Post by "The Asshole" Whitey Ford on Sept 10, 2017 21:38:20 GMT -5
"I guess I could light a church on fire..." Whitey Ford said out loud, not caring that there wasn't a soul to hear him.
Such had been the case for at least three hours. As per usual, Whitey was dead set on doing something foolish and outlandish to make a statement about his disrespect for his opponent. Options and questions were voiced, loud and confidently enough to convince anyone who was listening...but there was no one around. Whitey Ford was an intricate yet simple man; simple in a way that anyone with half a brain could tell what pleased him and what made him angry, but the thought process that brought Ford to those pros and cons in his life couldn't be tracked or predicted even by the best psychologist that money could buy...and somehow, Whitey still had money.
Not that he'd be caught dead paying for a shrink or any sort of mental health consultant, but even in the back of his defiant mind he wondered if it might have been worth the investment years ago. If anything, the fact that he stood inside the bathroom of his hotel with his hands clenched around the wall mounted ceramic sink while staring deep into his own reflection in the mirror made him wonder even harder. In between the internal questions and external answers, Ford had no choice but to examine himself and ask himself...
"Is this all worth it?" Whitey was never a handsome man by any accord, and as he ran his calloused fingers over the plentiful nicks and cuts that left forever lasting scars on his face he was reminded painfully of that fact. "Why the fuck do I care if I have scars? Why...why don't I have more scars!?! I should fight more. Maybe I'll burn down two churches." His own quip brought a quick smirk over his jagged features, but as it had been for the several hours he couldn't hold it. The smile quickly faded into a scowl. "God fucking damnit! I've beaten Seromine, I've tooled on Grimm, I'm the god damn mother fucking Pure Class Wrestling World Champion and at the two hundred and fucking eighteenth edition of Trauma I'll beat his sidekick Rick Majors...I mean Gabriel...I mean...fuck, I already did this joke."
Whitey slapped himself in the forehead with the heel of his palm. "FUCK!" With his head reeling from the impact and the overload of an intense thought process, Ford went on auto pilot and his hand reached to the side of the vanity and retrieved a mostly empty half gallon of the cheapest vodka that money could buy. "Vodka is vodka, it all tastes the same." Whitey said aloud, and gave a cheers to his reflection before a few over-indulgent swallows of Orloff. His head went fuzzy again, but this time from the alcohol.
Vodka always helped Whitey forget.
As it turned out, Whitey had a lot to forget that day.
The entire month of September, all ten days of it, seemed to be shrouded in clouds and rain...not much unlike the first month that they met. Jamie and Whitey stood shoulder to shoulder on the Lewiston/Auburn Great Falls Bridge, watching the awesome power of the waterfall from a safe distance.
"I saved your life here, do you remember that?" She inquired, with more than a touch of ire in her voice. Whitey slide his hand across the railing of the bridge, but she pulled away as subtle as a pickpocket. He did remember, and would never forget, but her tone of voice made the thought of being thankful cause him to nearly be physically ill
As subtle as her hand escaping his, he leaned in closer. "I remember. Want to drive to Cumby's so I can...what did I do? Did I save your purse or...you know what, let's just go there so I can rub THAT into your skin. You knew what you were getting into when--"
"WHEN WHAT?!?" She spat back, instantly inches from his face, snarling. "When you told me you loved me? When you paid off my mortgage and car payment so I could travel with you? Or when I realized you just don't know when to stop?!?"
It was Whitey's turn to snarl, leaning in as close as he dared. "I. Am. A. Professional. Wrestler. I'm the champion of Pure Class Wrestling. I'm the fucking man and I'm the best at what I do."
"You remind us every fucking second." She hadn't moved, but somehow it seemed like she was drifting further away from Whitey. He steeled himself and pressed on.
"I need to be a fighting champion, or my boasts and claims and words mean fucking nothing, Jamie! I need to do this!"
"You don't. You fucking don't." Her vicious demeanor wavered temporarily as her eyes softened, but only a small amount. "Did you see what Seromine and Gabriel have done to Nathan Saniti? You got lucky against Seromine, they aren't right in the head. They're going to kill you, Whitey."
"GOT FUCKING LUCKY!? I'm the--"
"Champion, I know. We all know. The world knows that you're not like anyone else, that you've done unspeakable and impossible things and still, the world is starting to love you again. But when is enough enough? If it won't be Gabriel, it'll be Kyle Shane. Alexa Black. Dominator. You're old, Whitey. You can't do this anymore. You've proven you're the best, just st--"
Ford erupted into a primal scream, from the bottom of his stomach all the way to the top of his throat with such anger that Jamie flinched back, holding her hands in front of her face for protection. The instant twang of guilt struck him in the gut like a knife. "You don't know. I haven't proven anything if I back down from a fight." Whitey turned away from her, taking a few steps away before turning back. "If I win this fight, then we'll talk about me retiring. But I need to do this."
"Why..." That's what Jamie had asked, but Whitey ran. Well, no, briskly walked away, but ran way from the question. Remembering the fight even through the haze of vodka suddenly brought on a rage he couldn't predict coming. With a violent authority, Ford threw against the wall and absolutely destroyed...his deodorant. As the plastic container clicked against the floor, his rage was not abated but only fueled.
