Post by Deleted on Jun 30, 2012 13:02:11 GMT -5
Years ago, things were different. The AWA was still open, but not thriving to say the least. MJW was still wreaking havoc in the World Title scene, Gregory Kennedy was probably insulting his nemesis Croc somewhere, and Timmy Draven was still reaping the benefits of having a successful company. The time weren't so fruitful for Whitey Ford back then, however. After failing to stop the New Connection, MJW's stable that in all reality called the shots in the AWA, Ford went into hiding. The worst part of his failure wasn't that he had been beaten physicall, but he had just given up all all together. Given up on not just wrestling, but his life all together.
Back in his prime, Ford was the kind of person that the entire backstage locker room respected and liked. Always cracking jokes and lifting the spirits of others, and if a heel was out in the ring badmouthing the local town's food or sports team, Whitey would be the one to come out wearing the team's jersey and fire back with insults of his own. He was a star, a role model...and somehow, for most of his career, he never cared that his own life was seriously lacking.
'I don't need to win the World Title, I just want to entertain people and make a difference.' That was what Whitey Ford told hiimself on a daily basis, as he skyrocketed to the top in terms of popularity but always ran out of feul right before reaching the title. The fans were happy, the wrestlers backstage felt like they had a friend, and all was good in the world. Of course, just like any caped crusader and their story, this superhero was at the end of his rope. Ford was never really thanked for his achievements, nor even recognized as main event talent by his superiors. The weight of feeling forgotten and not appreciated finally got to him right before his match with MJW, and he dissapeared.
Whitey went to his childhood home in central Maine, closing the blinds to the warm summer sun and watching mindless 'reality' shows about ghosts or monsters, anything that didn't take any brain power to understand. On this particular afternoon, Ford sat in a red recliner, his white shirt covered in cheese poof crumbs, dozens of Mountain Dew cans strewn about on a table beside the chair. His eyes were bloodshot, and they only deviated from the mind numbing television screen to his cell phone to check the time, only to see if it was a acceptable time to start drinking. Putting down the footrest with a clumsy thud, Whitey started to shuffle over to the refridgerator.
Thats right, go ahead. Start drinking to forget what a washed up, emo fuck you've become.
Ford stopped in his tracks. The voice inside of his head was just that...a thought that had come from himself. But it rang louder than any of his other thoughts, and seemed to be coming from all around him as if from a different entity.
Close your fucking mouth. Look at you! Covered in crumbs and gaining weight...what, are you just going to give up?
Whitey shut his mouth a bit too eagerly, as if someone was actually watching him, and clacked his teeth together painfully. Ford tried to shake off this new, angry sounding voice that bellowed from deep inside of him, and continued on to the fridge. His thought were silent, not even thinking about his actions as the first beer was cracked open. He was in a daze; somehow, Ford ended up back in the chair without realizing he had returned from the kitchen.
What a fucking pussy! Drink another beer, you alkie son of a bitch! So what?!? So fucking what?!?! People are making fun of you, your the laughing stock of the wrestling industry! One step forward, two fucking steps back! If you didn't want people to laugh at you, maybe you shouldn't have made XE and rode that stupid bike downhill blindfolded into a GOD DAMNED portopotty!
That was true, he had formed Xtreme Entertainment with Ripper. It was a Jackass-like promotion that encouraged kids to do stupid things like wheelchair jousting. Even though his inner voice was berating him, he couldn't help but crack a smile at some of the memories.
DON'T YOU FUCKING SMILE!
Ford gripped his beer so hard that he almost crushed the can, for now he remembered. This voice and these thoughts weren't new after all. Ever since he was young and told to treat people with respect, it seemed he never got it in return. This voice was the other side of him that Whitey Ford had kept bottled up as deep inside of him as he could possibly do. Except for now, he couldn't seem to control it like he used to. On the days that he had failed to control this part of his emotions, he'd often end up screaming thoughts at himself to not be happy, and not to please others...the reminder not to smile jolted those memories back painfully.
