Post by Deleted on Nov 28, 2014 15:19:14 GMT -5
Once more into the fray...
There were only three sounds inside of Whitey's locker room, and yet they varied in volume each and every one of them seemed deafening to him. The first, as he wrapped his left hand, was the ripping of the tape coming off of the roll in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Second, the clock hanging on the wall, ticking each second away as Ford stared intently at the wall in front of him. The third sound was the quiet murmur of the crowd in the arena, but Whitey knew all too well that the murmur would turn into a roar in only a few minutes. Insults would be thrown his way and hurled right back in their direction, the PCW censor would have his hands full with picking out the swear words in the giant sea of noise and bleeping them out, and Whitey would probably catch a few half full beverages upside his head.
Wait. Whitey paused his thoughts, to ponder for a moment. Would that beverage be half full, or half empty...given my current situation?
His face had been emotionless for the last hour or so, but just then a wry grin crossed over it. Ford was on top of the world, and mere minutes away from defending the PCW World Championship in his most challenging match to date. He couldn’t be quite sure if he was optimistic or pessimistic about what was about to happen; he didn’t feel as though he were going to lose the title any time soon, but a strange sense of foreboding hung over his head like a storm cloud. This cloud didn’t cause him any emotional distress. Whitey felt akin to a soldier storming the beaches of Normandy, waiting for the door of his boat to open and for the thunderous charge out towards catastrophe. Death would be all around him, but he would prevail; he HAD to prevail. He was almost Zen like in that acceptance.
Over and over again, Whitey ran through the list of competitors in his head. Some he had been in true battles with, others he had never crossed paths with…and some others he hadn’t even heard of before. Michael Soloman…Aura…they sound like rejected Justice League applicants. Oh, and Alexa Black…the one who tries to tell everyone she’s dangerous but we’ve all yet to see it against anything more than a C player. Ford thought to himself, the smile still on his face from before but with his eyebrows quirking up in disbelief. Plus, the FX crossover match, they’re somehow having Seth Archer from that stupid fucking spy cartoon compete. How the hell is a cartoon supposed to compete? They don’t belong in this fucking match, they’re just going to get themselves hurt. Not that I give a good God damn about their wellbeing, I just hope they know that I’m saving one of them to be the last I eliminate, just so I can end a career and show Billy Sadistic it isn’t all that fucking hard.
Ford rose from his steel chair and paced over to a full body mirror that was placed next to his locker. He was clad in his wrestling gear; a plain black pair of knee long cutoff jean shorts, and black wrestling boots and kneepads; very minimalistic. The tape that he had just finished wrapping around his hands was white, but that was only because he enjoyed seeing them grow bloodier and bloodier as his matches went on. The grin had vanished from his face the moment he thought about Billy Sadistic, and as he ran his hand through his greasy and dirty blonde hair, Ford just now noticed how old he truly looked. He wasn’t nearing the end of his career, age wise, but his face was taut and his eyes were sunken in, various scars littering the landscape of his face. It may have been the copious drug and alcohol use, but mostly his advanced aging was caused by fighting men like Showtime, Grimm, and Billy Sadistic, even though he had never fought the latter. Or at least I don’t remember… Those three men, The Black Hand, were the biggest threat to his title reign and Whitey knew it. Adding any cohesive team into a battle royal type event and they’re going to dominate it. Add on the brutal tactics of that particular trio…
Ford could already taste blood in his mouth.
There were others he had to worry about; Andy D and Stacy Johes, in particular. Both were fan favorites, and Stacy seemed to have enlisted the help of Derek Cosmos. Whitey didn’t follow any of the three and their exploits; why should he? He recognized talent when he saw it, and he may have to begrudgingly say that all of them had it.
And then there’s Murdoc… Whitey spat, a glob of spit hitting the mirror and slowly sliding down its face. Ford could see in his reflection that his eyes were starting to narrow, and he could feel his blood temperature rising.
Into the last good fight I’ll ever know.
Murdoc was going to be gunning for him, he knew that. And he would be ready, fists flying and teeth gnashing. If he was going to lose the match, he was NOT going to let Murdoc be the victor. But do I have a choice?
DO I HAVE A FUCKING CHOICE?!?
