Post by Deleted on Apr 20, 2021 12:26:03 GMT -5
Rows of like stones, though varied in shape and size, rise and fall to rise again beyond your furthest horizon. Several tombs and mausoleums break their vast numbers; as do empty plots, reserved open grass -or the lone and spaced teeth on their plots, blatant breaks in the pattern, in-waiting. Damned near every cowboy in the old west -and probably ever since- is buried with all his kin, eventually, right here, in Seaside Park Memorial.
In the far southwest corner, three generations rest surrounded by an iron rot fence with a cobblestone base. “MATTHEWS” was written into the bars of the trellis entry, the letters arched over a professional wrestling ring, forged into the metal, with a single star cut in the center. The plot was well-kept; green grass, yellow roses, and the markers were all polished to a shine.
Three shades of black: the first, traveled town to town with an actual three-ring circus tent; the second, a mastermind that changed the game; and the third, far from “the charm” to say the least.
His tombstone spells it out, “A vivacious entertainer, renowned traveler, and professional bullshitter; full of life, liquor and nicotine. He loved the road, and he lived for his family, friends, and wrestling fans around the world, but most especially, those heathens from Texas to the Carolinas.” His hand punctuated the sentiment, in hook’em horns fashion.
A highway disappeared into a red horizon, like a hologram in the background, and drawing back, a startling reflection came into focus; the top of a straw orchard hat revealed that Heathen Jones was sitting no further than six feet away, cross-legged, with his head down.
Alone, he sat lightly rocking back and forth while staring down at a small piece of paper he was holding in his lap.
With his neck bent as such, his beard smashed down into the chest of an officially licensed “Living a Legacy” T-shirt. His boots weren’t really tied, more or less pulled tight and each lace knotted several times so as not to reverse through the eyehole. They looked like they were being choked out under the pressure of his weight, when he rocked forward, the tongues stuck out like they were gagging.
With one exception, each of the names listed on the paper was scratched off and noted to the side in code. It appeared they were two different handwritings, the list of names was easy enough to read and the code was easy to deduce with some historical fact-finding and a bit of inside knowledge.
Alan Envy, Lost, Chain Match, Lonestar Title
Tony Rolo, Won, Monster’s Ball
Marcus Cane, Won, Alcatraz Crucifixion
Stormm, Lost, 60 Iron Man, PCW Title-unsanctioned
The last name on the list was simply Me, and interestingly, there was a double-ended arrow curved out ahead of the other names. The bottom arrow pointed to “Me” and the top arrow pointed to an empty space above “Alan Envy L Chain Lonestar”.
“Funny,” he choked a whisper, “ain’t it?”
Once again, with the list in his left hand, he read down each name with the tip of his right middle finger.
In silence.
Twice.
“These people outside of all of this,” he sniffed and continued, “they think me being here, somehow, someway, I just gotta be here to desecrate where you lay, but they don’t know. Most of them that said they’s there, was in the crowd, and most anyone saying that they seen it, only seen it on TV and in the rags. Me and you, we were there.”
His finger points to the empty space atop the list. Then, again, he scans the list with his finger. Slowly, he closes his eyes for several moments to relive each one.
“Ain’t no one knows what you did for me,” his index and middle fingers fold the list around his thumb, “ain’t most can say they had the start that you gave me. Matches with these guys put anyone on the map, but puttin’ Coyote on the shelf and, so far as they think, I put you here..." he faded off for a moment, slightly shaking his head, “-luckily, I’s able to get them all. And,” he raised his head, looking directly at the gravestone, “I finally made it to Carolina.”
His beady eyes, cold and void, were furrowed over in skepticism.
“You know, for all that you ever said about Pure Class Wrestling,” he paused uncharacteristically; they had never pulled punches with one another, much less dressed-up words, yet still, with all the grace he had, “I don’t think that respect is mutual. Understand now, I’s only backstage one night,” he admitted, or insinuated, “but they ain’t as good with your name as you was with theirs. All of them with they own reasons, too. Yes, sir, the big rib with all of them is the time you pissed on the owner’s desk. Then some of them turn bright green when talking about you wanting to auction off one of their titles. The greenest of them, he fought that boy Stace’s managing nowadays, you could tell it was eating him up; he went on talking about how you never got another shot once they got it away from you. Some of them felt a way about you missing shows, but none of them had much to say about your success outside of their closed-off corner of this business. Shit puts backward in backwood more than some of Uncle Saul’s old yarns.”
