Post by Notorious B.O.B. on May 27, 2018 23:53:16 GMT
The Starbucks was hardly half full when the pair pushed through the double set of glass doors. A small, auburn haired barista looked up from behind the pastry counter and smiled. They returned the greeting and made their way to one of the many open tables dotting the landscape of the building.
This particular Starbucks sat in the middle of a newly updated strip mall; bookended on either side by a Chipotle and a regional bank of some sort. The interior, like most Starbucks, was decorated in what could only be described as ‘Hipster Chic’. Aside from the branded merchandise that corporate surely mandated they shill, there was a nice array of locally sourced fruits, honey, and other small edibles.
The pair chose a table near the large window facing the parking lot; Bob sliding into his chair while Trent seemed to collapse into his. The sound of his ‘huff’ drew the attention of the barista and a neighboring customer.
“You gonna make it?” Bob asked, a grin on his face as he pulled his phone from his front right pocket and placed it on the table, screen side down. Trent cocked an eyebrow as he made no attempt to hide his voice.
“She wore me out last night, man. She wore. Me. Out!”
Bob rubbed the palm of his hand against his forehead, trying to gage just how loud Trent really was. From the sniggering of a second barista further down making an espresso it must have been plenty loud.
“This is why we don’t do more; I can’t bring out in public.” He sighed as he flipped the phone over on the table and placed his thumb over the home button. A slight press and the phone illuminated to show an artistic polygon render of World of Warcraft legend Thrall. Bob swiped to the left and tapped on an icon, launching an app while Trent leaned back, arms behind his head and hummed softly.
“Hey,” Bob said after a few moments of silence, “says here that Night of the Immortals might be completely sold out this year.” Trent opened one eye but said nothing. “D’you ever think we’d still be doing this after all these years?” Bob flipped the phone back over and pressed his palm over the top of it as Trent opened his other eye and looked at him.
“Do you have any idea how many times I’ve tried to retire? Like,” he waves his hands about with maximum grandeur, “every time I say I’ve had enough – somebody” he says leaning forward and looking Bob square in the eyes, “pulls me back in for ‘one more match’. Hell,” he says with a laugh, “I’ve probably made more of a career out of those ‘just one more’ matches than some of the guys you’re running with now.” Trent laughs at this as Bob opens his mouth to reply, but shrugs his shoulders instead. “See,” he laughs, “even you can’t deny that. This company of yours,”
“IWF” Bob says, helping Trent out.
“Yeah, it’s just chock full of forgettable guys. I mean, how many people have you seen going in and out of that revolving door?” Bob says nothing as Trent continues. “How many different people have held that Imp-whatever title?” Bob shrugs, but still says nothing. “Look, I’m not trying to piss in your Cheerios here,”
“But you will …”
Trent shrugs and places his arms behind his head once more. “Business has changed, man; there’s no denying that. Guys are running around pretending they’re vampires and werewolves,”
Bob stops him, “Who’s running around pretending their a vampire or werewolf?” Trent waves him off, “I don’t know his name. Blonde dude, dressed like something outta Harry Potter …”
“Seph? I don’t think he was pretending.”
Trent leans forward and places his palms firmly on the table. “Are you serious? You think for one second that this dude is a legit vampire?” Bob thinks for a second before giving a small nod. “For fucks sake, you shoulda gotten out when I did man – I think all those chair shots finally caught up to you.”
Bob laughs, leaning back a bit and playing with the hair sticking out beneath his hat. “Hey, you probably had a couple more years in you if you’da stuck around with me.” Now it was Trent’s turn to laugh. “Why stick around and be somebody else’s bitch? Nah, that’s why I started my new place.”
Trent was, of course, talking about Tier 1 Wrestling, of which he co-owned. But he did bring up a good point. Everything had slowly changed over the last few years. Travis had given up wrestling and was actually a part of the professional bowling circuit. As crazy at it sounded Turbulence had hung up his moniker and settled down and had a couple kids. Even guys like Chick had found some notoriety on the independent scene. Everybody who was anybody back in HCW had either retired, or faded off the mainstream scene. Pooler and Laszlo were two of the only guys still left kicking around.
“Hey,” Bob says, jogging Trent out of his trance, “I tell you I got this weird note the other day?” Bob reaches into the left front pocket of his jeans and pulls out a crumpled note. He doesn’t bother unfolding it, instead he tosses it across the table where Trent carefully opens it and begins to scan the contents. Little by little, Trent’s eyebrows raise until he comes to the end of the letter and looks back at Bob with a slow shake of the head.
“The fuck?” is all he says. Bob had been expecting some kind of crazy ex-girlfriend jokes but instead Trent just looked at him like he had three heads. The two go back and forth talking about her for several more minutes until the sudden feeling of eyes on them halt their argument and they turn to see the smiling face of the mousy brunette sashaying her way across the coffee shop towards them.
“Bob?” she asks, eyeing the pair as though unsure just which of them to address. Bob nods at her and smiles, “Yeah, hey” he says with a small wave. The barista places a grande cup down in front of him and smiles back. “But I didn’t order …” he began. “Oh, a lady came in a few minutes ago and placed the order.” She looked around the shop but couldn’t seem to find her. “I guess she took off already” she began as a dawning of realization seemed to wash across both Trent and Bob’s faces. Trent reached out quickly, driving the palm of his right hand into the side of the cup and sending it sailing right into the crotch of the barista. “What the hell is wrong with you” she yelled, brushing her front and watching the puddle of java forming at her feet. Bob looked at her with a look that, hopefully, conveyed how sorry he was for his friend. The barista stormed off and Bob threw a handful of bills down on the table and quickly stood up to gather his things.