The memory of the army of Mr. Smiths that attacked him the night after his successful defense of the title against Murdoc swarmed into his mind. He still had no answers to who had ordered them to storm the ring, but it all didn’t matter. He suspected Frank Foley, but again…why worry about it? He knew they’d make another appearance as soon as he had the upper hand. Foley would send out his minions, and once they fell he’d start pulling others from the locker room to dethrone Whitey. If the locker room emptied, he’d call upon wrestlers in developmental, watching the show from the front row. Then he’d send vendors, janitors, agents, security, the ring doctor, referees…until Whitey was defeated.
Pain flashed through his head as his brain rattled inside his skull, his forehead connecting squarely with the mirror, shattering the glass upon impact. A few shards of mirror remained, letting Whitey see that he had cut himself open. He had realized, right then and there, that he was not going to leave Deadly Intentions V with the World Title in his hand.
The smile returned to his face, but this one was not a smile of musing; it overflowed with malevolence, pairing with Whitey’s eyes to give the perfect portrait of a madman. Whitey Ford didn’t care about the PCW World Championship.
In fact, he never did.
Ford had known from his very start in PCW that he was going to be the best that the company had seen. Even after taking losses in tag matches with the AWAssholes, Ford was still a dominant competitor. A wrestler as smart and cunning as he was strong and ruthless, Whitey took charge by beating Grimm and Andy D for the International Championship. But still, even after an impressive victory, Whitey still wasn’t given the respect that he deserved.
After his hiatus, Whitey stormed the PCW and captured the World Title Belt. It was then, and only then, that he was hailed as one of the best. In the simple minds of the fans, the World Belt meant you were on the top of the world. Whitey knew that gold belt only to be a possession…he had now gained the admiration of those worldwide. His self-respect and his pride meant more to him than any piece of oversized jewelry could ever.
Live and die this day…
“Mr. Ford, you’re up.” A voice from outside of the locker room called sheepishly. Whitey Ford paused for just a moment, and he could hear the nervous shuffling of feet from the other side of the door. Before he could be hailed again, Whitey spun to his right, grabbed his World Title, and kicked open the door, right into the backstage workers face. Whitey could hear the slow guitar riff start up in “Bad Man” by Bobaflex as he leaned down to the fallen worker, who had landed back first against the adjacent wall. Wiping blood off his face, he flung it down onto the fallen woman’s shirt and face before making his way down the hallway.
I have NEVER compromised who I was in this business. NEVER. I’ve never apologized, I’ve never taken shit from anybody…I’m a marked man, and the entire PCW roster is going to be after me for the next god knows how long. Ford thought, stopping only push a young backstage worker out of the way so he could grab a steel chair leaning up against the wall. The fool made an irritated noise…and Whitey cracked him in the ribs with his new toy, doubling him over. Another shot to the back sent the worker flat on his face, and Whitey threw the chair to his side with abandon, nearly taking out a PCW intern.
“What? WHAT?!?” Ford challenged all who stood around him, every one of them just an innocent bystander. “You all want a piece of me too? Meet me in the fucking ring!” Ford turned again before anyone could answer, and continued on towards the ring. He could hear his music playing loudly now, and the raucous crowd waiting for him to appear. “Where’s Monroe, huh? Where’s Lantlas? Is Ace gonna get off commentary for a piece of me?” Ford talked to himself out loud now, having built himself up into a rage.
They can have this stupid fucking World Title! Ford nearly dropped the belt in disgust of the object but thought better of it. Whoever picked up this title next would have to earn it, not find it discarded on the concrete floor of the PCW Arena. But by the pile of unconscious bodies around me and the blood I’ll make them spill…the years I take off of their career…the bones broken, careers ended, all in the attempt to take what is mine on this night…they’ll remember the name Whitey Ford for the rest of their life. And they will…respect…me!
Whitey Ford finally reached the curtain to the arena, and stopped short suddenly. He felt power coursing through his veins, a sensation that he was a berserker on a suicide mission, and no matter what fate he met in this battle he would be welcomed into the gates of Valhalla. They’d better order some more mead, then. Whitey threw open the curtain and charged into the PCW Arena, the crowd reacting hugely to his presence...
Live and die this day…