Post by Johnny Rebel on Jan 13, 2017 20:34:47 GMT
“You know, son, the old adage is certainly true,” Rebel said with a wink. “Getting old is a bitch.”
Rebel groaned painfully. It had been many years since Rebel stepped foot in the ring and to do so against such a gargantuan parcel in Pork Chop had only added to his woes. Truthfully, as a burgeoning curmudgeon, he couldn’t be that surprised at the discomfort. The most physical activity Rebel was used to was pouring a bottle of Sam Adams in his gullet.
“You know they have people to do this,” the young man whispered. “You don’t have to do this on your own.”
The curmudgeon stood knee deep in what looked like a graveside plot. The rainy and overcast weather only added to the overall disturbing environment. The young kid had signed-up for signing at the old folks home, not watching one of it’s residents burrow himself in his own mausoleum. He’d almost developed a nervous tick watching the old grump exert an unbelievable amount of energy.
“Give me that, gramps,” the young man garnered up a bit of courage. Rebel was too exhausted to even muster a retort to that backhanded swipe. “You’re going to end up doubled over in this grave before the dinner bell rings. I can't have that on my conscience.”
A crack of lightning about finished the job early as Rebel nearly jumped a mile. The landscape off in the distance was surreal. A storm was brewing and if the two were still fiddling around in this god-forsaken gravesite, they’d surely be overwhelmed with the approaching monsoon like conditions.
“You want one?” Rebel offered him a cigarette. "I've got to have something to do with my hands."
“You mean crocheting wasn't considered? No thank you,” he politely declined. “You must have a death wish.”
A hearty laugh emerged from Rebel’s mouth. “If you only knew…” he said before taking another drag.
Reality was beginning to set sail for Johnny Rebel. Things weren’t always so simply put for the multi-decade veteran of the ring. His body was giving out and his mind wasn’t far behind it. You couldn’t even begin to imagine how many times that head had been bashed in by the Legacy’s, Nick Stevenson’s, and well, Masaru Inoue’s of the world. He was tired. He really didn’t have anything left to fight for but for some reason, he couldn’t throw in the towel of the Iron King.
Yeah, he’d proved a point. He stepped back in to Phoenix Wrestling realm after quite the hiatus and had his hand risen in victory once again. The only thing remaining for him was the white horse and galloping off in to the proverbial sunset. But there was something that was holding him back… and he couldn’t quite hop up on that saddle just yet.
Perhaps it’s because he had spent the majority of his career swimming upstream. He knew what it was like to be the stepping-stone for the next guy who would use Rebel to catapult himself to the throne. He faced the backlash that came from being completely immersed in the shadow of Legacy – not because the white-haired freak didn’t deserve the accolades but because his legacy, no pun intended, loomed larger than anything Rebel could ever muster.
So, yes, he’d been buried, multiple times. But this time he’d be the one to rewrite his own story. If anybody was going to bury him as the lead, he’d beat them to the punch, and he’d dig his own grave.
“Are you going to help me or not?” the young man argued after realizing that he'd bit off more than he could chew in digging this hole on his own. “Open your eyes, pap… there’s a storm a brewin’! We're on borrowed time.”
“Help me up,” Rebel said grimacing while stretching out his hand. The young man tugged gingerly and heaved Johnny back to his feet. “Perk up your ears for a sec, papaw’s going to teach you a little lesson, young padawan.”
The two begin shoveling in sync and tossing heaps of dirt over their left shoulders. They were finally making progress.
“There isn’t anything I can say to make you understand why I’m doing the things that I’m doing. You won’t. You can’t. Your brain doesn’t function in the same capacity that mine does because, well, if we’re being honest, you’ve got quite the future ahead of you. Me? I’m staring in to the mirror of my own impending doom. The clock is ticking. It won’t be long before my body betrays me and I won’t be able to hold my arms above my head. And if we’re being truthful, that day may be approaching.”
The rare moment of introspection from Rebel throws the young man for a loop. It was a brief glimpse to the insecurities of Johnny Rebel – something that’s almost never on display. The vulnerability coupled with the menacing storm quickly making its presence noticed was creating a vacuum of awkward. The young boy wasn’t quite sure what to say.
“In a few days, I’m going to be standing in the middle of the ring and staring across at a kid that wants to absolutely end my life. He’s going to come out throwing haymakers like they’re going out of style. And I don’t know if I’m going to have the wherewithal to withstand whatever he throws my way. His one and only goal is going to be to bring the reign of Johnny Rebel in professional wrestling to its final resting place.”
“It’s just a fight,” the young man whispered while choking back a lump in his throat. “Is that why you’re preparing your own grave?”
