Post by Matt Slater on Aug 28, 2016 18:28:47 GMT -6
Ordinary
Even through countless instances and ongoing repetition, it seemed that not one member of the production staff could truly become numb to the sight of blood. Stunned expressions followed the guarded walk of Matt Slater, grossly captivated by how drenched his skin was. He bore the historically-penned “crimson mask”, blood leaking onto his chest, arms and the clothing of the two medics supporting his battered body. The whites of his eyes were more prominent among the concerning stains, containing irises that travelled from side to side, visualizing every person that paused briefly in his path.
Yet while they visually pondered his treatment plans and how vile and destructive Seth Iser could be - descriptive words which further justified his adopted alias - he remained serenely calm.
Unlike them, given past experiences, he was used to the ramifications.
What appeared repulsive to others was considered a natural consequence to him. Not that he was a glutton for punishment or that he relished the prospect of feeling vulnerable, exposing the fragility of the human body and what his aggressors were capable of inflicting. It was merely a normal part of the sport. It was part of his job.
Entering the medical room, he immediately knew what to expect. This was a practice he had received multiple times throughout the years, always generating the same statements of comfort from his experienced healers. No matter who they were, he would always act the same: constantly attempting to relax, struggling to remain still and composed.
Yet for the first time in years, once he was seated on a chair covered by a disinfected sheet, he was absolutely still. Despite random jolts occurring due to the lowering pulse of adrenaline, he quietly allowed the small team to gather their instruments and begin the delicate procedure, staring down at the tiled floor in retrospective thought.
An enormous weight had been removed from his shoulders. No longer did he carry the guilt of broken vows. No longer was he consumed by hatred or malignance. No longer would he have to swallow the bitter pill, digesting the foulness that stemmed from the actions and words of his nemesis. No longer did he have to worry about tainted legacies and housing the eternal burden of failure.
A euphoric essence of victory flowed through his veins, brightening the darkened recesses of his divided mind and purifying his vengeful demons. He burned with the fire of absolution, radiating an aura of completion and freedom.
From the moment Seth Iser tapped out, causing wild jubilation and positive pandemonium throughout the Norfolk Scope, justice had truly been granted. The chapter of his ultimate redemption could be closed and sealed for good, just as he had passionately promised.
And when the first stitch entered his bloodied flesh, a long-forgotten smile of genuine satisfaction and beauty finally appeared.
Finally… finally…
~*****~
Despite feeding a mixed congregation of people that would make psychologists scratch their heads in befuddlement, Zahara Matisse and Katalina Star’s joint barbeque party in Malibu had been quite the fulfilling spectacle. Devoid of pettiness and egomaniacal entitlement, the social gathering strangely exposed how complacent and respectable some of the guests could be; most notably two women that expressed the apocalyptic representations of War and Death, idly basking in the sunlight and consuming the charcoal-grilled delicacies Zahara cooked up.
Matt curiously studied their activities from afar, surprised that he remained welcome in the same vicinity as Emma Carlisle and Joanna Thade. Of course it was not their moment or their place to become the central focus of the event; they were simply respecting the wishes of their professional kin, allowing them to conduct their affairs without trouble.
Although he understood that level of selflessness, he still found it eye-opening how such chaotic figures in the industry could be so eloquent and pleasant. Even the World Visionary Championship acted as an insignificant decoration throughout the day. Although it glistened vibrantly, conveying its majestic importance and newly-updated name plate next to the rightful champion, it did not garner as much attention as Zahara and Katalina did. Still, it was not completely ignored. Emma appeared proud of her accomplishment, straightening the leather straps and wiping off specks of weathered grain from its golden face every so often.
But Matt found it odd actually witnessing a smile on her face; not the sadistic kind she generated when competing, but a genuine expression of undeniable ecstasy. It was similar to the smile he birthed days ago when the gash on his forehead was being treated.
Such satisfaction could not be contained beneath a veil of coldness. That overwhelming sense of triumph when a long sought after goal was conquered… it was indescribable.
Even Katie Moicelle’s presence failed to invalidate the relaxing mood. It was painfully obvious how depressed she was after failing to recapture the Zero Gravity Championship from Ace Watson, but she channelled forth the strength to make sure the occasion remained decent. Matt knew her youth and ongoing development would always be a factor when it came to her emotions, but whenever someone questioned her lack of experience, he mused how knowledgeable they were about her endeavours. Either they were deliberately smearing her image, or they were just talking out of their asses.
