Post by Awesome Stick Labor on Mar 28, 2015 8:01:41 GMT
All I ever wanted in life was a chance to prove somethin'—that I could be somethin' special.
Yet throughout the supposedly hopeless battles I've fought, I've gained much more than I would've every imagined.
I understand the gravity—the seriousness—of what's gonna happen to me at High Stakes. While folks like Nighthawk will have an easier time on Sunday given that he doesn't have another match on the docket, a lot of others—myself included—are gonna have to go through a hell worse than any nightmare ever dreamed. I mean, shit, Renee Pleasant's got his beef to settle with Roberto Verona, Rob Diamond's settling a rivalry with Jake Conway, and among a host of others, ya got yours truly as I get ready to stomp Mohammed Al-Thani's guts out, skull-fuck him with a chair, and make him squeal “uncle” instead of “Allah Akbar.”
And then, there's the Roulette.
On any given day of any given week, I have shown time and time that I can stand up to anyone that's thrown in my crosshairs. Win or lose, I've made a fun habit out of dudes like Alex Jones or Malaki Toala, but as a reward, I get thrown into the Roulette—where people aren't exactly givin' me a chance in hell of winnin' the sumbitch. It is at this particular moment in life when I realize “hey, fuck those prognosticators. They don't know fuckin' SHIT about what I can do out there in that ring.” No matter what happens to me against the big bully from Qatar, I'm comforted by one honest truth: the very fact that nobody knows who I am—or what I CAN do—is gonna give me a true advantage over every male wrassler in IWF who decides to throw his hat into the Roulette.
Why must I keep on fightin'--even though I'm bound to receive the most gnarly ass-whuppin' in my career?
Why must I keep tickin' and marchin' onward—despite the fact that no one thinks I'm gonna win the Roulette?
In the grand scheme of things, it's actually quite simple.
I'm a fuckin' survivor...and survivors have a way of showin' themselves when y'all least expect it.
************
Yet throughout the supposedly hopeless battles I've fought, I've gained much more than I would've every imagined.
I understand the gravity—the seriousness—of what's gonna happen to me at High Stakes. While folks like Nighthawk will have an easier time on Sunday given that he doesn't have another match on the docket, a lot of others—myself included—are gonna have to go through a hell worse than any nightmare ever dreamed. I mean, shit, Renee Pleasant's got his beef to settle with Roberto Verona, Rob Diamond's settling a rivalry with Jake Conway, and among a host of others, ya got yours truly as I get ready to stomp Mohammed Al-Thani's guts out, skull-fuck him with a chair, and make him squeal “uncle” instead of “Allah Akbar.”
And then, there's the Roulette.
On any given day of any given week, I have shown time and time that I can stand up to anyone that's thrown in my crosshairs. Win or lose, I've made a fun habit out of dudes like Alex Jones or Malaki Toala, but as a reward, I get thrown into the Roulette—where people aren't exactly givin' me a chance in hell of winnin' the sumbitch. It is at this particular moment in life when I realize “hey, fuck those prognosticators. They don't know fuckin' SHIT about what I can do out there in that ring.” No matter what happens to me against the big bully from Qatar, I'm comforted by one honest truth: the very fact that nobody knows who I am—or what I CAN do—is gonna give me a true advantage over every male wrassler in IWF who decides to throw his hat into the Roulette.
Why must I keep on fightin'--even though I'm bound to receive the most gnarly ass-whuppin' in my career?
Why must I keep tickin' and marchin' onward—despite the fact that no one thinks I'm gonna win the Roulette?
In the grand scheme of things, it's actually quite simple.
I'm a fuckin' survivor...and survivors have a way of showin' themselves when y'all least expect it.
************
”We have all the time in the world,
time enough for life to unfold,
all the precious things love has in store.”
time enough for life to unfold,
all the precious things love has in store.”
