Post by Awesome Stick Labor on Mar 27, 2016 1:16:21 GMT
What the hell's happened to me?
Why did it have to happen?
Why...me?
What am I gonna do?
---------
Why did it have to happen?
Why...me?
What am I gonna do?
---------
March 23, 2016 – 11:00 PM
On the front porch...
...we find Jack Gaither smoking a cigar, watching as the cumulonimbus thunderheads move off to the east after a round of heavy rain, hail, and wind. Sporting his usual Dallas Cowboy-themed sleeping attire, the Texan watches lightning bolts flash in the distance underneath the protection of the awning that covers the entire front deck of the Arlington, Texas home. Taking puffs every minute or so, Jack relaxes on the swing, stretching his arms out as Regina Kimble, the one-time kindergarten teacher turned principal, opens the front door and steps out. On this night, she is staying with Jack and Fiona after her apartment's windows were busted by the night's severe thunderstorms.
MISS KIMBLE: Are you alright? I don't mean to bother you...
Jack warmly nods his head, pulling out his cigar pack as Regina sits down next to him.
JACK GAITHER: Cuban cigars—Fiona gave these to me on my birthday last year.
Kimble smiled as Jack took another puff, sticking the lit end of his cigar in a black ashtray that resembles Darth Vader's clasic headpiece. On this damp night in the early spring, Jack is having difficulty settling down to go to bed--for he still harbors memories of an incident that took place nearly three decades ago, something that the wise Kimble notices.
MISS KIMBLE: Tell me what you're feeling...
JACK: I was thinkin' about my mom...about the world I once knew.
Jack sighs, putting out the rest of his cigar completely before tossing it into a small, white trash can.
JACK: I used to think of everything and anything around me as idyllic—a wondrous, blissful safe haven featurin' people who don't lose their smile, who don't stop carin' about others even when they feelin' down. But it's all changed...it ain't like that no more. Now we live in a society where mass school shootings and terrorist bombings are commonplace...where gays and lesbians can legally get married...and where drunken rich teenagers can drive, kill four people, and only get probation...
The Texan closed his eyes, remembering the horrid events of the drunk driving crash that killed his mother and left him in a coma.
JACK: It's been twenty-eight years since that drunk in the Bronco hit us, yet I never realized it would be this hard to accept it. I wasn't strong enough to get past her death. Couldn't let her go...I shoulda died in that car crash, not her. Why'd I have to live...?
The very moment that Jack starts trembling, the teacher-turned-principal rubs his shoulders down, soothing him with her motherly voice--the same voice that helped him overcome an initial fear of separation aniety during his first day at Beckham Elementary School.
MISS KIMBLE: I'm afraid to say this darling, but that's something you'll have to figure out for yourself. After all, how we deal with death is at least as important as how we deal with life.
JACK: Those are just words.
MISS KIMBLE: But good words...that's where new ideas begin and come to life. Perhaps you should listen to them, for they will guide you.
Jack silently nodded his head as Regina stood up.
MISS KIMBLE: Let me show you something...a birthday gift that'll make you feel young as if the world was rendered anew.
Jack stood up, following the ex-teacher toward the front part of the house's garage; lifting up the door, Kimble steps inbetween Fiona's Aston-Martin and another car--this one covered by a green tarp. Slowly, Kimble lifts the curtain back, leaving Jack to look on with sheer amazement at the sight that befell him.
It was THE car, the 1973 Chevy Vega that was once owned by Jack's parents, the one that was wrecked in that 1988 car crash--now fully restored in all its glory. The bright yellow "banana" paint scheme gleams under the lights in the garage, and Jack's eyes open wide as he inches along the newly-resurrected vehicle, taking in the sights of an all-new leather interior.
JACK: You...did this?!
MISS FIONA: Well, Fiona helped me a little. The overall process of restoration took me twenty years, four months, seven days...but I hope you like it.
JACK: I can't believe ya did this...!
Jack opens up the driver's side door and sits down, closing it afterwards. He marvels at the pair of fuzzy dice that hand proudly from the rearview mirror as Kimble steps up to the rolled down window.
MISS KIMBLE: You remember the lesson I taught you years ago on "happy places?" It wasn't just a kindergarten lesson, darling. It was...something you should carry with you for the rest of your life.
Jack, holding back his inner emotions while marveling over the vehicle's new wood-finished paneling, gazes at his old mentor.
JACK: You're the best friend I ever had.
