Post by Stace Matthews on Aug 13, 2018 18:52:11 GMT -5
“If you've never fallen some thirty feet and crashed down onto two tables,” Johnny Matthews scoffed under his breath as he barked into his cellular, “don't fucking talk to me like you know how I am fucking feeling. In fact,” he held the device in front of his mouth as he shouted, “I have never seen your ass in the damned ring not once so, you can kiss my ass.”
He tossed the telephone down onto a stack of papers and folders, all of which had the Lonestar logo on them. He was in his San Antonio office fielding calls from South Carolina. They were more and more every day and increasing aggravating every one.
“Why aren't you making your promotional appearances?” Johnny mocked. “When will the Faithful get your thoughts on the match?”
From the ashtray on his left, he lifted a hand-rolled cigarette and pursed it in his kisser. Interlacing his hands behind his head, he kicked back in his chair and put his Harley¤Davidson Badlands up onto the desk beside the stack topped by his cellular. It rang. It rang constantly; more-so, recently anyway, “PCW BITCH” displayed on the screen. He simply sent puffs of smoke up into the ceiling. His hat hung on the door, sunglasses dangled from the neck of the officially-licensed PCW “NOTORIOUS” T-shirt that he proudly wore under his signature leather vest.
Since the idea cracked him in the head this time last year; and, when he sold it to his brother-in-law and convinced him to return; even today, as he sat puffing like a freight train alone in his office, NOTORIOUS means something to him. While, unlike his brother-in-law, Johnny believes he lives the very definition. Not that anyone else cared, but that was the idea all along, living out the very meaning of being notorious without a care or concern. Some may guess that is why Johnny is here and, well, Justin Michaels is not. Some, probably Justin Michaels, would likely even say that's why Johnny is struggling and it's showing.
I'm addition to running a regional territory Johnny was known for picking fights coast to coast then back again. A ladder match in South Carolina, a bloodbath match in Florida, street fight in New York, six-man hardcore lucha-tag match in Los Angeles and many other non-standard, weapons-based matches were just the beginning.
“Stretched thin” or “Widely known”?
One Justin Michaels would tell his wife's brother, “the former,” and may even go as far as to add, “I told you so.”
Without the brim of his hat to shade his face or the blacked-out Aviators hiding his eyes, Johnny was scarred, bruised and busted open. A gnarly sight to say the least and all because he was living out the definition of being notorious. Steri-strips held a three-inch gash closed above his right eye, both of his eyes were blacked, his nose was set slightly to the left with gauze stuffed in the right nostril and his lip was split wide open permanently. His face was the living reality of that middle, “yet unfavorably”, piece of the notorious definition.
While he had recently announced his retirement from the squared-circle, Johnny was far from hanging up the boots.
Citing managing his Texas territory as the reasoning for his retirement, he knew better. Sure, he was counting on a couple-dozen talented wrestling superstars in their own right to return his family's name to its former glory in eight matches, but he was in one of them. And, keeping that Johnny Matthews’ tune humming, he will defend the freedom of his wife or see her dragged around on a chain for thirty days after a match with the epitome of evil and sadistic.
That match is on Friday.
Then, two days later, he steps into the ring with the largest opponent he has ever faced. The same man that tossed him from a ladder to splinter the tops and mangle the frames of two folding tables.
“Clockwork, Dom,” Johnny muttered to the cracks in the ceiling. “All of your matches are like clockwork and I've upset your routine.”
He sat forward, snuffed the cigarette and grabbed a plastic index card box from the top drawer on his right. Opening it he retrieves a rolling paper, a grinder, a small bag of Insignia tobacco and a Ziplock snack-sack of green nugs. He smoothed the paper on the desk and then opened the grinder. With a pinch of both the tobacco and a bit of green, he ground them together before spilling the blend and lining it up on the paper. He had rolling to a science and it took him only seconds before another coffin nail was ready to be hammered. He lit up with his Zippo from his inner vest pocket and the room was silent once again.
It's crazy what runs through a man's mind when his turf has been encroached upon. While New York, Cincinnati, Kansas City, Los Angeles, none of these places he regularly works are home, South Carolina is. And, while Greenville is only figuratively “home”, San Antonio in the great state of Texas IS home. Much like Johnny has since his legendary father told him to go find success in the east, Dominator crossed the Horace Wilkinson Bridge headed west and brought the fight to Lonestar.
Really, what hadn't Dominator and Johnny Matthews done to hurt and maim one another this year? So much so, they could possibly win awards for their efforts. You know, if such awards existed.