“Let’s get out of here before they call the cops on you!”
As the headed for the door Trent stopped and slapped a cup from the hand of a twenty-something hipster that had just paused his typing at his typewriter. Flabbergasted, Bob raced for the door holding it open for Trent to pass through with only a, “Can’t be too careful” and a smirk.
”Is it just me,” he says with a smirk as he carefully peers around a corner and sends three well aimed bullets right into the dome of another player who had been looting other remains, ”or is the competition on the EU servers just not up to par with the North American ones?” He hazards a quick glance at his second monitor before vaulting the wall and quickly looting what he can before taking cover in the nearby building.
He’d been streaming Player Unknown’s Battlegrounds for the last few hours and managed to rack up an impressive six chicken dinners in both solo and squad modes. His eyes were beginning to fatigue and after the culmination of this final game he was going to switch off and play a little Sea of Thieves to give himself a break. ”What’dwe got left here?” he said into the team voice chat. A voice reported back ”twelve left, four of which are us …” to which Bob smiled and replied, ”which means we’ve only got eight more to find. There’s no way there’s going to be two complete teams here to be looking for pairs and single players, guys.”
The squad moved out through the small set of buildings as Bob climbed in through a window and made his way up the stairs until finally exiting through a door onto the roof. A smattering of random gear still lay in small clusters. Bob ignored these and took up position. ”On the roof” he barked out as he scanned the horizon for movement. It was very slight, perhaps just a glitch of a few pixels, but something caught his eye. Crouching down and pulling out his rifle, he peered down through the scope as the outline of a figure running across the golden wheat fields came into view.
”Got one at South sixty-five” he called out. He took a breath and held it for a heartbeat before tapping the left mouse button and watching the blood splatter far off in the distance.
‘YOU knocked out Xypher by headshot with SCAR-L’
”He’s down,” he called out, ”watch for teammates to revive.” Bob continued his scanning through the distance as the sound of gunfire rang out to his left. There, amidst a cluster of two-story buildings a small firefight was erupting. He switched to his secondary rifle with the less powerful scope and no sooner placed his crosshairs on the upper window of a building when the silhouette of an enemy appeared. He reacted by instinct, popping off two burst rounds, neither of which hit their mark. The figure quickly disappeared and he knew that his position had been given away.
He hopped the railing, landing on the ground and taking off in a sprint for the cluster of buildings up ahead. His only recourse would be to try and head them off at the pass before they exited for him. He quickly vaulted in through a downstairs window and carefully crept around the corner, straight into the sights of the waiting player. Three quick hits and Bob was retreating with half his life depleted. He called out his position, looking for backup when right before his eyes he watched as two of his teammates went down for good. Backup was unlikely and he had to get out of there NOW.
He sprinted for the window, exiting and taking a hard left hoping to make it to the next cluster of buildings to find somewhere to heal up. He found an unoccupied building as another death flashed across the upper left of his screen. Eight remained, of which six were opposing players. He was nearly through healing up and had just popped himself an energy drink when he heard the door downstairs open. His map showed that it wasn’t his teammate so he took up a defensive position and waited, curser aimed at the stairs for the head to appear. In an instant it did, and he fired.
‘YOU knocked out Dar3D3vi1 by headshot with SCAR-L’
Within seconds he heard a second player downstairs; now was the time for patience. Either Daredevil was going to get finished off, or his teammate was going to try and revive him. He waited for a few seconds and when he didn’t see the death notification pop up he quickly equipped a grenade and lobbed it down the stairs. He watched it bounce off the wall, disappearing out of side for a split second before detonating and taking out both platers in the blast.
Four left …
”D’you guys see that ‘nade?” he said with a laugh. He was now only speaking to the chatroom, who were still watching and keeping themselves busy with a random assortment of meme jokes and off color comments. ”Where you at partner?” There was radio silence for a moment before the sound of ”Group Up” came through the speakers. Scanning the map, Pooler saw the approximate location of his only remaining squad mate and hopped out the nearest window and took off in a sprint towards that spot.
He dodged between buildings, ducking low to remain out of sight; eyes constantly darting between the mini map in the upper right, and the hilly horizon to his left. He was nearly there when he heard the pop of gunfire and then the reddish blur that indicated he’d been hit. ”Shit, under fire” he quickly yelled as he began to serpentine his way towards the building his parter was waiting within.
”Give me some cover fire here” , Bob called out. He saw his partner peak out from an upper window for a moment before ducking back down.
”POP”
His sprint came to a sudden and abrupt halt as his avatar dropped to all fours and began to crawl, slowly bleeding out as he desperately tried to reach the door to the house. ”Dude, help me here – get them off my back so I can get inside. I need heals!” There was no response, no return fire, nothing. Bob watched as his health continued to decrease; the red bar quickly depleting until with one final crack, a bullet found its mark and he was greeted with the name of the player who had downed him.
