Post by nickyd on Aug 5, 2019 21:02:38 GMT -5
Is he just bitter?
Deeper than that?
Surely a nearly 42 year old with an 18-year history in this sport has to have something more of a reason to be the asshole he is today.
Fuck you.
Fuck rabbit holes.
But down we go, Mr. Aries.
Pretending was never in the cards, kids.
Here I am, envision it now, fuckers. I stand before a crowded church full of people who loved the man I never got to call father, because the low life sack of shit left me on someone else’s doorstep after my mother passed tragically, and yet years later, when we met, it was almost as if I was required to be in awe of the man known as Aaron Gladdis, who returned to my life to somehow claim all the fame, fortune, and notoriety I had build.
The dirtbag tried to become famous off of how fucking infamous I had become. Weird shit, right? But I stood there, in front of all those people, and perhaps in honor of my mother, who loved this piece of garbage, honored him how she would, I think.
I don’t have daddy issues. I just don’t trust a soul.
From that cliché white church in the suburbs of California, we are now in the dirty streets of China, where children beg for food, and people, like me, fight in the streets, in the underground sects, to survive. I fought alone. I fought with every bit of valor and strength in my body. I earned my fucking keep, and learned what it would take to survive and excel in the world, in this sport.
I’m not a fucking sob story.
I’m a goddamn realist.
There I stood, in the middle of this cold, unforgiving street, bloody, tired, hungry.
I pick up my head, just in time to see a gun pulled at me from just enough distance to put me in the ground.
BANG.
And I awake again, here, in San Diego, in a cold sweat.
I am alive in spite of this cruel, cruel world.
I do not wake my wife. Taylor is my rock, as cliché as it is and as much as I hate that shit.
As an on call hospice nurse, sometimes she just gets to sleep, other times, like now, she has been on the phone and visiting patients until 3am.
The sun just barely peeks through the window, as daylight crawls to life, and I know it is time for me to get up and face the day, for the visions of the past will not allow my sorry ass to sleep any longer.
The coffee is brewed, my shorts, sandals, and ice blue “FUCK TRINITY WRESTLING” t-shirt (it comes in a few other colors now, only $19.99, BUY, BUY, BUY FUCKERS!) are on my body, and I sit alone on the dock of my property overlooking the Pacific Ocean.
“Television. Of all the themes in all the land, of all the ideas floating in that pea brain head of yours, that’s what you come up with. Does anybody even know what the fuck a Persephone is? Is it is a phone that is kept in a purse? A purse that doubles as a phone? Or just another “mysterious” member of this freak show Haven cult wrapped up in a shiny wrapper of happiness and psychosis? You decide, folks, but chances are, just like me, you’ll wonder why you should give a fuck.”
I turn with a sigh, resting the cup of coffee between my legs as I sit Indian style on this dock.
“Persey, can I call you that? Eh, fuck, I don’t care. Allow me to offer you some sage advice, toots, don’t, just fucking don’t, ok? Don’t try. Don’t do. Sure as fuck don’t try to psychoanalyze me. Because you don’t know me, and since you’re not much different than the rest of those sex slave losers in that little Kool-Aid drinking, LARP loving, senpai bullshit cult of yours, I don’t know you either. But I don’t live down some little rabbit hole girlie, where the world is this running analogy, or this attempt at a bargain bin thriller flick that even Netflix won’t carry. I live in reality, away from television, and any bullshit themes or theories about it in relation to my opponents.”
“What I need you to do is wake the fuck up. Wake the fuck up and realize that I, Duncan Aries, the SAVIOR of this shithole company, has zero fucks, zero qualms, zero concerns, and zero worry, about just rearing back, slapping you across your stupid ass face, kicking you square in the cunt, and pinning you to become TV Champion. While you’re off in outer space, or having visions of glory holes and what aliens smell like, I will be beating your ass, and not in the way you like, sister. No, not at all.”
A carefree wink. I give the bitch a cheers with my cup, and drink up.
“I’m not all about titles and victories. I’m not all about this. I have a life that doesn’t involve bullshit analogies, and catering to the whims of people who think of me as dispensable. If anyone or any thing is living a lie, Fuckaphone, it is you and the idiots you surround yourself with. Like fuck, go to an adult theater and screw yourselves into you die. I don’t care. Just don’t play armchair psychiatrist/freak show, while parading around like some basket case that deserves some kind of respect. You don’t. In fact, chances are you like being treated like dirt, which is going to be fun for me, when I cave your head in with kicks.”
