Post by Prophet of Ash on Apr 23, 2015 18:44:21 GMT -5
A lot of people ask me, am I afraid of death?
Hell yeah I'm afraid of death. I don't wanna die yet.
A lot of people think that I worship the Devil, that I do all types of intellectually- disabled s**t.
Look, I can't change the way I think, and I can't change the way I am.
But if I offended you, good.
Because I still don't give a f*ck.
Hell yeah I'm afraid of death. I don't wanna die yet.
A lot of people think that I worship the Devil, that I do all types of intellectually- disabled s**t.
Look, I can't change the way I think, and I can't change the way I am.
But if I offended you, good.
Because I still don't give a f*ck.
This Drakz versus Phillip Schneider dynamic, it's pretty cut and dry, isn't it? Drakz is the good guy and Phillip Schneider is the bad guy. Drakz is the good guy who breaks before five and does the right thing and Phillip Schneider is the bad guy who cuts women's eyeballs out and breaks people's arms and tried to decapitate Josh Dean. The thing is, it's not so cut and dry and if you'll humor me for a moment I'd like to explain my position and why this feud came to be.
I'm the good guy and I have been for several years and as the good guy, it makes anyone who tries to stop me from doing what I'm out to do the bad guy. I've been the good guy since Tokyo, since I took Michael Kyzer's championship belt away from him and I broke him. Everyone realized and was quick to admit that The New Epoch were the bad guys and for Phillip Schneider to wage a war against them made him the good guy. That's why I was the good guy when I ran David Brennan off from the federation too. But when Kyzer decided he didn't like Drakz any more and flung him off the stage, suddenly Drakz is a good guy. Suddenly all is forgiven for what Drakz did. Suddenly all the hell and havoc that Drakz caused is washed away because dammit, Kyzer is evil and if Kyzer doesn't like Drakz, that means Drakz is good!
The problem there is, Drakz isn't good and he never has been. And all isn't forgiven. I'm not even considering the New Epoch under that name as the problem because to me, that was Hitler walking in a park in nineteen fifty and stealing a pound of Tootsie pop from a child. Evil and reprehensible but compared to the crimes he had already committed, mild and inoffensive. To me Drakz and Kyzer were damned long before either of them returned to the federation and anyone associated with them, David Brennan, DMK, EBR.. Equally dammed.
Ten years ago. Ten years ago the crimes that will ultimately be the death of Drakz were committed. Ten long years ago. Trace Demon, Penny Shannon, Joe Bishop, Shawn Malakai.. The “locker room leaders”.. None of them take grave offense to the crimes that Kyzer and Drakz committed so many moons ago because none of them were around. Yukio Blaze won't step up because he's a coward and he knows fighting this fight would be his final fight. But when this war began.. When I made my intentions clear that I was going to bend Kyzer over and f**k him in the ass until he screamed that I was his alpha male, you know who came to ME? Who approached ME and vowed their allegiances? Someone who dealt with the exact same sin as I had.. Meg.
Two thousand and six, Phillip Schneider was the break out star. The next big thing. Phillip Schneider was ready to set the world on fire and had the entire world behind him. And when the previous booking office and the booking committee headed by everyone's favorite blundering bungling block-headed bozo Johnny Michaels disbanded and the hierarchy of the WFWF was thrown into turmoil, who was the next in charge? Michael Kyzer and Drakz. Their first order of business was abandoning the last television tapings that were already in the can. This isn't revisionist history, it's fact. On that episode of WFWF television, Phillip Schneider pinned Okana and was crowned the WFWF International champion, my first singles title win in the WFWF. Now lost to time because Kyzer and Drakz wash away everything, cause anarchy and “start fresh”.
I redeem myself. I win the International title, again. Scars and Stripes 2, July twelve two thousand six. Triangle barbed wire cage match against Calvin Lee and Tha CBT. A championship I never lost and never had and I have to beat two men to win it, again. But it's done. Bloodied, blugeoned, but not beaten, Phillip Schneider is the WFWF International champion for the first time*.
