Post by CM Poor on Oct 13, 2014 12:35:09 GMT -5
"Where ya been?"
In a word?
"Out."
"Pointed - dipsh*t. Say, for fun, that I came to, finding myself accompanied by not but furniture. I'd ask again - where ya been?"
I found myself floored - not by the callous remark, or the fact that he was upright and breathing, or, for a glance's notice, the lack of any discernible sight or scent of vomit - but by the way he seemed to go in and out with the timbre of his speech, a city rat one minute, and suave socialite the next. It made me wonder, given that I hadn't decided to leave him then and there to rot back in Indianapolis, if I'd ever find him detoxified to the extent that maybe I'd hear just exactly how he talked to a guy, one to one.
"Went for a run."
At three in the morning. In the rain. In an unfamiliar city. In an unfamiliar country. In an altogether unfamiliar part of the world. At that point, I was still trying to keep up appearances, trying to paint myself unbreakable both on and off the screen. I'd also, after spending somewhere in the market of just over a week or so with the guy, had become accustomed to the fact that my friend there would, like clockwork slightly off its cogs, slip in and out of consciousness for hours at a time, and so I let myself remain tightly hinged following his atomic bombshell of a revelation, just long enough to watch for that idle, tell-tale tilt of the head, at which point I could tell you from across the room, looking at the back of his skull that his eyes would be rolling back, staring right at me were the dome translucent, and that so long as he kept to the side he could go unmonitored for the duration of his toxic little nap, and I ran. Out the door, down the stairs, across the lot, and into the street. I ran until my legs had just about had enough of carrying the load of me and my emotions, at which point they'd soldiered me right back to where I'd started, the now barren, empty arena, the only remaining signs of activity brought on by the last few WFWF production trucks trickling away from the loading area, and the flickering marquee advertising upcoming events shining like a beacon through the haze of fog and rain.
What was I doing? That was twice now - twice that this guy had let me come back from putting it all on the line just to make a living to be greeted by any variety of yards ale quality home decor being chucked in my direction because his addled mind still could string together a cohesive memory of a timeframe longer than half an hour.
"FRANK!!"
"I told you that's not my name!!!"
He didn't lunge, not like he had back in Indianapolis. He just stood there, heaving at the chest, his arms curled out, looking like some vagrant linebacker waiting to take out the next living thing that came within arm's reach, which certainly wasn't going to be me.
"Yeah, we established that, and then you passed out for almost a week...so what is it? You give me a name, and I'll call you by your name, pal. Just lay it out there..."
And lay it out there he did. Reeling from the bomb he dropped right then and there, I hadn't even given myself the chance to let it all sink in. Just as the realization had begun sweeping over me that I'd just stepped into the ring with Dave Demento, the WFWF International Champion, architect of the Saviors of Salvation, and walked out the victor, I'd turned the key to my room and had once again had a household object lobbed at my head - the type of thing that'll just sort of shatter any semblance of a cloud nine energy high.
I guess Dave and I sort of had that in common, now. It had seemed lately that he could barely escape the ring without someone waiting in the wings looking to finish the job. I hadn't come to the WFWF expecting to walk away unscathed, physically or psychologically, but I thought for certain that I'd at least be hunted down for who I was or what I stood for - maybe take the boots from some guy on the opposite end of the moral spectrum. Instead, I go toe-to-toe with a guy who's ideals are pretty in line with my own even if the execution raises an eyebrow or two, and the only guy looking to lay the hurt on me is the one sitting in with a roof overhead and a load of junk food on his plate on my dime on account of my charitable nature.
"What're ya, mad or something?"
"That'd be a fair word, yeah. Mad works. Astute observation."
"Thought you were some sorta holy roller or somethin'..."
Heard that one before. I'm not gonna look you in the eye and tell you that, by and large, us devouts aren't typically good natured, easy going, and generally more likely take to a downpour like a duck on a summer afternoon, but one of the beautiful, and maybe mysterious things behind the notion of intelligent design is that we are all, believers and non-believers alike, imperfect, fallible, entirely prone humans, subject one and all to the same Vegas odds of good, bad, and downright ugly days. Even those of us who walk the path of light are going to be happy when things go, upset when they go wrong, and occasionally act out when our worlds are turned entirely on their heads.