Don't do that. Don't try to hide this side of yourself! Think back to all those times in school when you'd stick up for the smaller kids who were getting beat up in the hallways. What a swell guy you were! Who was there to help YOU when those bullies found you after school, and how many people laughed at you when you came in with 2 black eyes and a broken jaw the next morning because your parents didn't think you were hurt that bad?
Tears had started to well up in Whitey's eyes, and he stood abrupty up from his chair, spilling over his beer. For the first time since he could remember, he didn't yell 'alcohol abuse.'
But you shrugged it off, didn't you? You didn't want to get ANGRY or anything, since what does anger solve? Nothing? No, EVERYTHING! Embrace your anger, your a wrestler, your ALLOWED to hurt people! You don't HAVE to make them happy, you can do what you want! What if you had allowed yourself to lose a little bit of control that time you find your ex fucking her ex-boyfriend in your bed?
The tears were flowing openly down his face now as he paced out to the kitchen again, trying to escape his own mind. The floodgates were open now, he was afraid. There was no turning back from this point, his only option was to ride it out. Ford remembered the rage he felt when he found Bri cheating on him. He could still feel the hard wood of the bedside lamp that he had gripped so hard in his hand his knuckles were white for ten minutes afterwards, standing over the two adulterers with murder in his eyes. Instead, he dropped the weapon and walked away, never to see either of them again.
Not walked, don't fancy it up. You RAN away. Just like that time you ran from those thugs in Lewiston. You didn't run to escape bodily harm. Hell, you've been lit on fire before, what could of those thugs or that guy fucking your ex do to you to top that?
Ford buried his head into his hands, leaning up against the counter.
You ran because you know what your capable of! You know you were meant to kick ass and break bones! If it came down to you could fucking kill somebody for something as little as stepping on your shoes. What if you had actually manned up and fought those thugs or killed that guy for fucking Bri? What if you had beaten those bullies so bad that they would be forced to become homeschooled? Your an angry person, and you've put off embracing it for far too long. Its my turn now.
"No!" Whitey punched at the trailers wall, putting his fist straight through it. Already he could feel the weight of his own words bear down upon him. Although 'insanity' crossed his mind a few times, his inner voice didn't even seem to acknowledge it.
No? No what, exactly? What are your options? You can either stop hiding the anger inside of you, or you can sit here and wallow in your self pity. Thats what your father would do, right? Thats what your Uncle Russel would do, right? Just give up? Is that who inspired you to lose to Anthony Jordan and just sit around and cry about it?
"SHUT UP!" Ford definitely felt crazy now, screaming at himself, and for a brief moment he fully appreciated not having any neighbors. His fist hit the wall again, thudding painfully into a stud and sending a lightning bolt straight up his arm. He barely felt it, though.
Yeah, do your Uncle proud and just give up. Be the failure that the World thinks you are. But you KNOW your not a failure, don't you? You KNOW your meant for better, and today is the day you stand up, brush yourself off, wipe away those girly fucking tears and DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!
"No..." Whitey slumped against the wall, sliding down until he sat on the hardwood floor, his head buried in his arms.
There's nothing you can about it, you've hid me way too long.
"No..."
I don't know who put this goody two shoes image into your head, but its gone now.
"Stop..."
Lets take whats ours...this world will remember you as the greatest man to have ever lived...
“NO!”
Its. My. Time.
It had seemed like the room was full of people and noise, for a few seconds ago Whitey could barely hear what was going on around him. He slowly lifted his head from his arms in the silence that now fell over his childhood home. It was almost serene. Almost, because Ford felt like a new person that was chock full of anger. That wasn’t the important part, though...the important part was that he now knew what he had to do. Whitey slowly stood up, feeling as if it was the first time he had actually used his legs but at the same time feeling like a freshly oiled machine. With his eyes glowing with some malevolent, ominous force, Ford opened up the door of his former home to the blinding light of a Maine summer...
And the ring of a cell phone...
***
The cell phone continued to ring, and Whitey was jostled from his sleep. The hotel room was dark, with the TV playing infomercials in the early morning hours. Ford let the phone go to voicemail and stared up at the ceiling after verifying he had indeed gone to bed alone tonight. He often dreamed of that moment he had finally let go of his desire to ‘save’ everybody and be the good guy and just look after himself, and it made him happy to the core knowing he was a better person because of that moment. The booming inner voice that had taken over was him all along, he had been pretending to be someone he hadn’t for thirty years of his life. The phone rang again, but this time Ford answered it hastily.