“I’m not lost, Persey, and I don’t need you to help me, at least, not in any way you seem to suggest. I’m not hollow either. But you know what, you can help me, by standing still just long enough for me to punt that Skater Boi loving head of yours clean off your scrawny shoulders to see if it is you that is hollow. I mean, probably, right? There’s not much rolling around up there if you think someone using you for all your worth is a friend, but none of you fucktards in Haven make any sense. Losers stick with losers, I guess. My life is still fighting to survive, bitch. You’re just another chapter in my never ending story of it.”
Christ. I’ve wasted enough daylight already. Can’t all these Haven cunts just fall off a cliff already?
Oh yeah, that cookie cutter bitch. A sip of Ol’ Joe before I deliver the truth.
“Scott Slayer, ooh spooky name. Fuck, kid, did you miss the originality parade and get hit by the same boring bullshit train or what? Scott Slayer, the anarchist, the man who doesn’t like rules. Does anybody in this place even fucking try anymore? Or is just a few simple moves and a gimmick that has been done over more times with the same amount or boredom in the vagueness supposed to do? Newsflash, fuckers, it never does. Never. Not now. Not ever. So I raise your vague anarchist bullshit, Slayer, with a hearty dose of why should anybody care?”
“I mean, are you a goddamn robot or something? Because I have seen this piss poor attempt at a pro wrestling career, the same shade of suck, the same scent of shit, that I swear there is a factory in Flint building you assholes from the ground up, then recycling the crap every single time it doesn’t work. There is nothing special about you, Scott, and in a few weeks, you will be another Trinity Wrestling failure in a roster I’m sure will be chock full of them. I guess how stupid you look, and probably sound, is because you feel there should be no rule against being as fucking stupid as you are. I mean, that’s just one of the rules you hate right? The other is probably being a half decent wrestler too. Man, anarchy sounds more and more like covering up for all your shortcomings, but what do I know? I’m just here to kick your ass while you mumble about rules and “burning it down” or some shit, right?”
I gaze out into the ocean, hearing the echoes of my past. People telling me how great a eulogy I gave for a man I barely knew, a man I had no respect for, having left me for dead as a baby.
I brought myself to prominence. I brought myself out of death’s door and into the fierce light of thriving existence.
I faked smiles. Pretended I gave a damn, until with each passing moment, each chapter of my life, it began to fade away into the body of a man who lives here in reality, as cold as it may be. I gave up the façade, and became Duncan Aries, “The Wild Card”, the one who pisses off the world that pissed on him, and the only piece of this chess board called pro wrestling that matters.
As I continue my gaze, I think back to those years of my life on the streets, the hunger, the pain, the suffering I chose by not giving in to my situations. I didn’t just deal with the cards dealt, I became the fucking house and made my own rules so that nobody got the best of me out there. If I died, it would have been because I chose to.
“Scott Slayer, Persephone, I don’t know, and I don’t care, what your purposes are in my career. I can tell you I don’t need my boot up your asses to say I’ve had a great career. Neither of you will be a career highlight, and will be quickly forgotten as my star continues to shine, despite the fact I am fully aware that I am NOT the star this company wanted, but I’m the one it needs. Trinity Wrestling is a little world filled with freaks, morons, jackasses, and people that flat out don’t belong in the same ring as me. Trinity Wrestling needs a qualified asshole to bring it out of the darkness of mediocrity and into the light of prominence, and it just so happens I am highly fluent in asshole and will use my skills to make this company better, and how does one begin doing that? By taking out the trash.”
“Don’t worry about why, why does Duncan Aries troll all of us dumb motherfuckers on Twitter, dropping truth bombs left and right? Ask yourself how, how did I find myself standing in the same ring with a man who is going to humiliate me? How did I find myself in a situation where my piss poor existence can flash before my eyes in the beating of a life time?”
The last bit of coffee, morning continues to arrive.
“The truth, Trinity Wrestling, is you need me, you need Duncan Aries, and the Aries Project in this company begins with me taking the TV Title, making it THE championship in this company, because the rest, it just doesn’t matter. I matter. And I don’t live or die for the accolades, kids, I live and die for the fight, I live and die to prove a point, the same point I’ve been proving night in and night out for the last 18 years.”
“Why? Why does the front office hate me? Why does this roster, deep down, fear me? And why does all of this come so easily to me, outshining the other so-called “champions” in this company?”
Fuck this company’s front office too. Don’t some of them flirt with the freaks in Haven? Do these people need to get laid? Yeah. Yeah they do.
“Because I’m Duncan Aries, that’s why!”
Ah, another morning in San Diego has come, and I am still Duncan Aries, while the rest of you are untalented fucktards pretending to be wrestlers.
