The King returns to His throne
Sept 21, 2019 17:29:29 GMT -5
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Post by Holden Ross on Sept 21, 2019 17:29:29 GMT -5
He mixes the green powder in with the inch and a half of steaming hot water with a spoon, stirring and mixing, less there be a glob of the powder untouched by the water. Such a thing would leave a mouthful of grit after swallowing the concoction. He stares down at the slurry in the bottom of the coffee mug; a white, porcelain number with “Greenville Chamber of Commerce” painted in gold. He exhales a breath he just realizes he has been holding and tips first his head, then the mug, and swallows the horrid swill. The “Green Mang Da” strain of the herbal supplement, Kratom.
Holden takes a few teaspoons full, daily, to ward off any aches and pains, for a boost of energy, and to ease his anxiety. Doctor Malcolm does disapprove but he isn’t exactly doing cartwheels. Granted, it’s one less pill for him to take but it is untested, unproven, and most importantly; easily accesses. Unlike pharmaceutical medication, Holden can visit any convenience store and simply purchase more. Self-medication rarely ends well, even in the best of cases.
Holden gags and gives his head a quick shake, as if he were clearing out some cobwebs, shaking a fog loose. He leaves the mug in his sink and scoops up the keys to his Caddy as he exits the trailer. His double wide has had some recent improvements; both cosmetically and functional. As such, his neighbors have begun sprucing up their homes, not to be outdone by the twenty-something muscle-head who moved to their park just over a year ago. He can’t help but smile to himself.
The Caddy fires immediately and within ten minutes he is parked at his club; the “Gentle Men's Club.” With it being just twenty after noon, you can bet the girls working are his “C” squad and the few customers, who are nursing drinks, aren’t exactly picky. The doorman, Tommy, barely has his wave acknowledged as Holden enters and makes for the basement. Once past the bolted door and armed guard, the Underground King takes a seat at his desk and lights a blunt.
After nearly a quarter of an hour, he pitches the roach of the blunt into a stale can of Coke before heading back up to the main floor. A heavy bass beat thumps through the club while women grind, twirl, shimmy, and shake it on two separate stages, as well as a few lone ladies working the crowd. The place has a lot of patrons, mostly men and a few couples, all of whom are wearing smiles and the ladies dancing aren’t wearing much more.
He stops at the bar and takes a can of Monster from the bartender, a thick brunette, heavily tattooed, and a bra who's cups are probably as big as Holden's head. She grabs him, with one hand around his neck, and pulls him to her and lays a wet kiss on his cheek. He flashes her a smile and she returns it with a wink as he heads for the D.J. booth. The D.J. is a skinny kid, about twenty-five, covered in tats and always has a toothpick clenched in his teeth.
“What’s poppin, Boss? Hear you gotta big match comin up!” he yells to be heard over the crunching bass. Holden gives him a thumbs up before moving on out to the front doors. A meathead, muscle-bound, roid loving wall of a man sits on a stool and rises to his feet to shake Holden's hand as he passes. The Underground King is among his subjects. Letting his people cast their eyes upon him. These are his people; the broken, forgotten, and used. As he turns the key in the ignition of his fifty-nine Caddy, his mind drifts to his upcoming match.
Rick Majors. An old acquaintance of his Father, Frank Merritt. Rick is the one who opened the door to P.C.W. just over a year ago. He's the one who welcomed him into the company before bringing him into Seromine’s “cult.” Only Rick was known as Gabriel then and would soon turn on their enigmatic leader. This treason led to a match between the two, once before, one in which Rick came out the victor. Pride was on the line, unlike the Underground Championship, which is at stake this time. This time, he isnt going to lose to his fellow, former Acolyte.
The Caddy pulls up in front of a small, one bedroom house. It looks well kept and is in one of the better parts of town, not too far from the local college. Tabitha's Beemer is the only car in the driveway and the light in the living room is on but he remains idling at the curb. It’s been a few weeks since he spent any significant time with her, her choice, and has had to fill the time with ring rats and girls from his club. But they aren’t Tabitha and he may have damaged their relationship beyond repair….
Several days later….
The scene opens on Holden, sitting in his Throne of scrap iron, in the center of the ring in the P.C.W. arena. The Underground Championship hangs on the waist of a male mannequin, dressed in Holden’s ring attire. The King currently sports a baggy pair of black Dickies pants and a black hoodie with Ghostemane’s symbol, in white, on his chest. A black bandana is folded and tied around his forehead and a pair of Doc Martin's completes the look.
