Post by Stace Matthews on Jun 18, 2011 15:25:18 GMT -5
There is no lesson better earned than that learned through adversity. While the cohesiveness of determination and patience brings courage, it is comparable to bringing the opposite poles of magnets one another; however, it is courage that brings one from dire straits. When facing seemingly insurmountable odds, all one must do is be determined to overcome and patient to capitalize on the opportunity.
------
Rushed, seemingly burdened, he quickly zipped his gear up in a garment bag hanging on the door of the closet and turned his attention to the luggage and articles strewn about the bed. Over his shoulder, the reason for his pressure stepped into the doorway from the hall. The walls cried out for relief as the pressure swelled the room. His expression, raised brow and slight glance to the left, acknowledged her presence, but he bit the corner of his mouth and continued packing.
While she seared two holes into his back, he continued to act as if she wasn’t there, but a man can only take so much. His body language began to crack under her glare as he slammed his luggage shut and whipped the zipper closed. He rifled his toiletries into a smaller bag and tossed it to the floor. At this point he was only prolonging the inevitable, grinding down hard and verifying he had everything packed and ready.
His packing complete, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath in. The last thing he wanted was a fight before he left. While you can’t always get what you want, somehow the things you try so hard to avoid are always waiting right around the corner.
“WHAT?” he shouted. “God damn it, what… do you… want?”
He turned around to face his distraught wife. Her blond hair hugged around her neck and shoulders as her mascara smeared down her cheeks. The summer dress stretched taunt around the expectant arrival.
“You said you were done,” she sobbed. “You said this was over.”
“No!” he shook his head. “You gave me an ultimatum and I’m holding up my end of the bargain.”
“YOU… ARE… NOT!” she yelled.
“I lost my title match and I stopped wrestling for PCW, did I not?”
“You are not supposed to be wrestling at all, anywhere, no more!” she demanded.
“Well,” he smirked, “your paperwork should have been a little clearer on the finer details.”
“You prick,” she stamped, “our son will be here in a month!”
“Quit throwing that in my face,” he failed miserably to brush off, “I could be back next week.”
“Or the middle of August!” she continued to rage. “How would you feel if you weren’t here?”
“There’s no guarantee that I won’t be,” he began to gather his things.
“So that’s it?” she asked, in disbelief. “If you are so sure you are going to go out in the first stages, why are you doing this in the first place?”
“I want something to be proud of,” He explained. “I want to be able to tell him, ‘No matter what, regardless of what’s being said, chase down your dreams.’”
“That’s it?”
With his bags in hand and gear thrown over his shoulder, he met her in the doorway. She pulled away from his first attempt, but gave into the second; allowing him to kiss her on the cheek.
“I’ve got a plane to catch,” he winked, before concealing his emerald greens with his silver shades, “Daddy’s got some ass to kick.”
“Just like that?” she questioned, spinning him around in the hallway.
“Look, I’m facing the guy picked to win it all,” he shrugged. “There’s no one rooting for me, the polls are all against me, the spread is damn near 100% against me.”
“That’s when you shine,” she comments, “and anyone who knows you, knows that.”
The glimmer in his eye beamed through even the sharp reflection from his shades. It was apparent, at this point anyway, that he was going to go and she was going to allow it. She just needed to be heard and he was stalling to get her support.
“Well,” he smirked, “at least I know I have one supporter.”
“Two,” she smiled, caressing her bulging belly. “Go do what you’ve got to do.”
------
Touching down with a bark, the tires bit against the Oakland International tarmac. After a change over in Chicago, wrestling’s resident rule-breaker had arrived in California. Covered in sweat beads, his platinum blonde spikes wavering, he gripped the arms of his chair tightly. The itch had a grip on him and each passing second felt like an eternity.
“Gentlemen,” the attendant approached his row. “We have landed.”
“It’s about fucking time,” he jerked himself to his feet. “Where in the hell can I smoke?”
“There is a smoking area located at the curbside of the terminal,” she informed.
He snatched the carry on from the overhead and made a dash down the aisle cutting people off and shoving others out of the way. Asking each attendant he passed, he closed in on his destination. Pulling the pack of Reds from his pocket he attracts the attention of the security guard.
“Excuse me, Sir,” the guard interrupted his mad dash, “you can’t smoke…”
“Yeah Barney,” he snapped back without pause, “I’m aware.”
The “Designated Smoking Area” sign came into view and he went deep into the front pocket of his jeans, retrieving his trademark “FU” Zippo. A few feet and closing, he increased his pace, focus locked.
