Post by RAM on Oct 1, 2024 0:03:21 GMT
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September 27, 2024 - 8:00 AM
Outside RAM's home on Beetle Drive...
The sights and sounds of cell phone camera flashes and reporters shouting questions could be heard from the end of the street as R.A. Marshall stepped outside his front door. His eyes widened in shock as he faced the gaggle of media folks who were eager to learn about his attempted suicide in a Tokyo hotel room and its ensuing aftermath. RAM looked pissed -- and he had every right to be that way.
This wasn't Terri Morasco or any Imperial.com reporter.
This wasn't even The Wrestling Insider magazine.
Faced with representatives from all of the major networks and stations -- from KFFW and WFAA to even Fox News and ESPN -- RAM couldn't even believe what he was seeing. He didn't even know what he wanted to tell the me assembled crowd that gathered on his property. The cacophony of shouts and camera clicks could be heard as he clicked on his keyfob and unlocked his pickup truck. He stopped to face the gaggle as they quieted down, many with pens and notepads at the ready.
"Look…"
RAM took a deep breath before walking towards his truck.
"I dunno how y'all managed to find out where I lived -- but I'm gonna get the fucker who doxxed me to you mainstreamers."
He knew he was gonna get bleeped out for that statement -- but he didn't give a shit.
He said nothing else after that.
RAM hopped into the truck and pulled away. As he drove out of Watauga and headed south, he was seething on the inside. Who and why...were the only thoughts that pulsed through his mind, seeking counsel from the only person that he could talk to without wanting to strangle her: Fiona McFly. As he brooded over the gaggle of reporters from the major TV networks that were on his doorstep, RAM programmed his onboard navigation system to direct him to Retro Championship Wrestling Headquarters in Midlothian.
Only there, he thought, could he get the answers he was seeking.
RAM was enraged that something so personal to him would become a major news event. While he couldn't ever recall writing a suicide note, given the hallucinated state he was in at the time, all he wanted to do was keep the full details of the attempt on his own life out of the public eyes and only tell the people he trusted the most. Now, in his eyes, that trust had been broken, and he angrily sped down the highways and byways heading into Ellis County.
He only wanted to see that things made sense in his life.
Nothing more, nothing less.
To be continued...
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September 27, 2024 - 8:00 AM
Outside RAM's home on Beetle Drive...
The sights and sounds of cell phone camera flashes and reporters shouting questions could be heard from the end of the street as R.A. Marshall stepped outside his front door. His eyes widened in shock as he faced the gaggle of media folks who were eager to learn about his attempted suicide in a Tokyo hotel room and its ensuing aftermath. RAM looked pissed -- and he had every right to be that way.
This wasn't Terri Morasco or any Imperial.com reporter.
This wasn't even The Wrestling Insider magazine.
Faced with representatives from all of the major networks and stations -- from KFFW and WFAA to even Fox News and ESPN -- RAM couldn't even believe what he was seeing. He didn't even know what he wanted to tell the me assembled crowd that gathered on his property. The cacophony of shouts and camera clicks could be heard as he clicked on his keyfob and unlocked his pickup truck. He stopped to face the gaggle as they quieted down, many with pens and notepads at the ready.
"Look…"
RAM took a deep breath before walking towards his truck.
"I dunno how y'all managed to find out where I lived -- but I'm gonna get the fucker who doxxed me to you mainstreamers."
He knew he was gonna get bleeped out for that statement -- but he didn't give a shit.
He said nothing else after that.
RAM hopped into the truck and pulled away. As he drove out of Watauga and headed south, he was seething on the inside. Who and why...were the only thoughts that pulsed through his mind, seeking counsel from the only person that he could talk to without wanting to strangle her: Fiona McFly. As he brooded over the gaggle of reporters from the major TV networks that were on his doorstep, RAM programmed his onboard navigation system to direct him to Retro Championship Wrestling Headquarters in Midlothian.
Only there, he thought, could he get the answers he was seeking.
RAM was enraged that something so personal to him would become a major news event. While he couldn't ever recall writing a suicide note, given the hallucinated state he was in at the time, all he wanted to do was keep the full details of the attempt on his own life out of the public eyes and only tell the people he trusted the most. Now, in his eyes, that trust had been broken, and he angrily sped down the highways and byways heading into Ellis County.
He only wanted to see that things made sense in his life.
Nothing more, nothing less.
To be continued...
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Well, well.
You take your lumps along with the victories, I guess?!
Never mind the fact that, to his credit, Nate Harris survived me. It seems like the Imperial bookers have it out for me or somethin'. I mean, shit...I spend my whole life dealin' with npo-bitches and god complexes, and the next thing the clown show upstairs does is book me in a match with Invictus Champion, Serenity Holmes.
And ya know what?!
Fuck it.
What the hell do I have to lose, right?!
Shit, Serenity...I bet it makes you feel good inside, knowin' that you can take on both men and women with relative ease. You got Tytus Rost on your heels now, a big and strong dude in every sense of the word. I mean, shit...if you can manage to take ME down, then my mind tells me that nothin' will stop you from takin' him down a peg or two.
And...that's a big "if."
'Cause let's face the facts...you ain't assured of SHIT in the real world. Nobody knows what's gonna happen from one day to the next. One day, you're out there workin' on a project that you want to really get done, and the next day, you're dukin' it out on the streets with a bunch of bullshiters and those that wanna kick your ass.
In the end, you and I can bash each other all we want to.
But honestly...nothin' you or I do will ever get rid of the scars we've endured -- both on the body and in the mind. Truth is...you and I have a helluva lot more in common that you'll ever realize. We've both had troubled pasts, spent time in jail, dealt with the bullshit by trainin' with two of the biggest legends in this business. You chose Roberto Verona, and obviously that's worked out for you. I chose Fiona...and while she could only do so much, I often find myself wonderin' how the fuck can I make her proud.
The answer's really simple.
Me beatin' you inside that ring, one-two-three.
Don't take that as small-talk or hypothetical either. You have absolutely ZERO idea as to what I'm capable of doin' out there. I thrive on poundin' flesh and takin' names. I LIVE for those moments of dishin' out pain and misery. Nothin' gets my jollies off more than the sight of knuckle sandwiches bein' made and blood bein' the top condiment.
Yet with that bein' said?
I...I actually like you. I really, really do. You remind me of me in so many ways. You ain't afraid to wear your heart on your sleeve and be unbreakable, just like that Invictus title inscription says. Yet you're willin' to get all tore up against the likes of nepos and santicmonious jocks who wear heroic capes on TV but are vicious, vile bastards off-screen. After the match, lemme invite you out on my tab or somethin' like that.
After all, as much as I wanna strike it big by myself?
I can't do this alone no more.
Later.
Well howdy there pardner.