Whoever the guest and whatever the underlying problem, they remained sensible and dignified in the vicinity of their hosts. Which is it why it came as such a shock to Matt that he was quickly identified as a possible party-pooper. Not that anyone specifically stated this prediction; he could see it in their eyes.
Perhaps it was due to the visual aftermath of his war against Seth Iser. It was not so off-putting as to erase someone’s appetite, but he was not exactly aesthetic either. Zahara appeared startled when he arrived, as if he had transformed into an abomination of his former self. One soft embrace from Zahara later (which still agonized his tender ribs; it was any wonder he had lasted through the travel to reach Malibu for this event) and her sudden shock dispersed. Katie froze in place, her mouth slightly agape as she viewed his condition. Others turned and stared, taking note of their hideously-battered guest. But it was Katalina that broke the awkward chain, moving a lone finger across his chest and laughing about how she had dominated others into more gruesome states.
Questions arose as he attempted to settle into the gathering, all related to his health and feelings. Yet he always responded with the same answer.
“I might be mutilated on the surface, but on the inside… I’m happy and relieved.”
And for the first time in years, he truly was. As much as it pained him to sit down, stand up and walk around, he was mentally rejuvenated, free from the contamination of fury and remorse that had plagued him for so long; so very long.
Nothing could bring down his reformed happiness; not even Joanna’s contemplative stare from the opposite side of the swimming pool. He knew she was analysing his mental state, and she knew that he knew. He returned the notice silently, nodding with a illustration of preparation. Then she smiled, baring pearly-white teeth at the anticipation of their match.
As if connecting telepathically, they shared the same understanding, lasting even as Zahara and Katalina proudly announced their engagement and upcoming partnership.
Whatever they planned to do to each other, it would not be strictly personal.
It was just war creating business as usual.
~*****~
Several conversations were wisely picked up that day, yet there was only one that made Matt strongly reminisce. Katalina and Emma were openly discussing the notorious Compound, an unknown facility which had been converted into a suitable abode for the Horsewomen and their assorted companions. Matt was not familiar with its location or its current purpose, but he did comprehend how sentimental such things could become over time. As he listened carefully, it became apparent that Emma wished to depart the Compound and reside in Malibu permanently, only using the former when it was absolutely necessary.
As the importance of their subject dwindled, steadily shifting to another topic of personal interest, Matt mentally explored the values of home as he stared at the sparkling ocean. As much as Barrie, Ontario remained environmentally superior, he missed the sprawling cityscape of Manchester, England. Despite its loitered streets, homeless beggars, abandoned buildings and bothersome weather cycles, a familial attachment still existed in his heart for the place.
Coming to a silent decision, he needed to revisit his national roots.
After one brief stop in Barrie to perform laundry, stock up on supplies and organize his suitcase, Matt flew directly to Manchester from Toronto. Upon arrival, he was almost immediately swarmed by wrestling fans requesting his autograph and photographs. Given it was a voluntary trip, no urgent matters complicated this humbling situation. He stayed for as long as he could at the airport, granting every fan what they desired while visualizing the changes which had occurred over the past couple of years.
Usually he would venture to the center of the city, basking in the aged architecture from a century prior and concealing himself among the bustling crowds. But on this occasion, Matt chose to remain extremely local, residing on the outskirts of a place his young eyes had marvelled at from a distance before he was even allowed to go there on his lonesome.
Twenty minutes elapsed before he reached his intended destination, absorbing the low-income housing developments and government-listed monuments he had grown up around. Some places had been demolished completely whereas others existed on previously-untouched land, and even the small stores he frequented as a child were modernized or no longer present.
Following his arrival at the Premier Inn, which neighboured the world-famous Old Trafford Stadium - home of Manchester United Football Club - Matt stored his belongings in the room and ventured out to fully explore the local afternoon scene. He spent considerable time navigating the Stadium grounds, bypassing groups of Asian tourists and eventually purchasing the previous season’s home shirt from the official Megastore.
Once he was ready to continue elsewhere, he focused on a particular road ahead he had known his entire life. Literally standing three minutes walking distance away from his childhood home, Matt fondly travelled over the railway bridge and stopped at the turning which would take him directly to countless memories. At first glance, the state of the area eerily remained the same, yet it was not surprising in the slightest. Budget cuts prevented a proper overhaul from commencing, and thus the houses had been left untouched for decades.