“And here is Johnny Vivacious!”
Larry Smith, with camera crew in tow, entered from the left. Vivacious, undeterred, pays him no mind smacking chest to chest. The feedback from the microphone tore Mr. One Night Only back into reality and, as if pulled away in a tunnel, the smoking area seemed to distance itself as Vivacious gathered his marbles. Smith dusted the front of his suit and brought the microphone back to his chest.
“Johnny,” he greeted, “welcome, can we get a few words with you concerning your entry into the tournament and your first opponent.”
“No!” Vivacious attempted to pass by, but Smith doesn’t let up.
“It appears you are in a hurry,” Smith recognized, “where are you going?”
“I need to smoke.” Vivacious growled.
“We can follow you,” Smith urged, “I’m sure you’ve had a long flight, right? You are coming in from… um…”
“…Baltimore,” Vivacious finished, closing in on the door to the smoking area.
“Yes, that’s right,” Smith pretended to know all along. “You are here representing… um…”
“…Pure Class Wrestling,” Vivacious once again filled in the blanks.
Vivacious shoved through the door, dropped the carry on, pulled a cigarette from the pack with his lips and lit up seemingly all in one motion. While Smith was poised, Vivacious remained silent through the first four drags.
“There’s just something about lighting up a Marlboro, you know?” Vivacious began. “Of course you wouldn’t.”
“No, I’m sorry,” Smith needlessly answered. “I don’t smoke.”
“Too bad for you,” Vivacious rejected. “Why are you here? What do you want?”
“Well,” Smith explained, “I am here today, catching the talent as they arrive to get their thoughts.”
“That’s funny…”
“What’s that?” Smith asked.
“You said ‘talent’ and ‘thoughts’ in the same sentence,” Vivacious laughed.
“Why is that…”
“Because Larry, there are about a dozen entrants that I would consider calling ‘talent’,” Vivacious explained. “As for their thoughts, out of that dozen, most of them wouldn’t share anything with you.”
Vivacious paused to finish off another nail in his coffin, dropping it to the ground and grinding it into the concrete sidewalk under his boot. Smith, in total disbelief, waits for Vivacious to pick back up.
“What?” Vivacious notices.
“I was hoping to get a word with you about…”
“Oh,” Vivacious interrupted, “maybe you didn’t hear me when I said, ‘most of them wouldn’t share anything with you,” including myself. So, beat it.”
“You know you are facing Kamikaze, right?”
“I heard,” Vivacious returned, “is that supposed to impress me?”
“Well,” Smith mocked, “he is the guy that is picked to win the entire thing.”
“Oh, yeah,” Vivacious adds to the sarcasm, “that’s right, because the other forty-seven competitors don’t stand a chance, is that what you’re saying?”
“Not me,” Smith shrugged, “not in particular anyway.”
“Okay,” Vivacious quizzed, “who do you have money on?”
“Sorry, I don’t gamble.”
“You don’t smoke, you don’t gamble, you have the attention span of a gnat,” Vivacious belittled, “you probably live in your parents’ basement thinking up stupid ass questions and ways to stir shit, am I close?”
“Well, um…”
“So why in the hell should I share anything with you?” Vivacious shoved one finger into Smith’s chest.
“I guess, um…” Smith stammered, “You don’t.”
“That’s right,” Vivacious grinned, “I don’t have to tell you a damned thing. I will say this though; I’ve checked out some of Kamikaze’s matches. I’ve seen the ‘talent’ that he possesses and, to be completely honest, I wouldn’t include him in that dozen that I mentioned before.”
“Are you being serious?” Smith gasped.
“Did I fucking stutter you little stain?” Vivacious returned. “Compared to the other nuggets that Kamikaze competes with in that VWF toilet bowel, he is a standout.”
“Toilet bowel?”
“Let’s add ‘deaf’ to that list of your qualities as well,” Vivacious continued. “Kamikaze may have made it a little further than he should have last year, but this year, with that talented baker’s dozen that have entered; he’ll be nothing more than a smear left over from the first night of group matches.”
“You seem a little over confident…” Smith assumed.
“It’s not a matter of over confidence.” Vivacious informed. “Of that baker’s dozen, I consider myself the thirteenth, the guy that is included when one of the original twelve just can’t cut it. ”
“So,” Smith again assumed, “you consider yourself a ‘back up’.”
“No, you little dweeb,” Vivacious finishes, “I consider myself the long-shot, fucking surprise.”
