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Author Topic: Jerry Lee Lewis can go FUCK himself! (RP Vs Anarchy)  (Read 329 times)

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Jerry Lee Lewis can go FUCK himself! (RP Vs Anarchy)
« on: September 18, 2014, 07:27:55 PM »


He’s been sat here in the locker room of the SHOOT Project Epicentre for at least an hour now, wrought with pain, doubt and a sense of “what next?” All courtesy of his Master of the Mat loss to Adrian Corazon.

In this moment, it doesn’t matter how hard fought the bout was or if the match could have gone either way…All that matters to “The Artist” is that he lost…He couldn’t get the job done.

He couldn’t match his greatest rival’s success in this particular tournament, let alone surpass it as he had deeply wished. And so he is left with the bitterness of defeat, the feeling that he has let himself and his fans down.

Two years he has been readying himself for this moment, six months learning to stand, learning to walk, learning to run again…another six months getting his body into shape and a full year of working off the ring rust and adjusting his wrestling style as to not aggravate his neck injury…And for what?

Nothing…

He failed.

And as he closes his eyes all he can see is that monstrous, jackal-like face laughing at him from within the darkness; long hair wet with blood, blue eyes glaring forward, forehead furrowed and nose crunched up into a sneer.

Zex: FUCK!

He hurtles his dufflebag across the room, it crashes into the wall and then tumbles to the ground with a thud, leaving a faint echo in the air… And as macho and anger driven a move that may seem, it was a gut reaction that came from the frustration and pain he is feeling in this moment, both figuratively and literally.

Zex: This was my story, my rise…My redemption. *He clenches his fists tightly in his lap, the whites of his knuckle looking as if they are about to explode.* Now what!? Where do I go from here? FUCK! *He yells a second time.*

Normally, “The Artist” will take a loss on the chin; when you compete you’re going to lose at some point and no matter how good you are or how good you think you are, someone out there will and can beat you…But this? This was personal, this meant something…He’d put all his eggs in one basket and now the basket has been dropped.

He feels stuck, misplaced even…Thinking back to his career so far in SHOOT and feeling utterly lost in the shuffle, as if those matches with Maya and the buzz surrounding him had faded…Without Master of the Mat what does Zex have? Who is he? Where is his career going? What does he do next?

And worst of all…He can’t answer any of those questions; he truly doesn’t know where he stands and with the pain SHOOTing through his neck, the dehydration kicking in and his muscles needing a long soak he can’t think straight, if at all.

In the past…He’d give in to this feeling, lose himself in the darkness and dull the pain with alcohol, narcotics and the sluttiest women he could find; but he purged that part of himself, threw the destructive side of him away… Adopting faith as his salvation…Not in god, nor a higher power or religion; but faith in his principles, in himself and his ability, in the sport of professional wrestling, his fans and his friends…His wife.

He holds his head in his hands, breathing out his fears and doubts as he focuses in who he is and what he wants in life.

Zex: I want to be the best. *He answers his thoughts out loud* I won’t give up…I can’t give up.

He places the tips of his middle and index finger on his forehead, as if he was readying himself for some Dragon Ball style Instant Translocation; but instead of disappearing into thin air “The Artist” times his breathing, counting his breaths and drowning out his thoughts of doubt and worry.

*BREATH IN* “I’ll pick myself up.” *BREATH OUT* “From the ground up if need be.” *BREATH IN* “View the horizon.” *BREATH OUT* “From a different angle.” *BREATH IN* “Hit the rest button.” *BREATH OUT.*

He leans back, running his hands across the soft fabric of his brown parachute-pants and then stands, clutching the back of his neck and sucking air through his gritted teeth as a sure sign of his pain, before making his way towards his duffle bag that lies slumped against the far wall…



He hazily stares up at the bright ceiling lights rushing past him, the pain is too much to bare…Burning, eating through his skin down to what feels like his bone, it’s all encompassing and it’s pulling him out of his surroundings and into the arms of unconsciousness.

She squeezes his hand tightly, rushing down the packed Hospital corridor as doctors, nurses and orderlies pull her husband, SHOOT Project Soldier “The Artist” Zex with enough speed to run in the Olympics.

They crash through a door, bundling into a expansive room filled with various equipment, machines that go “beep” and other contraptions that would need specialist classification, for Rain has no idea what they are or what they do.

