Post by "The Asshole" Whitey Ford on Apr 10, 2017 18:36:12 GMT -5
You know, for once, Whitey looked at himself in the mirror without a deep rooted sense of unfulfilment and hate. It was never directed at himself, he was far too proud for that, but about his circumstances and why he wasn't succeeding. When he was young and first started in the business, he would hate that he could never win the 'big one,' even though everyone was in his corner. In his later years, he would have that despite victory after victory after victory, after he finally made a name for himself, he had literally no one in his corner. Even his manager Michael John Windsor was flaky at best, only keeping him on the top because it was a profit.
Whitey ran a scarred hand through his long blonde hair, trying to remember when the reflection he saw had gotten so haggard. Scars and old battle wounds littered his face; although they weren't so prominent as to be a distinguishing mark, they were there. Just as you can find a hundred flaws after staring at a sculpture for so long, with enough attention you could see the long, violent story that marked Whitey Ford's face. Why am I not upset? He though to himself. His pride was one of the most prominent of his features, and nothing could make him feel bad about that.
Yet, she had won.
She was one of his longest running challengers; some would say nemesis.
Yet, she had won.
The match had been brutal, with both fighters showing exactly who they were and how they got there. Whitey had taken his hits and almost fell victim to a pinfall more than a few times throughout the match, but he weathered that viscious little storm and he knew that within moments he was going to have the match in the bag. Nobody had beaten him since his return, he was virtually unstoppable, with a grim constitution that he was going to put the class back in PCW by being the best...better than he could have ever imagined.
Yet, she had won.
But, there he stood, staring in the mirror in a bathroom in a strange house, without a single iota of rage coursing through his veins. Have I gone soft? Whitey thought before turning on the faucet and splashing water of his face. The old me would have been apeshit crazy pissed off that she got one over on me! Whitey hadn't been put away 'cleanly,' as he'd put it, and he sure as well wasn't done fighting. So to be taken by surprise and beaten with a rollup would have dragged broken glass and razor blades across his pride...but he only felt content. And believe it or not, proud of himself. What's changed? Why am I happy that she...fucking won? It was a great fight, sure, and a worthy challenge...but what changed to make me feel so damned happy to have fought so hard and lost?[i/]
"You make stupid faces when you stare in the mirror." The smooth voice came from behind him, and immediatly made Whitey return to cleaning the water off his face, grabbing a handtowel hastily. Jamie stood in the doorway of the bathroom, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed, wearing nothing but his old and almost forgotten Marshall's Law vest. "What are you thinking about that makes you look so..."
"Stupid?" Ford finished her sentence for her, throwing the towel behind him to try and hit her with it playfully. She parried it away like a veritable ninja. "I was trying to figure it out, that's why I looked so confuse. Lots of people would just accredit it to alcoholism and drug abuse, but I'm a thinker!" As Jamie laughed, Whitey Ford turn and took her in his arms, carrying her back into the bedroom and throwing her uncerominously in a body slam onto the bed. He turned back to the dresser, gathering a shirt from the top drawer. "What's stupid is...that you put your shirts in the top drawer. That's where socks and undies go. Stupid."
"What's stupid is you leave so shortly before you have to be in South Carolina. You don't plan ahead better? You don't want to be relaxed before a match?" She paused then, rethinking her words. Her long hair, shaved on one side of the scalp and long on the other that is, lay in a mess on the bed beneath her. Whitey only smiled, knowing what was coming next. "Aren't you worried?" She asked, trying to hide the overt concern in her voice but failing miserably.
"No." Ford's response was quick and crisp, but came with a smile. "I've never fought this SAM prick. He could be a flash in the pan, here today gone tomorrow asshole." That was true, Whitey rarely worried about opponents, but even rarer would he fret over a newcomer. SAM seemed to be a crowd pleaser, and from what he learned in his career he knew that pleasing the crowd didn't meant getting a notch in the W column. Whitey would do what he did best; go to Trauma, kick some ass, further his agenda, and go on with his night.
If he's as good as he says, though... In all fairness, Whitey arrived in PCW practically screaming how great he was, and he backed up it. It's not unfathomable to believe that another human could pull off the same feat, and that thought made Whitey raise his brow thoughtfully. "Or he could stick around for a while and I'll beat him a few more times." Ford fell backwards onto the bed, sitting upright and pulling a sock over a bare foot. "SAM...he's just a fight. He's not THE fight."
