Post by Cable Arcane on Apr 18, 2017 22:50:09 GMT
Chapter Two
February 27th, 201717
New Orleans, Louisiana
The holding cell smelled foul, like a pair of socks that had seen it's fair share of marathons but never even heard of a washing machine. I was thankfully alone on this fine evening, or more likely fine morning; the passage of time was hard to keep track of as seconds felt like hours; the only thing that could have made it worse was if this had been a "busy" night.
'Detective Smith' as I had come to think of him had tossed me in here with a quip, "Get comfortable." As if that were actually funny.
After a seemingly swift processing procedure; based on my intimate knowledge of "Law and Order"; I had been graced with his absense. Just myself and my thoughts and the lingering suspicion I was owed a phone call.
I took a moment to process the events of the last hour. Armed officers greeting me post humiliating loss, being lead in cuffs through the entire locker room in front of co-workers and fans alike and the killing blow, the one I had only really started to think about for the first time since this began, I was being charged with voluntary manslaughter...
January 3rd, 2016 was the offending date. At the time I was working for Alex Jones and his then wife in their poor attempt to run a "non corrupt" version of Imerial Wrestling.
For the sake of this book I will leave any personal opinions of the success or failure of that concept out of this.
The date was memorable to me for two reasons, it was the first time I had ever performed in New Orleans and it was the night a fan decided to test my moniker. The young man, or as he would later be referred to as "young boy" had blind sided me during a street fight with another professional wrestler. His first offense, a flat plastic cup of beer thrown against my back, I almost laughed off. It was the drunken back hand that caught me against my left ear which pushed me over the edge.
I turned faster than he could register through glazed over eyes and gripped him by the neck, from there it was a simple matter of tripping his feet up and putting him down firmly on the concrete floor.
I remember very distinctly that securty was lax as they never even arrived to seperate us, only to escort the young inibriated man out, a young man who last I remember seeing looked completely fine save for what I assume would be the most painful migrain he will have ever expierenced the following morning.
After that incident the rest is a haze, I assume I finished the match because I am not dead in the gutter, I more than likely took a shower backstage in the locker room then jumped in my rental to get a head start toward the next show, as was my way so I would have plenty of time for the gym the following day.
Nothing spectacular, nothing over the top but as I would later come to find out that night was so much more important than I intially remembered.
It was somewhere during my pondering that Detective Smith had decided to come check in on me, his almost loveable partner, Picard just behind him.
"So, you ready to talk?" He chimed with a snarky smile that I couldn't help but return in kind.
"I'd love to talk," I paused for a moment and allowed him to think a few hours in a cell was enough to break me before finishing "To my lawyer."
He let out a long sigh before reaching into his pocket and pulling out another cigarette. He ignited his knock off Zippo lighter and took a long drag before blowing it into my cell, I thankfully far enough away that it didn't bother me as much as it did in the car.
"Have it your way kid but they're aren't a lot of ways this can go for you." He said before taking another drag of his cigarette and then dropping it still lit onto the cell floor.
Picard shook his head as Smith took off back down from where he came, it looked like it was time for the 'good cop' part of my questioning.
"Look Cable, may I call you Cable?" I shrugged at his question. "We're just trying to make this whole process as easy a possible."
I help back on a snort, make what as easy as possible, getting me to confess to manslaughter?
"I appreciate the thought but I'd still like to talk to my lawyer." I said with as much sincerity as I could muster.
"I understand, do you know who you'll be contacting or would you like your personal phone?" The question for some reason caught me off guard, I hadn't actually thought about who I was going to call.
"I'd like my personal phone, thank you." I said trying to remain both cordial and confident to a man who I knew was just doing his job.
He nodded, heading off in the same direction as Smith but now the panic was starting to set in. Laura had double crossed me earlier in the evening, she was my contact, the one person who handled all of my business outside of the squared circle, who the hell was I going to call?