”What. The. Hell …” was all he could muster as he began to spectate the rest of the match through the eyes of his comrade. Bob silently watched as, from his upstairs vantage point, his partner peered through the window at the small, green glowing crate that had once been his body was looted by a pair of enemies. ”Well, this should at least be like shooting fi…” was all he could get out as he watched his partner stand up from his prone position and try and lob a grenade through the window. The trajectory should have sent the explosive right into the middle of the pair, but instead it ricocheted off the top of the open window and landed at the feet of its thrower. Bob could do nothing but watch as it exploded and the number two flashed on his screen.
”Are …” he began, his hands clapped against the sides of his head, ”you kidding me? Who … who does that? Like,” he says, clearly exasperated, ”who blatantly ignores his teammate and …” he stops and spikes the webcam as his right eyebrow arches dramatically, ”oh, right.”
Pooler sighs as he clicks out of the game, ignoring the friend request from his partner. ”Hasn’t exactly been a banner couple weeks for gaming or real life partners, eh?” He jokes, but his face bears the strain of someone trying hard to hold back the torrent flood of anger and frustration that risks washing over him. ”Ugh,” he sighs, ”I guess I should have seen all this coming from the start – I mean,” he chuckles, ”considering this was the third time I was let down by people that were supposed to have my back. Ya got Ulf,” he begins, ticking the name off on his index finger, ”a guy who might not have a full grasp of the English language, but knows enough to get himself a Player of the Game. He and I might not always see eye to eye in the ring, but he can game. But Ulf isn’t big on the ‘team player’ concept. He still thinks that if he’s got an opening, he better take it – doesn’t matter if his ultimate is nowhere close to being ready. The two of us,” he smiles, ”nearly came to blows back at the hotel before our match against each other because he kept forgetting the concept of patience. Here I am,” he leans back and scratches his chin, ”thinking that Ulf’s inability to listen to direction would spell the downfall for his team, when it turns out that my blinders are what ended up leading to that loss.
Dean and Ulf, they’re not a pretty team,” he says with a shrug, ”but I thought that I could at least count on Laszlo long enough to secure our spot in this tournament going forward. Turns out that ol’ Mikey couldn’t wait to remind everyone why he’s a douche and chose this moment to make sure it was crystal clear.
Now,” he laughs, but there’s no humor in the it, ”you guys know that I can take a beating like the best of them. I survived a couple matches with Dean, I made it through Pax; hell, I’ve even come out the other side still standing in matches with the likes of Spike Kane and Angel Blake – two men who have maimed more people than polio. I’m a survivor, and I’m not going to let one loss define me; though some people might consider thinking along those same lines in relations to victories.
‘Cause see,” his head tilts to the left as he rubs the back of his neck, ”if I hung my hat on one big win then I’d be on pretty shaky ground when reality came knocking at my door. People keep asking, ‘you pissed that Mike turned on you?’, like … I’m not surprised, guys” he says with a laugh. ”Everyone knew that he wants a shot at my belt, he hasn’t exactly masked his intentions since I wont it, eh? So for weeks he’s been frothing at the mouth for an opportunity to get me one-on-one for the belt. Buuuuuuut,” he drags out the word as he smirks, ”I guess Lady Luck had other things on her mind ‘cause me and Mikey found ourselves one of the unlikely duos paired together for the Tag Team World Cup.
‘Bob, he’s gonna turn on you’, they’d tell me.” Pooler rolls his eyes and grins, ”Yeah, I know … I just thought he’d wait to see if we’d make it to the finals first. Like, there’s no titles to be won and no real prize money that I know about. This World Cup is for bragging rights, right?” He looks at the chat who give a collective shrug. Shrugging himself, Pooler continues on. ”Well, whether there really was a carrot at the end of the string or not, I was just interested in trying something new. It’d been more than a few years since was in a tag tourney- which for those of you who still followed me during my time in Frontier - I won!” he mimes brushing off his left shoulder with a cocky grin. ”But yeah, I knew this was coming at some point … just not so early and for so little reason. Like, what did he have to gain from that maneuver? A match with me the following week at Open Fight Night? Come on, like he really thought he was going to let me eat a pin by walking away and I’d be all, ‘rawr, I’m cheesed off, eh, let’s fight for my title, Mike!’
Pooler rolls his eyes and laughs. ”So, yeah it might have been a little childish to walk out onto that stage and give him the run around, but a guy can only put up with ego maniacs for so long before he snaps. Me? I’ve been listening to Mike drone on and on about his abilities and blah, blah, blah” Bob rolls his eyes and motions a talking mouth with his hand, ”it just becomes white noise after a while. See,” he says with a squint, ”I feel like ol’ Mike has been blowing smoke up our collective asses for so long that he can no longer differentiate between reality and Laszlo-land. Like,” he chuckles, ”d’you know how many times I caught him back stage talking about how he was the one who’d been carrying our team? Yeah,” he nods, eyes wide as he slowly shakes his head back and forth, ”him and that crazy little wife of his who just buys all his inane bullshit without question. The two of them,” he jabs a thumb in the air, ”they live in their own little world. Fact is you’re both pathological narcissists who think they’re owed the world when, at best, you might be owed a small Frosty.” He smiles before adding, ”A vanilla one at that.”