In his miscalculated indifference, he'd nailed it. I was fuming. At myself - had I lost sight of my purpose? I'd come to wrestle and inspire, and instead I was feeling like something of a sucker, having just had my goodwill and charity shatter on the floor of my cheap hotel in shards of broken glass and twisted filament. At my companion - why couldn't he see what had fallen into his lap? Would he really be so content to just go back to the streets, to lose himself to the fog and the swill at the bottom of another empty bottle? Surely a warm bed and the amenities of home, however limited, had to outweigh the unforgiving concrete and the bristling cold coming in on the tails of September's passing.
Finally, and maybe most of all, I was seething with anger at God. For thirteen years of discovery, soul searching, Bible study and enlightening conversation, I'd come to rely on the fact that at every difficult pass, I could turn to God and find guidance for lack of direction, and light where there'd only been darkness. Maybe it was the fact that I was soaked to the bone, or the fact that I still had to sidestep over shards of shattered lightbulb, or the fact that my legs felt entirely ready, along with all my drive, direction, and willpower to just give out on me, but even I couldn't muster the want nor the will to speak to the Big Boss at that very moment, and instead, I decided to go face to face with the brick of fabric this hotel called a mattress as I collapsed upon the nearest bed, not bothering to even shed my dripping shirt.
"Hungry?"
The unmistakable sound of a bag of chips being shaken just beside my head was enough to jar to up to roll over and back up to the wall. I don't know whether the guy had a keen sense of timing or if he was just reading me like a book, but I hadn't even before the show. Certainly skipped catering on the way out, and then, well, all of this had happened, so yeah, four plus hours on no consumption was enough to make that bag of tortilla rounds look pretty appetizing right about that time.
"Any salsa?"
"Don't think you bought any."
"Mm. Stupid."
"Lot on your mind, I bet. Can't be easy, lugging my sorry ass along for the ride. I never got to thank you."
"Must have forgot....what with the lamp, the alarm clock, all that."
"Hey man, lay off, alright? I've done this once before, and it's not exactly easy. That time you're getting to yourself ain't exactly sweet dreams for me. Some scary sh*t the other side of those eyelids."
"Right. Sorry."
"Heh. Look at us. Stumbling over who needs to apologize to who. Too short sighted to say we're all we got?"
"I dunno. You caught the show, yeah? Dave Demento seems like a pretty nice guy..."
"Yeah, don't take this the wrong way, guy, but I don't think you'd pass initiation when it came time to puff the magic dragon."
Truer words. The opportunity was probably right there - by all accounts, Nikki Dean wouldn't be returning to the ring for sometime, and consequently, the Saviors were down a soldier. If it were an argument of ideals and ideals alone, I'd be a fool to not pursue their ranks, but, as I mentioned, there was the execution. The distractions. Something about Penny Shannon's second hand smoke and the contact high of attrition just didn't seem to gel with my approach, and so while we may have stood on the same side of the line in the sand, Daniel Kirkbride, Savior of Salvation was altogether not on that horizon.
"Fair enough."
"Y'know my shoulder still f*ckin' smarts? You lock 'em hard kid. You might be cut out for this sh*t."
"Guess you'd know, huh? Or are you gonna spring a new name on me tomorrow morning, too?"
"Third time's a charm, kid. All outta names I'm afraid..."
"Gonna give it the old honest college try then?"
"Haha, f*ck you, I'm David Brennan."
If there was ever an opportunity for me to walk away, clean slate, dignity in tact, if not a tiny bit bruised, then by the time I'd discovered exactly who I'd taken on as a companion on my travels, that opportunity had long since passed me by.
Walking out with a victory over the International Champion was something of a double edged sword. On the one hand, there's an argument for the fulfillment of exactly what I'd come here to do - rise through the ranks. See through any challenges that are laid down in my path, and, God willing, persevere. Succeed. Become the alternative to the stars I'd come up watching, and inspire the next kid down south who thinks his moral compass is perpetually stuck pointed opposite the direction of the mass majority to step up and push himself to the very limit, and through actions alone, through self awareness and acceptance, enact change wherever opportunity shines.
The other hand's got to get cut to make it work. Dave Demento posed the first threat to my run that was perhaps not coincidental. A newcomer to any promotion is going to have to run the gauntlet of opponents with no real bearing, no real consequence, save of course the intangible reward of focal recognition. Beat Enchanted. Gain a little traction. Pin Nikki Dean. Pass go. Collect $200. Topple Gabriel Black on the biggest stage in the industry. Maybe crack the ceiling of recognition. Prove your ground against Joshua Dean. Dig your heels in as a credible opponent.