See that asterisk there? It's in the record books, too. Because in their chaos and turmoil created in overtaking the previous regime, Kyzer and Drakz were thoughtful enough to urinate and defecate on the history and legacy of the WFWF championship belts and besmirch the wrestlers who compete for them. I mentioned my ex Megan Werner. Her reward, her first male championship within the WFWF.. Was to be called the Ass Hat Champion. Not the WFWF National champion like she should've been. She was the Ass Hat champion. Me? For winning the bloodbath cage match I was handed a piece of tinfoil with the words “Ham Shank champion” painted on them. Physical pain can be blocked out, but mental pain lasts a lifetime and for me that asterisk is a scar that will never truly heel, but can be avenged.
I spoke about how Dex had something stolen from him, his first championship win, when he was handed the WFWF Heavyweight championship on a silver platter. I had mine stolen from me, raped from me, and still had the indignity of having to pour my blood, sweat, and tears on the canvas, only to be rewarded with a literal tinfoil pan super glued onto a piece of leather that someone had painted “Ham Shank Champion” on. This ladies and gentlemen is a peak of my career. It's a milestone for me to look back on now, almost ten years later, and proudly reminisce. I was the first WFWF Ham Shank champion.
As I stood in the middle of the ring, trying to hide my shame and feign excitement for my first singles title win, the Ham Shank championship, I made a promise to myself. I made a promise to myself that I would discipline those who committed this crime against me. Not my opponents on that night, because had they defeated me and put off my inevitable first title win until a future date, when the championships weren't tainted, well it may've been a butterfly effect and I can tell you I never would've become the Heavyweight champion for a second time, because I never would've had the determination to wreck Michael Kyzer in barbed wire in Tokyo. That night in two thousand six as I stood staring at a tin pan with the word Ham Shank printed on it, I made a promise to myself that I would be the DEATH of Michael Kyzer and Drakz, or they'd be the death of me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The WFWF Awards Show is always a pretty classy affair that seems to go wrong. I remember our first WFWF Awards Show, that we showed up in Goodwill suits and really just mucked about for the night. But this night was different. I was here to present the Match of the Year award.
Phil and I arrived at the building early so that I could go through soundchecks and rehearsals. In the era of reality based television everything sure seems awfully choreographed. Phil disappeared somewhere in the hall shortly after we got there. I was left on my own as people ran in every direction with papers, notes, cords, and last minute production equipment. In the distance I spot a familiar face (kind of) sitting on his own. Devilkiller sits at a table, sipping a bottled water. I hardly recognize him without the face paint, but I'm the dunce who didn't know Zmaster without his mask after working with him for like seven months.
Hey bud, how's it going? Safe travels?
How are you?
Not exactly a warm greeting. He seems uninterested and is just following the business protocol. Probably would've shook my hand if I would've extended it. This is a weird business. Shake people's hand even if you don't like or trust them..
Just to chat. I have a few minutes before I have to do my sound checks and such. You're one of the few people I recognize around here. And these crew guys all seem pretty busy..
Where's your buddy?
Phil? He took off to the back somewhere.
Okay, so I'll be talking to you when he tries to attack me to make some sort of statement while he has the prime opportunity to do so? No thanks
And that quickly, Devilkiller disappears into the distance. I'm realizing the company I keep isn't the most welcoming to casual acquaintances. In fact, I don't know that I have a true “friend” in the locker room any more. I see The Deans towards the stage but I'm smarter than to even approach them. Looking around the scene, I see that more dignitaries are arriving and none of them are welcoming to me thanks to Phil and his reputation for bad behavior. I guess these people shunning me fail to realize I've been a victim of his bad behavior just the same as everyone else, though I'd shun me too if I was associated with Phillip Schneider after that attack on Penny Shannon..
Why do you even give a damn about this?