Bob pulls the headphones from his head, reaches up and tousles his hair before placing them back into place. ”That’s the crux of this all, Mike,” he begins, a hint of a smirk teasing on his face. ”When you were first coming up in this sport you were eager to learn, eager to see yourself grow … but now,” he scoffs, ”you stick your fingers in your ears to block out the world. You openly mock your colleagues and down right refuse to admit that the reason you’ve grown stagnant isn’t because of a lack of competition – but a lack of respect for the sport that helped make you.
You, me, Spike and Nighthawk, hell even Gilmore are expendable. This sport existed long before us, and it sure as hell isn’t going to stop just because we do. At some point we just aren’t going to be able to do this anymore, but IWF will go on. Sure, guys like Spike, guys like Roberto and Angel – hell maybe even the two of us if we’re lucky … we’re going to be remembered for the contributions that we made, but eventually, even those memories will fade away. I’m the kind of guy who lives his life knowing that at any point all this fun could go away – so I enjoy what I’ve got while I’ve got it. But you,” he says mockingly, eyebrow arching upwards, ”you look at what you have, and then complain about how it isn’t enough. It’ll never be enough for you, Mike; try as you might you will never attain the satisfaction of feeling truly fulfilled.
For that, I feel sorry for you.
But then, generally, you open your mouth and that pity goes away. You walk around IWF with this …” he waves his hands about, searching for the right words, ”persona. It’s like you tell us that you don’t care what people say or think of you, you’re not in this for the fans and yadda, yadda, yadda – but then you try and act like some anti-hero, tough guy ‘cause that’s what guys like Angel do and it works. Well, with guys like Angel there’s no gray area. People either love him, or they hate him … but even the ones that hate him LOVE to hate him. You want to be edgy, you want to be mister ‘too cool for school’, but at the end of the day you know that people don’t love you … people don’t hate you; Mike, people are just apathetic to you.
You. Don’t. Matter.
That big swerve of yours from a few weeks ago that everyone, including Gilmore and his one functioning eye saw coming? I bet you thought it was going to earn you some delicious boos from the crowd at Open Fight Night when you took me on. You wanted that negative reaction because at the end of the day attention is attention, and you, my friend, are an attention whore whether you’ll admit it or not.
You wanted my attention,” he smiles wickedly, ”and like a petulant, naughty puppy you have it. You’ve wanted this match, you’ve begged for this match, you’ve done everything in your power to make sure that you get this shot at me; but now you’re probably not even thinking about me – you’re already thinking past me … thinking about what you’ll do as the new IWF Strong Style champion.
Therein lies your problem.
All you’ve done since the word ‘go’ is dog me, dog my abilities, dog my dedication to this company and to this sport. For reasons unbeknownst to me, you’ve decided to focus only on my missteps, my stumbles, my poor choices that I’ve made along the way to this point. Mike, I’ve been open and honest about my past and the decisions that nearly brought my career to a close. For you to stand in that ring and try and openly shame me” he says with a shrug, ”what were you expecting? Did you think that I’d get all flustered and storm down to the ring? Did’ja think that anything that came spilling out of your overly repetitious mouth was something I hadn’t already heard … something I hadn’t already said to myself?
There isn’t an original thought left in your head.
You continue to see my flaws as character defining traits. My lack of an Imperial title run? For some reason this bothers you more than me. I mean,” he laughs, ”I’m not going to sit here and deny that I’d make a hell of an Imperial champion,” he pauses briefly and corrects himself, ”World champion, sorry. But yeah,” he continues, ”of course I want that at some point in my career – but the fact that I haven’t yet accomplished that feat doesn’t keep me up at night. Hell,” he says with a chuckle, ”it probably keeps me hungry. It’s like that little carrot off in the distance that I’ll get to soon enough. But you,” he scoffs, ”your Imperial run was the defining moment of your career. You spent three solid months holding that belt and loving the fact that you not only defeated the undefeatable Angel Blake for the title, but a month later managed to retain against him once more. Anyone who considered you a fluke win would be quickly silenced – unfortunately, the same could not be said for you.
You spent years reminding everyone about how you beat Angel – and I don’t want to be ‘Mr. What-Have-You-Done-For-Me-Lately?’, but while you’ve clutched that pair of wins to your chest like security blanket, you haven’t done more than sniff in the direction of the title since then. You’ve bounced around doing anything you could to stay relevant and fearing the day when your name was forgotten. This little turn of yours, Mike? Just another in a long list of poorly executed ideas for getting in that spotlight jut a little while longer. See, this match could have just been a friendly one between two guys who’ve known each other for upwards of two decades. But you figured you’d try and play games that needn’t be played.
Come on,” he says with a dismissive laugh, ”you and I have traded wins over the years, Mike. It’s no big deal – but it just so happens that the last tick in the ‘victory’ column belongs to you … aka …
You. Beat. Me.
I know this might sound crazy, but I’m not going to try and deny it, make excuses for it, or downplay the results. What the hell would be the point of that? Like,” he shrugs his shoulders and looks around the room, ”d’you really think that I’d be so insecure in my own abilities that I’d need to fudge history to keep from falling apart?” There’s an awkward pause while Pooler looks into the camera, his right eyebrow slowly arching upwards.
”For all your faults, all your flaws, I’m not going to take pleasure in breaking down this carefully constructed world of yours. But if you think for one second that I’m going to let you belittle, minimize, or soil the legacy that I’m trying to build with this title - then I am going to tear you down brick by brick while you stand there and just ...
watch me!”
