Post by Mr. Showtime on May 3, 2021 22:34:11 GMT -5
There were no police this time. No family or family. No fans or enemies. No clues, just ash and chard memories. “Mr. Showtime” Michael Wryght sifted through the remnants of his burned down mansion in Brick, New Jersey. The police had confirmed they were unable to find any signs of arson and deemed it an accident. He asked them if they thought it awfully suspect his family would vanish, and his home would burn down in the same span of time. Coincidences do happen, was all the response he received.
Showtime had learned long ago there wasn’t such a thing as coincidences. He knew very well that the people who’d taken his family were connected to the arson as well. In vain he’d waited for someone to call him with demands, even practiced what he’d say to them, while trying his damnedest not to quote Liam Neeson. Though his inner monologue always betrayed his as it went the Taken route, how could it not?
He felt just so damn helpless through all of this. If it weren’t for Phinehas he’d still be in that damn hole, but maybe his family would still be here in the ghost of this place. He knew he could easily spiral into the conclusion that Phinehas had something to do with all of this. It couldn’t be a coincidence he’d found Showtime in that cell, of all people, why Grimm? Then that bastard cop’s hand with the writing “Phinehas Knows” on his palm. It was the perfect spark for the powdered keg to go off, though a little too perfect.
Showtime had been deep in the inner workings of the Black Hand long enough to know they thrived on chaos. Every move calculated to get the desire they were looking for. Showtime had been their puppet long enough to know when his strings were being pulled and look at him now.
“Look at me I’m a real boy,” he said in a soft high-pitched voice, determined not to take the bait as he kicked the remnants of an antique ottoman. All these material possessions seemed all so important when they were intact, but now they were just proof a self-centered monster once lived here. He still couldn’t get past how naive he’d been. For someone who’d thought he had everything figured out, it really goes to show how clueless he was.
He instantly regretted coming. There was something which urged him to look for something the police had missed, something they didn’t know to look for. He knew he’d recognize it if he saw it but had no clue what he was looking for. As if my muscle memory he found himself drawn to the flame kissed doorway of his office. The beams still stood at the entrance, but there was nothing else. He kicked away the remains of his fine oak door, figured it must have given off a real rich smell as it smoldered to mangled mess at his feet. The type of smell which people connected to cherished childhood memories of family, the woods and smores. It was funny how the mind tries to connect tragedy with happier times.
He stood in the spot where his desk should have been looking at where his trophy case once was. He knew some of the rarer belts and trophies were safe for the time being. He’d lent them to an old friend, “The Nomad” DJ McNasty, to be displayed at the Drunken Leprechaun. They may even stay there indefinitely at this point, and Showtime couldn’t think of a better place if that were the case.
A glimmer of gold caught his eye. It was spotted black but still had a little sheen to it. Showtime reached down and pulled out the poor pathetic semblance of a melted golden man from the ashes. Simpler times indeed. This was one of those accolades which seemed so important once upon a time. He remembered the first time he left wrestling. He was injured after a string of injuries when an old friend brought up the concept of going to Hollywood.
“I’m a fighter,” he said aloud as he remembered his reply. He sat on something solid as he tried to polish away some of the tarnish from the disfigured Oscar. It took some convincing to get Showtime out to southern California, and even more celebrities to get him to consider a role. It was strange the way you got addicted to the attention. Wrestling was different. For the most part you knew who your friends were, and you certainly knew your enemies. It was simple, you go out in the squared circle to fight and win. In Hollywood your friends and enemies all looked the same, all of which were just trying to use you for their own gain. Surpingly for him, Showtime could play the game pretty well, and no one was actively trying to cripple you while you were at it.
He wondered it Gerard had the same experience. The Living Legend versus The Frickin’ Superstar it really did have a good ring to it. It sure as hell would sell tickets. Two former champions with a similar past transcending wrestling into the mainstream. It was a promoter’s wet dream and more. Showtime had known the moment he’d returned to Pure Class Wrestling the two were destined to square off. Showtime was hoping he’d have a few more matches under his belt first and definitely would have liked to have some grain of momentum. It didn’t change anything as Tinsel Town was coming to PCW if he liked it or not. Food services had better be on the lookout as they’d for sure be a target in a backlot brawl.
It caused Showtime to crack the slightest smile. It was weird how in the lowest points of his life that wrestling had always been there for Wryght to welcome him back with a bear hug rather than open arms. Without any direction or leads to go on to find his family he knew he could count on wrestling to at least give him something to do, even if he was destined to lose at this point. It’s not that he’d quit, far from it, it was that PCW had continued on without him. Didn’t bat an eye, just did what it had always done, pump out new and exciting talent, and probably fed them once or twice to Grimm.
He dropped what remained of the statuette and decided to leave. There wasn’t anything here, and if there were it would have been incinerated with everything else. Nowhere was safe.
“Safe,” Showtime said aloud. There was a fireproof in one of the bottom drawers of his desk. Fuck, that must have been what he’d been sitting on as he raced back over to where he’d dropped his Academy Award. He quickly brushed off the debris and revealed the dial on the front of the safe. The combination lock didn’t want to turn at first but with some coaxing he was able to make it budge. After a few quick twists, the door moaned open revealing a manila envelope which rested under a white rabbit’s foot. With a cocky half smile and a hint of bravado in his voice, Showtime again said, “Look at me, I’m a real boy.”