MISS KIMBLE: You're quite alright in my book too. It's getting late--tomorrow morning, you go see your "happy place."
Jack watched as Kimble reentered the house's kitchen through the small white door on the side, unaware that she had one more surprise up her sleeve. In the kitchen, Regina saw Jack's fiancee grabbing a small midnight snack from the fridge and approached her.
MISS KIMBLE: Miss Fiona...it is almost time to return "him" to Jack, his rightful owner. He will be traveling to his "happy place" tomorrow morning.
The plucky Irishwoman nodded her head, acknowledging her duty as Regina pulled a stuffed animal from out of her suitcase and handed it to her. It was "Dumbo"--the stuffed turquoise frog that Jack's mother Linda had made for him when he was an infant.
Kimble had kept this special keepsake long enough.
Now it was almost time to return it to its proper owner--and the one Jack loved the most knew exactly where to go.
~TO BE CONCLUDED...~
----------
The Roulette--one of the most epic matches in IWF since...welp, the Dragon's Den.
By its very nature, the Roulette is a clusterfuck, an unpredictable animal that breeds new friendships or, in the most extreme of cases, new enemies. It's a contest that separates the men from the boys, the willful from the cowards, and the srong from the weak. I know this to be true, as I was there for the match that took place at last year's High Stakes, literally pullin' double duty after stompin' Mohammed Al-Thani's guts out earlier in that program.
That night in question, I was only with the company for around six months or so, maybe less than that. Either way ya slice it, despite the soberin' fact that I was relatively new to the Imperial world and knew next to nothin' on who I was gonna be facin', I found myself in the final four. Seven men, from nobodies like Mike Madness or Ryan Shane to the hall of famer Angel "God" Blake, were chucked outta the ring that night by my bare hands. I didn't need to bring weapons to the ring, and I CERTAINLY didn't have to send someone else to do my dirty work--'cuz I did the handiwork myself.
Yet ever since last year, somethin's changed. To help decipher this, I've asked myself a few questions.
What the hell's happened to me?
After last year's Roulette, I went on to become a finalist in the Heir to the Throne series and an Invictus champion. I've gone on to headline several different shows and take on hall of famers like Spike Kane. I've fought wars against the likes of corporates like Jake Conway, Mike Laszlo, or the boss man himself--not to mention the likes of the supposedly anti-establishment folks like Rob Diamond, Nighthawk, or Warren Kane--and lived to tell the tale. Every single match I've ever had here, I've always tried to conduct myself with honor, dignity, and respect--even despite my sometimes loud personality. I thought the IWF was a company that rewarded its wrestlers for stickin' to their beliefs and not strayin' from 'em for their own sake.
Boy, was I wrong. Dead wrong.
This is a point where I'm gonna go off-script and do a shoot with ya, 'cuz I wanna be as honest as I can be in regards to how I've REALLY felt over the course of a full year. The IWF continuously awards its members for stickin' their noses into things that don't belong to them, undervaluing, underappreciating, or flat-out disrespecting their fellow competitors regardless of whether or not they're babies or heels--that's good guys and bad guys for those who don't know the wrasslin' gig. You've got grown men kissin' each other's ass and makin' threats to those who're fightin' 'em, and ya got grown me who do nothin' except snipe back at their enemies and keep this here war ongoin' in the hearts and minds of the people.
And somewhere, I've found myself dragged in the middle of their conflict--and it's not nothin' but piss me the fuck off.
Why did it have to happen?
The answer's real simple: 'cuz I've prided myself in bein' loyal to my craft, bustin' my ass and leavin' everything I've got in that right for eight goddamn years. Because I've done everything I could in order to do my job with as much honesty, dignity, honor, and respect as I possibly could--without resortin' to takin' sides in a conflict that I never wanted to be in to being with. Because I've always had the pleasure in performin' my goods in that squared circle in the only way I can, the right way--MY WAY...no bullshit tricks, no one thumbin' their dicks into my business, none of it.
Yet the IWF as a whole just don't give credit to people like me where it's due.
When Warren Kane decided to help me win a match against his pop, he undervalued me 'cuz I had the heart and desire that was needed in order to take Spike's best shots and win that match on my own...and he fucked it up for me. When Austin James Mercer questioned my emotional state when it comes to this game, that underappreciated me--for I understand that there's more to life than simply gettin pissed off over Fiona gettin smacked around--that I would eventually have to let it go and move foward. When Ryan Shane decides to politic his way back into the IWF and cause me to lose a match against his mentor Jake Keeton by Dairy Queen--code for disqualification--that disrespected me, for I've stompued his guts out numerous times over the years and tried to teach him to never drag me into the middle of his own personal squabbles.
