Post by Ace Anderson on Apr 4, 2006 17:18:48 GMT -5
The cold water feels good as it runs down my chest. I’m still trying to get over the fact that Al Laiman cost me that match. I should have Exemplified Byrd in seconds, but instead, he rolled me up and Fast Count made the fastest count I’ve ever seen. I figured he’d help me out if anyone. Somebody must have paid him off. I don’t care about Eddie Lane. I should have kicked out. How could I be so careless? My intensity is slipping. It is falling off, just like this water comes down over my head, and falls down to the floor of the shower. Ace needs to keep his mind on his matches, and I need to make sure Ace knows what he is doing. How can I let an idiot like The Byrd defeat me. Now everyone with working vocal chords will have some shit to say. Of course, they’ll leave out the details. Fuck them. It doesn’t even matter. I’ll just have to win my match next week so convincingly that everyone will forget about anything that I’ve ever done in the past, and all they’ll be able to think about is the destruction I’ve caused.
I turn off the water, and I walk out of the shower, using a towel to dry myself off. I open my locker, and take out my stuff. I grab a pair of track pants, a plain black t-shirt, and my track jacket from my bag. Maybe I should look into starting my own “Greatness in the Flesh” clothing line, where all I sell is track pants, black t-shirts and track jackets. Who wouldn’t wanna dress in style, just like Ace Anderson. I put on my clothes, and then zip up my bag. I throw it over my shoulder, and then I close up my locker. Getting out of here is going to be the fun part. I better go out the back. I pull out my cell phone. I’m going to have to call somebody to take my car out back so I can get out of here. I open it up, and dial the valet. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to do this. Being one of the most hated men in the business has it’s advantages.
“Hello?” he says as he picks up the phone, although I think that he knows it’s me. He knows what goes on inside the arena and I’m sure this could have been anticipated.
“Yeah, it’s Ace. Pull the car around back, so he can get out of here.” I tell him as I hang up the phone. No need to be courteous with this guy, he’s going to get paid either way. I walk through the arena, until I arrive at the back door. I push it open, and the back parking lot is empty. If the fans knew about this, they’d probably gather like bees in a hive, but they don’t so it’s quiet. For some reason, my car isn’t out here. The fans probably wouldn’t come back here anyway, as most of the superstars go out the front. Besides, I’m usually the last to leave anyway. I don’t even know why. I just like to stick around and think about what I did right, and what I did wrong. Didn’t do much right tonight, but hell, I won’t admit to that. This match should have been a brush off, as in, get it over with and brush the dirt off my shoulders, but because of those HHW bastards, it’s a night I’m willing to forget.
He finally pulls my car up, and he gets out. I take the keys from him, and I throw my bag in the trunk. A long ride ahead of me. It will be a good one, though, because now I can think about how stupid I was to forget that I was in a match. What happened tonight can never happen again. I give him a little tip, like I usually do, about a hundred bucks, for when he has to take my car back here. I don’t know why, it definitely isn’t Ace Anderson who does it. I try to stay in character while I’m around the arena, but there’s always a hint of Jason McDonald in me whenever I tip the valets or do something Ace would never do. Hopefully it doesn’t give away the fact that Ace is a real person whenever he leaves here.
I climb in the car, and strap on my seatbelt. I start up the engine, and then turn the knob for the CD player. “Don’t Come Down” by Obie Trice is playing. I drive away from the parking lot, and I end up on the road. Every time I drive home after an event, I always think about my match. I can’t think about anything else no matter how hard I try. I can’t help but think that this time, I cost myself the match. It was nobody else, but me that made me lose it. It’s not Al Laiman’s fault. I could have ignored him. My hatred for Al Laiman and the HHW distracted me from what I was actually supposed to be doing. The Byrd. The guy has guts, I’ll give him that. Plus, he got Exemplified anyway. My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of my cell phone ringing. I hear all of these things about cell phones and driving, but I hardly care. I open it up, without looking at the call display.
“Hello?” I say, not sure who to expect on the other end.
“I can’t believe you lost to The Byrd!” the familiar yell on the other side says. The last person I want to talk to right now. The last person I want to talk to any day.
“This better be important, Mike. If you just called me to tell me that I lost, it’s not like I don’t know already and it’s not like I’m not going to make an example of him next time I face him.” I tell him, a slight tone of anger in my voice.
He laughs at me now. “That’s just the thing, Jason. Next week, it’s The Byrd versus Ace Anderson for the World Title.” he can’t control his laughter now, he is practically killing my ear drums. There is no way that could be true. What makes them think The Byrd even deserves a title shot?
“You better be joking. Better yet, you better be serious. I want him next week. I have to prove to him that him winning was a fluke.” I say, half angry and half interested. Putting me in a title match against The Byrd is like a slap in the face. I can almost smell the fuck over now. What have I done? Management must have something planned for this match. They’re not going to put me in a match with one of the worst wrestlers and just let us wrestle straight up, especially for the top prize.
“Not joking, I’m reading it right now on the website. You know how they like to post the next card right after Trauma is over.” he says, interrupting my other train of thought. He sure does like to do that.