“Rick, me and you, once again in this ring. The last time we met you left victorious, arm raised as the winner, while I was still focused on that son of a bitch, Tyler Scott. The both of you are nothing more than traitorous apostates who should have been put down like rabid dogs. Instead, we allowed you to continue breathing and wallowing in your own mediocrity. I've spent a great deal of time studying tape of you; your classic wars in N.L.C.W. as well as the battles you have had here in P.C.W. You are truly a Hall of Famer, a living Legend of this sport, someone who has earned the respect and awe of the boys in the back. Except from me and David. We both think you’re talented, yes, but a washed up talent who hasn’t learned his place.”
Holden smirks at the camera.
“See, one thing I noticed watching tape of you in N.L.C.W., Rick, is your friendship with Ethan Andrews. He is considered one of, if not the Greatest World Champion the N.L.C.W. ever to step foot in the ring. He knows you pretty wwel; your strengths and weaknesses, any potential blind spots you may have, and even though you may have slowed a step, or two, you’re just as dangerous as you always were. If not more so. I remember our last meeting in this ring. This time it will be a much different ending. You dumped on your head, taking the Sins of my Father, all on you. Or, maybe I’ll make you scream out, beg for mercy, as I take a page from Ethan's old playbook and force you to submit to your friend’s finisher? Which would you rather, old man?
It's time to step aside and let the future of the sport to leave you in the rearview. You can do it willingly, Rick, or you can be forced out of the way. It's up to you. Think about it, long and hard, is the Underground division where you really want to finish up your career at your age? Ten, twenty years ago your body could take the punishment, the brutality, and heal up in a week or two. Can it now? Can you endure the pain and violence of this division? I have been spending the last few months in Delaware, training under DJ Hyde and in Atlanta, training under Abby the Butcher. Learning to turn anything and everything, up to and including my body, as a weapon.
Rick, you brought me to the dance, and I’m going to send ya home from it, in traction. You, and the rest of the World, saw what I did to my Father. I ensured he will never compete inside of the ring again. He's my blood. You, you’re nobody, not even a friend….imagine what I am capable of doing to you…..”
He gives a shrug, palms turned skyward and a comical expression of wonder etched upon his face. The Bastard is ready for the N.L.C.W. Hall of Famer. More prepared than last time. More experienced. He has regained his crown and isn’t prepared to give it up just yet…. See ya soon, Rick.
Holden takes a few teaspoons full, daily, to ward off any aches and pains, for a boost of energy, and to ease his anxiety. Doctor Malcolm does disapprove but he isn’t exactly doing cartwheels. Granted, it’s one less pill for him to take but it is untested, unproven, and most importantly; easily accesses. Unlike pharmaceutical medication, Holden can visit any convenience store and simply purchase more. Self-medication rarely ends well, even in the best of cases.
Holden gags and gives his head a quick shake, as if he were clearing out some cobwebs, shaking a fog loose. He leaves the mug in his sink and scoops up the keys to his Caddy as he exits the trailer. His double wide has had some recent improvements; both cosmetically and functional. As such, his neighbors have begun sprucing up their homes, not to be outdone by the twenty-something muscle-head who moved to their park just over a year ago. He can’t help but smile to himself.
The Caddy fires immediately and within ten minutes he is parked at his club; the “Gentle Men's Club.” With it being just twenty after noon, you can bet the girls working are his “C” squad and the few customers, who are nursing drinks, aren’t exactly picky. The doorman, Tommy, barely has his wave acknowledged as Holden enters and makes for the basement. Once past the bolted door and armed guard, the Underground King takes a seat at his desk and lights a blunt.
After nearly a quarter of an hour, he pitches the roach of the blunt into a stale can of Coke before heading back up to the main floor. A heavy bass beat thumps through the club while women grind, twirl, shimmy, and shake it on two separate stages, as well as a few lone ladies working the crowd. The place has a lot of patrons, mostly men and a few couples, all of whom are wearing smiles and the ladies dancing aren’t wearing much more.
He stops at the bar and takes a can of Monster from the bartender, a thick brunette, heavily tattooed, and a bra who's cups are probably as big as Holden's head. She grabs him, with one hand around his neck, and pulls him to her and lays a wet kiss on his cheek. He flashes her a smile and she returns it with a wink as he heads for the D.J. booth. The D.J. is a skinny kid, about twenty-five, covered in tats and always has a toothpick clenched in his teeth.