But I gotta keep on pluggin' away with my work, despite the garbage I've been through in recenttimes.
Why...me?
I asked myself "why me" in my mind the moment my mother's life was taken from me by a drunk driver when I was a day away from turnin' six years old--a crash that I somehow managed to survive. Maybe it was destiny for me to live on after seein' Heaven up close and personal--only for God Himself to tell me I wasn't ready to join Him and my mom up there. Perhaps it was fate that I carry a giant scar on my forehead as a result of the accident, tasked with the responsibility of keepin' her spirit alive inside me, thus preservin' the world I've tried so hard to preserve in my memory.
And I wasn't strong enough to get past that horrid day.
It took the help of the best friend I ever had in my life, a kindergarten teacher who loved me like a son, to fully understand that how we dealt with death is just as important as how we dealt with livin' an honest life. I've lived with mental pain and anguish after losin my mom for the last twenty-eight years of my life 'cause I couldn't bear to let her go. I put myself through this odyssey of the mind" 'cause I simply wanted to remember her for who she was...and how she lived.
Now I gotta make new memories--for myself and for the people I consider my "family."
What am I gonna do?
Gentlemen, I'm gonna do MORE than simply tell y'all what's gonna happen when all hell breaks loose at High Stakes. I don't give a rat's ass if I'm #1 or #5, I'm STILL gonna go out to that ring and leave everything--my blood, sweat, and tears--on the table in order to win the Roulette. I don't care if I gotta chuck Rob Diamond, Warren Kane, Jake Keeton, or WHOEVER stands in my way--a bunch of collective asses are gonna fly over that top rope at my hand, and there ain't gonna be a goddamn thing y'all folks in the IWF are gonna be able to do about it.
Why?
'Cause I don't need an Italian like Roberto Verona to remind me on how much I love game shows and that the opportunity lies right there before my eyes--for I've sent hall of famers like Angel Blake packin' their shit and headin' home. I don't need a colleged-aged puke like Warren Kane tryin' to play "Sorry!" with me after interferin' in my Open Fight Night match against his pops--for I see through him like that $150 rangefinder to know that he only did it for his own sake and not for the sake of others. I'm just gonna march out to that squared circle and do my job to the best of my ability--with dignity, honor, and respect--and walk out of the Roulette as its winner.
After all, some of the best folks in the world were neither Republicans or Democrats.
And I ain't plannin' pickin' and choosin' either--I'm just gonna whup y'all's asses, no matter what side you're on.
'Til Sunday pilgrims.
The Roulette--one of the most epic matches in IWF since...welp, the Dragon's Den.
By its very nature, the Roulette is a clusterfuck, an unpredictable animal that breeds new friendships or, in the most extreme of cases, new enemies. It's a contest that separates the men from the boys, the willful from the cowards, and the srong from the weak. I know this to be true, as I was there for the match that took place at last year's High Stakes, literally pullin' double duty after stompin' Mohammed Al-Thani's guts out earlier in that program.
That night in question, I was only with the company for around six months or so, maybe less than that. Either way ya slice it, despite the soberin' fact that I was relatively new to the Imperial world and knew next to nothin' on who I was gonna be facin', I found myself in the final four. Seven men, from nobodies like Mike Madness or Ryan Shane to the hall of famer Angel "God" Blake, were chucked outta the ring that night by my bare hands. I didn't need to bring weapons to the ring, and I CERTAINLY didn't have to send someone else to do my dirty work--'cuz I did the handiwork myself.
Yet ever since last year, somethin's changed. To help decipher this, I've asked myself a few questions.
What the hell's happened to me?
After last year's Roulette, I went on to become a finalist in the Heir to the Throne series and an Invictus champion. I've gone on to headline several different shows and take on hall of famers like Spike Kane. I've fought wars against the likes of corporates like Jake Conway, Mike Laszlo, or the boss man himself--not to mention the likes of the supposedly anti-establishment folks like Rob Diamond, Nighthawk, or Warren Kane--and lived to tell the tale. Every single match I've ever had here, I've always tried to conduct myself with honor, dignity, and respect--even despite my sometimes loud personality. I thought the IWF was a company that rewarded its wrestlers for stickin' to their beliefs and not strayin' from 'em for their own sake.
Boy, was I wrong. Dead wrong.