March 24, 2015 – 6:30 PM
LAKE ARLINGTON
[We find ourselves tucked away at the shores of Lake Arlington, where Jack Gaither--sporting his white Dirk Nowitzki Mavericks jersey and blue jean shorts--celebrates his 33rd birthday by doing absolutely nothing save for sitting on the grassy short and taking in the tranquil conditions. Jack watches a formation of clouds as they try to form thunderheads, but due to the capped atmosphere aloft, nothing happens. The ex-QB looks down at the package Admiral Highway had given to him a couple of days ago at the cemetery, but his meditation is short-lived when he hear the distinctive sound of Fiona McFly's Aston Martin pulling up. The Irishwoman steps out of the car and approaches Jack, carrying two smaller packages.]
FIONA MCFLY: Beware of the Irish--I come bearing gifts.
[Fiona grins as she hands Jack a rectangular box.]
FIONA: Happy birthday, lad.
JACK GAITHER: Thanks.
[Jack opens up the box and discovers a pack of cigars with a label reading "MANUFACTURED IN HAVANA, CUBA." The Texan gasps at the inscription on the brown box.]
JACK: Cuban cigars? Why Fiona...even though they're talkin' about endin' the old embargo, these are still illegal.
FIONA: Don't be afraid. We'll smoke them later tonight.
[Fiona--sporting a blue dress with matching shoes made out of sappire--grabs the cigars and hands Jack a small, black case.]
FIONA: Now...you open this one.
JACK: I'm almost afraid to. What is it? Russian prophylactics?
FIONA: No—more antiques for your collection.
[Jack opens up the case, revealing a pair of eyeglasses made from 24-karat gold and lenses that are as clear as a perfect Texas spring day. He gazes upon the new frames with awe and wonder.]
JACK: Wow Fifi...this is charming.
FIONA: They're over two hundred years old; 'tis rare to find these in an antique shop with the lenses still intact.
JACK: What're they for anyway?
[Fiona playfully pokes her fiancee in the ribs, causing Jack to chuckle.]
FIONA: They're for your eyes. The eye doctor said that, for most patients your age, she'd generally recommend the use of contacts.
JACK: I'm allergic to contacts.
FIONA: Exactly.
[Jack takes a gander at his new glasses before slowly placing them in front of his eyes. Fiona watches with amusement as the Texan shakes his head, thinking that he looks like a nerd; she spots the unopened package lying on the ground.]
FIONA: You still haven't opened that package yet?
JACK: Nah, not yet. Admiral Highway said that I should wait 'til the time was right before takin' a look-see.
FIONA: There's no better time like your birthday.
[Jack nods his head in agreement; after all, it IS his birthday. He rips open the manila wrapping and the bubble wrap and discovers a large, framed keepsake. Yet when the Texan sees what is in said keepsake, his jaw begins to drop and his eyebrows perk up like a cat's ears.]
JACK: Holy shit...
************
Not a day goes by when I don't think of my dad.
All I've ever wanted to do—from the first time I touched a pigskin to the first time I stepped between them ropes—was to be better than him in every facet of life, but sometimes I tend to inherit the ugly side of him. My father wasn't the most perfect gentlemen in the world, but God dammit, he'd go out of his way to make sure I had somethin' good to eat on the table or have somethin' nice to wear to school the next mornin'. He always said to me that I could be anyone I ever wanted to be in life if I worked hard at it.
My father died doin' what he loved best—flyin' jets for the Navy—leavin' me to fend for myself without things like discipline or guidance when I aws growin' up to be a man.
But unlike a handful of other kids who went to juvenile or even adult prison, I stayed straight. I kept my grades up and worked hard for whatever I wanted to do in life. That, as it turned out, was takin' part in the wrasslin' biz. When I step into that ring, I think about more than just simply whuppin' a rival's ass. I ain't perfect—and I don't ever wanna be that way. If I did, I'd be like Nighthawk...and god DAMN if I'm gonna sit there and be as hard-up and gung-ho about the sport as he is.
That ain't my fuckin' style, and if anyone says otherwise, I'll unscrew your heads and shit down your necks.
I fight for my father—and those who I'm blessed to call “loyal friends and true.”