The light at the end of Rebel’s cigarette lit up with one final drag before he flicked it a few yards ahead of the two. It quickly fizzled in the drizzle of rain that was beginning to turn in to a heavier downpour. Rebel smiled at the young man – who worked twice as hard to try and keep up with a suddenly surging Rebel.
“Oh, no, kid,” Rebel coughed between hoists. “This grave isn’t for me. I’m going to scalp that little injun’ like someone should have done years ago.”
“You’re disturbingly offensive, has anybody ever told you that?” his companion said with a disgusting turn of his bottom lip.
“People keep telling me that,” Rebel said with a laugh. “It’s time to put the final touches on a Starr that should have been extinguished long ago.”
---
Rowyn Starr. The bane of my freaking existence.
If there was ever a polar opposite of Johnny Rebel in this messed-up world that we’ve created, it would be Rowyn Starr. The sheer fact that he’d even put his name in that hat so-to-speak has created this paradox in which we’re pitting his squeaky clean morals vs. his underwhelming desire to win. Unfortunately for Rowyn, it seems that as if he’s only embraced one and has fully bore the holier-than-thou façade. He’s taking the high road. And looks to me like he’s perfectly content with taking the wrong turn at the fork in the road that leads directly to the trail of tears.
It seems that Rowyn’s uplifting positivity has started to rain on his own parade and now he’s boo-hooing his way through an old, dusty hymnal in a choir that simply drowns out his own parts. He’s been the favorite princess of Phoenix Wrestling since the day Johnny Rebel decided to exit stage left. Every bit of favoritism and bias has been handed to him… look no farther than the first round of the Iron King tournament! Slaine and his merry band of cronies decided they’d make me rummage around the pigpen and capture the greased hog himself. Rowyn Starr had to simply survive the wet fart that is Raab. For goodness sakes, Rapunzel the Starr drowns her own sorrow with a bowl of Lucky Charms, wears a necklace of rabbit feet, and rubs every bald rock that stands in attention within a ten-foot radius and the entire world bows at his feet.
Your incessant fit throwing is as predictable as Mark Mease showing up to an XBWL reunion in crotchless panties. Let me tell you, I know where you’re coming from. When you’ve come to the end of your rope and you’ve got the decision to either jump or strap up, you’re always going to jump. Because it’s easier for you. That noose around your neck is more comfortable than, you know, actually girding up your loins and facing a battle. Playing the “woe-is-me” card in that somebody might give two flying shits for your pathetic existence is the only hope you’ve ever known. To strap-up means that you’re going to have to go to war without the devil in your pocket and that would take a Rowyn Starr that the world hasn’t ever seen before. It’ll take a Rowyn Starr that nobody even knew existed. It’ll take a Rowyn Starr that would go down in the annuals of Phoenix Wrestling lore.
But the reality is even that won’t be enough.
I don’t give a ham sandwich about the badge that you used to wear, Rowyn Starr. You want to puff out your chest and act like you’re some kind of courageous hero – but in reality, you’re just a coward. You want to be Superman but you’re really Clark Kent without the costume. You’re Bruce Wayne but when the bat signal shines, you’re neck deep in the sand like an Ostrich. You think that you’re Aquaman but you cling to the life preserver like you’re life depends on it… because it does!
However, I’d be remiss if that I didn’t think you were worthy of a Phoenix Wrestling roster spot. I mean, let’s be honest… the talent pool isn’t exactly leaping off the page at the moment. They had to turn to Johnny Rebel of all things to simply finish the brackets for this damn tournament to begin with! But now I’m the guy they’ve enlisted to remind you of the gap that exists between the rich and the poor. We’re not even in the same league because we’re not playing the same sport. The only thing more annoying then your endless whimpers is the fact that Slaine would even risk the possibility of me hurting these cash cows hooked on the end of my arms that are going to hammer your ramshackle horse chin!
When the final bell rings, your name will be whispered in lines behind every water cooler around offices in America. You might even start trending on Facebook. But like most trends, you’ll be quickly forgotten and the once proud legacy of Rowyn Starr will be reduced to nothing but a failed meme that gets endless retweets.
PW never wanted you.
Against the elite, you’re barely functional as a “draw.” Simply a placeholder until something better came along.
The next generation of talent couldn’t approach your fading star because they wouldn’t even know where to begin to look.
Nobody wants to be around you.
You’re a waste of space and oxygen.
Your worth has always been zero.
You’re nothing.
You’re shit.
And I’ve got a special plot where I’m going to bury you right next to the failed memories of Arkia Fisk and Tj Jones. You don’t remember them? Yeah, that’s the point.