Best Dave Demento. The International Champion.
All the sudden, you're on The Final Revolution's radar.
It was never my intention to get involved in the formidable war that Trace Demon and his ilk had chosen to wage upon the WFWF. I'd have been perfectly content to make my waves while systematically circumventing that whole hornet's nest. I may not have seen eye to eye with the ends that they felt justified their means, but in my eyes, there was simply no tearing down the nest without running the risk of getting stung. Comparatively, Trace Demon and Joe Bishop were legends next to the likes of myself, and while I'd never shy away from the opportunity to step into the main event, I was exactly rearing to irk their ire.
But I beat Dave Demento.
That said different things to different people. To me, it offered the affirmation that maybe, just maybe, I could do this. That I was good enough. That stepping up to the upper echelon, to the likes of Demento or Penny Shannon or Cameron Stone wouldn't amount to me being symbolically fed to the dogs. Perhaps it offered a varied perspective to the WFWF crowds who may have thought, through no harboring of ill will, that maybe the kid from Texas with a penchant for being good to others and a healthy appreciation for his role in the scope of life and mortality just wasn't cut out to take that next step. I reminded myself that morning to call my parents, to see if maybe that win perhaps solidified in their mind an understanding that perhaps, if for nothing more than a love for the spirit of competition and self improvement, this was their son's calling in life.
For all the good that could have come with a win over the reigning International champion, I couldn't help but shudder in overwhelming anxiety over what that victory meant in the eyes of Joe Bishop.
I won't sit here and try and tell you what a massive Joe Bishop fan I was. If I'm honest, and it sort of pains me still to speak so blindly ill of someone I never had the opportunity to really know, as a fan, I always viewed Joe Bishop as, well, sort of forgettable. Perpetually second best. Always on the cusp, toeing the line, and never quite managing to take that next step, that great big leap that would elevate him to the big picture, the main event, to top stardom. You make these assessments as a fan, more so when you yourself are looking to "break in" to the business, as I was. You study beyond the ring, beyond the outward portrayal, to see who's got that hidden spark. Who to be like. Who to emulate. Who to set yourself apart from. I never had any doubt in my mind that Bishop had the talent that it took to be here, but for each step forward that he took, accompanied by another step back, condemning himself to something of a sedentary career trajectory, Joe always struck me as the next big thing that never quite would be.
Leave it to the craft of Trace Demon to prove me wrong.
It always struck me that Joe Bishop would need to do something rash, something unexpected in order to break the chains that held him back and capitalize on his clear abundance of talent - the sort of thing that you may have seen come in to play right around the time I'd made my debut with the return of Dave Demento. Prior to his 2014 return, Demento had left the company all but the butt end of a joke, but with a little time off and a renewed sense of determination and a cause worth fighting for, he catapulted himself right back into the spotlight right off the bat, never once giving the toils of the undercard a second glance. As Joe Bishop floundered, I'd come to fully expect a similar rebirth from him. He'd managed to climb so far, only to sort of fall stagnant around the International division. Surely, a little time off and a renewed sense of purpose might have made him a sure fire lock for a World title run.
Instead? Well, you know what we got...
The biggest shock to me, with Joe Bishop aligning himself with Trace Demon's Final Revolution, didn't come off the notion that Joe wanted more for himself. That's practically par for the course in this industry, and anyone who doesn't desire that sort of upward momentum has likely set out on a career path that will lead to a very unfulfilling conclusion. No, what took me about Joe making the moves that he did was the fact that he felt persuaded enough, and found it in him to turn his back on all that he'd accomplished to set out to strike fire to the very company that put him where he was. Surely he couldn't have anticipated a greater payoff that what he got. Trace Demon was never going to step aside and let Bishop into the World title picture when his own shoes very plainly occupied that standing point, and so Joe, for all his efforts, for all he'd turned his back on, was left to once again toil in the International Title picture, to the degree that when push came to shove, he had to finally exit stage left and leave his title behind in the hands of a man who made no bones about taking it from him.
Dave Demento beat Joe Bishop.
I beat Dave Demento.
In regard to Dave Demento, I spoke a lot about inevitability. The fact that though we may have been in separate wavelengths, ultimately, when the line is drawn, we were on the same side, and those minute but altogether jarring differences would ultimately lead us to, at one point or another, state each other down from opposite corners of the ring.
I never factored the Joe Bishop equation. I never had any intention on turning up on his radar, but just like that...
