Post by Holden Ross on May 31, 2020 1:47:26 GMT -5
A tattoo machine buzzes incessantly within the confines of Holden's sweatbox apartment. He occasionally winces and flinches on this, the third full day of ink being pierced into his skin, covering him left arm from hand to shoulder and it also spills over to his left pec. His blonde lochs have been shaved off, completely, as he undergoes yet another transformation. The petite blonde putting the finishing touches on his left bicep grins appreciatively at her handiwork. Bass thumps from the speakers as “Ballgag” by Ghostemane thunders. The door swings slowly open as Maria, the buildings owner and Holden’s neighbor, peeks inside. Holden spots her and lowers the volume with the aid of a remote.
“Sorry, Maria, just got a lil carried away.” She clicks her tongue accompanied by a shake of her head.
“Mijo, your Madre is going to be mad, no?” she is genuinely concerned.
“Naw, my mom just shakes her head at me, like you just did.”
“Can you watch Caesar tomorrow; you don’t have to ‘watch him' watch him, just make sure he stays out of trouble?”
Holden grins and gives a nod.
“I gotchu, Mary, he-“
“Maria, not Mary,” she cuts him off.
“Or Chayo!”
She answers with a nod, pats him on the head and makes her way out the door. She pays no attention to the smell of burnt marijuana or the passed out, nearly nude young lady on the couch. Holden keeps a good watch over her boy and the boy idolizes Holden. He's just young enough that the pot smoking and the drinking go unnoticed over his head.
“G'night, Chayo!” he calls out to her as she closes the door behind her.
“Goodnight, Mijo,” she replies and closes the door behind her. Holden winces and flinches again as the artist hits a tender spot over his collarbone. The song switches to “Audubon” by the $uicideBoy$ and Holden pops a small, off-white pill and chases it with a swig from a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon before lighting a blunt. The artist, a local woman who's name is Victoria but is building her reputation as “V,” takes the blunt and pulls deeply from it herself. Twin jets of smoke rocket out of her nostrils as she begins the finishing touches on his work.
An hour later and V is finished and gone. The music has been turned down to an appropriate level and the speakers are currently pumping out a live stream of “Synthwave” much to the delight of a little redhead he met on a beer run at the AM/PM. She’s not a wrestling fan, just a fan of his physique, and is all too eager to let him take her home. She is awakened the following morning by Holden slapping her on her ass. When she tries to make small talk, he “encourages” her to finish getting dressed. When she leaves, she is screaming, crying, cussing, and stomping down the stairs, ultimately ending with her peeling out and knocking over the sandwich board Maria uses to promote the daily specials…..women….
later in the week
A camera opens on the back of Holden's Throne of Scrap. Someone is seated, the top of their freshly shaved head is the only thing visible to the viewers at home. Smoke curls upward while a plume of smoke is exhaled by the person sitting in the Throne, presumably Holden Ross. It slowly begins to curl around to the front of the Throne, all in one shot. It is indeed Holden Ross; his hair freshly shorn and wearing a black t-shirt spoofing ADIDAS by having a similar “leaf” design with the word “CANNABIS” below it.
“About a year ago, me and Dave started Pandæmonium as our way to show our disgust with Pure Class Wrestling. How management only gives a damn about a bunch of broken down has been’s like the two Gerry and I are set to face this week, Rick Majors and Phinehas Grimm. Two men who, collectively, have been wrestling for one hundred and seventy-five years and they are favored without any kind of obfuscation by management. David and I began putting guys on the shelf at a record pace and then, later, recruited Gerry into our fold. And what a tear we went on.
Gerry has set records. David, before his injury, was set to seize the North American Championship while I reigned as King of the Underground. Management screwed Gerry and I was benched with a “wellness” violation and David had to succumb to his injuries. He will be back, you can be sure of that, and will claim the North American Championship for his own. Me? I'll have my crown back soon enough. This week, me an Gerry prove to the World these two senior citizens have no business in this business. And, Rick, just because you made good with Seromine means Jack Shit to me. I will be taking my Crown back, even if means me prying it from your dead, lifeless hands….”
Holden smirks, shades of his Father. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Do you want it to be me, Rick? Do you want me to be the ‘Travis' to your ‘Yeller?’ I'll put you down for good, Rick, if that’s what you want. Is it, Rick? Look deep, deep down inside yourself and ask ‘Why? Why do I put myself through this?’ Is it because you want me to put you out of your misery?”