Vivacious walked away from Smith and the camera crew, leaving them in a cloud of smoke as he reentered the terminal to collect his bags. Smith shrugged his shoulders with a high brow and cut the feed.
------
Rushed, seemingly burdened, he quickly zipped his gear up in a garment bag hanging on the door of the closet and turned his attention to the luggage and articles strewn about the bed. Over his shoulder, the reason for his pressure stepped into the doorway from the hall. The walls cried out for relief as the pressure swelled the room. His expression, raised brow and slight glance to the left, acknowledged her presence, but he bit the corner of his mouth and continued packing.
While she seared two holes into his back, he continued to act as if she wasn’t there, but a man can only take so much. His body language began to crack under her glare as he slammed his luggage shut and whipped the zipper closed. He rifled his toiletries into a smaller bag and tossed it to the floor. At this point he was only prolonging the inevitable, grinding down hard and verifying he had everything packed and ready.
His packing complete, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath in. The last thing he wanted was a fight before he left. While you can’t always get what you want, somehow the things you try so hard to avoid are always waiting right around the corner.
“WHAT?” he shouted. “God damn it, what… do you… want?”
He turned around to face his distraught wife. Her blond hair hugged around her neck and shoulders as her mascara smeared down her cheeks. The summer dress stretched taunt around the expectant arrival.
“You said you were done,” she sobbed. “You said this was over.”
“No!” he shook his head. “You gave me an ultimatum and I’m holding up my end of the bargain.”
“YOU… ARE… NOT!” she yelled.
“I lost my title match and I stopped wrestling for PCW, did I not?”
“You are not supposed to be wrestling at all, anywhere, no more!” she demanded.
“Well,” he smirked, “your paperwork should have been a little clearer on the finer details.”
“You prick,” she stamped, “our son will be here in a month!”
“Quit throwing that in my face,” he failed miserably to brush off, “I could be back next week.”
“Or the middle of August!” she continued to rage. “How would you feel if you weren’t here?”
“There’s no guarantee that I won’t be,” he began to gather his things.
“So that’s it?” she asked, in disbelief. “If you are so sure you are going to go out in the first stages, why are you doing this in the first place?”
“I want something to be proud of,” He explained. “I want to be able to tell him, ‘No matter what, regardless of what’s being said, chase down your dreams.’”
“That’s it?”
With his bags in hand and gear thrown over his shoulder, he met her in the doorway. She pulled away from his first attempt, but gave into the second; allowing him to kiss her on the cheek.
“I’ve got a plane to catch,” he winked, before concealing his emerald greens with his silver shades, “Daddy’s got some ass to kick.”
“Just like that?” she questioned, spinning him around in the hallway.
“Look, I’m facing the guy picked to win it all,” he shrugged. “There’s no one rooting for me, the polls are all against me, the spread is damn near 100% against me.”
“That’s when you shine,” she comments, “and anyone who knows you, knows that.”
The glimmer in his eye beamed through even the sharp reflection from his shades. It was apparent, at this point anyway, that he was going to go and she was going to allow it. She just needed to be heard and he was stalling to get her support.
“Well,” he smirked, “at least I know I have one supporter.”
“Two,” she smiled, caressing her bulging belly. “Go do what you’ve got to do.”
------
Touching down with a bark, the tires bit against the Oakland International tarmac. After a change over in Chicago, wrestling’s resident rule-breaker had arrived in California. Covered in sweat beads, his platinum blonde spikes wavering, he gripped the arms of his chair tightly. The itch had a grip on him and each passing second felt like an eternity.
“Gentlemen,” the attendant approached his row. “We have landed.”
“It’s about fucking time,” he jerked himself to his feet. “Where in the hell can I smoke?”
“There is a smoking area located at the curbside of the terminal,” she informed.
He snatched the carry on from the overhead and made a dash down the aisle cutting people off and shoving others out of the way. Asking each attendant he passed, he closed in on his destination. Pulling the pack of Reds from his pocket he attracts the attention of the security guard.
“Excuse me, Sir,” the guard interrupted his mad dash, “you can’t smoke…”
“Yeah Barney,” he snapped back without pause, “I’m aware.”
The “Designated Smoking Area” sign came into view and he went deep into the front pocket of his jeans, retrieving his trademark “FU” Zippo. A few feet and closing, he increased his pace, focus locked.
“And here is Johnny Vivacious!”