And I wouldn't want It any other way.
************
Not a day goes by when I don't think of my dad.
All I've ever wanted to do—from the first time I touched a pigskin to the first time I stepped between them ropes—was to be better than him in every facet of life, but sometimes I tend to inherit the ugly side of him. My father wasn't the most perfect gentlemen in the world, but God dammit, he'd go out of his way to make sure I had somethin' good to eat on the table or have somethin' nice to wear to school the next mornin'. He always said to me that I could be anyone I ever wanted to be in life if I worked hard at it.
My father died doin' what he loved best—flyin' jets for the Navy—leavin' me to fend for myself without things like discipline or guidance when I aws growin' up to be a man.
But unlike a handful of other kids who went to juvenile or even adult prison, I stayed straight. I kept my grades up and worked hard for whatever I wanted to do in life. That, as it turned out, was takin' part in the wrasslin' biz. When I step into that ring, I think about more than just simply whuppin' a rival's ass. I ain't perfect—and I don't ever wanna be that way. If I did, I'd be like Nighthawk...and god DAMN if I'm gonna sit there and be as hard-up and gung-ho about the sport as he is.
That ain't my fuckin' style, and if anyone says otherwise, I'll unscrew your heads and shit down your necks.
I fight for my father—and those who I'm blessed to call “loyal friends and true.”
And I wouldn't want It any other way.
************
”We have all the love in the world,
if that's all we have, you will find;
we need nothing more.”
if that's all we have, you will find;
we need nothing more.”
[Moments later, Jack takes a good, long gaze into the keepsake. He smiles as he sees his late father's Navy dog-tags on the right hand side of the rosewood-framed gift; on the left hand side, he gazes at a photo of his father Kirk, who is sporting his full Navy flight gear--including a blue and white helmet with the word "SKYFALL" on the front. Yet the Texan's eyes start to water as he peers upon the blue ribbon and large medallion that represents the Congressional Medal of Honor; even Fiona ekes out a warm and loving grin as she watches her man admire his present with a sense of reverence.]
FIONA: Unbelievable. Your father earned the Congressional Medal of Honour for his service in the Gulf War?
[Jack solemnly nods his head.]
FIONA: Why didn't ya tell me about this?
JACK: I never knew about it either 'til now.
[Jack chuckles as he takes the priceless artifact and heads toward Fiona's car; he opens the right hand driver's door and stretches across, placing the gift on the left hand passenger seat. He shuts the door and walks toward the waiting Irishwoman before sitting back down next to her. The two watch as a flock of ducks land in the waters.]
JACK: And besides...it's probably not somethin' that the State Department or the President himself would wanna tell an eight-year-old child when he's still copin' with losin' his daddy in the Gulf War.
FIONA: To hide a father's posthumous award for bravery from his child is not logical.
JACK: Whoever said that secrecy was logical, huh? They had to do what they felt was right; they didn't wanna tell me this shit when I was a kid. They felt as if it would give 'em another unstable element to a situation that no one ever imagined I'd be in at the time.
[Jack's icy tone of voice startles Fiona, who can only rub her hand through his slicked black hair.]
FIONA: Will you get the chance to tell your grappling colleagues about this? I'm rather sure they'd like to know.
************
There's a lot of folks out there who don't know me yet.
When the Roulette comes, however, they will find out just who I am—and what I'm capable of doin'.
For those who haven't done their homework on me, I'm more than “just” a wrassler. I'm just a traveler, a simple kind of man that makes an honest livin'. I've traveled from coast to coast, city to city, country to country earnin' nothin' else except peanuts and good vibes. I've been to the richest of places—with large-scale hotels and mansions galore—and I've seen the poorest of towns, where people don't make enough money to feed themselves but are as resilient as they can be.
Yet I do more than simply represent the good ol' USA as a cowboy diplomat from the state of Texas. I'm a rootin-tootin', straight-shootin' sumbitch who will put a foot up anyone's ass faster than y'all can say “Tony Romo.”