Holden scoffs and leans back.
“What would you do then, Rick? You need this like a junkie needs their fix. You can’t quit, even if you wanted to. You and I went through a war not so long ago. Just to prove to yourself that you can still hang. You did, I’ll give ya that much, bit at what cost? And now you’re once again wear the Underground Crown. Is it a way for you to have your career ended for you, so you can say you didn’t quit? Or is this just your way of showing you still ‘got it’? That you can ‘still go?’”
He shrugs.
“And then we got Grimm. His named is spoken with hushed reverence by the P.C.W. faithful. Fuck them and Fuck Grimm too. Just another washed up pile of shit still hangin around well past his prime. Just because a guy doesn’t know how to shave and like to bang his relatives doesn’t make him Karl Gotch. He's been holding down talent for far too long, just like Rick, but nobody around here has the balls to say, or do, anything about it.
That is until We put every piece of shit in the locker room on notice. The three of us started benching these fuckin losers and cleaning house. This week, we make an example out of you two washed up relics. All your experience, the years in the ring, the blood spilled…it means nothing. Not to me. Not to David. Not to Gerry. And most importantly, not to the people at home, our Legion of supporters who watch with a wolf's grin on their faces in delight as we break you and leave you begging for help.”
He leans forward once more.
“Loki, look at the state of things in P.C.W. You got a supposed World Champ in Stormm, who is too cowardly to defend the belt. You got a fat bitch with permanent P.M.S. holding your second most prestigious belt and she earned it in a squash match?! Then, you have Grandfather Time wearing MY Crown!” He shakes his head and clicks his tongue. “It's disgusting what has happened to this company. To think that the “Superstation” TBS picked us up, coincidentally after Pandæmonium began its Reign, and is now saddled with Michaels, Black, and Majors as the faces of the company?” He shudders. “Just look at her….there's not enough Viagra or BlueChew in the World to get it up for her. And she is ONE OF THE FACES OF THE COMPANY!?” A vein bulges on his temple and his face reddens before he regains his composure. “The fact these three are the 'Champs' of this company is all the proof needed to justify our actions. Pandæmonium will Reign supreme when the dust settles and you two, Rick and Grimm, will be watching it settle from the pasture we put you in….”
As Holden sits back in his Throne he pops a blunt into his mouth. It is already lit and a stream of smoke curls from the cherry. Said cherry glows a bright orange as he takes a long pull from it. And as the camera begins to fade out, he blows the smoke as the lens, and grins like a wolf watching its prey.
“Sorry, Maria, just got a lil carried away.” She clicks her tongue accompanied by a shake of her head.
“Mijo, your Madre is going to be mad, no?” she is genuinely concerned.
“Naw, my mom just shakes her head at me, like you just did.”
“Can you watch Caesar tomorrow; you don’t have to ‘watch him' watch him, just make sure he stays out of trouble?”
Holden grins and gives a nod.
“I gotchu, Mary, he-“
“Maria, not Mary,” she cuts him off.
“Or Chayo!”
She answers with a nod, pats him on the head and makes her way out the door. She pays no attention to the smell of burnt marijuana or the passed out, nearly nude young lady on the couch. Holden keeps a good watch over her boy and the boy idolizes Holden. He's just young enough that the pot smoking and the drinking go unnoticed over his head.
“G'night, Chayo!” he calls out to her as she closes the door behind her.
“Goodnight, Mijo,” she replies and closes the door behind her. Holden winces and flinches again as the artist hits a tender spot over his collarbone. The song switches to “Audubon” by the $uicideBoy$ and Holden pops a small, off-white pill and chases it with a swig from a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon before lighting a blunt. The artist, a local woman who's name is Victoria but is building her reputation as “V,” takes the blunt and pulls deeply from it herself. Twin jets of smoke rocket out of her nostrils as she begins the finishing touches on his work.