Opening the list between his fingers, Heathen took one last look before folding it up. He sat forward to slip it in the back pocket of his jeans.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he folded his hands in his lap, “they are taking care of Stace, got her working ringside -and we got a good deal coming in. She got this gigantic kid from up north in a title chase. Unfortunately, me and him are gonna cross paths real soon like and, sorry, but she ain’t nothing but bad for my business. Whether he wins that title for me to take from him or not, she’s gotta go.”
Heathen drags his left forearm across his mouth, under his nose, and then shakes the tears, snot, and slobber from his hand and wrist.
“So, it ain’t gonna be you that brings me in,” it was almost like he had come to terms with it. “No, I’s gonna go to Living a Legacy and kick the shit out of this flagrant mockery they’ve made of you. Yeah,” he scoffed, “meanwhile, the PCW Champion is practically begging for a challenger and I’m gonna beat the brakes off of this parody that they’ve created of you.”
Heathen cocked his neck side to side, popping and cracking as he stretched.
“I mean, I thought I was layin’ on the anti-Texas heat thick,” he continued; “I was all but shittin’ directly on your Lonestar flag in the middle of the ring, but this company that you’ve spoken so highly about, well, they are sendin’ this joke -that they created -in your honor, this dude is s’posed to be reppin’ your time-honored traditions and local heritage and PCW is gonna send him out to the ring to face The Heathen.”
Heathen stood up and straightened his shirt. Standing there, he bit the inside of his lip, pulling at the left corner of his mouth. His beard dimpled in as he thought.
“These fuckers really have no idea,” he puzzled “-or you didn’t. Either way, I’s gonna punch this giddy-up fucker right in his mouth, drop the Hellbow on him, and send him straight to the unemployment line. Then, Stace and her Kodiak will be shortly behind Texas Tim. Just business, understand?”
Heathen tipped the brim of his hat, once to all three stones, before turning and making his exit. Disgusted that Texas Tim had anteed-up and accepted the challenge, yet just as determined to make an immediate impact. The manufactured heat with the Lonestar State aside, this one has meaning. Having taken direct offense to everything he believed Texas Tim stands for -founded or not- Heathen is hellbent on putting an abrupt and sudden end to, what he believes to be, a terrible farce.
In the far southwest corner, three generations rest surrounded by an iron rot fence with a cobblestone base. “MATTHEWS” was written into the bars of the trellis entry, the letters arched over a professional wrestling ring, forged into the metal, with a single star cut in the center. The plot was well-kept; green grass, yellow roses, and the markers were all polished to a shine.
Three shades of black: the first, traveled town to town with an actual three-ring circus tent; the second, a mastermind that changed the game; and the third, far from “the charm” to say the least.
His tombstone spells it out, “A vivacious entertainer, renowned traveler, and professional bullshitter; full of life, liquor and nicotine. He loved the road, and he lived for his family, friends, and wrestling fans around the world, but most especially, those heathens from Texas to the Carolinas.” His hand punctuated the sentiment, in hook’em horns fashion.
A highway disappeared into a red horizon, like a hologram in the background, and drawing back, a startling reflection came into focus; the top of a straw orchard hat revealed that Heathen Jones was sitting no further than six feet away, cross-legged, with his head down.
Alone, he sat lightly rocking back and forth while staring down at a small piece of paper he was holding in his lap.
With his neck bent as such, his beard smashed down into the chest of an officially licensed “Living a Legacy” T-shirt. His boots weren’t really tied, more or less pulled tight and each lace knotted several times so as not to reverse through the eyehole. They looked like they were being choked out under the pressure of his weight, when he rocked forward, the tongues stuck out like they were gagging.
With one exception, each of the names listed on the paper was scratched off and noted to the side in code. It appeared they were two different handwritings, the list of names was easy enough to read and the code was easy to deduce with some historical fact-finding and a bit of inside knowledge.
Alan Envy, Lost, Chain Match, Lonestar Title
Tony Rolo, Won, Monster’s Ball
Marcus Cane, Won, Alcatraz Crucifixion
Stormm, Lost, 60 Iron Man, PCW Title-unsanctioned
The last name on the list was simply Me, and interestingly, there was a double-ended arrow curved out ahead of the other names. The bottom arrow pointed to “Me” and the top arrow pointed to an empty space above “Alan Envy L Chain Lonestar”.