Just ask Mohammed Al-Thani. He might try and spin a couple o' lies here and there, but he knows he's gonna get an ass whuppin' that will be so HARD...that the rest of y'all in Imperial are gonna feel it.
Al-Thani represents the embodiment of everything that is wrong within our society today, but...ya know, I'm gonna be more blunt than that. Mohammed is the Imperial Wrestling Federation's equivalent of a certain group that spreads hatred and chaos throughout the Middle East. While he flaunts his money around and threatens to suck the blood outta me, I'm out there visitin' the slums of Iraq and all those other places, meetin' people who simply wanna do nothin' else except life a normal, peaceful life. Yet they've lost their homes—and their freedom to enjoy the fruits of their labor--'cuz the boys with guns are so fuckin' jealous and spiteful of the fact that they want to be productive members of society instead of mindless drones who do nothin' but destroy families just for the sake of spreadin' fear.
Mohammed can try and scare the shit outta me with his cries of jihad and his fetishes for wooden caskets, but it won't mean a damn thing. Why? 'Cuz like those who have suffered greatly throughout the years, I will keep comin' at him 'til he's too fuckin' tired Just like those hateful sumbitches carryin' AK-47s and grenades, Mohammed will NOT win the very war that he begin when he jumped me from behind and labeled us freedom-lovers as “racist pigs.”
Why?
It's 'cuz I fight for all the people on God's green earth.
************
There's a lot of folks out there who don't know me yet.
When the Roulette comes, however, they will find out just who I am—and what I'm capable of doin'.
For those who haven't done their homework on me, I'm more than “just” a wrassler. I'm just a traveler, a simple kind of man that makes an honest livin'. I've traveled from coast to coast, city to city, country to country earnin' nothin' else except peanuts and good vibes. I've been to the richest of places—with large-scale hotels and mansions galore—and I've seen the poorest of towns, where people don't make enough money to feed themselves but are as resilient as they can be.
Yet I do more than simply represent the good ol' USA as a cowboy diplomat from the state of Texas. I'm a rootin-tootin', straight-shootin' sumbitch who will put a foot up anyone's ass faster than y'all can say “Tony Romo.”
Just ask Mohammed Al-Thani. He might try and spin a couple o' lies here and there, but he knows he's gonna get an ass whuppin' that will be so HARD...that the rest of y'all in Imperial are gonna feel it.
Al-Thani represents the embodiment of everything that is wrong within our society today, but...ya know, I'm gonna be more blunt than that. Mohammed is the Imperial Wrestling Federation's equivalent of a certain group that spreads hatred and chaos throughout the Middle East. While he flaunts his money around and threatens to suck the blood outta me, I'm out there visitin' the slums of Iraq and all those other places, meetin' people who simply wanna do nothin' else except life a normal, peaceful life. Yet they've lost their homes—and their freedom to enjoy the fruits of their labor--'cuz the boys with guns are so fuckin' jealous and spiteful of the fact that they want to be productive members of society instead of mindless drones who do nothin' but destroy families just for the sake of spreadin' fear.
Mohammed can try and scare the shit outta me with his cries of jihad and his fetishes for wooden caskets, but it won't mean a damn thing. Why? 'Cuz like those who have suffered greatly throughout the years, I will keep comin' at him 'til he's too fuckin' tired Just like those hateful sumbitches carryin' AK-47s and grenades, Mohammed will NOT win the very war that he begin when he jumped me from behind and labeled us freedom-lovers as “racist pigs.”
Why?
It's 'cuz I fight for all the people on God's green earth.
************
”Every step of the way will find us;
with the cares of the world far behind us.
We have all the time in the world just for love;
nothing more, nothing less...only love.”
with the cares of the world far behind us.
We have all the time in the world just for love;
nothing more, nothing less...only love.”
[The Texan sighs, his grin from receiving the glasses and Cuban cigars having been replaced with a slight frown.]
JACK: It ain't that easy. In the wrasslin' gig, there are no friends—only wolves out on a seek-and-destroy mission.