I give a damn because these cliff notes of the minor events of the year are what people will remember. No one is going to remember every TV match but they will remember which match was the best on TV for the year with the assistance of the documented cliff notes, the awards results.
Fair play, but why are you here? More importantly, why am I here?
You're here because I told you to be here. And you know if you don't do what I tell you to, I'll bend you over a counter, pull your pants down, and bang your ass raw with no lube to put you back in line as the subservient little bitch you are.
The Deville stares at me with angst in his eyes. He wants to say something to the contrary but he knows I am his superior. He knows if he raised a hand to me that it'd be the last time he raised that hand at all. So he takes the verbal huge defeat I just gave him and slowly rests to his knees to accept my load with a smile.
I'm here because this is a massive audience. Because I have a point to prove. And because not everyone realizes this is a war. And in war, life is a battlefield.
What are you on about?
Drakz didn't get the message at The Clash. That Fed Exed steel chair. Tonight I'm going to make sure he's going to get the message. Crystal clear.
So what's the plan?
The plan is for you to watch what I'm doing and if it goes south, you're there to throw bodies and let me finish what I'm doing.
What are you going to be doing?
You don't need to worry about that.
I do need to worry about that if I'm involved with it.
We're talking fairly openly here, bowels of the building, yes? We're in solitude here. Did you build a concrete wall on your way in? Set boobie traps? Put a gun over the door so if it opens it blasts the intruder in the face? Did you LOCK a door when you came in here? Pierce, I'm saying I'm not saying what we're doing because I don't know we're alone. The target has power in the company. He could have bugs anywhere. You're going to watch what I do and if it comes to it, you've got the weapons to fix the situation. And if I need you and you're not there for me, Pierce... You become the situation, got it?
Yes.
Yes what?
He bows his head. He's so disgusted with himself that he can't even look at me when he says it. He's broken.
Yes sir.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm losing myself. A little at a time, bits of the genetic make up of Phillip Schneider have been slipping away. The things that identify me as me. I feel like every time I lace up my boots things slip away just a little bit more. I've always been a violent and remorseless ****, but prior to The Clash, I had never pulled something like that. I tried to take Penny Shannon's eye out. There was no flash, there was no fanfare. There was no pomp and circumstance. I grabbed a piece of glass and I tried to gouge her eye out. I've ended plenty of careers in the past but they've always been justifiable homicides. Hutton Brown, for instance. I had complete validation for what I did to Hutton Brown. But Penny Shannon? All she did was cut a promo saying she wanted to wrestle me and I tried to take her eye out. Worse yet, it wasn't an exact match to my DNA makeup. See, I could see Phillip Schneider trying to take out someone's eye. But it'd have to relate to what they had done to me to build up to that point. Hutton Brown stuck his head in my business so I dropped him on his head. Dex, he put a title belt where it didn't belong. He strapped the World Heavyweight title belt that he didn't earn around his waist so the first opportunity I got, I stomped right on his stomach and scrambled his insides. But Penny Shannon, there's no analogy to that. I just cut her face with glass.
I feel like every time I lace up my boots and step into the ring that I'm leaving a piece of myself in the ring. Sometimes it's a little piece, an insignificant scrape. But sometimes it's more. Sometimes it's a gaping hole. Not a physical gaping hole, but a hole in my wholeness. I'm left incomplete after some of these matches and I'm worrying that this is a permanent thing. There's no regeneration. Each metamorphosis, that's just how I am now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We're meeting up with Phil's new crush. His obsession. I wouldn't be completely surprised if I go to his house and she's tied up in his garage sooner or later. But today she's got some stuff from her insurance company for Phil, since he hit her car. I'm like eighty percent sure he hit her car just so he would have a reason to talk to her again but I can't prove that and making wild accusations will just turn this otherwise pleasant day sour.
You wanna talk?
About what?
Recent events.