An hour later and V is finished and gone. The music has been turned down to an appropriate level and the speakers are currently pumping out a live stream of “Synthwave” much to the delight of a little redhead he met on a beer run at the AM/PM. She’s not a wrestling fan, just a fan of his physique, and is all too eager to let him take her home. She is awakened the following morning by Holden slapping her on her ass. When she tries to make small talk, he “encourages” her to finish getting dressed. When she leaves, she is screaming, crying, cussing, and stomping down the stairs, ultimately ending with her peeling out and knocking over the sandwich board Maria uses to promote the daily specials…..women….
later in the week
A camera opens on the back of Holden's Throne of Scrap. Someone is seated, the top of their freshly shaved head is the only thing visible to the viewers at home. Smoke curls upward while a plume of smoke is exhaled by the person sitting in the Throne, presumably Holden Ross. It slowly begins to curl around to the front of the Throne, all in one shot. It is indeed Holden Ross; his hair freshly shorn and wearing a black t-shirt spoofing ADIDAS by having a similar “leaf” design with the word “CANNABIS” below it.
“About a year ago, me and Dave started Pandæmonium as our way to show our disgust with Pure Class Wrestling. How management only gives a damn about a bunch of broken down has been’s like the two Gerry and I are set to face this week, Rick Majors and Phinehas Grimm. Two men who, collectively, have been wrestling for one hundred and seventy-five years and they are favored without any kind of obfuscation by management. David and I began putting guys on the shelf at a record pace and then, later, recruited Gerry into our fold. And what a tear we went on.
Gerry has set records. David, before his injury, was set to seize the North American Championship while I reigned as King of the Underground. Management screwed Gerry and I was benched with a “wellness” violation and David had to succumb to his injuries. He will be back, you can be sure of that, and will claim the North American Championship for his own. Me? I'll have my crown back soon enough. This week, me an Gerry prove to the World these two senior citizens have no business in this business. And, Rick, just because you made good with Seromine means Jack Shit to me. I will be taking my Crown back, even if means me prying it from your dead, lifeless hands….”
Holden smirks, shades of his Father. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Do you want it to be me, Rick? Do you want me to be the ‘Travis' to your ‘Yeller?’ I'll put you down for good, Rick, if that’s what you want. Is it, Rick? Look deep, deep down inside yourself and ask ‘Why? Why do I put myself through this?’ Is it because you want me to put you out of your misery?”
Holden scoffs and leans back.
“What would you do then, Rick? You need this like a junkie needs their fix. You can’t quit, even if you wanted to. You and I went through a war not so long ago. Just to prove to yourself that you can still hang. You did, I’ll give ya that much, bit at what cost? And now you’re once again wear the Underground Crown. Is it a way for you to have your career ended for you, so you can say you didn’t quit? Or is this just your way of showing you still ‘got it’? That you can ‘still go?’”
He shrugs.
“And then we got Grimm. His named is spoken with hushed reverence by the P.C.W. faithful. Fuck them and Fuck Grimm too. Just another washed up pile of shit still hangin around well past his prime. Just because a guy doesn’t know how to shave and like to bang his relatives doesn’t make him Karl Gotch. He's been holding down talent for far too long, just like Rick, but nobody around here has the balls to say, or do, anything about it.
That is until We put every piece of shit in the locker room on notice. The three of us started benching these fuckin losers and cleaning house. This week, we make an example out of you two washed up relics. All your experience, the years in the ring, the blood spilled…it means nothing. Not to me. Not to David. Not to Gerry. And most importantly, not to the people at home, our Legion of supporters who watch with a wolf's grin on their faces in delight as we break you and leave you begging for help.”
He leans forward once more.
“Loki, look at the state of things in P.C.W. You got a supposed World Champ in Stormm, who is too cowardly to defend the belt. You got a fat bitch with permanent P.M.S. holding your second most prestigious belt and she earned it in a squash match?! Then, you have Grandfather Time wearing MY Crown!” He shakes his head and clicks his tongue. “It's disgusting what has happened to this company. To think that the “Superstation” TBS picked us up, coincidentally after Pandæmonium began its Reign, and is now saddled with Michaels, Black, and Majors as the faces of the company?” He shudders. “Just look at her….there's not enough Viagra or BlueChew in the World to get it up for her. And she is ONE OF THE FACES OF THE COMPANY!?” A vein bulges on his temple and his face reddens before he regains his composure. “The fact these three are the 'Champs' of this company is all the proof needed to justify our actions. Pandæmonium will Reign supreme when the dust settles and you two, Rick and Grimm, will be watching it settle from the pasture we put you in….”
As Holden sits back in his Throne he pops a blunt into his mouth. It is already lit and a stream of smoke curls from the cherry. Said cherry glows a bright orange as he takes a long pull from it. And as the camera begins to fade out, he blows the smoke as the lens, and grins like a wolf watching its prey.