So, why think this time would be any different. Dominator towers over and far outweighs Johnny, but that is nearly every opponent Dominator faces. And, he has been beaten. Oh, but Johnny thought and blurted out the same thing about Grimm. At least once. When the Hangtown Horror defeated Johnny last year, guess what Johnny has yet, and will likely never, do again...
So, why Dominator?
The Underground Crown?
“Fuck that,” Johnny blurted out, “what the fuck do I want with a PCW title? Or any fucking title for that matter? Fuck no!”
Probably, if there was an actual historian keeping track, this next thought may be proven false, but... wasn't Non Compus Mentis the ONLY guy that Johnny ever gave more than one go?
“And,” Johnny huffs, “I only did that because Dumpster Fries was easy to beat up.”
Is that what Dominator thinks of Johnny?
“Why else would the Champion challenge someone he has already defeated?”
Is that what the fuck Dominator thinks of Johnny Matthews?
“Fuck that big oaf!”
At PCW’s ‘Living a Legacy’ event, Johnny made his return and attacked Dominator, but only because the Underground King had called him out. At Lonestar’s ‘Wild Card’ event, Dominator attacked Johnny in the main event. The whole thing went back and forth and included Johnny attacking his rival’s manager, nearly putting him in the intensive care unit; and then, Dominator attacked Johnny’s precious Sinister, nearly turning the truck over on her side.
It has to end somewhere.
But to what end?
“Henry Ford said,” Johnny whispered to himself, “One of the greatest discoveries man makes, one of his biggest surprises, is to find he can do what he was afraid he couldn't do.”
Breaking this down, understand that ‘afraid’ doesn't always constitute fear.
“Because I ain't afraid of shit!”
Afraid also can be described as an anxiety.
“I just want it all to be over.”
Much like the match with Grimm, enough is enough. While Johnny has been responsible for his fair share of a decent back and forth with Dominator, in contrast to being absolutely tortured by Grimm, he still just wanted this match to be over.
“Sunday won't be a Return to Glory for me, Dom.” Johnny addressed his opponent as if he could hear him, “Sunday will be a means to an end. Win or lose. You will know you were in a fight with a fucker that put it all out there to be the last muthafucker standing.”
You could say the scene faded or that Johnny tipped back in the chair and closed his eyes. Whatever puts you on your way. Just know, come Sunday, the crazed country rebel is coming off of the road to put an end of this business with the Zenith.
Once and for all.
He tossed the telephone down onto a stack of papers and folders, all of which had the Lonestar logo on them. He was in his San Antonio office fielding calls from South Carolina. They were more and more every day and increasing aggravating every one.
“Why aren't you making your promotional appearances?” Johnny mocked. “When will the Faithful get your thoughts on the match?”
From the ashtray on his left, he lifted a hand-rolled cigarette and pursed it in his kisser. Interlacing his hands behind his head, he kicked back in his chair and put his Harley¤Davidson Badlands up onto the desk beside the stack topped by his cellular. It rang. It rang constantly; more-so, recently anyway, “PCW BITCH” displayed on the screen. He simply sent puffs of smoke up into the ceiling. His hat hung on the door, sunglasses dangled from the neck of the officially-licensed PCW “NOTORIOUS” T-shirt that he proudly wore under his signature leather vest.
Since the idea cracked him in the head this time last year; and, when he sold it to his brother-in-law and convinced him to return; even today, as he sat puffing like a freight train alone in his office, NOTORIOUS means something to him. While, unlike his brother-in-law, Johnny believes he lives the very definition. Not that anyone else cared, but that was the idea all along, living out the very meaning of being notorious without a care or concern. Some may guess that is why Johnny is here and, well, Justin Michaels is not. Some, probably Justin Michaels, would likely even say that's why Johnny is struggling and it's showing.
I'm addition to running a regional territory Johnny was known for picking fights coast to coast then back again. A ladder match in South Carolina, a bloodbath match in Florida, street fight in New York, six-man hardcore lucha-tag match in Los Angeles and many other non-standard, weapons-based matches were just the beginning.
“Stretched thin” or “Widely known”?
One Justin Michaels would tell his wife's brother, “the former,” and may even go as far as to add, “I told you so.”
Without the brim of his hat to shade his face or the blacked-out Aviators hiding his eyes, Johnny was scarred, bruised and busted open. A gnarly sight to say the least and all because he was living out the definition of being notorious. Steri-strips held a three-inch gash closed above his right eye, both of his eyes were blacked, his nose was set slightly to the left with gauze stuffed in the right nostril and his lip was split wide open permanently. His face was the living reality of that middle, “yet unfavorably”, piece of the notorious definition.