... 1 ...
... 2 ...
... 3 ...
...there we were.
My career in the WFWF was expanding at a rate I had never, in a thousand years, counted on. I'd have to remove the boots of the entire roster to count on fingers and toes the number of guys who'd come before me and toiled for years to make a name for themselves before the prospect of being thrust into any title picture ever arose - if it arose at all. No sooner had I made a promising debut, tucking a few victories under my belt, and all the sudden the question "Who Deserves it More?" was broadcast above the listing for my upcoming match at Men & Monsters. That's a lot to take in, especially when you couple it against the circumstances that had since made my travels all the more weary.
This was now my life. I'd taken in an inebriated vagrant off the streets of New York in a show of charity and sympathy, and I had inadvertently gotten myself mixed up in one of the premiere showdowns in the WFWF at the time by simply going out there, week in and week out, and being myself. So much had changed in such a short span of time between my coming to the WFWF, a relative nobody, and pulling an upset over a perennial jobber to where I now stood on the card. My travels were no longer my own. Through my own act of charity, I'd expanded the scope of who I know in life to include this vagrant, foul mouthed, untrustworthy shell of a man. For all his transgressions, I'd taken up a responsibility to him, and to abandon him on some arbitrary stop on the open road would be a front in the face of everything I'd been taught, everything I sought to teach, and the output I sought to emanate by simply living life.
To walk away would put a blemish on all I'd accomplished up until that point. An undefeated streak. Constant upward momentum. The fans at my side. It would also lend credence to everything the Final Revolution stood for - everything they sought to destroy. I'd never spoken publicly about it. I'd never taken sides, but the simple fact was that, whether I liked it or not, the WFWF was on the brink of war once more, Trace Demon once again at the helm of half the theater, and he'd taken up arms with Joe Bishop in an attempt to strengthen the resolve of his movement. Those that stood by would be little more than collateral damage. I couldn't - rather, I wouldn't subject myself to stand quietly by when those that fight for something good, something better get persecuted for taking up that side of the fight. It wasn't in my nature. It defied all that I believed, and for better or for worse, with only five matches to my increasingly familiar name, I was in too deep to sit idly by and become collateral damage to what I refused to let become the "Final" Revolution.
In a word?
"Out."
"Pointed - dipsh*t. Say, for fun, that I came to, finding myself accompanied by not but furniture. I'd ask again - where ya been?"
I found myself floored - not by the callous remark, or the fact that he was upright and breathing, or, for a glance's notice, the lack of any discernible sight or scent of vomit - but by the way he seemed to go in and out with the timbre of his speech, a city rat one minute, and suave socialite the next. It made me wonder, given that I hadn't decided to leave him then and there to rot back in Indianapolis, if I'd ever find him detoxified to the extent that maybe I'd hear just exactly how he talked to a guy, one to one.
"Went for a run."
At three in the morning. In the rain. In an unfamiliar city. In an unfamiliar country. In an altogether unfamiliar part of the world. At that point, I was still trying to keep up appearances, trying to paint myself unbreakable both on and off the screen. I'd also, after spending somewhere in the market of just over a week or so with the guy, had become accustomed to the fact that my friend there would, like clockwork slightly off its cogs, slip in and out of consciousness for hours at a time, and so I let myself remain tightly hinged following his atomic bombshell of a revelation, just long enough to watch for that idle, tell-tale tilt of the head, at which point I could tell you from across the room, looking at the back of his skull that his eyes would be rolling back, staring right at me were the dome translucent, and that so long as he kept to the side he could go unmonitored for the duration of his toxic little nap, and I ran. Out the door, down the stairs, across the lot, and into the street. I ran until my legs had just about had enough of carrying the load of me and my emotions, at which point they'd soldiered me right back to where I'd started, the now barren, empty arena, the only remaining signs of activity brought on by the last few WFWF production trucks trickling away from the loading area, and the flickering marquee advertising upcoming events shining like a beacon through the haze of fog and rain.
What was I doing? That was twice now - twice that this guy had let me come back from putting it all on the line just to make a living to be greeted by any variety of yards ale quality home decor being chucked in my direction because his addled mind still could string together a cohesive memory of a timeframe longer than half an hour.
"FRANK!!"
"I told you that's not my name!!!"
He didn't lunge, not like he had back in Indianapolis. He just stood there, heaving at the chest, his arms curled out, looking like some vagrant linebacker waiting to take out the next living thing that came within arm's reach, which certainly wasn't going to be me.