She stands in the doorway, watching helplessly as they lift her husband up onto a more secure and spacious bed. Zex gazes to her, but only briefly as a nurse rushes towards Rain pleading with her to leave while they check on “The Artist.”

Nurse: Please…Come with me. I need you to tell us what happened. *She pleads while blocking Rain’s view and ushering her out of the door.*

Rain: I…I don’t know.

The doors close and just like that her husband and his health are shut behind them.

Nurse: What do you mean you don’t know?

Rain: I found him like thus, he screamed out from the shower and I found him slumped on the ground. I wrapped him in a towel and got him here as soon as I could.

Nurse: Did he slip? Fall, maybe?

Rain: I don’t know. His neck, is it his neck!? *She exclaims, panic filling her every word.*

Nurse: His neck?

Rain: His neck, he fractured it and tore the muscles surrounding it a few years ago! He wrestled tonight…Please tell me he’s going to be okay?

Nurse: I can’t tell you anything at this juncture. We still do not know the extent of his injury, other than the pain is causing him to pass out…Would you please come with me and we’ll get you a coffee or water or something.

As the nurse leads Rain to the small family and support room; she can’t help but think back to his original neck injury and just how beat up her husband was, he couldn’t stand or walk…He was broken and dejected, but she was strong, she was there and together they pulled through…It was the most trying and hurtful time of her life…

“Is it happening again?” she whispers as she sits back on the small brown sofa, cup of coffee in her hands and thousands of questions racing through her mind, such as; did he land awkward in the ring? Did he push himself too hard? Could Corazon have injured him, did he break Zack’s neck?

She shakes her head, as if trying to knock away cobwebs and then looks up across the eggshell coloured room; glancing at the “comforting” landscape paintings of farms with hay-barrels, a silhouetted scarecrow and cows grazing in the field.

Opposite the painting sits an older woman with a young boy asleep in her lap, the woman glances down at her watch, riddled with worry and sadness as the boy dribbles down her blouse, in his hand he clutches a pamphlet named “Cornelius the Cancer explains non-hodgkin lymphoma.”

If she wasn’t so worried about her husband, there is a good chance she’d laugh at the “Cutesy-Cancer” pamphlet and embarrass herself while offending everyone in ear shot. The woman smiles up at Rain; though the smile is distant, broken even…A simple nod of familiarity or understanding from one woman to another.

The door opens and both Rain and the woman sit upright like Meerkat’s on watch, glancing to the door where a white coat wearing doctor stands, glum and solemn look etched into his face…He ushers the woman who stands slowly as not to wake the child, the pamphlet falls and floats to the ground where Rain can see Cornelius and his smiling face, vaguely reminding her of an old Genesis game named “Cool Spot.”

The doctor and the woman step outside…

Rain cannot hear what is being said…But the sobbing, she can hear that… It haunts her even. Rain looks down to her coffee, glancing at her reflection in the dark black liquid, tears filling up her eyes… Just sat here all alone…Waiting.

And waiting...

And waiting…

The door opens again, startling her to a point she almost drops her now lukewarm coffee…It’s the doctor again, the same one from before and with the same gloomy expression… She stands walking towards him when he holds up his hand ushering her to stop where she is.

Rain: Is he going to be…

Doctor: He’s going to be okay. Everything is under control.

Rain: Thank god. What happened? Is his neck okay?

Doctor: His neck!?

Rain: His neck, yes…That’s why we’re here, right?

Doctor: Good heavens, what on earth made you think that? There is nothing wrong with your husband’s neck…

Rain: Then… What, what is it?

Doctor: It seems, from what your husband has told me, he mistook hair removal cream for soap and proceeded to rub lashes of it around his testicals and penis; thus garnering first degree burns to his genital area. *He says while studying Rain’s “for fuck sake” mannerisms, of hands on her hips and facial expression that seem to perfectly go with the stance.*
 
Rain: FUCKING TYPICAL!

The doctor gives her a pat on the shoulder.

Doctor: We’ve patched him up and he’s ready to leave.

He leads Rain out of the support room and to the corridor; where her husband, a SHOOT Project soldier and highly regarded athlete is waiting. Zex glances though his sullen face, his bottom lip quivering and his hands clutching his groin.

Zex: I…I thought it was shampoo.

Rain: Don’t bullshit me, Xavier!

Zex: I’m not… I…

She walks behind him, gripping hold of the wheelchair walking down the corridor…shaking her head with a “tut, tut, tut.”