“What’s poppin, Boss? Hear you gotta big match comin up!” he yells to be heard over the crunching bass. Holden gives him a thumbs up before moving on out to the front doors. A meathead, muscle-bound, roid loving wall of a man sits on a stool and rises to his feet to shake Holden's hand as he passes. The Underground King is among his subjects. Letting his people cast their eyes upon him. These are his people; the broken, forgotten, and used. As he turns the key in the ignition of his fifty-nine Caddy, his mind drifts to his upcoming match.
Rick Majors. An old acquaintance of his Father, Frank Merritt. Rick is the one who opened the door to P.C.W. just over a year ago. He's the one who welcomed him into the company before bringing him into Seromine’s “cult.” Only Rick was known as Gabriel then and would soon turn on their enigmatic leader. This treason led to a match between the two, once before, one in which Rick came out the victor. Pride was on the line, unlike the Underground Championship, which is at stake this time. This time, he isnt going to lose to his fellow, former Acolyte.
The Caddy pulls up in front of a small, one bedroom house. It looks well kept and is in one of the better parts of town, not too far from the local college. Tabitha's Beemer is the only car in the driveway and the light in the living room is on but he remains idling at the curb. It’s been a few weeks since he spent any significant time with her, her choice, and has had to fill the time with ring rats and girls from his club. But they aren’t Tabitha and he may have damaged their relationship beyond repair….
Several days later….
The scene opens on Holden, sitting in his Throne of scrap iron, in the center of the ring in the P.C.W. arena. The Underground Championship hangs on the waist of a male mannequin, dressed in Holden’s ring attire. The King currently sports a baggy pair of black Dickies pants and a black hoodie with Ghostemane’s symbol, in white, on his chest. A black bandana is folded and tied around his forehead and a pair of Doc Martin's completes the look.
“Rick, me and you, once again in this ring. The last time we met you left victorious, arm raised as the winner, while I was still focused on that son of a bitch, Tyler Scott. The both of you are nothing more than traitorous apostates who should have been put down like rabid dogs. Instead, we allowed you to continue breathing and wallowing in your own mediocrity. I've spent a great deal of time studying tape of you; your classic wars in N.L.C.W. as well as the battles you have had here in P.C.W. You are truly a Hall of Famer, a living Legend of this sport, someone who has earned the respect and awe of the boys in the back. Except from me and David. We both think you’re talented, yes, but a washed up talent who hasn’t learned his place.”
Holden smirks at the camera.
“See, one thing I noticed watching tape of you in N.L.C.W., Rick, is your friendship with Ethan Andrews. He is considered one of, if not the Greatest World Champion the N.L.C.W. ever to step foot in the ring. He knows you pretty wwel; your strengths and weaknesses, any potential blind spots you may have, and even though you may have slowed a step, or two, you’re just as dangerous as you always were. If not more so. I remember our last meeting in this ring. This time it will be a much different ending. You dumped on your head, taking the Sins of my Father, all on you. Or, maybe I’ll make you scream out, beg for mercy, as I take a page from Ethan's old playbook and force you to submit to your friend’s finisher? Which would you rather, old man?
It's time to step aside and let the future of the sport to leave you in the rearview. You can do it willingly, Rick, or you can be forced out of the way. It's up to you. Think about it, long and hard, is the Underground division where you really want to finish up your career at your age? Ten, twenty years ago your body could take the punishment, the brutality, and heal up in a week or two. Can it now? Can you endure the pain and violence of this division? I have been spending the last few months in Delaware, training under DJ Hyde and in Atlanta, training under Abby the Butcher. Learning to turn anything and everything, up to and including my body, as a weapon.
Rick, you brought me to the dance, and I’m going to send ya home from it, in traction. You, and the rest of the World, saw what I did to my Father. I ensured he will never compete inside of the ring again. He's my blood. You, you’re nobody, not even a friend….imagine what I am capable of doing to you…..”
He gives a shrug, palms turned skyward and a comical expression of wonder etched upon his face. The Bastard is ready for the N.L.C.W. Hall of Famer. More prepared than last time. More experienced. He has regained his crown and isn’t prepared to give it up just yet…. See ya soon, Rick.