"Yeah, we established that, and then you passed out for almost a week...so what is it? You give me a name, and I'll call you by your name, pal. Just lay it out there..."
And lay it out there he did. Reeling from the bomb he dropped right then and there, I hadn't even given myself the chance to let it all sink in. Just as the realization had begun sweeping over me that I'd just stepped into the ring with Dave Demento, the WFWF International Champion, architect of the Saviors of Salvation, and walked out the victor, I'd turned the key to my room and had once again had a household object lobbed at my head - the type of thing that'll just sort of shatter any semblance of a cloud nine energy high.
I guess Dave and I sort of had that in common, now. It had seemed lately that he could barely escape the ring without someone waiting in the wings looking to finish the job. I hadn't come to the WFWF expecting to walk away unscathed, physically or psychologically, but I thought for certain that I'd at least be hunted down for who I was or what I stood for - maybe take the boots from some guy on the opposite end of the moral spectrum. Instead, I go toe-to-toe with a guy who's ideals are pretty in line with my own even if the execution raises an eyebrow or two, and the only guy looking to lay the hurt on me is the one sitting in with a roof overhead and a load of junk food on his plate on my dime on account of my charitable nature.
"What're ya, mad or something?"
"That'd be a fair word, yeah. Mad works. Astute observation."
"Thought you were some sorta holy roller or somethin'..."
Heard that one before. I'm not gonna look you in the eye and tell you that, by and large, us devouts aren't typically good natured, easy going, and generally more likely take to a downpour like a duck on a summer afternoon, but one of the beautiful, and maybe mysterious things behind the notion of intelligent design is that we are all, believers and non-believers alike, imperfect, fallible, entirely prone humans, subject one and all to the same Vegas odds of good, bad, and downright ugly days. Even those of us who walk the path of light are going to be happy when things go, upset when they go wrong, and occasionally act out when our worlds are turned entirely on their heads.
In his miscalculated indifference, he'd nailed it. I was fuming. At myself - had I lost sight of my purpose? I'd come to wrestle and inspire, and instead I was feeling like something of a sucker, having just had my goodwill and charity shatter on the floor of my cheap hotel in shards of broken glass and twisted filament. At my companion - why couldn't he see what had fallen into his lap? Would he really be so content to just go back to the streets, to lose himself to the fog and the swill at the bottom of another empty bottle? Surely a warm bed and the amenities of home, however limited, had to outweigh the unforgiving concrete and the bristling cold coming in on the tails of September's passing.
Finally, and maybe most of all, I was seething with anger at God. For thirteen years of discovery, soul searching, Bible study and enlightening conversation, I'd come to rely on the fact that at every difficult pass, I could turn to God and find guidance for lack of direction, and light where there'd only been darkness. Maybe it was the fact that I was soaked to the bone, or the fact that I still had to sidestep over shards of shattered lightbulb, or the fact that my legs felt entirely ready, along with all my drive, direction, and willpower to just give out on me, but even I couldn't muster the want nor the will to speak to the Big Boss at that very moment, and instead, I decided to go face to face with the brick of fabric this hotel called a mattress as I collapsed upon the nearest bed, not bothering to even shed my dripping shirt.
"Hungry?"
The unmistakable sound of a bag of chips being shaken just beside my head was enough to jar to up to roll over and back up to the wall. I don't know whether the guy had a keen sense of timing or if he was just reading me like a book, but I hadn't even before the show. Certainly skipped catering on the way out, and then, well, all of this had happened, so yeah, four plus hours on no consumption was enough to make that bag of tortilla rounds look pretty appetizing right about that time.
"Any salsa?"
"Don't think you bought any."
"Mm. Stupid."
"Lot on your mind, I bet. Can't be easy, lugging my sorry ass along for the ride. I never got to thank you."
"Must have forgot....what with the lamp, the alarm clock, all that."
"Hey man, lay off, alright? I've done this once before, and it's not exactly easy. That time you're getting to yourself ain't exactly sweet dreams for me. Some scary sh*t the other side of those eyelids."
"Right. Sorry."
"Heh. Look at us. Stumbling over who needs to apologize to who. Too short sighted to say we're all we got?"
"I dunno. You caught the show, yeah? Dave Demento seems like a pretty nice guy..."
"Yeah, don't take this the wrong way, guy, but I don't think you'd pass initiation when it came time to puff the magic dragon."