This is a point where I'm gonna go off-script and do a shoot with ya, 'cuz I wanna be as honest as I can be in regards to how I've REALLY felt over the course of a full year. The IWF continuously awards its members for stickin' their noses into things that don't belong to them, undervaluing, underappreciating, or flat-out disrespecting their fellow competitors regardless of whether or not they're babies or heels--that's good guys and bad guys for those who don't know the wrasslin' gig. You've got grown men kissin' each other's ass and makin' threats to those who're fightin' 'em, and ya got grown me who do nothin' except snipe back at their enemies and keep this here war ongoin' in the hearts and minds of the people.
And somewhere, I've found myself dragged in the middle of their conflict--and it's not nothin' but piss me the fuck off.
Why did it have to happen?
The answer's real simple: 'cuz I've prided myself in bein' loyal to my craft, bustin' my ass and leavin' everything I've got in that right for eight goddamn years. Because I've done everything I could in order to do my job with as much honesty, dignity, honor, and respect as I possibly could--without resortin' to takin' sides in a conflict that I never wanted to be in to being with. Because I've always had the pleasure in performin' my goods in that squared circle in the only way I can, the right way--MY WAY...no bullshit tricks, no one thumbin' their dicks into my business, none of it.
Yet the IWF as a whole just don't give credit to people like me where it's due.
When Warren Kane decided to help me win a match against his pop, he undervalued me 'cuz I had the heart and desire that was needed in order to take Spike's best shots and win that match on my own...and he fucked it up for me. When Austin James Mercer questioned my emotional state when it comes to this game, that underappreciated me--for I understand that there's more to life than simply gettin pissed off over Fiona gettin smacked around--that I would eventually have to let it go and move foward. When Ryan Shane decides to politic his way back into the IWF and cause me to lose a match against his mentor Jake Keeton by Dairy Queen--code for disqualification--that disrespected me, for I've stompued his guts out numerous times over the years and tried to teach him to never drag me into the middle of his own personal squabbles.
But I gotta keep on pluggin' away with my work, despite the garbage I've been through in recenttimes.
Why...me?
I asked myself "why me" in my mind the moment my mother's life was taken from me by a drunk driver when I was a day away from turnin' six years old--a crash that I somehow managed to survive. Maybe it was destiny for me to live on after seein' Heaven up close and personal--only for God Himself to tell me I wasn't ready to join Him and my mom up there. Perhaps it was fate that I carry a giant scar on my forehead as a result of the accident, tasked with the responsibility of keepin' her spirit alive inside me, thus preservin' the world I've tried so hard to preserve in my memory.
And I wasn't strong enough to get past that horrid day.
It took the help of the best friend I ever had in my life, a kindergarten teacher who loved me like a son, to fully understand that how we dealt with death is just as important as how we dealt with livin' an honest life. I've lived with mental pain and anguish after losin my mom for the last twenty-eight years of my life 'cause I couldn't bear to let her go. I put myself through this odyssey of the mind" 'cause I simply wanted to remember her for who she was...and how she lived.
Now I gotta make new memories--for myself and for the people I consider my "family."
What am I gonna do?
Gentlemen, I'm gonna do MORE than simply tell y'all what's gonna happen when all hell breaks loose at High Stakes. I don't give a rat's ass if I'm #1 or #5, I'm STILL gonna go out to that ring and leave everything--my blood, sweat, and tears--on the table in order to win the Roulette. I don't care if I gotta chuck Rob Diamond, Warren Kane, Jake Keeton, or WHOEVER stands in my way--a bunch of collective asses are gonna fly over that top rope at my hand, and there ain't gonna be a goddamn thing y'all folks in the IWF are gonna be able to do about it.
Why?
'Cause I don't need an Italian like Roberto Verona to remind me on how much I love game shows and that the opportunity lies right there before my eyes--for I've sent hall of famers like Angel Blake packin' their shit and headin' home. I don't need a colleged-aged puke like Warren Kane tryin' to play "Sorry!" with me after interferin' in my Open Fight Night match against his pops--for I see through him like that $150 rangefinder to know that he only did it for his own sake and not for the sake of others. I'm just gonna march out to that squared circle and do my job to the best of my ability--with dignity, honor, and respect--and walk out of the Roulette as its winner.
After all, some of the best folks in the world were neither Republicans or Democrats.
And I ain't plannin' pickin' and choosin' either--I'm just gonna whup y'all's asses, no matter what side you're on.
'Til Sunday pilgrims.
Well howdy there pardner.