Larry Smith, with camera crew in tow, entered from the left. Vivacious, undeterred, pays him no mind smacking chest to chest. The feedback from the microphone tore Mr. One Night Only back into reality and, as if pulled away in a tunnel, the smoking area seemed to distance itself as Vivacious gathered his marbles. Smith dusted the front of his suit and brought the microphone back to his chest.
“Johnny,” he greeted, “welcome, can we get a few words with you concerning your entry into the tournament and your first opponent.”
“No!” Vivacious attempted to pass by, but Smith doesn’t let up.
“It appears you are in a hurry,” Smith recognized, “where are you going?”
“I need to smoke.” Vivacious growled.
“We can follow you,” Smith urged, “I’m sure you’ve had a long flight, right? You are coming in from… um…”
“…Baltimore,” Vivacious finished, closing in on the door to the smoking area.
“Yes, that’s right,” Smith pretended to know all along. “You are here representing… um…”
“…Pure Class Wrestling,” Vivacious once again filled in the blanks.
Vivacious shoved through the door, dropped the carry on, pulled a cigarette from the pack with his lips and lit up seemingly all in one motion. While Smith was poised, Vivacious remained silent through the first four drags.
“There’s just something about lighting up a Marlboro, you know?” Vivacious began. “Of course you wouldn’t.”
“No, I’m sorry,” Smith needlessly answered. “I don’t smoke.”
“Too bad for you,” Vivacious rejected. “Why are you here? What do you want?”
“Well,” Smith explained, “I am here today, catching the talent as they arrive to get their thoughts.”
“That’s funny…”
“What’s that?” Smith asked.
“You said ‘talent’ and ‘thoughts’ in the same sentence,” Vivacious laughed.
“Why is that…”
“Because Larry, there are about a dozen entrants that I would consider calling ‘talent’,” Vivacious explained. “As for their thoughts, out of that dozen, most of them wouldn’t share anything with you.”
Vivacious paused to finish off another nail in his coffin, dropping it to the ground and grinding it into the concrete sidewalk under his boot. Smith, in total disbelief, waits for Vivacious to pick back up.
“What?” Vivacious notices.
“I was hoping to get a word with you about…”
“Oh,” Vivacious interrupted, “maybe you didn’t hear me when I said, ‘most of them wouldn’t share anything with you,” including myself. So, beat it.”
“You know you are facing Kamikaze, right?”
“I heard,” Vivacious returned, “is that supposed to impress me?”
“Well,” Smith mocked, “he is the guy that is picked to win the entire thing.”
“Oh, yeah,” Vivacious adds to the sarcasm, “that’s right, because the other forty-seven competitors don’t stand a chance, is that what you’re saying?”
“Not me,” Smith shrugged, “not in particular anyway.”
“Okay,” Vivacious quizzed, “who do you have money on?”
“Sorry, I don’t gamble.”
“You don’t smoke, you don’t gamble, you have the attention span of a gnat,” Vivacious belittled, “you probably live in your parents’ basement thinking up stupid ass questions and ways to stir shit, am I close?”
“Well, um…”
“So why in the hell should I share anything with you?” Vivacious shoved one finger into Smith’s chest.
“I guess, um…” Smith stammered, “You don’t.”
“That’s right,” Vivacious grinned, “I don’t have to tell you a damned thing. I will say this though; I’ve checked out some of Kamikaze’s matches. I’ve seen the ‘talent’ that he possesses and, to be completely honest, I wouldn’t include him in that dozen that I mentioned before.”
“Are you being serious?” Smith gasped.
“Did I fucking stutter you little stain?” Vivacious returned. “Compared to the other nuggets that Kamikaze competes with in that VWF toilet bowel, he is a standout.”
“Toilet bowel?”
“Let’s add ‘deaf’ to that list of your qualities as well,” Vivacious continued. “Kamikaze may have made it a little further than he should have last year, but this year, with that talented baker’s dozen that have entered; he’ll be nothing more than a smear left over from the first night of group matches.”
“You seem a little over confident…” Smith assumed.
“It’s not a matter of over confidence.” Vivacious informed. “Of that baker’s dozen, I consider myself the thirteenth, the guy that is included when one of the original twelve just can’t cut it. ”
“So,” Smith again assumed, “you consider yourself a ‘back up’.”
“No, you little dweeb,” Vivacious finishes, “I consider myself the long-shot, fucking surprise.”
Vivacious walked away from Smith and the camera crew, leaving them in a cloud of smoke as he reentered the terminal to collect his bags. Smith shrugged his shoulders with a high brow and cut the feed.