I don't know why I was surprised at High Stakes when you stayed true to form, Noah and attemtped to steal another victory over me.
Honestly, it was the obvious move. Cheating your way to the top is about the only thing you know how to do well, it's how you've found success in every other promotion you've ever been a part of and it's the only reason you now get to call yourself a former IWF Imperial Champion.
But your little ploy to sick a monster among men on me isn't what pissed me off about High Stakes.
It's that you robbed me of a definitive victory over you.
I won back the IWF Imperial Championship, I am the only man in the history of this company to hold this prestigious title more than once but this reign will always come with the asterisk that your bumbling behemoth of a body guard essentially gift wrapped me the victory.
I am not a paper champion.
I will not be known as a paper champion.
So as far as I'm concerned until I pin your shoulders to the mat or make you tap out in the center of that ring I am not the IWF Imperial Champion. Unlike yourself who was all too happy to parade around like you actually accomplished something, I refuse to acknowledge the history that should have been made until I defeat you in a fair fight.
Call me old school, make fun of my sense of honor, I don't really care. The fact remains that this is the end of our trilogy and there will be no cheating your way to victory. There will be no men hiding under the ring or coming through the crowd. There will be amount of screaming Laura Howlett can do that will stop me from spin kicking your over inflated head clean off your shoulders.
Simply put, I am going to beat you Sunday Night.
There is nothing you, Laura Howlett or Roberto Verona can do about it.
I will be walking out as the IWF Imperial Champion even if it means I have to run a gauntlet of the entire goddamn roster while Verona wears the pin stripes. There isn't a force on Heaven or Earth who could stand in my way, God himself would be humbled and humiliated if he set foot in that ring with me Sunday Night.
Keep that in mind as you preen and pamper yourself in preperation for this match.
I'm in the gym before the crack of dawn preparing myself for war, I'm not leaving until my body is damn near collapse. Every waking second between now and the moment that bell rings will be spent pushing myself beyond human limits, beyond anything you've ever seen me do inside of a ring. This will be unlike any match you've ever found yourself in before. Not only will you be ill prepared and ill equipped you will be out matched in every concievable sense as I not just defeat you but I dominate you!
You will not so much as touch me unless it's on the recieving end of my offense.
You will not breath unless it's strained gasps between submission holds.
You will not move unless it's me dropping you flat on your privileged skull!
You didn't just wake the sleeping dragon when you pissed me off, Noah, you opened the gates of hell! You have stood there with that dufous grin and open arms inviting the devil himself to jam a pitch fork up your ass and barbeque you over hell's pit.
You wanted to make a name for yourself in IWF?
Congratulations, you're number one on Cable Arcane's hit list and WHEN I have my way you will NEVER be seen in Imperial Wrestling again.
There isn't a man or woman in the history of this business who has worked harder than me, there isn't anyone better than me and there is a reason I am called the Best in the World.
And you're not
I am the most skilled, the most brutal, the most dominate man to ever set foot in a professional wrestling ring and you are just an insignificant little worm who happened to fall out of the ball sack of some fucking independent loser who wouldn't last more than two minutes inside of a ring with me.
Field Envy?
Field Legacy?
By the time I'm done with Noah Field he's going to be little more than a blood stain on my canvas and if his "illustrious" father has a problem with that then I'll gladly show all the neckbeards in the crowd why Imperial Wrestling is host to the best professional wrestlers alive.
And nowhere else even comes close.
I'm reclaiming my position on top of the IWF mountain and sending Noah Field back to the fucking sandbox he crawled out of with all the other washed up has beens and never will be's.
And Verona, if you're even entertaining the idea of fucking with the outcome of this match, think again, because I've got absolutely no problem dropping you right on your fucking head too.
That is MY ring. That is MY belt. This is MY company. Until one of you is good enough to take it away from me and that is looking pretty fucking doubtful.
As for the House of Howlett, time to burn that bitch down.