Truer words. The opportunity was probably right there - by all accounts, Nikki Dean wouldn't be returning to the ring for sometime, and consequently, the Saviors were down a soldier. If it were an argument of ideals and ideals alone, I'd be a fool to not pursue their ranks, but, as I mentioned, there was the execution. The distractions. Something about Penny Shannon's second hand smoke and the contact high of attrition just didn't seem to gel with my approach, and so while we may have stood on the same side of the line in the sand, Daniel Kirkbride, Savior of Salvation was altogether not on that horizon.
"Fair enough."
"Y'know my shoulder still f*ckin' smarts? You lock 'em hard kid. You might be cut out for this sh*t."
"Guess you'd know, huh? Or are you gonna spring a new name on me tomorrow morning, too?"
"Third time's a charm, kid. All outta names I'm afraid..."
"Gonna give it the old honest college try then?"
"Haha, f*ck you, I'm David Brennan."
Choosing Sides
If there was ever an opportunity for me to walk away, clean slate, dignity in tact, if not a tiny bit bruised, then by the time I'd discovered exactly who I'd taken on as a companion on my travels, that opportunity had long since passed me by.
Walking out with a victory over the International Champion was something of a double edged sword. On the one hand, there's an argument for the fulfillment of exactly what I'd come here to do - rise through the ranks. See through any challenges that are laid down in my path, and, God willing, persevere. Succeed. Become the alternative to the stars I'd come up watching, and inspire the next kid down south who thinks his moral compass is perpetually stuck pointed opposite the direction of the mass majority to step up and push himself to the very limit, and through actions alone, through self awareness and acceptance, enact change wherever opportunity shines.
The other hand's got to get cut to make it work. Dave Demento posed the first threat to my run that was perhaps not coincidental. A newcomer to any promotion is going to have to run the gauntlet of opponents with no real bearing, no real consequence, save of course the intangible reward of focal recognition. Beat Enchanted. Gain a little traction. Pin Nikki Dean. Pass go. Collect $200. Topple Gabriel Black on the biggest stage in the industry. Maybe crack the ceiling of recognition. Prove your ground against Joshua Dean. Dig your heels in as a credible opponent.
Best Dave Demento. The International Champion.
All the sudden, you're on The Final Revolution's radar.
It was never my intention to get involved in the formidable war that Trace Demon and his ilk had chosen to wage upon the WFWF. I'd have been perfectly content to make my waves while systematically circumventing that whole hornet's nest. I may not have seen eye to eye with the ends that they felt justified their means, but in my eyes, there was simply no tearing down the nest without running the risk of getting stung. Comparatively, Trace Demon and Joe Bishop were legends next to the likes of myself, and while I'd never shy away from the opportunity to step into the main event, I was exactly rearing to irk their ire.
But I beat Dave Demento.
That said different things to different people. To me, it offered the affirmation that maybe, just maybe, I could do this. That I was good enough. That stepping up to the upper echelon, to the likes of Demento or Penny Shannon or Cameron Stone wouldn't amount to me being symbolically fed to the dogs. Perhaps it offered a varied perspective to the WFWF crowds who may have thought, through no harboring of ill will, that maybe the kid from Texas with a penchant for being good to others and a healthy appreciation for his role in the scope of life and mortality just wasn't cut out to take that next step. I reminded myself that morning to call my parents, to see if maybe that win perhaps solidified in their mind an understanding that perhaps, if for nothing more than a love for the spirit of competition and self improvement, this was their son's calling in life.
For all the good that could have come with a win over the reigning International champion, I couldn't help but shudder in overwhelming anxiety over what that victory meant in the eyes of Joe Bishop.
I won't sit here and try and tell you what a massive Joe Bishop fan I was. If I'm honest, and it sort of pains me still to speak so blindly ill of someone I never had the opportunity to really know, as a fan, I always viewed Joe Bishop as, well, sort of forgettable. Perpetually second best. Always on the cusp, toeing the line, and never quite managing to take that next step, that great big leap that would elevate him to the big picture, the main event, to top stardom. You make these assessments as a fan, more so when you yourself are looking to "break in" to the business, as I was. You study beyond the ring, beyond the outward portrayal, to see who's got that hidden spark. Who to be like. Who to emulate. Who to set yourself apart from. I never had any doubt in my mind that Bishop had the talent that it took to be here, but for each step forward that he took, accompanied by another step back, condemning himself to something of a sedentary career trajectory, Joe always struck me as the next big thing that never quite would be.