“That’s a fucking insult. They better not try to fuck me over. Ah well, anyway, is there anything else you wanted to say to me?” I ask him, wanting to get off the phone as fast as possible. I doubt I could stress enough how much I absolutely loathe this guy. He is probably the basis for Ace hating everyone in the world, just because Ace hates him more than I do. Does that make sense? A part of me hating a person more than I do? I never claimed to be sane, but I’m not insane either. At least, I don’t think I am.
“Well, I do want to tell you that I have booked the date for your charity concert. For your own personal benefit, I’ve made it to be four days before Hostile Takeover. That will give you the chance to do that, then you can spend the next few days getting ready. What do you say?” he says, a hint of the obvious in his voice after his last words. Obviously he wants me to say thank you, but he’s not getting it, not from me.
“That’s fine, goodbye.” I say as I close the phone. He’s probably going to curse after he realizes I hung up on him for about the fifth time in a row. Four days before Hostile Takeover. Four days before I face Geno. Four days before I begin to bring down the remains of what was once HHW. Laiman may say that he’s “proud I’m giving his dead business publicity”, but I’m not doing it so people will know the HHW existed. I’m doing it so that people will know that I’m going to be the one who kicks them while they’re down. I’ll be the one who digs the grave, and the one who throws the dirt on top. PCW may have killed them off by buying out their company, but it’s going to be the face of PCW that makes sure they don’t come back to life, by any means necessary. It’s not because I’m afraid that they’re going to take PCW’s place as the top wrestling company in the industry, it’s just that they’re coming in here and taking MY air time. They’ve breached Ace Anderson’s comfort zone, and to do that, means certain doom.
There are some obstacles along the way, like any course. It’s wrestling, not drag racing. There are some little snags here and there, inevitable detours. The Byrd just happens to be one of them. At least Ol’ Fast Count isn’t in the match. Wait a minute. I was sure that he’d help me out. Instead, he screwed me over. Any other referee, and Ace would have kicked out and proceeded to make an example of Byrd. Instead, Ace got the loss, and then Exemplified Byrd after the match was over. I’m going to have to address Byrd soon, let him know that he shouldn’t get cocky, because now Ace means business. Now Jason McDonald means business. With Ace and I in sync with our goals, we’re unstoppable. Unfortunately, we don’t always see eye to eye. There is no changing that. Right now, however, Ace and I want The Byrd to go down. And down is exactly where he shall go. Down to the fiery depths, beyond hell. He is going to a place where no man would want to go, he is going to go to a place where the only thing to experience is the wrath of Greatness.
I snap out of my little trance as “Out of My Way” by Seether comes out of my speakers. How fitting. That is right where The Byrd is heading. Out of my way. Boy, I can’t wait to make an example of this bastard. Who does he think he is anyway? Attacking Greatness from behind.
This might be a long drive, but once I get back to Boston, I’m going to be all business. The first thing I plan on doing is telling Byrd where he stands in the picture that is Ace Anderson’s title run. It’s not a very promising spot, either.
I turn off the water, and I walk out of the shower, using a towel to dry myself off. I open my locker, and take out my stuff. I grab a pair of track pants, a plain black t-shirt, and my track jacket from my bag. Maybe I should look into starting my own “Greatness in the Flesh” clothing line, where all I sell is track pants, black t-shirts and track jackets. Who wouldn’t wanna dress in style, just like Ace Anderson. I put on my clothes, and then zip up my bag. I throw it over my shoulder, and then I close up my locker. Getting out of here is going to be the fun part. I better go out the back. I pull out my cell phone. I’m going to have to call somebody to take my car out back so I can get out of here. I open it up, and dial the valet. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to do this. Being one of the most hated men in the business has it’s advantages.
“Hello?” he says as he picks up the phone, although I think that he knows it’s me. He knows what goes on inside the arena and I’m sure this could have been anticipated.
“Yeah, it’s Ace. Pull the car around back, so he can get out of here.” I tell him as I hang up the phone. No need to be courteous with this guy, he’s going to get paid either way. I walk through the arena, until I arrive at the back door. I push it open, and the back parking lot is empty. If the fans knew about this, they’d probably gather like bees in a hive, but they don’t so it’s quiet. For some reason, my car isn’t out here. The fans probably wouldn’t come back here anyway, as most of the superstars go out the front. Besides, I’m usually the last to leave anyway. I don’t even know why. I just like to stick around and think about what I did right, and what I did wrong. Didn’t do much right tonight, but hell, I won’t admit to that. This match should have been a brush off, as in, get it over with and brush the dirt off my shoulders, but because of those HHW bastards, it’s a night I’m willing to forget.
He finally pulls my car up, and he gets out. I take the keys from him, and I throw my bag in the trunk. A long ride ahead of me. It will be a good one, though, because now I can think about how stupid I was to forget that I was in a match. What happened tonight can never happen again. I give him a little tip, like I usually do, about a hundred bucks, for when he has to take my car back here. I don’t know why, it definitely isn’t Ace Anderson who does it. I try to stay in character while I’m around the arena, but there’s always a hint of Jason McDonald in me whenever I tip the valets or do something Ace would never do. Hopefully it doesn’t give away the fact that Ace is a real person whenever he leaves here.