It was a magical journey along this single lane road, yet one which made him feel like a common member of society once again. He was no longer a renowned professional wrestler or a celebrity on these streets. He was just another person, stripped bare of universal relevance and influence.
Tempted to visualize his childhood home, Matt turned from the road onto the quaint street it belonged on. He instantly noticed the extensive brickwork that neatly transformed each terraced house, giving the area a more defined look than what he had seen previously. Unfortunately, he knew the house no longer belonged to him or any members of his family, but he still froze outside the small front garden, absorbing every detail and reflecting on the events which had taken place inside the house and beyond its protective walls.
This was where he enjoyed his warmly-sheltered youth. This was where he grew up around sensible parents and an older sibling. But most importantly, this was where he first encountered professional wrestling on the household television, occupying the carpeted floor in absolute awe.
Now here he stood, an honest-to-goodness Professional Wrestler with a list of accomplishments and over a decade of experience. It was an emotional moment for him, realizing how far he had come in his life with so many barriers attempting to keep him from his dream.
He was not supposed to be a Professional Wrestler, they commonly told him. It was an idiotic phase brought upon by naive machinations. He was supposed to focus on college and get an actual job. He was supposed to be seated behind a desk, or stock shelves in a store, or complete an apprenticeship for a worthwhile career, such as being a mechanic or construction worker.
But he failed to listen to their preferable demands. He followed his heart. He pursued his lifelong dream and never looked back.
Yet the criticisms continued within the wrestling school itself. He was too small and skinny to be taken seriously. He was not tough enough to endure the industry. He would never live up to or exceed the standards of his Grandfather. He was just another fresh-faced adolescent who believed he could make it until he was beaten into submission by the throes of reality.
But he did endure the physical torment. He gained weight and strength. He continued to learn and improve beyond the call of duty. He worked harder than everyone else in the Academy, not willing to surrender and burn his dreams to ashes.
And from this old-fashioned house in a small neighbourhood, to wrestling in gyms and decrepit buildings, to touring Europe and Japan to hone his craft, to flying across the Atlantic Ocean to the shores of the United States to become one of the greatest, most celebrated British technical wrestlers in the world, he made it in spite of their objections.
Finally departing this memorable, sacrosanct street, Matt impulsively decided to pay another particular building a visit. Without being bothered or disturbed, he eagerly reached the Pub he had spent many days and nights socializing in. The exterior design of the building was as dull and unappealing as ever, yet the interior seemed to have been recently refurbished.
A strange yet acceptable feeling flowed through him as he stepped into the realm of the everyman. Not one single person acknowledged his presence. There were no surprised exclamations or stunned reactions. Some merely talked to their acquaintances while others checked their phones or read the newspaper. It was surreal after years of being chased by reporters and fans to suddenly blend into a social environment as yet another thirsty patron.
As soon as he reached the bar, a comfortable smile appeared on his face; it felt nice to be home, but even nicer to experience the feeling of being no one special or revered. He relished the current moment of being just an average, ordinary man.
Seconds later, a familiar individual appeared from the storage room behind the bar, wiping his hands on his shirt and checking the units for available glasses. Once he saw Matt standing there waiting to be served, his old, wrinkled face turned pale.
Then he smiled broadly, his greyed moustache helping to accentuate his sudden happiness.
‘Well strike a light,’ he wheezed, vocally conveying his joyful dismay. ‘There’s a face I’ve not seen in donkeys.’
‘How have you been, Dave?’ Matt asked smoothly, having understood the local language he had grown accustomed to and naturally inherited. He never broke eye contact with the old man, taking in Dave’s elderly exuberance which seemed to make him look younger and full of vitality.
Dave Baker had been working in numerous pubs and operating as a landlord for many years throughout Manchester, and he had lived in this particular area for roughly two decades. It had been approximately eight years since they last communicated, yet it was pleasant to know they still maintained good knowledge and familiarity despite their time apart.
‘Can’t complain, sunshine,’ Dave replied as he leaned on the counter. ‘What brings you back ‘round ‘ere then?’