“Who the fuck is this and why did you call my phone TWICE at four in the morning?”
The voice on the other end of the phone surprised Ford into standing up and walking over to the sliding glass window.
“I never thought I’d hear from you again. Can’t say I would have been sad if I hadn’t, either. Thanks for making my checking account very, very fat. I’ll be living nicely off what you gave those of us who showed up to your fail-PPV for quite some time, as well as what these new guys are paying me.”
The voice continued talking on the other and, and Whitey looked even more surprised, in an incredulous way.
“What? No fucking way. No, just...wait, stop talking. Shut the fuck up Timmy. I want you to listen to me. The person I was in the past is no more. I’m 100% better now, and...NO, goddamit, just shut up! I know what MJW said, he told me all about it. Yeah? Well if you do decide to stop throwing your money away on your skewed vision of a federation and try to follow us like a kid brother nobody wants around, I won’t be waiting with open arms. The PCW is OURS, not YOURS. Now kindly fuck off, maybe you can call Jake Andrews and he can tell you the same thing.”
Instead of just hanging up the cell phone, Ford opened up the glass door and tossed it over the balcony. He immediatly grimaced, regretting the decision.
“Well, that as stupid.” Ford made his way back to the hotel bed and fell face first into it. A week of binge drinking caused him to want to sleep at this hour of night for once, and a smile came across his face. If he could only have the same dream twice, just to remember in more detail how his transformation came about.
I don't think those guys know what they're in for...
Sure, last Trauma he had taken it upon himself to take out High Tide and Wasp before they could even get to the ring. He chuckled at the thought, having no regrets about the situation. It definitely had the effect he had desired. Of course, the AWAssholes could have done without being trounced in the ring by the PCW main eventers, but to Whitey they weren't beaten at all. A tactical retreat after gauging one's opponents strengths often turned into victory. He firmly believed that his plan to shake up the PCW had worked, because now they had a rematch, with an added Belt holder Andy D on the other team. On his third show, Whitey Ford was already facing a champion; something not a lot of people could say in there career. Yes, they were making an impact indeed. One last thought went through his head before he drifted to sleep.
Its. My. Time.
Back in his prime, Ford was the kind of person that the entire backstage locker room respected and liked. Always cracking jokes and lifting the spirits of others, and if a heel was out in the ring badmouthing the local town's food or sports team, Whitey would be the one to come out wearing the team's jersey and fire back with insults of his own. He was a star, a role model...and somehow, for most of his career, he never cared that his own life was seriously lacking.
'I don't need to win the World Title, I just want to entertain people and make a difference.' That was what Whitey Ford told hiimself on a daily basis, as he skyrocketed to the top in terms of popularity but always ran out of feul right before reaching the title. The fans were happy, the wrestlers backstage felt like they had a friend, and all was good in the world. Of course, just like any caped crusader and their story, this superhero was at the end of his rope. Ford was never really thanked for his achievements, nor even recognized as main event talent by his superiors. The weight of feeling forgotten and not appreciated finally got to him right before his match with MJW, and he dissapeared.
Whitey went to his childhood home in central Maine, closing the blinds to the warm summer sun and watching mindless 'reality' shows about ghosts or monsters, anything that didn't take any brain power to understand. On this particular afternoon, Ford sat in a red recliner, his white shirt covered in cheese poof crumbs, dozens of Mountain Dew cans strewn about on a table beside the chair. His eyes were bloodshot, and they only deviated from the mind numbing television screen to his cell phone to check the time, only to see if it was a acceptable time to start drinking. Putting down the footrest with a clumsy thud, Whitey started to shuffle over to the refridgerator.
Thats right, go ahead. Start drinking to forget what a washed up, emo fuck you've become.
Ford stopped in his tracks. The voice inside of his head was just that...a thought that had come from himself. But it rang louder than any of his other thoughts, and seemed to be coming from all around him as if from a different entity.
