Post by RAM on Oct 7, 2024 1:17:03 GMT
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Outside the headquarters of Retro Championshp Wrestling...
After a forty-plus minute drive from his home in Watauga, in which he was accosted by a gaggle of journalists from the mainstream media, RAM's truck pulled up in the parking lot of what used to be the former campus of J.R. Irvin Elementary School. After taking a moment or two to listen to the rest of one of his favorite tunes -- the live version of Garth Brooks' "Friends in Low Places" -- RAM stepped out of the vehicle and slammed the driver's door shut. Locking it with his keyfob, he walked towards the building''s front door and pulled out his Retro keycard.
All the while, a hateful voice pulsed through his mind.
{ "You should've done the deed in Tokyo, boy. Now the sharks are out for blood." }
RAM sighed.
He read the TMZ story from top to bottom. He couldn't deny that he wrote the suicide note much less tried to commit the act itself. Yet all he wanted to do was keep the details private, as he feared that nobody would want to listen to him or look out for his well-being. As he stepped inside the building, he saw Tiffany, the RCW main receptionist, looking up with a smile on her face.
"Oh! Hi there, RAM! How may I help you this morning?"
RAM approached the front desk and acknowledged the 35-year-old mother of two. He loved Tiffany's kind and outgoing nature -- traits that earned her the affection nickname "Miss Tiff."
"Miss Tiff, I'm lookin' for Fiona. Is she here?"
Miss Tiff looked down at a handwritten schedule of events on a notepad and shook her head.
"I'm afraid not today, hun. She's got a double whammy -- dental appointment this morning and an afternoon visit to Dr. Burke's office for an eye check."
"Damn. I gave her an emergency call this mornin' and was hopin' she'd be here."
He paused. While he was angry on the inside and wanted to explode on the poor secretary, he managed to keep himself, and his emotional state, in check.
"It's about that TMZ thing. I really don't appreciate people leakin' my private stuff to the mainstream. I'm fixin' to find out who did and why."
Miss Tiff gently patted RAM on the arm.
"I saw the story on TMZ last night, and I'm...I'm prayin' for you, hunny-bear. Don't sweat it, though. The press are vultures; they'll do and say anything to get a narrative going."
He snorted.
"Well, that's rather reassurin'. Honestly, I know my head ain't been in the game for a long, long time. I...I just don't want the networks to think I'm some sort of basket case who don't deserve to be in a ring."
"Babes...forget about that, okay?! Look at what the mainstream media's done to Mr. Trump for the past eight years. Deominzed him, compared him to Hitler, you name it, and for what reason?! He can't be controlled by them. The other politicians? Forget it, most of them are bought and paid for. Then they'll do or say anything to get elected, but then sit on their fat butts and stab us taxpaying constituents in the back. Then they run away from the media when they're called out on their crap."
RAM listened, perhaps thinking about the upcoming election in November.
"The thing is, though...you're gonna have to deal with them eventually. You know you wrote that suicide note, right?! You keep on running away from the press, they're gonna come after you like a bunch of thugs. Or--"
RAM interrupted.
"Or I'll just do this sh...err, crap...on my own terms."
"Yeah, that's the ticket."
Miss Tiff nodded before looking down at her schedule once more.
"Listen, dear...I heard through the grapevine that Fiona's gonna be at an Imperial event in a couple of weeks. With Retro on hiatus, I'm just stuck here doing more housekeeping stuff than talking to prospects."
RAM cleared his throat and started to make his exit, but not before giving Miss Tiff a light hug. He knew he was going to do next.
"Thanks, Miss Tiff..."
To be continued...
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Outside the headquarters of Retro Championshp Wrestling...
After a forty-plus minute drive from his home in Watauga, in which he was accosted by a gaggle of journalists from the mainstream media, RAM's truck pulled up in the parking lot of what used to be the former campus of J.R. Irvin Elementary School. After taking a moment or two to listen to the rest of one of his favorite tunes -- the live version of Garth Brooks' "Friends in Low Places" -- RAM stepped out of the vehicle and slammed the driver's door shut. Locking it with his keyfob, he walked towards the building''s front door and pulled out his Retro keycard.
All the while, a hateful voice pulsed through his mind.
{ "You should've done the deed in Tokyo, boy. Now the sharks are out for blood." }
RAM sighed.