Goodnight, Starr. It’s time to be extinguished.
#SIMPLY
#F’N
#PUT!
Rebel groaned painfully. It had been many years since Rebel stepped foot in the ring and to do so against such a gargantuan parcel in Pork Chop had only added to his woes. Truthfully, as a burgeoning curmudgeon, he couldn’t be that surprised at the discomfort. The most physical activity Rebel was used to was pouring a bottle of Sam Adams in his gullet.
“You know they have people to do this,” the young man whispered. “You don’t have to do this on your own.”
The curmudgeon stood knee deep in what looked like a graveside plot. The rainy and overcast weather only added to the overall disturbing environment. The young kid had signed-up for signing at the old folks home, not watching one of it’s residents burrow himself in his own mausoleum. He’d almost developed a nervous tick watching the old grump exert an unbelievable amount of energy.
“Give me that, gramps,” the young man garnered up a bit of courage. Rebel was too exhausted to even muster a retort to that backhanded swipe. “You’re going to end up doubled over in this grave before the dinner bell rings. I can't have that on my conscience.”
A crack of lightning about finished the job early as Rebel nearly jumped a mile. The landscape off in the distance was surreal. A storm was brewing and if the two were still fiddling around in this god-forsaken gravesite, they’d surely be overwhelmed with the approaching monsoon like conditions.
“You want one?” Rebel offered him a cigarette. "I've got to have something to do with my hands."
“You mean crocheting wasn't considered? No thank you,” he politely declined. “You must have a death wish.”
A hearty laugh emerged from Rebel’s mouth. “If you only knew…” he said before taking another drag.
Reality was beginning to set sail for Johnny Rebel. Things weren’t always so simply put for the multi-decade veteran of the ring. His body was giving out and his mind wasn’t far behind it. You couldn’t even begin to imagine how many times that head had been bashed in by the Legacy’s, Nick Stevenson’s, and well, Masaru Inoue’s of the world. He was tired. He really didn’t have anything left to fight for but for some reason, he couldn’t throw in the towel of the Iron King.
Yeah, he’d proved a point. He stepped back in to Phoenix Wrestling realm after quite the hiatus and had his hand risen in victory once again. The only thing remaining for him was the white horse and galloping off in to the proverbial sunset. But there was something that was holding him back… and he couldn’t quite hop up on that saddle just yet.
Perhaps it’s because he had spent the majority of his career swimming upstream. He knew what it was like to be the stepping-stone for the next guy who would use Rebel to catapult himself to the throne. He faced the backlash that came from being completely immersed in the shadow of Legacy – not because the white-haired freak didn’t deserve the accolades but because his legacy, no pun intended, loomed larger than anything Rebel could ever muster.
So, yes, he’d been buried, multiple times. But this time he’d be the one to rewrite his own story. If anybody was going to bury him as the lead, he’d beat them to the punch, and he’d dig his own grave.
“Are you going to help me or not?” the young man argued after realizing that he'd bit off more than he could chew in digging this hole on his own. “Open your eyes, pap… there’s a storm a brewin’! We're on borrowed time.”
“Help me up,” Rebel said grimacing while stretching out his hand. The young man tugged gingerly and heaved Johnny back to his feet. “Perk up your ears for a sec, papaw’s going to teach you a little lesson, young padawan.”
The two begin shoveling in sync and tossing heaps of dirt over their left shoulders. They were finally making progress.
“There isn’t anything I can say to make you understand why I’m doing the things that I’m doing. You won’t. You can’t. Your brain doesn’t function in the same capacity that mine does because, well, if we’re being honest, you’ve got quite the future ahead of you. Me? I’m staring in to the mirror of my own impending doom. The clock is ticking. It won’t be long before my body betrays me and I won’t be able to hold my arms above my head. And if we’re being truthful, that day may be approaching.”
The rare moment of introspection from Rebel throws the young man for a loop. It was a brief glimpse to the insecurities of Johnny Rebel – something that’s almost never on display. The vulnerability coupled with the menacing storm quickly making its presence noticed was creating a vacuum of awkward. The young boy wasn’t quite sure what to say.
“In a few days, I’m going to be standing in the middle of the ring and staring across at a kid that wants to absolutely end my life. He’s going to come out throwing haymakers like they’re going out of style. And I don’t know if I’m going to have the wherewithal to withstand whatever he throws my way. His one and only goal is going to be to bring the reign of Johnny Rebel in professional wrestling to its final resting place.”
“It’s just a fight,” the young man whispered while choking back a lump in his throat. “Is that why you’re preparing your own grave?”
