried off again, I broke the silence at the table.
“Look, Jonesy, I understand that you’ve spent the better part of your career around the kinds of assholes and fuckwits that make missing the point look like an Olympic competition, but let me assure you of one thing, kid, I ain’t that fuckin’ guy.”
Again, he nods.
“Am I gonna beat Bifford like he owes me money? Yes. Am I gonna take his belt from him like it’s Halloween and I’m the neighborhood bully looking for a free candy haul? Absolutely. Am I gonna do it because he’s a sad sack of fuck who doesn’t deserve to be in the same ring with me?”
Jonesy raises another eyebrow at me. I give him a smirk in response.
“Naw, not at all. I’m gonna beat him because I’m a better technician than he is. Because I hit harder than he does. Because I’m smarter, and I plan for everything. I didn’t get The Biff End banned just because I don’t wanna take the chance of getting dropped on my neck, I got it banned so that Bifford is without his most powerful weapon.”
Jones hasn’t touched his sushi. Mine is mostly gone.
“Ya see kid, it ain’t about sportsmanship. It’s about controlling the board, keeping the variables out of play, and dominating the opponent physically, mentally, and taking any other advantage that I can take to come out the other side with my arm raised and that belt strapped around my waist.”
I can see that the kid isn’t going to ask any more questions, so I continue pontificating.
“So you see, Bifford isn’t so much of a threat as he is an unwilling participant in a game that’s taking place real fuckin’ high above his paygrade. He’s less an opponent and more a means to an end. I mean, I’ve gotta take the belt from somebody, right?
Jones shrugs in agreeance.
“Good. Now. Eat your fuckin’ sushi, man, that shit ain’t cheap.”