Rain: You have to leave that stuff on for fifteen minutes. You wouldn’t get burnt rubbing it on in the shower…You were Man-Scaping, own up.

Zex: It was an accident…I swear!

She leans down smelling his hair.

Rain: I knew it. You’d already shampooed your hair, it smells like…WAIT! Did you use my expensive shampoo…AGAIN!?

Zex: …Ah fuck.



I don’t believe in destiny, I don’t believe that fate has crafted my path, that I’m being guided and pointed forward by something from the great beyond. I’m not religious, I don’t pray or whisper into the unknown. I just live my life and aim to be the best I can be.

By best, I don’t just mean in the ring. I mean in every aspect of my life.

Be it as a friend, role model, brother…Husband; even if I do use her shampoo or singe my balls. I try my damnedest to set myself apart from all the rest and do what’s right, every time, all the time. It can be hard and trying at times. But it’s the path I’ve chosen, it’s a path I walk with no guidance or predetermination.

But every now and then. I get hit with a coincidence that has come back round faster than a boomerang. A figure eight that’s chasing its own tail. Déjà vu…

Whatever, you get my point.

And, right now as I sit here nursing an “Injury,” transmitting my innermost thoughts by the all seeing eye that is the internet; I can’t help but feel as if I’ve done this before…Like I already know the answer to the question or the ending to the movie.

And then it hit me like a ton of bricks. My first port of call, every place I’ve ever wrestled has always been the Tag Team division. From Valentine and his brother to former Master of the Mat contestant Dade Davis and obviously Omar Owens. The first championship I ever won was a Tag Title, hell...Every stint I’ve ever had, anywhere, always started with a Tag Title run… I’ve shared the limelight with friends and enemies alike and crafted myself a reputation within this particular style.

I used to have an issue with it, being pigeonholed a “Tag Team Specialist” was something that drove me nuts. It was like an insult, as if I couldn’t do shit by myself or that the people I’ve worked for just simply didn’t have any faith in me. Opponents would point it out for kicks; “Where’s your boyfriend” or “You can’t tag out of this one, buster” were just some of the clichés that were spouted each and every week.

I had to sit back and watch as Valentine Lionheart took off, winning championships and main eventing pay per views; while I was pulled to the side by the boss and asked “Hey, Zack. We’ve signed this new talent…Would you mind tagging with him and showing him the ropes?”

Now though, on reflection…Fuck, on simply growing up and getting over myself; I realise that I was good at it, that Tag Team wrestling is a fucking art form and there are some guys out there who just don’t get it. Val could never team with someone for long, he’s turned on every partner he’s ever had. His brother was the same.

But Me? Or Omar? Nah, we’ve always been loyal to our partners… “Insert your own gay joke here;” even when we’ve been at odds end, we’ve always had that chemistry, that flare and ingenuity needed to be considered “great” at Tag Team wrestling.

And it’s for this reason I can see a silver lining on the cloud that was my Master of the Mat elimination; because now I get to team with one of my best fucking buddies, have some fun and drop the serious shit, the legacy building and all that jazz.

Which is why I’m genuinely stoked to be facing Anarchy this week. Some may see that has me blowing Rainbows up my opponent’s ass, when truth is I’d rather kick their ass. But! I know that Omar and I are facing another team that genuinely “gets it.”

Despite whatever questionable bullshit they are involved in, be it facing Maya Nakashima in a two on one or brawling with those whacked out douchebags… I ain’t one to pass judgment on that shit. Would I face Maya in a handicap match? NO!

As for playing Patter-Cake with the Three Stooges? I’ll say this once and once only. My aim is beating Anarchy at Revolution, but if those dumbfucks attempt that anarchic fuckery this week? Then I’ve got no problem standing by your side and throwing down.

Wait…Throwing down? Man, I sound like tool.

Anyway. I fully realise the gravity of the chance I have this week, the chance to press reset and start over, to go back to my roots and team with a friend against SHOOT Tag Team Royalty. It’s a pleasure, a privilege and an honour…But don’t let that fool you, I’m not trying to form the justice league… Just take one step closer to rejuvenating a division in sure need of a little TLC. Because lets face it, the current champions, they’d rather play tummy-sticks with each other than wear those titles with pride.

Peace. Out.


Fin.



Newcomer of the Year 2013.