‘Homesickness, I suppose.’ Given his reminiscent moment in Malibu, Matt was not exaggerating or formulating any kind of excuse. ‘Needed a break from the norm. Decided to come over here and see what changed. I can see you haven’t.’
‘Not by much!’ Hoarse laughter exited Dave’s throat shortly thereafter, caused by years of smoking strong cigarettes. ‘So what’ll it be?’
‘Has your memory changed much too?’
With a mystical wink, Dave grabbed a glass and placed it underneath the pump of a beverage Matt commonly drank during the old days. ‘If there’s somethin’ I never forget, it’s a man’s preference of beer.’
While waiting for the drink to be properly poured by experienced hands, Matt quickly scanned the atmosphere of the Pub and its residents. It appeared another regular was missing, someone who gave the Pub a homely vibe with her witty banter and unforgettable attitude. ‘So where’s Victoria? How is she?’
Suddenly, a sorrowful exhale escaped Dave’s mouth as he finished pouring the pint. ‘She died couple years back. Problems with her kidneys and all that.’
‘I’m sorry, Dave.’ Matt scratched his arm awkwardly, reflecting on how approachable and distinguished Victoria was. Whenever someone had a problem, she would selflessly see fit to ease their minds. Her wise words had aided him on more than one occasion, including the last time he spoke to her about travelling the world as a Professional Wrestler. She told him that no matter what, dark clouds will always have silver linings. It was unfortunate that this motivational phrase withered as the years went on, and it was much more unfortunate that it only took the remembrance of Victoria to also remember that very quote.
If there was one negative about being away from the local scene for so long, it was missing both wonderful and tragic information.
‘That’s life, sunshine. I’m over it now.’ An exchange of payment commenced between the two, allowing Matt to taste the refreshing liquid. His former friends complained about its bitter aftertaste, but Matt developed a liking to it, especially in this establishment. Of all the pubs he had ever been in, none of them complimented its ingredients better than this one.
Dave smiled as soon as Matt swallowed the cold beer. ‘Still as good as always?’
‘Fantastic.’ Matt nodded in approval, causing Dave to laugh again. ‘I wish I could bottle this stuff up and transport it overseas.’
‘You’re not considerin’ movin’ back ‘ere then?’ It was an honest question, and Matt respectfully decided to treat it as such.
‘It would be too much hassle. I usually travel from place-to-place anyway, but moving back here would complicate matters.’
‘At least ya’ve not forgotten us.’ As Dave concluded his response, two middle-aged women approached the counter, garnering his attention and establishing his duty. ‘Well it’s been nice catchin’ up with ya, Matthew. Hopefully you’re willin’ to stick around for a while. We can talk later if ya like?’
Matt complimented Dave’s suggestion with a thoughtful smile. ‘I’m sure we will.’
After saluting Dave with his pint, Matt turned from the counter and located an empty table in the corner. Situating himself down on a hard chair - something the designers had neglected to change during the refurbishment process, although the pub would not feel the same without them - he brought out his phone and swiped through Twitter, checking for any worthwhile updates. He noticed that the Third Eye Open Trios Tournament was beginning soon, a concept he willingly signed up for and a reminder of such that caused him to shudder with anticipation.
As he contemplated who his partners could potentially be, a rough, oddly-familiar voice immediately garnered his attention. ‘Room for one more?’
Lowering his phone, Matt looked up to acknowledge a man who had been there at the very beginning of his wrestling journey. Instead of smiling fondly, Matt remained stoic. Even his responsive tone lacked surprise or gratitude. ‘Peter Roberts.’
Peter Roberts was a senior coach at the Manchester Wrestling Academy, working alongside Joe Griffith to produce athletes and condition them for the rigors of the business. He was not as strict and detestable as Joe; in fact he was known to have a caring personality, as sour as he appeared on the outside. But at times he could be a vicious man himself, which often led to testing the students’ discipline and endurance until his aggravation disappeared. Yet it was Peter who took an avid interest in Matt, having known his Grandfather from the local circuit when he was still an active grappler.
Being a hefty individual, Peter carefully sat down opposite Matt, groaning at the strain of his weakened knees. Once he relaxed, he locked his hands at his waist and stared at his former student with an air of respectability.
‘Now isn’t this a peculiar turn of events. Here I was earlier today, deciding to go to the pub for a nice pint after leaving the Academy, and just as I start to get settled in, thinking about how some of my students need to stop being so childish… I see you sitting here on your todd.’