Close your fucking mouth. Look at you! Covered in crumbs and gaining weight...what, are you just going to give up?
Whitey shut his mouth a bit too eagerly, as if someone was actually watching him, and clacked his teeth together painfully. Ford tried to shake off this new, angry sounding voice that bellowed from deep inside of him, and continued on to the fridge. His thought were silent, not even thinking about his actions as the first beer was cracked open. He was in a daze; somehow, Ford ended up back in the chair without realizing he had returned from the kitchen.
What a fucking pussy! Drink another beer, you alkie son of a bitch! So what?!? So fucking what?!?! People are making fun of you, your the laughing stock of the wrestling industry! One step forward, two fucking steps back! If you didn't want people to laugh at you, maybe you shouldn't have made XE and rode that stupid bike downhill blindfolded into a GOD DAMNED portopotty!
That was true, he had formed Xtreme Entertainment with Ripper. It was a Jackass-like promotion that encouraged kids to do stupid things like wheelchair jousting. Even though his inner voice was berating him, he couldn't help but crack a smile at some of the memories.
DON'T YOU FUCKING SMILE!
Ford gripped his beer so hard that he almost crushed the can, for now he remembered. This voice and these thoughts weren't new after all. Ever since he was young and told to treat people with respect, it seemed he never got it in return. This voice was the other side of him that Whitey Ford had kept bottled up as deep inside of him as he could possibly do. Except for now, he couldn't seem to control it like he used to. On the days that he had failed to control this part of his emotions, he'd often end up screaming thoughts at himself to not be happy, and not to please others...the reminder not to smile jolted those memories back painfully.
Don't do that. Don't try to hide this side of yourself! Think back to all those times in school when you'd stick up for the smaller kids who were getting beat up in the hallways. What a swell guy you were! Who was there to help YOU when those bullies found you after school, and how many people laughed at you when you came in with 2 black eyes and a broken jaw the next morning because your parents didn't think you were hurt that bad?
Tears had started to well up in Whitey's eyes, and he stood abrupty up from his chair, spilling over his beer. For the first time since he could remember, he didn't yell 'alcohol abuse.'
But you shrugged it off, didn't you? You didn't want to get ANGRY or anything, since what does anger solve? Nothing? No, EVERYTHING! Embrace your anger, your a wrestler, your ALLOWED to hurt people! You don't HAVE to make them happy, you can do what you want! What if you had allowed yourself to lose a little bit of control that time you find your ex fucking her ex-boyfriend in your bed?
The tears were flowing openly down his face now as he paced out to the kitchen again, trying to escape his own mind. The floodgates were open now, he was afraid. There was no turning back from this point, his only option was to ride it out. Ford remembered the rage he felt when he found Bri cheating on him. He could still feel the hard wood of the bedside lamp that he had gripped so hard in his hand his knuckles were white for ten minutes afterwards, standing over the two adulterers with murder in his eyes. Instead, he dropped the weapon and walked away, never to see either of them again.
Not walked, don't fancy it up. You RAN away. Just like that time you ran from those thugs in Lewiston. You didn't run to escape bodily harm. Hell, you've been lit on fire before, what could of those thugs or that guy fucking your ex do to you to top that?
Ford buried his head into his hands, leaning up against the counter.
You ran because you know what your capable of! You know you were meant to kick ass and break bones! If it came down to you could fucking kill somebody for something as little as stepping on your shoes. What if you had actually manned up and fought those thugs or killed that guy for fucking Bri? What if you had beaten those bullies so bad that they would be forced to become homeschooled? Your an angry person, and you've put off embracing it for far too long. Its my turn now.
"No!" Whitey punched at the trailers wall, putting his fist straight through it. Already he could feel the weight of his own words bear down upon him. Although 'insanity' crossed his mind a few times, his inner voice didn't even seem to acknowledge it.
No? No what, exactly? What are your options? You can either stop hiding the anger inside of you, or you can sit here and wallow in your self pity. Thats what your father would do, right? Thats what your Uncle Russel would do, right? Just give up? Is that who inspired you to lose to Anthony Jordan and just sit around and cry about it?