This particular Starbucks sat in the middle of a newly updated strip mall; bookended on either side by a Chipotle and a regional bank of some sort. The interior, like most Starbucks, was decorated in what could only be described as ‘Hipster Chic’. Aside from the branded merchandise that corporate surely mandated they shill, there was a nice array of locally sourced fruits, honey, and other small edibles.
The pair chose a table near the large window facing the parking lot; Bob sliding into his chair while Trent seemed to collapse into his. The sound of his ‘huff’ drew the attention of the barista and a neighboring customer.
“You gonna make it?” Bob asked, a grin on his face as he pulled his phone from his front right pocket and placed it on the table, screen side down. Trent cocked an eyebrow as he made no attempt to hide his voice.
“She wore me out last night, man. She wore. Me. Out!”
Bob rubbed the palm of his hand against his forehead, trying to gage just how loud Trent really was. From the sniggering of a second barista further down making an espresso it must have been plenty loud.
“This is why we don’t do more; I can’t bring out in public.” He sighed as he flipped the phone over on the table and placed his thumb over the home button. A slight press and the phone illuminated to show an artistic polygon render of World of Warcraft legend Thrall. Bob swiped to the left and tapped on an icon, launching an app while Trent leaned back, arms behind his head and hummed softly.
“Hey,” Bob said after a few moments of silence, “says here that Night of the Immortals might be completely sold out this year.” Trent opened one eye but said nothing. “D’you ever think we’d still be doing this after all these years?” Bob flipped the phone back over and pressed his palm over the top of it as Trent opened his other eye and looked at him.
“Do you have any idea how many times I’ve tried to retire? Like,” he waves his hands about with maximum grandeur, “every time I say I’ve had enough – somebody” he says leaning forward and looking Bob square in the eyes, “pulls me back in for ‘one more match’. Hell,” he says with a laugh, “I’ve probably made more of a career out of those ‘just one more’ matches than some of the guys you’re running with now.” Trent laughs at this as Bob opens his mouth to reply, but shrugs his shoulders instead. “See,” he laughs, “even you can’t deny that. This company of yours,”
“IWF” Bob says, helping Trent out.
“Yeah, it’s just chock full of forgettable guys. I mean, how many people have you seen going in and out of that revolving door?” Bob says nothing as Trent continues. “How many different people have held that Imp-whatever title?” Bob shrugs, but still says nothing. “Look, I’m not trying to piss in your Cheerios here,”
“But you will …”
Trent shrugs and places his arms behind his head once more. “Business has changed, man; there’s no denying that. Guys are running around pretending they’re vampires and werewolves,”
Bob stops him, “Who’s running around pretending their a vampire or werewolf?” Trent waves him off, “I don’t know his name. Blonde dude, dressed like something outta Harry Potter …”
“Seph? I don’t think he was pretending.”
Trent leans forward and places his palms firmly on the table. “Are you serious? You think for one second that this dude is a legit vampire?” Bob thinks for a second before giving a small nod. “For fucks sake, you shoulda gotten out when I did man – I think all those chair shots finally caught up to you.”
Bob laughs, leaning back a bit and playing with the hair sticking out beneath his hat. “Hey, you probably had a couple more years in you if you’da stuck around with me.” Now it was Trent’s turn to laugh. “Why stick around and be somebody else’s bitch? Nah, that’s why I started my new place.”
Trent was, of course, talking about Tier 1 Wrestling, of which he co-owned. But he did bring up a good point. Everything had slowly changed over the last few years. Travis had given up wrestling and was actually a part of the professional bowling circuit. As crazy at it sounded Turbulence had hung up his moniker and settled down and had a couple kids. Even guys like Chick had found some notoriety on the independent scene. Everybody who was anybody back in HCW had either retired, or faded off the mainstream scene. Pooler and Laszlo were two of the only guys still left kicking around.
“Hey,” Bob says, jogging Trent out of his trance, “I tell you I got this weird note the other day?” Bob reaches into the left front pocket of his jeans and pulls out a crumpled note. He doesn’t bother unfolding it, instead he tosses it across the table where Trent carefully opens it and begins to scan the contents. Little by little, Trent’s eyebrows raise until he comes to the end of the letter and looks back at Bob with a slow shake of the head.
“The fuck?” is all he says. Bob had been expecting some kind of crazy ex-girlfriend jokes but instead Trent just looked at him like he had three heads. The two go back and forth talking about her for several more minutes until the sudden feeling of eyes on them halt their argument and they turn to see the smiling face of the mousy brunette sashaying her way across the coffee shop towards them.
“Bob?” she asks, eyeing the pair as though unsure just which of them to address. Bob nods at her and smiles, “Yeah, hey” he says with a small wave. The barista places a grande cup down in front of him and smiles back. “But I didn’t order …” he began. “Oh, a lady came in a few minutes ago and placed the order.” She looked around the shop but couldn’t seem to find her. “I guess she took off already” she began as a dawning of realization seemed to wash across both Trent and Bob’s faces. Trent reached out quickly, driving the palm of his right hand into the side of the cup and sending it sailing right into the crotch of the barista. “What the hell is wrong with you” she yelled, brushing her front and watching the puddle of java forming at her feet. Bob looked at her with a look that, hopefully, conveyed how sorry he was for his friend. The barista stormed off and Bob threw a handful of bills down on the table and quickly stood up to gather his things.