"That's what I fucking mean, by 'aren't you worried.' The real fight is coming...he's noticed you." Jamie sat up and put a gentle hand on his forearm. "Then what the fuck are you going to do, beat them all up by yourself?"
"Me an' Bob, yeah."
"Bob is one man, one GOOD man. If you want to martyr yourself, go ahead. I'll miss you, of course...but don't take Bob down on your sinking ship. You need help!" She pulled her hand away and rolled over to face away from him, an over-exaggerated show of pouting...just enough to annoy Whitey to continue responding. But the former champion just paused. He shook his head to clear the irritablitiy that was clouding his thoughts, and sighed.
"We can do it, ok? Nobody else trust me, nobody else really even...even fucking likes me, honestly. I have Seromine's attention, he's fucked with me and he doesn't know that this is one fucking sinner who he can't condemn. I can handle Seromine too, ok? Just..." Ford had started working himself into a fervor, and shot up like a rocket with his hand cocked back to smash the wall in front of him. He stopped just short, growling in frustration. "Just fucking let me handle one thing at a time, ok? Christ. I'm going to go out there, introduce SAM to PCW, and if Seromine comes out then Bob and I will handle business before it's even a sanctioned match."
Jamie was quiet for a moment after. Then another moment...followed by a longer moment. "I'm sorry..." Ford started, knowing he'd have to work hard to dig himself out of the hole he made. "I'm not used to anyone giving me advice that wouldn't get them a paycheck. I won't punch a hole in your bedroom wall, I promise."
"Do it." Jamie said, unflinchingly. "Punch a hole in the wall." Without even a seconds pause, Whitey had drilled his fist through the drywall, leaving a rough hole where he hit. Ford laughed, even as she kept speaking. "Good, Whitey. If you get adamant about something, even if you're a fucking prick sometimes, make sure your voice is heard. Beat SAM. Punch a whole in the wall. Plan your battle, take care of Seromine, secure another chapter in your legacy. You just don't have to think that you can't be YOU, to be the...the best you."
Whitey turned to her with a smile, but she held up a finger to silence him. "But you DO need HER help." With that, Whitey's smile turned to ash. He turned back to the wall, stonefaced...I'm the best in PCW. Nobody can hold a candle to me, I am the fucking legendary Whitey Ford. I don't need anyone's help...
Yet, she had won.
Ford finished putting on his shoes without a word; his pride once again proving to be an issue. Throwing on his coat and pulling open the door briskly, he only turned his head halfway. "I'll see you after I win." And shut the door.
Whitey ran a scarred hand through his long blonde hair, trying to remember when the reflection he saw had gotten so haggard. Scars and old battle wounds littered his face; although they weren't so prominent as to be a distinguishing mark, they were there. Just as you can find a hundred flaws after staring at a sculpture for so long, with enough attention you could see the long, violent story that marked Whitey Ford's face. Why am I not upset? He though to himself. His pride was one of the most prominent of his features, and nothing could make him feel bad about that.
Yet, she had won.
She was one of his longest running challengers; some would say nemesis.
Yet, she had won.
The match had been brutal, with both fighters showing exactly who they were and how they got there. Whitey had taken his hits and almost fell victim to a pinfall more than a few times throughout the match, but he weathered that viscious little storm and he knew that within moments he was going to have the match in the bag. Nobody had beaten him since his return, he was virtually unstoppable, with a grim constitution that he was going to put the class back in PCW by being the best...better than he could have ever imagined.
Yet, she had won.
But, there he stood, staring in the mirror in a bathroom in a strange house, without a single iota of rage coursing through his veins. Have I gone soft? Whitey thought before turning on the faucet and splashing water of his face. The old me would have been apeshit crazy pissed off that she got one over on me! Whitey hadn't been put away 'cleanly,' as he'd put it, and he sure as well wasn't done fighting. So to be taken by surprise and beaten with a rollup would have dragged broken glass and razor blades across his pride...but he only felt content. And believe it or not, proud of himself. What's changed? Why am I happy that she...fucking won? It was a great fight, sure, and a worthy challenge...but what changed to make me feel so damned happy to have fought so hard and lost?[i/]
"You make stupid faces when you stare in the mirror." The smooth voice came from behind him, and immediatly made Whitey return to cleaning the water off his face, grabbing a handtowel hastily. Jamie stood in the doorway of the bathroom, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed, wearing nothing but his old and almost forgotten Marshall's Law vest. "What are you thinking about that makes you look so..."
