Post by Grady Smithson on Jun 25, 2022 20:46:28 GMT
It was the summer of 2008...
The man clears his throat as the lighter clicks and flame licks the tip of his cigarette. He takes a drag, embers turning bright orange. A long exhale and a moment of silence.
The world was mine. I had it all in my hands. I couldn't be stopped.
A slight chuckle. Another drag.
I left men stacked in heaps. Women in tears. Children without heroes. The blood was on my hands. I didn't mind. It was my job. It was what I was good at.
Another quick drag of the cigarette. He clears his throat again. Audible drips of water take over the dead airwaves. The cigarette seems to float in the middle of the air.
SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!
Click. Click. Whoosh! A fire appears, the camera not knowing how to react goes for safety behind where the fire is at. The flames silhouetting a man hunched over the fire pit.
I can't even tell you the names of my opponents. I can't tell you the name of the company I was in. It's been a long fifteen years. I was but a child in a man's world. The head trauma. The blood. The sweat. The pills. The booze. The drugs. I couldn't say no to my vices.
The fire grows larger as bigger sticks are thrown onto the pile. Logs formed into a teepee catch fire illuminating the room.
A damp cave.
Why are you here? Why do you live in this cave?
The cameraman quips, the large figure looks up from the fire and flicks his cigarette into the growing flames.
I just told you, were you not listening? The fame. I couldn't handle the fame.
Well, what...what brings you back?
The man turns his head from side to side, cracking is heard. Irritation setting in. His body language worries the cameraman. The cameraman's breathing picks up, he's worried for his well-being.
I'm not going to hurt you. You mean no harm. You're nothing but a cameraman. The callouses on these hands and knuckles weren't wasted on the likes of you. No, they were crafted in the ring on world class fighters, wrestlers, and competitors. These scars on my forehead, on my chest, my back, up and down my arms and legs...they're badges of honor. The combat from a bygone era, left to rot and decay by faster, more athletic combatants. Pretty boys pretending they're tough guys. WELL NOT ANYMORE!
The figure roars as he steps through the flames and towards the cameraman.
TURN YOUR LIGHT ON! I KNOW THERE'S A LIGHT ON THIS CAMERA. TURN IT ON! I WANT THE WORLD TO SEE WHAT HAS BECOME OF ME!
The camera flashlight clicks on, fulling illuminating the cave. As the camera pans, in the shot is a sleeping bag next to the fire-pit. A book bag sitting on a rock bursting at the seams. Canned food stacked along the back wall. The panning stops and the camera is jerked upwards, showing the gnarled face of the man speaking to the camera. Talking through gritted teeth and frothing at the mouth, he speaks again.
This has been my life since 2010. Since I left the wrestling world behind. Since I left civilization behind, I've been here. Hiding, waiting, hoping for my signal to return to the squared circle. Like some sort of comic book character, I feel it's as good a time as ever to step between the ropes. I know I'm not as great as I once was but I'm ready to give everything I have left in my being to those around the world that have wondered where I've been. I want to show this new generation of fans that it's not all flips and tricks. These hands are non-binary and I'll take on any challenger: man, woman, trans, gender-fluid...I do NOT care. I'm coming for blood. My blood, their blood, your blood. I want to fight and so long as the opponent feels they're up for it, I'll be there. There will be blood on my hands, on your hands, left on the canvas. Whenever they decide to have me...
He steps back and turns back towards the fire.
A deep sigh, his large back expanding and deflating with the deep breath showing his size.
Grady will be there...
He crawls into his sleeping bag and zips up as the camera fades to black.
Well howdy there pardner.