"SHUT UP!" Ford definitely felt crazy now, screaming at himself, and for a brief moment he fully appreciated not having any neighbors. His fist hit the wall again, thudding painfully into a stud and sending a lightning bolt straight up his arm. He barely felt it, though.
Yeah, do your Uncle proud and just give up. Be the failure that the World thinks you are. But you KNOW your not a failure, don't you? You KNOW your meant for better, and today is the day you stand up, brush yourself off, wipe away those girly fucking tears and DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!
"No..." Whitey slumped against the wall, sliding down until he sat on the hardwood floor, his head buried in his arms.
There's nothing you can about it, you've hid me way too long.
"No..."
I don't know who put this goody two shoes image into your head, but its gone now.
"Stop..."
Lets take whats ours...this world will remember you as the greatest man to have ever lived...
“NO!”
Its. My. Time.
It had seemed like the room was full of people and noise, for a few seconds ago Whitey could barely hear what was going on around him. He slowly lifted his head from his arms in the silence that now fell over his childhood home. It was almost serene. Almost, because Ford felt like a new person that was chock full of anger. That wasn’t the important part, though...the important part was that he now knew what he had to do. Whitey slowly stood up, feeling as if it was the first time he had actually used his legs but at the same time feeling like a freshly oiled machine. With his eyes glowing with some malevolent, ominous force, Ford opened up the door of his former home to the blinding light of a Maine summer...
And the ring of a cell phone...
***
The cell phone continued to ring, and Whitey was jostled from his sleep. The hotel room was dark, with the TV playing infomercials in the early morning hours. Ford let the phone go to voicemail and stared up at the ceiling after verifying he had indeed gone to bed alone tonight. He often dreamed of that moment he had finally let go of his desire to ‘save’ everybody and be the good guy and just look after himself, and it made him happy to the core knowing he was a better person because of that moment. The booming inner voice that had taken over was him all along, he had been pretending to be someone he hadn’t for thirty years of his life. The phone rang again, but this time Ford answered it hastily.
“Who the fuck is this and why did you call my phone TWICE at four in the morning?”
The voice on the other end of the phone surprised Ford into standing up and walking over to the sliding glass window.
“I never thought I’d hear from you again. Can’t say I would have been sad if I hadn’t, either. Thanks for making my checking account very, very fat. I’ll be living nicely off what you gave those of us who showed up to your fail-PPV for quite some time, as well as what these new guys are paying me.”
The voice continued talking on the other and, and Whitey looked even more surprised, in an incredulous way.
“What? No fucking way. No, just...wait, stop talking. Shut the fuck up Timmy. I want you to listen to me. The person I was in the past is no more. I’m 100% better now, and...NO, goddamit, just shut up! I know what MJW said, he told me all about it. Yeah? Well if you do decide to stop throwing your money away on your skewed vision of a federation and try to follow us like a kid brother nobody wants around, I won’t be waiting with open arms. The PCW is OURS, not YOURS. Now kindly fuck off, maybe you can call Jake Andrews and he can tell you the same thing.”
Instead of just hanging up the cell phone, Ford opened up the glass door and tossed it over the balcony. He immediatly grimaced, regretting the decision.
“Well, that as stupid.” Ford made his way back to the hotel bed and fell face first into it. A week of binge drinking caused him to want to sleep at this hour of night for once, and a smile came across his face. If he could only have the same dream twice, just to remember in more detail how his transformation came about.
I don't think those guys know what they're in for...
Sure, last Trauma he had taken it upon himself to take out High Tide and Wasp before they could even get to the ring. He chuckled at the thought, having no regrets about the situation. It definitely had the effect he had desired. Of course, the AWAssholes could have done without being trounced in the ring by the PCW main eventers, but to Whitey they weren't beaten at all. A tactical retreat after gauging one's opponents strengths often turned into victory. He firmly believed that his plan to shake up the PCW had worked, because now they had a rematch, with an added Belt holder Andy D on the other team. On his third show, Whitey Ford was already facing a champion; something not a lot of people could say in there career. Yes, they were making an impact indeed. One last thought went through his head before he drifted to sleep.
Its. My. Time.