‘You’re still there protecting the students from Joe’s anger management issues, I see.’ Finally Matt smirked, shortly before Peter grinned.
‘I wouldn’t exactly say protecting. I’m not their fucking father. Just like I wasn’t yours.’ Peter quenched his throat with ale, staring at Matt’s matured features all the while. ‘You’re starting to look so much like Bernard.’
Briefly remembering his Grandfather, someone who sadly passed away before he could witness his first match, Matt nodded affirmatively. ‘I like to think I’ve made him proud.’
‘You should. You exceeded my expectations, let me tell you. What keeps me going is that sometimes someone comes along that shocks the shit out of you.’
‘I was never going to take no for an answer.’
‘Just like my wife does.’ Peter cackled, sharing a personal joke that only he and a few of his closest friends would understand. Eventually Peter pointed upward, taking note of the exposed stitches on Matt’s forehead. ‘So looks like you’ve earned yourself another scar.’
‘It was worth the task of finally defeating a longtime enemy.’
‘How did it feel to make that egotistical prick Seth Iser tap out then?’
Freezing momentarily, Matt stared at Peter with a surprised revelation. ‘You were paying attention?’
‘Sometimes I like to see how my past students are getting on. You, Nathaniel, Charlotte. It was a bloody match, let me tell you. When you hit him with that Tombstone Piledriver I laughed my arse off. Not because you were sloppy with it - you kinda were - but because he got it reinstated and then he got punished with it.’
‘He allowed his ego to interfere. But even if he wasn’t allowed to use it, I still needed to prove him wrong. I needed to prove to him why I’m regarded as a legend. That jacket wasn’t just a mind game, it was a comprehensive fact.’ Matt allowed the reference to sink in as he consumed more of his chosen beverage. The jacket was a checklist of all the legends he had defeated throughout his career, chronicling his greatest victories and being used to intimidate his opposition. Normally Matt would avoid such schemes, but on that night it felt justified; as did everything else that brutally followed. ‘Now I can add his name to it, adding the missing piece that brings everything full circle.’
‘And there should be plenty more names to add to that list if you continue to listen to what I fucking taught you.' Peter laughed again, obviously enjoying the occasion of being seated in front of someone he helped condition and discipline, now knowing he had become a perceived legend in the industry. Personally, Matt valued Peter's instructions more than Joe's. 'Anyway, how come you didn’t keep that… hammer thing. What was it?’
‘A warhammer.’ Matt responded softly, not wanting to draw the wrong kind of attention. ‘And the reason I gave it away… is because I was done with it. I didn’t want to surround myself with painful souvenirs after I put an end to the torment. For the longest time I was fuelled by this rage that… pushed me to go further, to become what he was as an ultimate way to vanquish him. But I was brought back to my senses in time. I didn’t want to become someone else. I didn’t want to be placed in the same category as him or… live through what Cera did. I wanted to remain… me.’
Peter coughed dryly. ‘So that’s why you handed it to that woman… can’t seem to put the name to the face. I’m better with faces.’
‘Reya.’ Her name caused Peter’s eyes to widen in remembrance. ‘Cera’s sister. Since she’s blood-related it was only fair to keep it within the family. Truth be told… she just so happened to be there at the right time. Maybe she finished watching the match and wanted to see how I was. But at that moment... I realized it belonged with her more than me. We didn’t talk. We just… knew.’
After consuming more ale, Peter exhaled. ‘I just hope you’re not what you’re doing against… Joanna, is it? I’ve heard she’s quite the… quite the vixen.’
There was a lot that could be said about Joanna, but Matt neither wanted to berate and belittle her. Despite how she had garnered his protection when she first arrived in VoW, putting on an innocent facade in order to deceive certain people and allow Emma Carlisle into the fold, she had never done anything cruel or malicious to him personally. She just wanted to cause chaos, creating change for a greater good that she and the remainder of the Horsewomen intended to exploit. And with Emma Carlisle becoming the new World Visionary Champion, their power and influence over the public was becoming stronger.
‘She challenged me to a match and I accepted. It was as simple as that.’ Matt finally replied. ‘The problem is that she’s become so unorthodox that her spontaneous unpredictability has become predictable.’