“Funny,” he choked a whisper, “ain’t it?”
Once again, with the list in his left hand, he read down each name with the tip of his right middle finger.
In silence.
Twice.
“These people outside of all of this,” he sniffed and continued, “they think me being here, somehow, someway, I just gotta be here to desecrate where you lay, but they don’t know. Most of them that said they’s there, was in the crowd, and most anyone saying that they seen it, only seen it on TV and in the rags. Me and you, we were there.”
His finger points to the empty space atop the list. Then, again, he scans the list with his finger. Slowly, he closes his eyes for several moments to relive each one.
“Ain’t no one knows what you did for me,” his index and middle fingers fold the list around his thumb, “ain’t most can say they had the start that you gave me. Matches with these guys put anyone on the map, but puttin’ Coyote on the shelf and, so far as they think, I put you here..." he faded off for a moment, slightly shaking his head, “-luckily, I’s able to get them all. And,” he raised his head, looking directly at the gravestone, “I finally made it to Carolina.”
His beady eyes, cold and void, were furrowed over in skepticism.
“You know, for all that you ever said about Pure Class Wrestling,” he paused uncharacteristically; they had never pulled punches with one another, much less dressed-up words, yet still, with all the grace he had, “I don’t think that respect is mutual. Understand now, I’s only backstage one night,” he admitted, or insinuated, “but they ain’t as good with your name as you was with theirs. All of them with they own reasons, too. Yes, sir, the big rib with all of them is the time you pissed on the owner’s desk. Then some of them turn bright green when talking about you wanting to auction off one of their titles. The greenest of them, he fought that boy Stace’s managing nowadays, you could tell it was eating him up; he went on talking about how you never got another shot once they got it away from you. Some of them felt a way about you missing shows, but none of them had much to say about your success outside of their closed-off corner of this business. Shit puts backward in backwood more than some of Uncle Saul’s old yarns.”
Opening the list between his fingers, Heathen took one last look before folding it up. He sat forward to slip it in the back pocket of his jeans.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he folded his hands in his lap, “they are taking care of Stace, got her working ringside -and we got a good deal coming in. She got this gigantic kid from up north in a title chase. Unfortunately, me and him are gonna cross paths real soon like and, sorry, but she ain’t nothing but bad for my business. Whether he wins that title for me to take from him or not, she’s gotta go.”
Heathen drags his left forearm across his mouth, under his nose, and then shakes the tears, snot, and slobber from his hand and wrist.
“So, it ain’t gonna be you that brings me in,” it was almost like he had come to terms with it. “No, I’s gonna go to Living a Legacy and kick the shit out of this flagrant mockery they’ve made of you. Yeah,” he scoffed, “meanwhile, the PCW Champion is practically begging for a challenger and I’m gonna beat the brakes off of this parody that they’ve created of you.”
Heathen cocked his neck side to side, popping and cracking as he stretched.
“I mean, I thought I was layin’ on the anti-Texas heat thick,” he continued; “I was all but shittin’ directly on your Lonestar flag in the middle of the ring, but this company that you’ve spoken so highly about, well, they are sendin’ this joke -that they created -in your honor, this dude is s’posed to be reppin’ your time-honored traditions and local heritage and PCW is gonna send him out to the ring to face The Heathen.”
Heathen stood up and straightened his shirt. Standing there, he bit the inside of his lip, pulling at the left corner of his mouth. His beard dimpled in as he thought.
“These fuckers really have no idea,” he puzzled “-or you didn’t. Either way, I’s gonna punch this giddy-up fucker right in his mouth, drop the Hellbow on him, and send him straight to the unemployment line. Then, Stace and her Kodiak will be shortly behind Texas Tim. Just business, understand?”
Heathen tipped the brim of his hat, once to all three stones, before turning and making his exit. Disgusted that Texas Tim had anteed-up and accepted the challenge, yet just as determined to make an immediate impact. The manufactured heat with the Lonestar State aside, this one has meaning. Having taken direct offense to everything he believed Texas Tim stands for -founded or not- Heathen is hellbent on putting an abrupt and sudden end to, what he believes to be, a terrible farce.