The light at the end of Rebel’s cigarette lit up with one final drag before he flicked it a few yards ahead of the two. It quickly fizzled in the drizzle of rain that was beginning to turn in to a heavier downpour. Rebel smiled at the young man – who worked twice as hard to try and keep up with a suddenly surging Rebel.
“Oh, no, kid,” Rebel coughed between hoists. “This grave isn’t for me. I’m going to scalp that little injun’ like someone should have done years ago.”
“You’re disturbingly offensive, has anybody ever told you that?” his companion said with a disgusting turn of his bottom lip.
“People keep telling me that,” Rebel said with a laugh. “It’s time to put the final touches on a Starr that should have been extinguished long ago.”
---
Rowyn Starr. The bane of my freaking existence.
If there was ever a polar opposite of Johnny Rebel in this messed-up world that we’ve created, it would be Rowyn Starr. The sheer fact that he’d even put his name in that hat so-to-speak has created this paradox in which we’re pitting his squeaky clean morals vs. his underwhelming desire to win. Unfortunately for Rowyn, it seems that as if he’s only embraced one and has fully bore the holier-than-thou façade. He’s taking the high road. And looks to me like he’s perfectly content with taking the wrong turn at the fork in the road that leads directly to the trail of tears.
It seems that Rowyn’s uplifting positivity has started to rain on his own parade and now he’s boo-hooing his way through an old, dusty hymnal in a choir that simply drowns out his own parts. He’s been the favorite princess of Phoenix Wrestling since the day Johnny Rebel decided to exit stage left. Every bit of favoritism and bias has been handed to him… look no farther than the first round of the Iron King tournament! Slaine and his merry band of cronies decided they’d make me rummage around the pigpen and capture the greased hog himself. Rowyn Starr had to simply survive the wet fart that is Raab. For goodness sakes, Rapunzel the Starr drowns her own sorrow with a bowl of Lucky Charms, wears a necklace of rabbit feet, and rubs every bald rock that stands in attention within a ten-foot radius and the entire world bows at his feet.
Your incessant fit throwing is as predictable as Mark Mease showing up to an XBWL reunion in crotchless panties. Let me tell you, I know where you’re coming from. When you’ve come to the end of your rope and you’ve got the decision to either jump or strap up, you’re always going to jump. Because it’s easier for you. That noose around your neck is more comfortable than, you know, actually girding up your loins and facing a battle. Playing the “woe-is-me” card in that somebody might give two flying shits for your pathetic existence is the only hope you’ve ever known. To strap-up means that you’re going to have to go to war without the devil in your pocket and that would take a Rowyn Starr that the world hasn’t ever seen before. It’ll take a Rowyn Starr that nobody even knew existed. It’ll take a Rowyn Starr that would go down in the annuals of Phoenix Wrestling lore.
But the reality is even that won’t be enough.
I don’t give a ham sandwich about the badge that you used to wear, Rowyn Starr. You want to puff out your chest and act like you’re some kind of courageous hero – but in reality, you’re just a coward. You want to be Superman but you’re really Clark Kent without the costume. You’re Bruce Wayne but when the bat signal shines, you’re neck deep in the sand like an Ostrich. You think that you’re Aquaman but you cling to the life preserver like you’re life depends on it… because it does!
However, I’d be remiss if that I didn’t think you were worthy of a Phoenix Wrestling roster spot. I mean, let’s be honest… the talent pool isn’t exactly leaping off the page at the moment. They had to turn to Johnny Rebel of all things to simply finish the brackets for this damn tournament to begin with! But now I’m the guy they’ve enlisted to remind you of the gap that exists between the rich and the poor. We’re not even in the same league because we’re not playing the same sport. The only thing more annoying then your endless whimpers is the fact that Slaine would even risk the possibility of me hurting these cash cows hooked on the end of my arms that are going to hammer your ramshackle horse chin!
When the final bell rings, your name will be whispered in lines behind every water cooler around offices in America. You might even start trending on Facebook. But like most trends, you’ll be quickly forgotten and the once proud legacy of Rowyn Starr will be reduced to nothing but a failed meme that gets endless retweets.
PW never wanted you.
Against the elite, you’re barely functional as a “draw.” Simply a placeholder until something better came along.
The next generation of talent couldn’t approach your fading star because they wouldn’t even know where to begin to look.
Nobody wants to be around you.
You’re a waste of space and oxygen.
Your worth has always been zero.
You’re nothing.
You’re shit.
And I’ve got a special plot where I’m going to bury you right next to the failed memories of Arkia Fisk and Tj Jones. You don’t remember them? Yeah, that’s the point.
Goodnight, Starr. It’s time to be extinguished.
#SIMPLY
#F’N
#PUT!