“Let’s get out of here before they call the cops on you!”
As the headed for the door Trent stopped and slapped a cup from the hand of a twenty-something hipster that had just paused his typing at his typewriter. Flabbergasted, Bob raced for the door holding it open for Trent to pass through with only a, “Can’t be too careful” and a smirk.
”Is it just me,” he says with a smirk as he carefully peers around a corner and sends three well aimed bullets right into the dome of another player who had been looting other remains, ”or is the competition on the EU servers just not up to par with the North American ones?” He hazards a quick glance at his second monitor before vaulting the wall and quickly looting what he can before taking cover in the nearby building.
He’d been streaming Player Unknown’s Battlegrounds for the last few hours and managed to rack up an impressive six chicken dinners in both solo and squad modes. His eyes were beginning to fatigue and after the culmination of this final game he was going to switch off and play a little Sea of Thieves to give himself a break. ”What’dwe got left here?” he said into the team voice chat. A voice reported back ”twelve left, four of which are us …” to which Bob smiled and replied, ”which means we’ve only got eight more to find. There’s no way there’s going to be two complete teams here to be looking for pairs and single players, guys.”
The squad moved out through the small set of buildings as Bob climbed in through a window and made his way up the stairs until finally exiting through a door onto the roof. A smattering of random gear still lay in small clusters. Bob ignored these and took up position. ”On the roof” he barked out as he scanned the horizon for movement. It was very slight, perhaps just a glitch of a few pixels, but something caught his eye. Crouching down and pulling out his rifle, he peered down through the scope as the outline of a figure running across the golden wheat fields came into view.
”Got one at South sixty-five” he called out. He took a breath and held it for a heartbeat before tapping the left mouse button and watching the blood splatter far off in the distance.
‘YOU knocked out Xypher by headshot with SCAR-L’
”He’s down,” he called out, ”watch for teammates to revive.” Bob continued his scanning through the distance as the sound of gunfire rang out to his left. There, amidst a cluster of two-story buildings a small firefight was erupting. He switched to his secondary rifle with the less powerful scope and no sooner placed his crosshairs on the upper window of a building when the silhouette of an enemy appeared. He reacted by instinct, popping off two burst rounds, neither of which hit their mark. The figure quickly disappeared and he knew that his position had been given away.
He hopped the railing, landing on the ground and taking off in a sprint for the cluster of buildings up ahead. His only recourse would be to try and head them off at the pass before they exited for him. He quickly vaulted in through a downstairs window and carefully crept around the corner, straight into the sights of the waiting player. Three quick hits and Bob was retreating with half his life depleted. He called out his position, looking for backup when right before his eyes he watched as two of his teammates went down for good. Backup was unlikely and he had to get out of there NOW.
He sprinted for the window, exiting and taking a hard left hoping to make it to the next cluster of buildings to find somewhere to heal up. He found an unoccupied building as another death flashed across the upper left of his screen. Eight remained, of which six were opposing players. He was nearly through healing up and had just popped himself an energy drink when he heard the door downstairs open. His map showed that it wasn’t his teammate so he took up a defensive position and waited, curser aimed at the stairs for the head to appear. In an instant it did, and he fired.
‘YOU knocked out Dar3D3vi1 by headshot with SCAR-L’
Within seconds he heard a second player downstairs; now was the time for patience. Either Daredevil was going to get finished off, or his teammate was going to try and revive him. He waited for a few seconds and when he didn’t see the death notification pop up he quickly equipped a grenade and lobbed it down the stairs. He watched it bounce off the wall, disappearing out of side for a split second before detonating and taking out both platers in the blast.
Four left …
”D’you guys see that ‘nade?” he said with a laugh. He was now only speaking to the chatroom, who were still watching and keeping themselves busy with a random assortment of meme jokes and off color comments. ”Where you at partner?” There was radio silence for a moment before the sound of ”Group Up” came through the speakers. Scanning the map, Pooler saw the approximate location of his only remaining squad mate and hopped out the nearest window and took off in a sprint towards that spot.
He dodged between buildings, ducking low to remain out of sight; eyes constantly darting between the mini map in the upper right, and the hilly horizon to his left. He was nearly there when he heard the pop of gunfire and then the reddish blur that indicated he’d been hit. ”Shit, under fire” he quickly yelled as he began to serpentine his way towards the building his parter was waiting within.
”Give me some cover fire here” , Bob called out. He saw his partner peak out from an upper window for a moment before ducking back down.
”POP”
His sprint came to a sudden and abrupt halt as his avatar dropped to all fours and began to crawl, slowly bleeding out as he desperately tried to reach the door to the house. ”Dude, help me here – get them off my back so I can get inside. I need heals!” There was no response, no return fire, nothing. Bob watched as his health continued to decrease; the red bar quickly depleting until with one final crack, a bullet found its mark and he was greeted with the name of the player who had downed him.