While he had recently announced his retirement from the squared-circle, Johnny was far from hanging up the boots.
Citing managing his Texas territory as the reasoning for his retirement, he knew better. Sure, he was counting on a couple-dozen talented wrestling superstars in their own right to return his family's name to its former glory in eight matches, but he was in one of them. And, keeping that Johnny Matthews’ tune humming, he will defend the freedom of his wife or see her dragged around on a chain for thirty days after a match with the epitome of evil and sadistic.
That match is on Friday.
Then, two days later, he steps into the ring with the largest opponent he has ever faced. The same man that tossed him from a ladder to splinter the tops and mangle the frames of two folding tables.
“Clockwork, Dom,” Johnny muttered to the cracks in the ceiling. “All of your matches are like clockwork and I've upset your routine.”
He sat forward, snuffed the cigarette and grabbed a plastic index card box from the top drawer on his right. Opening it he retrieves a rolling paper, a grinder, a small bag of Insignia tobacco and a Ziplock snack-sack of green nugs. He smoothed the paper on the desk and then opened the grinder. With a pinch of both the tobacco and a bit of green, he ground them together before spilling the blend and lining it up on the paper. He had rolling to a science and it took him only seconds before another coffin nail was ready to be hammered. He lit up with his Zippo from his inner vest pocket and the room was silent once again.
It's crazy what runs through a man's mind when his turf has been encroached upon. While New York, Cincinnati, Kansas City, Los Angeles, none of these places he regularly works are home, South Carolina is. And, while Greenville is only figuratively “home”, San Antonio in the great state of Texas IS home. Much like Johnny has since his legendary father told him to go find success in the east, Dominator crossed the Horace Wilkinson Bridge headed west and brought the fight to Lonestar.
Really, what hadn't Dominator and Johnny Matthews done to hurt and maim one another this year? So much so, they could possibly win awards for their efforts. You know, if such awards existed.
So, why think this time would be any different. Dominator towers over and far outweighs Johnny, but that is nearly every opponent Dominator faces. And, he has been beaten. Oh, but Johnny thought and blurted out the same thing about Grimm. At least once. When the Hangtown Horror defeated Johnny last year, guess what Johnny has yet, and will likely never, do again...
So, why Dominator?
The Underground Crown?
“Fuck that,” Johnny blurted out, “what the fuck do I want with a PCW title? Or any fucking title for that matter? Fuck no!”
Probably, if there was an actual historian keeping track, this next thought may be proven false, but... wasn't Non Compus Mentis the ONLY guy that Johnny ever gave more than one go?
“And,” Johnny huffs, “I only did that because Dumpster Fries was easy to beat up.”
Is that what Dominator thinks of Johnny?
“Why else would the Champion challenge someone he has already defeated?”
Is that what the fuck Dominator thinks of Johnny Matthews?
“Fuck that big oaf!”
At PCW’s ‘Living a Legacy’ event, Johnny made his return and attacked Dominator, but only because the Underground King had called him out. At Lonestar’s ‘Wild Card’ event, Dominator attacked Johnny in the main event. The whole thing went back and forth and included Johnny attacking his rival’s manager, nearly putting him in the intensive care unit; and then, Dominator attacked Johnny’s precious Sinister, nearly turning the truck over on her side.
It has to end somewhere.
But to what end?
“Henry Ford said,” Johnny whispered to himself, “One of the greatest discoveries man makes, one of his biggest surprises, is to find he can do what he was afraid he couldn't do.”
Breaking this down, understand that ‘afraid’ doesn't always constitute fear.
“Because I ain't afraid of shit!”
Afraid also can be described as an anxiety.
“I just want it all to be over.”
Much like the match with Grimm, enough is enough. While Johnny has been responsible for his fair share of a decent back and forth with Dominator, in contrast to being absolutely tortured by Grimm, he still just wanted this match to be over.
“Sunday won't be a Return to Glory for me, Dom.” Johnny addressed his opponent as if he could hear him, “Sunday will be a means to an end. Win or lose. You will know you were in a fight with a fucker that put it all out there to be the last muthafucker standing.”
You could say the scene faded or that Johnny tipped back in the chair and closed his eyes. Whatever puts you on your way. Just know, come Sunday, the crazed country rebel is coming off of the road to put an end of this business with the Zenith.
Once and for all.