Deeper than that?
Surely a nearly 42 year old with an 18-year history in this sport has to have something more of a reason to be the asshole he is today.
Fuck you.
Fuck rabbit holes.
But down we go, Mr. Aries.
Pretending was never in the cards, kids.
Here I am, envision it now, fuckers. I stand before a crowded church full of people who loved the man I never got to call father, because the low life sack of shit left me on someone else’s doorstep after my mother passed tragically, and yet years later, when we met, it was almost as if I was required to be in awe of the man known as Aaron Gladdis, who returned to my life to somehow claim all the fame, fortune, and notoriety I had build.
The dirtbag tried to become famous off of how fucking infamous I had become. Weird shit, right? But I stood there, in front of all those people, and perhaps in honor of my mother, who loved this piece of garbage, honored him how she would, I think.
I don’t have daddy issues. I just don’t trust a soul.
From that cliché white church in the suburbs of California, we are now in the dirty streets of China, where children beg for food, and people, like me, fight in the streets, in the underground sects, to survive. I fought alone. I fought with every bit of valor and strength in my body. I earned my fucking keep, and learned what it would take to survive and excel in the world, in this sport.
I’m not a fucking sob story.
I’m a goddamn realist.
There I stood, in the middle of this cold, unforgiving street, bloody, tired, hungry.
I pick up my head, just in time to see a gun pulled at me from just enough distance to put me in the ground.
BANG.
And I awake again, here, in San Diego, in a cold sweat.
I am alive in spite of this cruel, cruel world.
I do not wake my wife. Taylor is my rock, as cliché as it is and as much as I hate that shit.
As an on call hospice nurse, sometimes she just gets to sleep, other times, like now, she has been on the phone and visiting patients until 3am.
The sun just barely peeks through the window, as daylight crawls to life, and I know it is time for me to get up and face the day, for the visions of the past will not allow my sorry ass to sleep any longer.
The coffee is brewed, my shorts, sandals, and ice blue “FUCK TRINITY WRESTLING” t-shirt (it comes in a few other colors now, only $19.99, BUY, BUY, BUY FUCKERS!) are on my body, and I sit alone on the dock of my property overlooking the Pacific Ocean.
“Television. Of all the themes in all the land, of all the ideas floating in that pea brain head of yours, that’s what you come up with. Does anybody even know what the fuck a Persephone is? Is it is a phone that is kept in a purse? A purse that doubles as a phone? Or just another “mysterious” member of this freak show Haven cult wrapped up in a shiny wrapper of happiness and psychosis? You decide, folks, but chances are, just like me, you’ll wonder why you should give a fuck.”
I turn with a sigh, resting the cup of coffee between my legs as I sit Indian style on this dock.
“Persey, can I call you that? Eh, fuck, I don’t care. Allow me to offer you some sage advice, toots, don’t, just fucking don’t, ok? Don’t try. Don’t do. Sure as fuck don’t try to psychoanalyze me. Because you don’t know me, and since you’re not much different than the rest of those sex slave losers in that little Kool-Aid drinking, LARP loving, senpai bullshit cult of yours, I don’t know you either. But I don’t live down some little rabbit hole girlie, where the world is this running analogy, or this attempt at a bargain bin thriller flick that even Netflix won’t carry. I live in reality, away from television, and any bullshit themes or theories about it in relation to my opponents.”
“What I need you to do is wake the fuck up. Wake the fuck up and realize that I, Duncan Aries, the SAVIOR of this shithole company, has zero fucks, zero qualms, zero concerns, and zero worry, about just rearing back, slapping you across your stupid ass face, kicking you square in the cunt, and pinning you to become TV Champion. While you’re off in outer space, or having visions of glory holes and what aliens smell like, I will be beating your ass, and not in the way you like, sister. No, not at all.”
A carefree wink. I give the bitch a cheers with my cup, and drink up.
“I’m not all about titles and victories. I’m not all about this. I have a life that doesn’t involve bullshit analogies, and catering to the whims of people who think of me as dispensable. If anyone or any thing is living a lie, Fuckaphone, it is you and the idiots you surround yourself with. Like fuck, go to an adult theater and screw yourselves into you die. I don’t care. Just don’t play armchair psychiatrist/freak show, while parading around like some basket case that deserves some kind of respect. You don’t. In fact, chances are you like being treated like dirt, which is going to be fun for me, when I cave your head in with kicks.”