”What. The. Hell …” was all he could muster as he began to spectate the rest of the match through the eyes of his comrade. Bob silently watched as, from his upstairs vantage point, his partner peered through the window at the small, green glowing crate that had once been his body was looted by a pair of enemies. ”Well, this should at least be like shooting fi…” was all he could get out as he watched his partner stand up from his prone position and try and lob a grenade through the window. The trajectory should have sent the explosive right into the middle of the pair, but instead it ricocheted off the top of the open window and landed at the feet of its thrower. Bob could do nothing but watch as it exploded and the number two flashed on his screen.
”Are …” he began, his hands clapped against the sides of his head, ”you kidding me? Who … who does that? Like,” he says, clearly exasperated, ”who blatantly ignores his teammate and …” he stops and spikes the webcam as his right eyebrow arches dramatically, ”oh, right.”
Pooler sighs as he clicks out of the game, ignoring the friend request from his partner. ”Hasn’t exactly been a banner couple weeks for gaming or real life partners, eh?” He jokes, but his face bears the strain of someone trying hard to hold back the torrent flood of anger and frustration that risks washing over him. ”Ugh,” he sighs, ”I guess I should have seen all this coming from the start – I mean,” he chuckles, ”considering this was the third time I was let down by people that were supposed to have my back. Ya got Ulf,” he begins, ticking the name off on his index finger, ”a guy who might not have a full grasp of the English language, but knows enough to get himself a Player of the Game. He and I might not always see eye to eye in the ring, but he can game. But Ulf isn’t big on the ‘team player’ concept. He still thinks that if he’s got an opening, he better take it – doesn’t matter if his ultimate is nowhere close to being ready. The two of us,” he smiles, ”nearly came to blows back at the hotel before our match against each other because he kept forgetting the concept of patience. Here I am,” he leans back and scratches his chin, ”thinking that Ulf’s inability to listen to direction would spell the downfall for his team, when it turns out that my blinders are what ended up leading to that loss.
Dean and Ulf, they’re not a pretty team,” he says with a shrug, ”but I thought that I could at least count on Laszlo long enough to secure our spot in this tournament going forward. Turns out that ol’ Mikey couldn’t wait to remind everyone why he’s a douche and chose this moment to make sure it was crystal clear.
Now,” he laughs, but there’s no humor in the it, ”you guys know that I can take a beating like the best of them. I survived a couple matches with Dean, I made it through Pax; hell, I’ve even come out the other side still standing in matches with the likes of Spike Kane and Angel Blake – two men who have maimed more people than polio. I’m a survivor, and I’m not going to let one loss define me; though some people might consider thinking along those same lines in relations to victories.
‘Cause see,” his head tilts to the left as he rubs the back of his neck, ”if I hung my hat on one big win then I’d be on pretty shaky ground when reality came knocking at my door. People keep asking, ‘you pissed that Mike turned on you?’, like … I’m not surprised, guys” he says with a laugh. ”Everyone knew that he wants a shot at my belt, he hasn’t exactly masked his intentions since I wont it, eh? So for weeks he’s been frothing at the mouth for an opportunity to get me one-on-one for the belt. Buuuuuuut,” he drags out the word as he smirks, ”I guess Lady Luck had other things on her mind ‘cause me and Mikey found ourselves one of the unlikely duos paired together for the Tag Team World Cup.
‘Bob, he’s gonna turn on you’, they’d tell me.” Pooler rolls his eyes and grins, ”Yeah, I know … I just thought he’d wait to see if we’d make it to the finals first. Like, there’s no titles to be won and no real prize money that I know about. This World Cup is for bragging rights, right?” He looks at the chat who give a collective shrug. Shrugging himself, Pooler continues on. ”Well, whether there really was a carrot at the end of the string or not, I was just interested in trying something new. It’d been more than a few years since was in a tag tourney- which for those of you who still followed me during my time in Frontier - I won!” he mimes brushing off his left shoulder with a cocky grin. ”But yeah, I knew this was coming at some point … just not so early and for so little reason. Like, what did he have to gain from that maneuver? A match with me the following week at Open Fight Night? Come on, like he really thought he was going to let me eat a pin by walking away and I’d be all, ‘rawr, I’m cheesed off, eh, let’s fight for my title, Mike!’
Pooler rolls his eyes and laughs. ”So, yeah it might have been a little childish to walk out onto that stage and give him the run around, but a guy can only put up with ego maniacs for so long before he snaps. Me? I’ve been listening to Mike drone on and on about his abilities and blah, blah, blah” Bob rolls his eyes and motions a talking mouth with his hand, ”it just becomes white noise after a while. See,” he says with a squint, ”I feel like ol’ Mike has been blowing smoke up our collective asses for so long that he can no longer differentiate between reality and Laszlo-land. Like,” he chuckles, ”d’you know how many times I caught him back stage talking about how he was the one who’d been carrying our team? Yeah,” he nods, eyes wide as he slowly shakes his head back and forth, ”him and that crazy little wife of his who just buys all his inane bullshit without question. The two of them,” he jabs a thumb in the air, ”they live in their own little world. Fact is you’re both pathological narcissists who think they’re owed the world when, at best, you might be owed a small Frosty.” He smiles before adding, ”A vanilla one at that.”
Bob pulls the headphones from his head, reaches up and tousles his hair before placing them back into place. ”That’s the crux of this all, Mike,” he begins, a hint of a smirk teasing on his face. ”When you were first coming up in this sport you were eager to learn, eager to see yourself grow … but now,” he scoffs, ”you stick your fingers in your ears to block out the world. You openly mock your colleagues and down right refuse to admit that the reason you’ve grown stagnant isn’t because of a lack of competition – but a lack of respect for the sport that helped make you.