I climb in the car, and strap on my seatbelt. I start up the engine, and then turn the knob for the CD player. “Don’t Come Down” by Obie Trice is playing. I drive away from the parking lot, and I end up on the road. Every time I drive home after an event, I always think about my match. I can’t think about anything else no matter how hard I try. I can’t help but think that this time, I cost myself the match. It was nobody else, but me that made me lose it. It’s not Al Laiman’s fault. I could have ignored him. My hatred for Al Laiman and the HHW distracted me from what I was actually supposed to be doing. The Byrd. The guy has guts, I’ll give him that. Plus, he got Exemplified anyway. My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of my cell phone ringing. I hear all of these things about cell phones and driving, but I hardly care. I open it up, without looking at the call display.
“Hello?” I say, not sure who to expect on the other end.
“I can’t believe you lost to The Byrd!” the familiar yell on the other side says. The last person I want to talk to right now. The last person I want to talk to any day.
“This better be important, Mike. If you just called me to tell me that I lost, it’s not like I don’t know already and it’s not like I’m not going to make an example of him next time I face him.” I tell him, a slight tone of anger in my voice.
He laughs at me now. “That’s just the thing, Jason. Next week, it’s The Byrd versus Ace Anderson for the World Title.” he can’t control his laughter now, he is practically killing my ear drums. There is no way that could be true. What makes them think The Byrd even deserves a title shot?
“You better be joking. Better yet, you better be serious. I want him next week. I have to prove to him that him winning was a fluke.” I say, half angry and half interested. Putting me in a title match against The Byrd is like a slap in the face. I can almost smell the fuck over now. What have I done? Management must have something planned for this match. They’re not going to put me in a match with one of the worst wrestlers and just let us wrestle straight up, especially for the top prize.
“Not joking, I’m reading it right now on the website. You know how they like to post the next card right after Trauma is over.” he says, interrupting my other train of thought. He sure does like to do that.
“That’s a fucking insult. They better not try to fuck me over. Ah well, anyway, is there anything else you wanted to say to me?” I ask him, wanting to get off the phone as fast as possible. I doubt I could stress enough how much I absolutely loathe this guy. He is probably the basis for Ace hating everyone in the world, just because Ace hates him more than I do. Does that make sense? A part of me hating a person more than I do? I never claimed to be sane, but I’m not insane either. At least, I don’t think I am.
“Well, I do want to tell you that I have booked the date for your charity concert. For your own personal benefit, I’ve made it to be four days before Hostile Takeover. That will give you the chance to do that, then you can spend the next few days getting ready. What do you say?” he says, a hint of the obvious in his voice after his last words. Obviously he wants me to say thank you, but he’s not getting it, not from me.
“That’s fine, goodbye.” I say as I close the phone. He’s probably going to curse after he realizes I hung up on him for about the fifth time in a row. Four days before Hostile Takeover. Four days before I face Geno. Four days before I begin to bring down the remains of what was once HHW. Laiman may say that he’s “proud I’m giving his dead business publicity”, but I’m not doing it so people will know the HHW existed. I’m doing it so that people will know that I’m going to be the one who kicks them while they’re down. I’ll be the one who digs the grave, and the one who throws the dirt on top. PCW may have killed them off by buying out their company, but it’s going to be the face of PCW that makes sure they don’t come back to life, by any means necessary. It’s not because I’m afraid that they’re going to take PCW’s place as the top wrestling company in the industry, it’s just that they’re coming in here and taking MY air time. They’ve breached Ace Anderson’s comfort zone, and to do that, means certain doom.
There are some obstacles along the way, like any course. It’s wrestling, not drag racing. There are some little snags here and there, inevitable detours. The Byrd just happens to be one of them. At least Ol’ Fast Count isn’t in the match. Wait a minute. I was sure that he’d help me out. Instead, he screwed me over. Any other referee, and Ace would have kicked out and proceeded to make an example of Byrd. Instead, Ace got the loss, and then Exemplified Byrd after the match was over. I’m going to have to address Byrd soon, let him know that he shouldn’t get cocky, because now Ace means business. Now Jason McDonald means business. With Ace and I in sync with our goals, we’re unstoppable. Unfortunately, we don’t always see eye to eye. There is no changing that. Right now, however, Ace and I want The Byrd to go down. And down is exactly where he shall go. Down to the fiery depths, beyond hell. He is going to a place where no man would want to go, he is going to go to a place where the only thing to experience is the wrath of Greatness.
I snap out of my little trance as “Out of My Way” by Seether comes out of my speakers. How fitting. That is right where The Byrd is heading. Out of my way. Boy, I can’t wait to make an example of this bastard. Who does he think he is anyway? Attacking Greatness from behind.
This might be a long drive, but once I get back to Boston, I’m going to be all business. The first thing I plan on doing is telling Byrd where he stands in the picture that is Ace Anderson’s title run. It’s not a very promising spot, either.