‘Now ain’t that a quote.’ It was something Matt had said before, related to someone else who used tactics that steadily became more cliché and repetitive in various situations. ‘Do you think she was the one who ruined your room then?’
Suddenly, Matt was reminded of his locker room being in a complete shambles as he prepared for his career-defining match against Seth Iser. The walls had been splashed with blue paint, and a music box was placed in the central part of the room, set beneath a single lamp. Inside the box was a stained bullet and a mirror, the latter of which showed a figure walking close by until the lights were turned off. Whatever the reason for it, he still remained focused on his primary objective. ‘You heard about that too?’
‘I hear a lot of things from a lot of people. It's good to stay above the relevancy curve in this business, as you probably know more than most of them.’
Matt cupped his pint glass between both hands and clicked his teeth. ‘It wouldn’t have been Joanna. She’s usually upfront and formal. No, this was someone with an agenda… and I do have my suspicions.’
‘Want to spill names? I've got contacts that might investigate this...’
‘I’d rather not. It’s nothing personal, but this is something I can handle on my own.’
Peter chuckled and itched his shaved chin. ‘Yeah, you’re definitely becoming more like your Grandfather. He was always a do-it-yourself kinda guy. You’ve inherited that.’
Before Matt could respond, several beeps emanated from Peter’s jean pocket. A solitary groan escaped before he produced his phone. ‘Bloody hell. Of all the fucking times. I have to go… once I finish this pint anyway. Can’t let this go to waste.’
Groaning painfully, Peter rose from the hard wooden chair and gingerly bent his legs. It was apparent he required surgery on his knees, but whether he could afford the medical payments was an issue only he had the right to know. ‘Continue making Bernard proud, son. You’ve earned my respect, and you've built a reputation that deserves it. You are a legend... but to me I'll still think of you as the skinny cod that slithered his way into he academy and gave me a hearty laugh.’
'I wouldn't expect any other statement from you, Peter.'
'Of course not. Who do you think I am?'
Both of them shared a relatable laugh, yet there was one thing Matt immediately wanted to get off his chest before Peter could leave.
‘Before you go…’ Suddenly Matt paused, drinking more of his pint and wiping his moistened lips. ‘When you see Joe again, can you tell him something from me?’
Peter shrugged in agreement. ‘What do you want him to know?’
‘Simply tell him… that he was wrong and full of shit.’
Moments later, Peter shook his head and cackled. Without saying another word he hobbled away from the table, allowing Matt to savour his refreshing beverage and the environment he was still proud to be associated with.
It was good to be home.
~*****~
LIVE RECORDING
People often say - especially here in the United Kingdom - that home is where the heart is. No matter where you go or what you do on this earth, there will always be a part of you that sticks behind, clinging on to what you used to have and giving it sentimentality. And no matter what kind of life you develop overtime, whether its luxurious or problematic… there will always be an inkling to return to where it all began, to bask in the familiarity of our youth and experience the lasting value of those days gone by.
Ever since Heatstroke in Norfolk, Virginia, I’ve been feeling whole for the first time in over three years. I finally feel cleansed… as if my former self has been resurrected and the torturous memories of yesterday have been completely extinguished. But it wasn’t until I decided to return here to Manchester… to my first and true home… that I realized I was more free than I ever felt before. I realized I was more free from the demons that plagued my mind the night I made a self-proclaimed God tap out, subsequently making him accept he was a defeated, mortal shell of a man.
Walking these streets, visiting establishments that I used to frequent so long ago… I felt ordinary. I felt like I was unimportant… just another person simply getting by with whatever resources were available to them. And that feeling… satisfied me. I wasn’t yearning for special treatment or craving attention. For once it was great to actually exist as an average man… because in reality, that’s all I am... and all I will ever be.
Most of these wrestlers that remain within our sport today… they’ve developed a certain identity that they want everyone else to remember and respect. Some want to be referred to as Queens… others Kings… and then you have those that borrow from religion and mythology, attaching alternate names to their profile in order to gain interest and support… or to simply generate fear.
I’m not a Silver Knight. I’m not even a Dark Knight. I’m not even a King or a God Slayer… I’m just an ordinary man. People can refer to me however they wish, but I’m not going to stress myself out becoming what they vicariously desire.