You, me, Spike and Nighthawk, hell even Gilmore are expendable. This sport existed long before us, and it sure as hell isn’t going to stop just because we do. At some point we just aren’t going to be able to do this anymore, but IWF will go on. Sure, guys like Spike, guys like Roberto and Angel – hell maybe even the two of us if we’re lucky … we’re going to be remembered for the contributions that we made, but eventually, even those memories will fade away. I’m the kind of guy who lives his life knowing that at any point all this fun could go away – so I enjoy what I’ve got while I’ve got it. But you,” he says mockingly, eyebrow arching upwards, ”you look at what you have, and then complain about how it isn’t enough. It’ll never be enough for you, Mike; try as you might you will never attain the satisfaction of feeling truly fulfilled.
For that, I feel sorry for you.
But then, generally, you open your mouth and that pity goes away. You walk around IWF with this …” he waves his hands about, searching for the right words, ”persona. It’s like you tell us that you don’t care what people say or think of you, you’re not in this for the fans and yadda, yadda, yadda – but then you try and act like some anti-hero, tough guy ‘cause that’s what guys like Angel do and it works. Well, with guys like Angel there’s no gray area. People either love him, or they hate him … but even the ones that hate him LOVE to hate him. You want to be edgy, you want to be mister ‘too cool for school’, but at the end of the day you know that people don’t love you … people don’t hate you; Mike, people are just apathetic to you.
You. Don’t. Matter.
That big swerve of yours from a few weeks ago that everyone, including Gilmore and his one functioning eye saw coming? I bet you thought it was going to earn you some delicious boos from the crowd at Open Fight Night when you took me on. You wanted that negative reaction because at the end of the day attention is attention, and you, my friend, are an attention whore whether you’ll admit it or not.
You wanted my attention,” he smiles wickedly, ”and like a petulant, naughty puppy you have it. You’ve wanted this match, you’ve begged for this match, you’ve done everything in your power to make sure that you get this shot at me; but now you’re probably not even thinking about me – you’re already thinking past me … thinking about what you’ll do as the new IWF Strong Style champion.
Therein lies your problem.
All you’ve done since the word ‘go’ is dog me, dog my abilities, dog my dedication to this company and to this sport. For reasons unbeknownst to me, you’ve decided to focus only on my missteps, my stumbles, my poor choices that I’ve made along the way to this point. Mike, I’ve been open and honest about my past and the decisions that nearly brought my career to a close. For you to stand in that ring and try and openly shame me” he says with a shrug, ”what were you expecting? Did you think that I’d get all flustered and storm down to the ring? Did’ja think that anything that came spilling out of your overly repetitious mouth was something I hadn’t already heard … something I hadn’t already said to myself?
There isn’t an original thought left in your head.
You continue to see my flaws as character defining traits. My lack of an Imperial title run? For some reason this bothers you more than me. I mean,” he laughs, ”I’m not going to sit here and deny that I’d make a hell of an Imperial champion,” he pauses briefly and corrects himself, ”World champion, sorry. But yeah,” he continues, ”of course I want that at some point in my career – but the fact that I haven’t yet accomplished that feat doesn’t keep me up at night. Hell,” he says with a chuckle, ”it probably keeps me hungry. It’s like that little carrot off in the distance that I’ll get to soon enough. But you,” he scoffs, ”your Imperial run was the defining moment of your career. You spent three solid months holding that belt and loving the fact that you not only defeated the undefeatable Angel Blake for the title, but a month later managed to retain against him once more. Anyone who considered you a fluke win would be quickly silenced – unfortunately, the same could not be said for you.
You spent years reminding everyone about how you beat Angel – and I don’t want to be ‘Mr. What-Have-You-Done-For-Me-Lately?’, but while you’ve clutched that pair of wins to your chest like security blanket, you haven’t done more than sniff in the direction of the title since then. You’ve bounced around doing anything you could to stay relevant and fearing the day when your name was forgotten. This little turn of yours, Mike? Just another in a long list of poorly executed ideas for getting in that spotlight jut a little while longer. See, this match could have just been a friendly one between two guys who’ve known each other for upwards of two decades. But you figured you’d try and play games that needn’t be played.
Come on,” he says with a dismissive laugh, ”you and I have traded wins over the years, Mike. It’s no big deal – but it just so happens that the last tick in the ‘victory’ column belongs to you … aka …
You. Beat. Me.
I know this might sound crazy, but I’m not going to try and deny it, make excuses for it, or downplay the results. What the hell would be the point of that? Like,” he shrugs his shoulders and looks around the room, ”d’you really think that I’d be so insecure in my own abilities that I’d need to fudge history to keep from falling apart?” There’s an awkward pause while Pooler looks into the camera, his right eyebrow slowly arching upwards.
”For all your faults, all your flaws, I’m not going to take pleasure in breaking down this carefully constructed world of yours. But if you think for one second that I’m going to let you belittle, minimize, or soil the legacy that I’m trying to build with this title - then I am going to tear you down brick by brick while you stand there and just ...
watch me!”
Well howdy there pardner.