Toothbrush? Snapped.
Toothpaste? Stomped on.
BOD smelly man spray? Destination fucked.
Only when Whitey raised his fists high above his head with a roar and brought them Hulk-smashing down onto the sink and the sound of breaking ceramic washed over his ears (as well as the water washing over him as it sprayed up onto the ceiling and down over his hair) did he take a deep enough breath to look into the mirror clearly again.
"I'm not perfect." Ford stared his reflection in the eyes, not caring about the man made torrential downpour happening in his bathroom. "But I'm the World Champion. I've fought and clawed and bit and scratched and I've done whatever I've had to do to win...THEN fuckin' played it clean to win AGAIN, and I'm on top...AGAIN." His fist found its way to the mirror, spider-webbing the glass and leaving cuts on his knuckles. It was mostly shame that drove him at that moment...not the shame of arguing with is girlfriend or shame of not being good enough, but the shame of not being able to stop proving himself as the best.
"Gabriel is the North American Champion...and technically, still the Underground Champion. This match is more than beating up a religious zealot or getting another notch in the win column. I can beat the man who holds the other two championships in Pure Class Wrestling...my home. I'll be the undisputed best of all time if I...no, WHEN I beat him. This is my PCW. This is my home, and this is my fucking legacy."
Whitey wasn't sure how much time had passed, with him standing there, bloody knuckled and soaked to the bone from his destructive behavior...let alone without any personal hygiene products which he sorely need from a strangely derelict lifestyle. One gruff voice spoke from the other side of the bathroom door and brought him to his senses for a moment. "So what are you going to do?"
[i}Fucking Bob.[/i} He though to himself. He had forgotten Bob was there; his silent, stoic, but stalwart best friend had been there for hours only to listen to Whitey talk to himself in the mirror. Whitey smiled a genuine smile, re-emblazoned for the time being. "I'm going to fight. I'm going to prove myself one last time, and nobody will be able to question who the best of Pure Class Wrestling has ever been. I'll beat Gabriel, I'll kick Seromine, and bitch slap any of the followers who get in my way."
"I don't know why you're so dead set on proving yourself again, dude." Bob spoke in his usual monotone voice. "But I'll be with you, and you won't do it alone. I have your back."
Sometimes, clarity comes in strange moments. This was one of those moments. Whitey finally knew what he had to do to get under Gabriel's skin. Burning a church or defacing religious artifacts and property would only fuel the fire of Seromine and his followers. The only times in history when religious fanatics were silenced and defeated was when people went to...
WAR.
Such had been the case for at least three hours. As per usual, Whitey was dead set on doing something foolish and outlandish to make a statement about his disrespect for his opponent. Options and questions were voiced, loud and confidently enough to convince anyone who was listening...but there was no one around. Whitey Ford was an intricate yet simple man; simple in a way that anyone with half a brain could tell what pleased him and what made him angry, but the thought process that brought Ford to those pros and cons in his life couldn't be tracked or predicted even by the best psychologist that money could buy...and somehow, Whitey still had money.
Not that he'd be caught dead paying for a shrink or any sort of mental health consultant, but even in the back of his defiant mind he wondered if it might have been worth the investment years ago. If anything, the fact that he stood inside the bathroom of his hotel with his hands clenched around the wall mounted ceramic sink while staring deep into his own reflection in the mirror made him wonder even harder. In between the internal questions and external answers, Ford had no choice but to examine himself and ask himself...
"Is this all worth it?" Whitey was never a handsome man by any accord, and as he ran his calloused fingers over the plentiful nicks and cuts that left forever lasting scars on his face he was reminded painfully of that fact. "Why the fuck do I care if I have scars? Why...why don't I have more scars!?! I should fight more. Maybe I'll burn down two churches." His own quip brought a quick smirk over his jagged features, but as it had been for the several hours he couldn't hold it. The smile quickly faded into a scowl. "God fucking damnit! I've beaten Seromine, I've tooled on Grimm, I'm the god damn mother fucking Pure Class Wrestling World Champion and at the two hundred and fucking eighteenth edition of Trauma I'll beat his sidekick Rick Majors...I mean Gabriel...I mean...fuck, I already did this joke."
Whitey slapped himself in the forehead with the heel of his palm. "FUCK!" With his head reeling from the impact and the overload of an intense thought process, Ford went on auto pilot and his hand reached to the side of the vanity and retrieved a mostly empty half gallon of the cheapest vodka that money could buy. "Vodka is vodka, it all tastes the same." Whitey said aloud, and gave a cheers to his reflection before a few over-indulgent swallows of Orloff. His head went fuzzy again, but this time from the alcohol.
Vodka always helped Whitey forget.
As it turned out, Whitey had a lot to forget that day.
The entire month of September, all ten days of it, seemed to be shrouded in clouds and rain...not much unlike the first month that they met. Jamie and Whitey stood shoulder to shoulder on the Lewiston/Auburn Great Falls Bridge, watching the awesome power of the waterfall from a safe distance.