Showtime had learned long ago there wasn’t such a thing as coincidences. He knew very well that the people who’d taken his family were connected to the arson as well. In vain he’d waited for someone to call him with demands, even practiced what he’d say to them, while trying his damnedest not to quote Liam Neeson. Though his inner monologue always betrayed his as it went the Taken route, how could it not?
He felt just so damn helpless through all of this. If it weren’t for Phinehas he’d still be in that damn hole, but maybe his family would still be here in the ghost of this place. He knew he could easily spiral into the conclusion that Phinehas had something to do with all of this. It couldn’t be a coincidence he’d found Showtime in that cell, of all people, why Grimm? Then that bastard cop’s hand with the writing “Phinehas Knows” on his palm. It was the perfect spark for the powdered keg to go off, though a little too perfect.
Showtime had been deep in the inner workings of the Black Hand long enough to know they thrived on chaos. Every move calculated to get the desire they were looking for. Showtime had been their puppet long enough to know when his strings were being pulled and look at him now.
“Look at me I’m a real boy,” he said in a soft high-pitched voice, determined not to take the bait as he kicked the remnants of an antique ottoman. All these material possessions seemed all so important when they were intact, but now they were just proof a self-centered monster once lived here. He still couldn’t get past how naive he’d been. For someone who’d thought he had everything figured out, it really goes to show how clueless he was.
He instantly regretted coming. There was something which urged him to look for something the police had missed, something they didn’t know to look for. He knew he’d recognize it if he saw it but had no clue what he was looking for. As if my muscle memory he found himself drawn to the flame kissed doorway of his office. The beams still stood at the entrance, but there was nothing else. He kicked away the remains of his fine oak door, figured it must have given off a real rich smell as it smoldered to mangled mess at his feet. The type of smell which people connected to cherished childhood memories of family, the woods and smores. It was funny how the mind tries to connect tragedy with happier times.
He stood in the spot where his desk should have been looking at where his trophy case once was. He knew some of the rarer belts and trophies were safe for the time being. He’d lent them to an old friend, “The Nomad” DJ McNasty, to be displayed at the Drunken Leprechaun. They may even stay there indefinitely at this point, and Showtime couldn’t think of a better place if that were the case.
A glimmer of gold caught his eye. It was spotted black but still had a little sheen to it. Showtime reached down and pulled out the poor pathetic semblance of a melted golden man from the ashes. Simpler times indeed. This was one of those accolades which seemed so important once upon a time. He remembered the first time he left wrestling. He was injured after a string of injuries when an old friend brought up the concept of going to Hollywood.
“I’m a fighter,” he said aloud as he remembered his reply. He sat on something solid as he tried to polish away some of the tarnish from the disfigured Oscar. It took some convincing to get Showtime out to southern California, and even more celebrities to get him to consider a role. It was strange the way you got addicted to the attention. Wrestling was different. For the most part you knew who your friends were, and you certainly knew your enemies. It was simple, you go out in the squared circle to fight and win. In Hollywood your friends and enemies all looked the same, all of which were just trying to use you for their own gain. Surpingly for him, Showtime could play the game pretty well, and no one was actively trying to cripple you while you were at it.
He wondered it Gerard had the same experience. The Living Legend versus The Frickin’ Superstar it really did have a good ring to it. It sure as hell would sell tickets. Two former champions with a similar past transcending wrestling into the mainstream. It was a promoter’s wet dream and more. Showtime had known the moment he’d returned to Pure Class Wrestling the two were destined to square off. Showtime was hoping he’d have a few more matches under his belt first and definitely would have liked to have some grain of momentum. It didn’t change anything as Tinsel Town was coming to PCW if he liked it or not. Food services had better be on the lookout as they’d for sure be a target in a backlot brawl.
It caused Showtime to crack the slightest smile. It was weird how in the lowest points of his life that wrestling had always been there for Wryght to welcome him back with a bear hug rather than open arms. Without any direction or leads to go on to find his family he knew he could count on wrestling to at least give him something to do, even if he was destined to lose at this point. It’s not that he’d quit, far from it, it was that PCW had continued on without him. Didn’t bat an eye, just did what it had always done, pump out new and exciting talent, and probably fed them once or twice to Grimm.
He dropped what remained of the statuette and decided to leave. There wasn’t anything here, and if there were it would have been incinerated with everything else. Nowhere was safe.
“Safe,” Showtime said aloud. There was a fireproof in one of the bottom drawers of his desk. Fuck, that must have been what he’d been sitting on as he raced back over to where he’d dropped his Academy Award. He quickly brushed off the debris and revealed the dial on the front of the safe. The combination lock didn’t want to turn at first but with some coaxing he was able to make it budge. After a few quick twists, the door moaned open revealing a manila envelope which rested under a white rabbit’s foot. With a cocky half smile and a hint of bravado in his voice, Showtime again said, “Look at me, I’m a real boy.”