[The Wisconsin alum raises her eyebrows in surprise over the ex-Cougar's cold statement, for he doesn't normally talk about what he does for a living except for when he's on-screen.]
FIONA: So everyone in that locker room is your enemy, and you have to take them out, right? Is it really that simple?
JACK: In a word...yeah.
[Fiona raises her voice just a tad.]
FIONA: Unless they kill you first?
JACK: Fiona...
[The Irishwoman quickly stands up and heads toward the DB5, showing an angered expression on her face--something that Jack hasn't seen since the two were in high school. Jack stands up and watches as Fiona tosses the glass case and the box of Cuban stogies on the passenger seat; she quickly slams the door and turns toward her fiancee, giving him a scornful look.]
FIONA: Do you think I'm impressed?! All this “big man” talk about senseless violence and bloodshed—it's not LOGICAL!
[The former quarterback can only listen as Fiona's voice becomes more pissed off by the second.]
FIONA: What is the logic behind all the “ripping out eyeballs and skull-fucking” people, huh? So you can be a HERO or somethin'?! All of my heroes are dead—as are yours.
[The Irishwoman slams her fist on the hood of her car as the Texan coldly backs away.]
FIONA: God DAMN you! How can ya be so bloody fucking cold?!
[Jack looks at Fiona, monitoring her heavy breathing as a sign of pent-up emotion, before slowly turning his back toward her and inching closer to the lake.]
JACK: It's what keeps me alive.
FIONA: No. It's what keeps you alone.
[Fiona pulls her keys out from her white handbag, but--after taking a few moments to look at them--she places the keys back in her handbag. She quickly opens the driver's side door and places her bag on the lone empty seat; she slams teh door once more and marches toward Jack and grabs him by the back of his jersey. The Texan twirls around and is met by an awkward kiss. Within a few minutes, we find the couple rolling around on the lush grass, making love as a group of boaters pass by. They cheer as the two continue to snog in the midst of a gorgeous sunset.]
************
I don't invest too heavily on wins and losses like many other folks do. Yet there's somethin' more valuable and precious in this business than simply havin' your hand raised at the end of every tilt.
Workin' your ass off. Self-sacrifice. Heart.
Those things mean more to me than numbers on a stat sheet.
Thus, I fight for love of the game itself and its fruits.
Mohammed Al-Thani can claim all he wants to that he's going to win the l'il war the HE himself started a while ago, but everyone knows that he's full of shit. Nighthawk can sit there and proclaim on Twitter that “this machine never stops,” but I've whupped his ass so many times in the past that I can tell y'all FIRSTHAND that he is, in fact, a vulnerable sumbitch and not the gung-ho superhero he proclaims himself to be. Jake Conway can flaunt his commissioner of a wife around and put himself into any fuckin' match he so pleases, but the sad thing, for him at least, is that he has zero idea that he's bitten off more than he can chew. Rob Diamond can seek vengeance against The Fake Ace all he wants to, but he ain't doin' so for the sake of others—but only for himself.
Each of those folks—as hard as it is for me to say—share a love for the game, yet they have small things that'll always keep holdin' them back. Yet y'all know them as more established names and all that shit.
Y'all don't know me, but here's a burnin' question: does what I've got to say make me out to be an invincible bastard?
Absolutely not—but it does make me more determined to win the Roulette than the entire IWF roster put together.
I've taken my lumps against the likes of Alex Jones but lived to tell the tale. I've paid my dues time and time again against the likes of Kyle Mason or Warren Kidd, and while winnin' and losin' is part of the game, there's more to the gig than that. Week after week after week, I've looked TEN TIMES better than each and every one of you folks in Imperial, and why's that, y'all ask? It's 'cuz I know that it ain't about how hard I can hit, it's about how hard I could get hit so I can keep on truckin' out there. That's called REAL winnin' gentlemen—my reward for havin' loads of fun in that ring and livin' every moment like it's gonna be my last.