Leave it to the craft of Trace Demon to prove me wrong.
It always struck me that Joe Bishop would need to do something rash, something unexpected in order to break the chains that held him back and capitalize on his clear abundance of talent - the sort of thing that you may have seen come in to play right around the time I'd made my debut with the return of Dave Demento. Prior to his 2014 return, Demento had left the company all but the butt end of a joke, but with a little time off and a renewed sense of determination and a cause worth fighting for, he catapulted himself right back into the spotlight right off the bat, never once giving the toils of the undercard a second glance. As Joe Bishop floundered, I'd come to fully expect a similar rebirth from him. He'd managed to climb so far, only to sort of fall stagnant around the International division. Surely, a little time off and a renewed sense of purpose might have made him a sure fire lock for a World title run.
Instead? Well, you know what we got...
The biggest shock to me, with Joe Bishop aligning himself with Trace Demon's Final Revolution, didn't come off the notion that Joe wanted more for himself. That's practically par for the course in this industry, and anyone who doesn't desire that sort of upward momentum has likely set out on a career path that will lead to a very unfulfilling conclusion. No, what took me about Joe making the moves that he did was the fact that he felt persuaded enough, and found it in him to turn his back on all that he'd accomplished to set out to strike fire to the very company that put him where he was. Surely he couldn't have anticipated a greater payoff that what he got. Trace Demon was never going to step aside and let Bishop into the World title picture when his own shoes very plainly occupied that standing point, and so Joe, for all his efforts, for all he'd turned his back on, was left to once again toil in the International Title picture, to the degree that when push came to shove, he had to finally exit stage left and leave his title behind in the hands of a man who made no bones about taking it from him.
Dave Demento beat Joe Bishop.
I beat Dave Demento.
In regard to Dave Demento, I spoke a lot about inevitability. The fact that though we may have been in separate wavelengths, ultimately, when the line is drawn, we were on the same side, and those minute but altogether jarring differences would ultimately lead us to, at one point or another, state each other down from opposite corners of the ring.
I never factored the Joe Bishop equation. I never had any intention on turning up on his radar, but just like that...
... 1 ...
... 2 ...
... 3 ...
...there we were.
My career in the WFWF was expanding at a rate I had never, in a thousand years, counted on. I'd have to remove the boots of the entire roster to count on fingers and toes the number of guys who'd come before me and toiled for years to make a name for themselves before the prospect of being thrust into any title picture ever arose - if it arose at all. No sooner had I made a promising debut, tucking a few victories under my belt, and all the sudden the question "Who Deserves it More?" was broadcast above the listing for my upcoming match at Men & Monsters. That's a lot to take in, especially when you couple it against the circumstances that had since made my travels all the more weary.
This was now my life. I'd taken in an inebriated vagrant off the streets of New York in a show of charity and sympathy, and I had inadvertently gotten myself mixed up in one of the premiere showdowns in the WFWF at the time by simply going out there, week in and week out, and being myself. So much had changed in such a short span of time between my coming to the WFWF, a relative nobody, and pulling an upset over a perennial jobber to where I now stood on the card. My travels were no longer my own. Through my own act of charity, I'd expanded the scope of who I know in life to include this vagrant, foul mouthed, untrustworthy shell of a man. For all his transgressions, I'd taken up a responsibility to him, and to abandon him on some arbitrary stop on the open road would be a front in the face of everything I'd been taught, everything I sought to teach, and the output I sought to emanate by simply living life.
To walk away would put a blemish on all I'd accomplished up until that point. An undefeated streak. Constant upward momentum. The fans at my side. It would also lend credence to everything the Final Revolution stood for - everything they sought to destroy. I'd never spoken publicly about it. I'd never taken sides, but the simple fact was that, whether I liked it or not, the WFWF was on the brink of war once more, Trace Demon once again at the helm of half the theater, and he'd taken up arms with Joe Bishop in an attempt to strengthen the resolve of his movement. Those that stood by would be little more than collateral damage. I couldn't - rather, I wouldn't subject myself to stand quietly by when those that fight for something good, something better get persecuted for taking up that side of the fight. It wasn't in my nature. It defied all that I believed, and for better or for worse, with only five matches to my increasingly familiar name, I was in too deep to sit idly by and become collateral damage to what I refused to let become the "Final" Revolution.
I dont know good luck 