"I saved your life here, do you remember that?" She inquired, with more than a touch of ire in her voice. Whitey slide his hand across the railing of the bridge, but she pulled away as subtle as a pickpocket. He did remember, and would never forget, but her tone of voice made the thought of being thankful cause him to nearly be physically ill
As subtle as her hand escaping his, he leaned in closer. "I remember. Want to drive to Cumby's so I can...what did I do? Did I save your purse or...you know what, let's just go there so I can rub THAT into your skin. You knew what you were getting into when--"
"WHEN WHAT?!?" She spat back, instantly inches from his face, snarling. "When you told me you loved me? When you paid off my mortgage and car payment so I could travel with you? Or when I realized you just don't know when to stop?!?"
It was Whitey's turn to snarl, leaning in as close as he dared. "I. Am. A. Professional. Wrestler. I'm the champion of Pure Class Wrestling. I'm the fucking man and I'm the best at what I do."
"You remind us every fucking second." She hadn't moved, but somehow it seemed like she was drifting further away from Whitey. He steeled himself and pressed on.
"I need to be a fighting champion, or my boasts and claims and words mean fucking nothing, Jamie! I need to do this!"
"You don't. You fucking don't." Her vicious demeanor wavered temporarily as her eyes softened, but only a small amount. "Did you see what Seromine and Gabriel have done to Nathan Saniti? You got lucky against Seromine, they aren't right in the head. They're going to kill you, Whitey."
"GOT FUCKING LUCKY!? I'm the--"
"Champion, I know. We all know. The world knows that you're not like anyone else, that you've done unspeakable and impossible things and still, the world is starting to love you again. But when is enough enough? If it won't be Gabriel, it'll be Kyle Shane. Alexa Black. Dominator. You're old, Whitey. You can't do this anymore. You've proven you're the best, just st--"
Ford erupted into a primal scream, from the bottom of his stomach all the way to the top of his throat with such anger that Jamie flinched back, holding her hands in front of her face for protection. The instant twang of guilt struck him in the gut like a knife. "You don't know. I haven't proven anything if I back down from a fight." Whitey turned away from her, taking a few steps away before turning back. "If I win this fight, then we'll talk about me retiring. But I need to do this."
"Why..." That's what Jamie had asked, but Whitey ran. Well, no, briskly walked away, but ran way from the question. Remembering the fight even through the haze of vodka suddenly brought on a rage he couldn't predict coming. With a violent authority, Ford threw against the wall and absolutely destroyed...his deodorant. As the plastic container clicked against the floor, his rage was not abated but only fueled.
Toothbrush? Snapped.
Toothpaste? Stomped on.
BOD smelly man spray? Destination fucked.
Only when Whitey raised his fists high above his head with a roar and brought them Hulk-smashing down onto the sink and the sound of breaking ceramic washed over his ears (as well as the water washing over him as it sprayed up onto the ceiling and down over his hair) did he take a deep enough breath to look into the mirror clearly again.
"I'm not perfect." Ford stared his reflection in the eyes, not caring about the man made torrential downpour happening in his bathroom. "But I'm the World Champion. I've fought and clawed and bit and scratched and I've done whatever I've had to do to win...THEN fuckin' played it clean to win AGAIN, and I'm on top...AGAIN." His fist found its way to the mirror, spider-webbing the glass and leaving cuts on his knuckles. It was mostly shame that drove him at that moment...not the shame of arguing with is girlfriend or shame of not being good enough, but the shame of not being able to stop proving himself as the best.
"Gabriel is the North American Champion...and technically, still the Underground Champion. This match is more than beating up a religious zealot or getting another notch in the win column. I can beat the man who holds the other two championships in Pure Class Wrestling...my home. I'll be the undisputed best of all time if I...no, WHEN I beat him. This is my PCW. This is my home, and this is my fucking legacy."
Whitey wasn't sure how much time had passed, with him standing there, bloody knuckled and soaked to the bone from his destructive behavior...let alone without any personal hygiene products which he sorely need from a strangely derelict lifestyle. One gruff voice spoke from the other side of the bathroom door and brought him to his senses for a moment. "So what are you going to do?"
[i}Fucking Bob.[/i} He though to himself. He had forgotten Bob was there; his silent, stoic, but stalwart best friend had been there for hours only to listen to Whitey talk to himself in the mirror. Whitey smiled a genuine smile, re-emblazoned for the time being. "I'm going to fight. I'm going to prove myself one last time, and nobody will be able to question who the best of Pure Class Wrestling has ever been. I'll beat Gabriel, I'll kick Seromine, and bitch slap any of the followers who get in my way."
"I don't know why you're so dead set on proving yourself again, dude." Bob spoke in his usual monotone voice. "But I'll be with you, and you won't do it alone. I have your back."
Sometimes, clarity comes in strange moments. This was one of those moments. Whitey finally knew what he had to do to get under Gabriel's skin. Burning a church or defacing religious artifacts and property would only fuel the fire of Seromine and his followers. The only times in history when religious fanatics were silenced and defeated was when people went to...
WAR.