Which brings me to you, Joanna. Horsewoman War. The Warchild. Pretty unnerving names for someone of your stature and expertise. You refer to me as a dark knight with blackened armor, but what you seem to forget is that you’re the one who brandishes that warhammer like a soldier marching into battle. You’re the one decorating yourself in proverbial armor, fighting for the Horsewomen and fighting to maintain the ideals of chaos. You resemble a knight on a crusade at this current time, Joanna. Whether that’s intentional or not… you cannot deny the irony.
The thing is… I can’t identify with you on a personal level, Joanna. I can’t even relate to you on a sympathetic level. I have absolutely no idea what goes through that mind of yours every hour of every day. I’ve heard stories about your past and the poor state you were left in on more than one occasion. But there’s one thing in particular that makes your skin crawl to this day, Joanna… a place you were forced to accept as your home until you were able to leave its dark, deranged confines. No part of your heart or soul was left in that place, and I’m sure it does not hold any sentimental value whatsoever.
Now fortunately for you… you were welcomed into a new home by people that actually cared about your existence, unlike those who turned their backs on you and left you rotting away in a cesspool of corruption. And I suspect, and rightfully so, that you resent anyone else who had a better life… just like I did.
I’m not rubbing salt into re-opened wounds, Joanna. That is not my intention. I simply want you to understand that… while I was kept within a loving home around family members that would never consider casting me out into the unknown… I still didn’t have it easy. I don’t want to compare our lives because we’re too far apart to find any childhood similarities, and it would be an insult to suggest that we’ve shared similar setbacks and tragedies. I just want you to understand that I earned my way into this business against numerous odds. I earned my way to the top of the mountain, and I earned the right to keep my career going for as long as I’m able to compete.
At Breakthrough #50… a milestone event that will take place at Homewood Field in Baltimore, Maryland… you will know first-hand why I earned everything I’ve wanted in this life. Obviously you put forward the challenge, and I dutifully accepted. I never back down from challenges, as I’ve said countless times throughout my career. But why you? What benefit could I possibly gain from suplexing you around in that ring and beating you clean in the middle? I’ll tell you what I gain. Absolute respect.
There was a comment you made not too long ago that simply said… I would not be your biggest challenge at Homewood Field in Baltimore. Are you really taking your focus off something you personally asked for, Joanna? Surely you understand how underestimation can lead to catastrophe? That seems rather counter-intuitive for someone who wants to defeat me. But if we’re going to be equal about this… then I can simply say that you won’t be my biggest threat, sweetheart. I have slain more ferocious monsters and nightmare fuel than you over the years.
Or am I simply misinterpreting the message?
I know you want to create chaos and anarchy, but… if you felt that sort of statement would bring out the fury I’ve recently erased from my system, just as a way to test my mind, then you are sadly mistaken. And I truly think that’s what you intend to do. After all, you put the invitation on the table for me to join your cause. You offered a position of power that you believed would suit me. Why not give me that push? Why not push the buttons and see what sets the fires alight inside?
Unfortunately, you won’t get any meaningful flames, Joanna. You will not create fury within me. But don’t get me wrong… I am certainly not going to act soft with you. I'm not intimidated by your shenanigans or that warhammer you carry around. I've recently had my hands on one, for starters. But your physical prowess and unwillingness to stop fighting is eventually going to be halted. Simply put, I’m going to do what I always do… be the best I can be and give my opponents a match they’ll never forget. And I won’t be donning armor or carrying a sword before we engage in battle. I’m just going to be me… an ordinary man, an ordinary Professional Wrestler with a veteran instinct and years of experience under his belt. And I will be fighting to earn absolute respect. Just like I always have.
Now I don’t expect you to do what I’ve done. I don’t expect you to venture off and explore the past, since that’s a door you want to leave firmly closed. But what I do expect you to do is realize what will be in store for you at Homewood Field. I’ll be honest… our contest will be an intriguing one. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to share the ring with you, and soon enough I’ll know. But you will also know that Manchester is not just where I’ve stored part of my heart. I’ve also stored part of my heart inside that wrestling ring, and it will remain there until my dying day.
So you don’t have to go home, Joanna… you’ll be entering mine. You have been invited to personally cause mayhem within my abode… just like you promised you would. But when you start the war, sweetheart… I will be the one to end it.
And when it’s all said and done, you wouldn’t have been slain by a knight. You would have been slain… by just an ordinary man.