“I’m not lost, Persey, and I don’t need you to help me, at least, not in any way you seem to suggest. I’m not hollow either. But you know what, you can help me, by standing still just long enough for me to punt that Skater Boi loving head of yours clean off your scrawny shoulders to see if it is you that is hollow. I mean, probably, right? There’s not much rolling around up there if you think someone using you for all your worth is a friend, but none of you fucktards in Haven make any sense. Losers stick with losers, I guess. My life is still fighting to survive, bitch. You’re just another chapter in my never ending story of it.”
Christ. I’ve wasted enough daylight already. Can’t all these Haven cunts just fall off a cliff already?
Oh yeah, that cookie cutter bitch. A sip of Ol’ Joe before I deliver the truth.
“Scott Slayer, ooh spooky name. Fuck, kid, did you miss the originality parade and get hit by the same boring bullshit train or what? Scott Slayer, the anarchist, the man who doesn’t like rules. Does anybody in this place even fucking try anymore? Or is just a few simple moves and a gimmick that has been done over more times with the same amount or boredom in the vagueness supposed to do? Newsflash, fuckers, it never does. Never. Not now. Not ever. So I raise your vague anarchist bullshit, Slayer, with a hearty dose of why should anybody care?”
“I mean, are you a goddamn robot or something? Because I have seen this piss poor attempt at a pro wrestling career, the same shade of suck, the same scent of shit, that I swear there is a factory in Flint building you assholes from the ground up, then recycling the crap every single time it doesn’t work. There is nothing special about you, Scott, and in a few weeks, you will be another Trinity Wrestling failure in a roster I’m sure will be chock full of them. I guess how stupid you look, and probably sound, is because you feel there should be no rule against being as fucking stupid as you are. I mean, that’s just one of the rules you hate right? The other is probably being a half decent wrestler too. Man, anarchy sounds more and more like covering up for all your shortcomings, but what do I know? I’m just here to kick your ass while you mumble about rules and “burning it down” or some shit, right?”
I gaze out into the ocean, hearing the echoes of my past. People telling me how great a eulogy I gave for a man I barely knew, a man I had no respect for, having left me for dead as a baby.
I brought myself to prominence. I brought myself out of death’s door and into the fierce light of thriving existence.
I faked smiles. Pretended I gave a damn, until with each passing moment, each chapter of my life, it began to fade away into the body of a man who lives here in reality, as cold as it may be. I gave up the façade, and became Duncan Aries, “The Wild Card”, the one who pisses off the world that pissed on him, and the only piece of this chess board called pro wrestling that matters.
As I continue my gaze, I think back to those years of my life on the streets, the hunger, the pain, the suffering I chose by not giving in to my situations. I didn’t just deal with the cards dealt, I became the fucking house and made my own rules so that nobody got the best of me out there. If I died, it would have been because I chose to.
“Scott Slayer, Persephone, I don’t know, and I don’t care, what your purposes are in my career. I can tell you I don’t need my boot up your asses to say I’ve had a great career. Neither of you will be a career highlight, and will be quickly forgotten as my star continues to shine, despite the fact I am fully aware that I am NOT the star this company wanted, but I’m the one it needs. Trinity Wrestling is a little world filled with freaks, morons, jackasses, and people that flat out don’t belong in the same ring as me. Trinity Wrestling needs a qualified asshole to bring it out of the darkness of mediocrity and into the light of prominence, and it just so happens I am highly fluent in asshole and will use my skills to make this company better, and how does one begin doing that? By taking out the trash.”
“Don’t worry about why, why does Duncan Aries troll all of us dumb motherfuckers on Twitter, dropping truth bombs left and right? Ask yourself how, how did I find myself standing in the same ring with a man who is going to humiliate me? How did I find myself in a situation where my piss poor existence can flash before my eyes in the beating of a life time?”
The last bit of coffee, morning continues to arrive.
“The truth, Trinity Wrestling, is you need me, you need Duncan Aries, and the Aries Project in this company begins with me taking the TV Title, making it THE championship in this company, because the rest, it just doesn’t matter. I matter. And I don’t live or die for the accolades, kids, I live and die for the fight, I live and die to prove a point, the same point I’ve been proving night in and night out for the last 18 years.”
“Why? Why does the front office hate me? Why does this roster, deep down, fear me? And why does all of this come so easily to me, outshining the other so-called “champions” in this company?”
Fuck this company’s front office too. Don’t some of them flirt with the freaks in Haven? Do these people need to get laid? Yeah. Yeah they do.
“Because I’m Duncan Aries, that’s why!”
Ah, another morning in San Diego has come, and I am still Duncan Aries, while the rest of you are untalented fucktards pretending to be wrestlers.