"Stupid?" Ford finished her sentence for her, throwing the towel behind him to try and hit her with it playfully. She parried it away like a veritable ninja. "I was trying to figure it out, that's why I looked so confuse. Lots of people would just accredit it to alcoholism and drug abuse, but I'm a thinker!" As Jamie laughed, Whitey Ford turn and took her in his arms, carrying her back into the bedroom and throwing her uncerominously in a body slam onto the bed. He turned back to the dresser, gathering a shirt from the top drawer. "What's stupid is...that you put your shirts in the top drawer. That's where socks and undies go. Stupid."
"What's stupid is you leave so shortly before you have to be in South Carolina. You don't plan ahead better? You don't want to be relaxed before a match?" She paused then, rethinking her words. Her long hair, shaved on one side of the scalp and long on the other that is, lay in a mess on the bed beneath her. Whitey only smiled, knowing what was coming next. "Aren't you worried?" She asked, trying to hide the overt concern in her voice but failing miserably.
"No." Ford's response was quick and crisp, but came with a smile. "I've never fought this SAM prick. He could be a flash in the pan, here today gone tomorrow asshole." That was true, Whitey rarely worried about opponents, but even rarer would he fret over a newcomer. SAM seemed to be a crowd pleaser, and from what he learned in his career he knew that pleasing the crowd didn't meant getting a notch in the W column. Whitey would do what he did best; go to Trauma, kick some ass, further his agenda, and go on with his night.
If he's as good as he says, though... In all fairness, Whitey arrived in PCW practically screaming how great he was, and he backed up it. It's not unfathomable to believe that another human could pull off the same feat, and that thought made Whitey raise his brow thoughtfully. "Or he could stick around for a while and I'll beat him a few more times." Ford fell backwards onto the bed, sitting upright and pulling a sock over a bare foot. "SAM...he's just a fight. He's not THE fight."
"That's what I fucking mean, by 'aren't you worried.' The real fight is coming...he's noticed you." Jamie sat up and put a gentle hand on his forearm. "Then what the fuck are you going to do, beat them all up by yourself?"
"Me an' Bob, yeah."
"Bob is one man, one GOOD man. If you want to martyr yourself, go ahead. I'll miss you, of course...but don't take Bob down on your sinking ship. You need help!" She pulled her hand away and rolled over to face away from him, an over-exaggerated show of pouting...just enough to annoy Whitey to continue responding. But the former champion just paused. He shook his head to clear the irritablitiy that was clouding his thoughts, and sighed.
"We can do it, ok? Nobody else trust me, nobody else really even...even fucking likes me, honestly. I have Seromine's attention, he's fucked with me and he doesn't know that this is one fucking sinner who he can't condemn. I can handle Seromine too, ok? Just..." Ford had started working himself into a fervor, and shot up like a rocket with his hand cocked back to smash the wall in front of him. He stopped just short, growling in frustration. "Just fucking let me handle one thing at a time, ok? Christ. I'm going to go out there, introduce SAM to PCW, and if Seromine comes out then Bob and I will handle business before it's even a sanctioned match."
Jamie was quiet for a moment after. Then another moment...followed by a longer moment. "I'm sorry..." Ford started, knowing he'd have to work hard to dig himself out of the hole he made. "I'm not used to anyone giving me advice that wouldn't get them a paycheck. I won't punch a hole in your bedroom wall, I promise."
"Do it." Jamie said, unflinchingly. "Punch a hole in the wall." Without even a seconds pause, Whitey had drilled his fist through the drywall, leaving a rough hole where he hit. Ford laughed, even as she kept speaking. "Good, Whitey. If you get adamant about something, even if you're a fucking prick sometimes, make sure your voice is heard. Beat SAM. Punch a whole in the wall. Plan your battle, take care of Seromine, secure another chapter in your legacy. You just don't have to think that you can't be YOU, to be the...the best you."
Whitey turned to her with a smile, but she held up a finger to silence him. "But you DO need HER help." With that, Whitey's smile turned to ash. He turned back to the wall, stonefaced...I'm the best in PCW. Nobody can hold a candle to me, I am the fucking legendary Whitey Ford. I don't need anyone's help...
Yet, she had won.
Ford finished putting on his shoes without a word; his pride once again proving to be an issue. Throwing on his coat and pulling open the door briskly, he only turned his head halfway. "I'll see you after I win." And shut the door.