No sleep. No rest. Ne mercy.
Honestly, it was the obvious move. Cheating your way to the top is about the only thing you know how to do well, it's how you've found success in every other promotion you've ever been a part of and it's the only reason you now get to call yourself a former IWF Imperial Champion.
But your little ploy to sick a monster among men on me isn't what pissed me off about High Stakes.
It's that you robbed me of a definitive victory over you.
I won back the IWF Imperial Championship, I am the only man in the history of this company to hold this prestigious title more than once but this reign will always come with the asterisk that your bumbling behemoth of a body guard essentially gift wrapped me the victory.
I am not a paper champion.
I will not be known as a paper champion.
So as far as I'm concerned until I pin your shoulders to the mat or make you tap out in the center of that ring I am not the IWF Imperial Champion. Unlike yourself who was all too happy to parade around like you actually accomplished something, I refuse to acknowledge the history that should have been made until I defeat you in a fair fight.
Call me old school, make fun of my sense of honor, I don't really care. The fact remains that this is the end of our trilogy and there will be no cheating your way to victory. There will be no men hiding under the ring or coming through the crowd. There will be amount of screaming Laura Howlett can do that will stop me from spin kicking your over inflated head clean off your shoulders.
Simply put, I am going to beat you Sunday Night.
There is nothing you, Laura Howlett or Roberto Verona can do about it.
I will be walking out as the IWF Imperial Champion even if it means I have to run a gauntlet of the entire goddamn roster while Verona wears the pin stripes. There isn't a force on Heaven or Earth who could stand in my way, God himself would be humbled and humiliated if he set foot in that ring with me Sunday Night.
Keep that in mind as you preen and pamper yourself in preperation for this match.
I'm in the gym before the crack of dawn preparing myself for war, I'm not leaving until my body is damn near collapse. Every waking second between now and the moment that bell rings will be spent pushing myself beyond human limits, beyond anything you've ever seen me do inside of a ring. This will be unlike any match you've ever found yourself in before. Not only will you be ill prepared and ill equipped you will be out matched in every concievable sense as I not just defeat you but I dominate you!
You will not so much as touch me unless it's on the recieving end of my offense.
You will not breath unless it's strained gasps between submission holds.
You will not move unless it's me dropping you flat on your privileged skull!
You didn't just wake the sleeping dragon when you pissed me off, Noah, you opened the gates of hell! You have stood there with that dufous grin and open arms inviting the devil himself to jam a pitch fork up your ass and barbeque you over hell's pit.
You wanted to make a name for yourself in IWF?
Congratulations, you're number one on Cable Arcane's hit list and WHEN I have my way you will NEVER be seen in Imperial Wrestling again.
There isn't a man or woman in the history of this business who has worked harder than me, there isn't anyone better than me and there is a reason I am called the Best in the World.
And you're not
I am the most skilled, the most brutal, the most dominate man to ever set foot in a professional wrestling ring and you are just an insignificant little worm who happened to fall out of the ball sack of some fucking independent loser who wouldn't last more than two minutes inside of a ring with me.
Field Envy?
Field Legacy?
By the time I'm done with Noah Field he's going to be little more than a blood stain on my canvas and if his "illustrious" father has a problem with that then I'll gladly show all the neckbeards in the crowd why Imperial Wrestling is host to the best professional wrestlers alive.
And nowhere else even comes close.
I'm reclaiming my position on top of the IWF mountain and sending Noah Field back to the fucking sandbox he crawled out of with all the other washed up has beens and never will be's.
And Verona, if you're even entertaining the idea of fucking with the outcome of this match, think again, because I've got absolutely no problem dropping you right on your fucking head too.
That is MY ring. That is MY belt. This is MY company. Until one of you is good enough to take it away from me and that is looking pretty fucking doubtful.
As for the House of Howlett, time to burn that bitch down.
No sleep. No rest. Ne mercy.