He read the TMZ story from top to bottom. He couldn't deny that he wrote the suicide note much less tried to commit the act itself. Yet all he wanted to do was keep the details private, as he feared that nobody would want to listen to him or look out for his well-being. As he stepped inside the building, he saw Tiffany, the RCW main receptionist, looking up with a smile on her face.
"Oh! Hi there, RAM! How may I help you this morning?"
RAM approached the front desk and acknowledged the 35-year-old mother of two. He loved Tiffany's kind and outgoing nature -- traits that earned her the affection nickname "Miss Tiff."
"Miss Tiff, I'm lookin' for Fiona. Is she here?"
Miss Tiff looked down at a handwritten schedule of events on a notepad and shook her head.
"I'm afraid not today, hun. She's got a double whammy -- dental appointment this morning and an afternoon visit to Dr. Burke's office for an eye check."
"Damn. I gave her an emergency call this mornin' and was hopin' she'd be here."
He paused. While he was angry on the inside and wanted to explode on the poor secretary, he managed to keep himself, and his emotional state, in check.
"It's about that TMZ thing. I really don't appreciate people leakin' my private stuff to the mainstream. I'm fixin' to find out who did and why."
Miss Tiff gently patted RAM on the arm.
"I saw the story on TMZ last night, and I'm...I'm prayin' for you, hunny-bear. Don't sweat it, though. The press are vultures; they'll do and say anything to get a narrative going."
He snorted.
"Well, that's rather reassurin'. Honestly, I know my head ain't been in the game for a long, long time. I...I just don't want the networks to think I'm some sort of basket case who don't deserve to be in a ring."
"Babes...forget about that, okay?! Look at what the mainstream media's done to Mr. Trump for the past eight years. Deominzed him, compared him to Hitler, you name it, and for what reason?! He can't be controlled by them. The other politicians? Forget it, most of them are bought and paid for. Then they'll do or say anything to get elected, but then sit on their fat butts and stab us taxpaying constituents in the back. Then they run away from the media when they're called out on their crap."
RAM listened, perhaps thinking about the upcoming election in November.
"The thing is, though...you're gonna have to deal with them eventually. You know you wrote that suicide note, right?! You keep on running away from the press, they're gonna come after you like a bunch of thugs. Or--"
RAM interrupted.
"Or I'll just do this sh...err, crap...on my own terms."
"Yeah, that's the ticket."
Miss Tiff nodded before looking down at her schedule once more.
"Listen, dear...I heard through the grapevine that Fiona's gonna be at an Imperial event in a couple of weeks. With Retro on hiatus, I'm just stuck here doing more housekeeping stuff than talking to prospects."
RAM cleared his throat and started to make his exit, but not before giving Miss Tiff a light hug. He knew he was going to do next.
"Thanks, Miss Tiff..."
To be continued...
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Fuck me.
I thought the shit show upstairs was supposed to look after the well-bein' of their talents.
I mean, shit...Iyo knew it. Rayne knew it as well. My head really hasn't been in the game for a long, long time, but still? If people actually did their fuckin' HOMEWORK and actually knew what that note actually meant, they'd go ahead and take me off the card in a snap. But since I ain't a nepo-bitch or a protected skank like Serenity Holmes, the clowns decide to put me on Coliseum against Thunder Sid.
And ya know what?
Nah...I ain't wastin' my time talkin' about that jock.
I get that this is professional wrestlin', okay? I get that, sooner or later, I'm gonna have to confront the vultures comin' after me. If you want my honest opinion, I'm...torn. I don't know what I'm supposed to do or say to the mainstreamers out there. Like...I couldn't give two shits about what I'm gonna tell 'em so they can write their narratives about how much of a basket case I am, that I don't deserve to be in a ring, and all that other bullshit.
I only know what I can do.
I only know what I'm capable of doin'.
From now on, bitches?! I'm doin' shit on my OWN terms -- not Jennie's, not Randon's. If I have to make an example out of some Gladiator shithead in a box, then so be it. Unfortunately for them, it's fixin' to be Thunder Sid -- and y'all can take that shit to the bank.
Don't believe me?!
Just fuckin' WATCH me.
PROMO COUNT: 269
Well howdy there pardner.