After all, life is short enough as it is; y'all gotta allow people to treasure their most precious moments 'cuz y'all never know when the journey's gonna end. Y'all may think ya have all the time in the world to ponder your future, but when God says “game over for ya, time to go to Heaven” He really means “game over.” That's how I play the game of “life,” folks.
That's why I love to fly the way I do.
And that's the way it's gonna be.
So here's what I want y'all to do gentlemen. Pack your shit and hop into whatever y'all use for transportation. Go into town for the weekend and grab yourselves a beer or two, rub your pathetic l'il peckers against your honey or stick 'em in some knothole in a fence; either way it's sliced—get rid of it. 'Cuz at High Stakes—that's this Sunday night for those who don't habla comprende--your asses are gonna be mine, and there ain't a goddamn fuckin' think y'all are gonna be able to do about it.
I will win the Roulette—for the sake of my friends and my father's legacy.
I will win the Roulette—for the sake of the people of the world—every race, color, nationality, or creed.
I WILL win the Roulette—for love of the game as well as life.
And y'all can bet your dicks on that.
That's how I see it.
I don't invest too heavily on wins and losses like many other folks do. Yet there's somethin' more valuable and precious in this business than simply havin' your hand raised at the end of every tilt.
Workin' your ass off. Self-sacrifice. Heart.
Those things mean more to me than numbers on a stat sheet.
Thus, I fight for love of the game itself and its fruits.
Mohammed Al-Thani can claim all he wants to that he's going to win the l'il war the HE himself started a while ago, but everyone knows that he's full of shit. Nighthawk can sit there and proclaim on Twitter that “this machine never stops,” but I've whupped his ass so many times in the past that I can tell y'all FIRSTHAND that he is, in fact, a vulnerable sumbitch and not the gung-ho superhero he proclaims himself to be. Jake Conway can flaunt his commissioner of a wife around and put himself into any fuckin' match he so pleases, but the sad thing, for him at least, is that he has zero idea that he's bitten off more than he can chew. Rob Diamond can seek vengeance against The Fake Ace all he wants to, but he ain't doin' so for the sake of others—but only for himself.
Each of those folks—as hard as it is for me to say—share a love for the game, yet they have small things that'll always keep holdin' them back. Yet y'all know them as more established names and all that shit.
Y'all don't know me, but here's a burnin' question: does what I've got to say make me out to be an invincible bastard?
Absolutely not—but it does make me more determined to win the Roulette than the entire IWF roster put together.
I've taken my lumps against the likes of Alex Jones but lived to tell the tale. I've paid my dues time and time again against the likes of Kyle Mason or Warren Kidd, and while winnin' and losin' is part of the game, there's more to the gig than that. Week after week after week, I've looked TEN TIMES better than each and every one of you folks in Imperial, and why's that, y'all ask? It's 'cuz I know that it ain't about how hard I can hit, it's about how hard I could get hit so I can keep on truckin' out there. That's called REAL winnin' gentlemen—my reward for havin' loads of fun in that ring and livin' every moment like it's gonna be my last.
After all, life is short enough as it is; y'all gotta allow people to treasure their most precious moments 'cuz y'all never know when the journey's gonna end. Y'all may think ya have all the time in the world to ponder your future, but when God says “game over for ya, time to go to Heaven” He really means “game over.” That's how I play the game of “life,” folks.
That's why I love to fly the way I do.
And that's the way it's gonna be.
So here's what I want y'all to do gentlemen. Pack your shit and hop into whatever y'all use for transportation. Go into town for the weekend and grab yourselves a beer or two, rub your pathetic l'il peckers against your honey or stick 'em in some knothole in a fence; either way it's sliced—get rid of it. 'Cuz at High Stakes—that's this Sunday night for those who don't habla comprende--your asses are gonna be mine, and there ain't a goddamn fuckin' think y'all are gonna be able to do about it.
I will win the Roulette—for the sake of my friends and my father's legacy.
I will win the Roulette—for the sake of the people of the world—every race, color, nationality, or creed.
I WILL win the Roulette—for love of the game as well as life.
And y'all can bet your dicks on that.
That's how I see it.
Well howdy there pardner.