Like what? Like how you caused a giant scene at the awards show and left Drakz bloody? How you smashed one of the few things that you could've showed your grandkids, a tangible achievement to show your life's work, smashed over Drakz' head?
I've never been one to keep trophies or mementos. I don't have plaques or any of that sort of stuff, why should this one matter?
Because it was for the Match of the Year. Of every match that happened within the WFWF in the year 2014, a committee of your peers and fans alike voted your match with Drakz to be the best one. The things I said before your big outburst were from the heart, man. It might not mean anything to you but the Match of the Year did mean something to me. Even if you weren't going to keep the plaque, I would've kept it.. Because it'll mean something to Samantha when you're gone.
Her mom's got her taken care of. She'll be okay.
Okay, maybe you can leave it to your son, then.
That bastard doesn't mean anything to me.
I like how he used the actual use of the word bastard as a derogatory term.
It's been four months now. You're only hurting yourself and your son by not being in his life.
I grew up without a father. He'll be okay. I'm over his slut mom, anyhow.
What's with your hatred towards women as a whole?
I don't hate women.
Then explain the Penny Shannon thing.
What's to explain?
You sliced her eye.
So?
Without provocation, you tried to take that young woman's sight. Her career might be over.
I don't give a
, Percy. I don't give a if I ended her career, I don't give a if I ended Dex's career. I don't give a that I ended YOUR career. I'm looking out for me first and foremost and anyone else comes a distant second. She knew what she was getting into when she signed her name on the dotted line. She's seen what I've done recently. Mason Dixon, gone. Joshua Dean? Could've been dead. Dex?.......
The fact is, Penny knew what I've been doing. She addressed it publicly, she said “Phillip Schneider is dangerous, let's wrestle” because she thought she was a bad bitch. I sent her home looking like a pirate.
What gives you the right to make these sort of decisions?
Of life and death? I am the final judgment of the WFWF. I am the executioner. When someone has committed crimes against the federation, I am the punisher. I bring swift justice to those who deserve it. Inside of those three ropes I am God.
He's delusional. Completely delusional and out of his mind. Luckily, we've arrived at the meeting spot so I don't have to listen to any more of his nonsense. She's asked us to meet her at a sport's bar. Better than McDonalds for sure. I pull into a parking spot and shut the car off. Phil hops out and heads inside. I trail shortly behind, keeping an eye on him for erratic behavior.
Entering into the sports bar we're greeted by the unmistakeable smell of stale spilled beer and hot nachos, a scent only found in a bar. Phil finds a spot at the bar, pulling a stool up to the bar and looking over a menu. The music in here is so loud that despite being just a few paces behind him, I can't hear what he just said to the bartender. Regardless, the menu is taken away and he's staring at the TV.
Nice place, huh?
He just nods, not even turning to really look at me. He can't be that into this show on the TV, we just got here. It looks like Sportscenter or something anyways. I don't think Phil could name the rules to any “real sport”, not that he particularly follows the rules of professional wrestling anyhow. But I see what's taken his attention. It's not a “real sport” but wrestling. The WFWF. His tunnel vision is focused in on a familiar face. WFWF World Heavyweight Champion Drakz has graced his smiling mug across the telly, appearing on this television program with the championship belt in tow. Phil is locked in on the television, staring straight ahead with a look of murder in his eyes. Nothing can break his gaze from the television.
Hello? Hello? Earth to Mr. Schneider? This is Earth calling, anyone home in there?
Through Phil's tunnel vision, the lovely raven haired Lilly has entered the bar and had a seat next to us. I don't know exactly how long she's been here because while Phil was only focused on the TV, I was only focused in on Phil. This is my first time meeting this young woman and she's just as beautiful as Phil described. She also exactly meets “his type”. Brown hair, green eyes, small to medium tits.. Meets the criteria for his last three girlfriends and his Brazzers browsing history. With no reaction to the beautiful young woman sitting next to him, Phil stands up and walks out. My eyes follow him out the door, but eh. Beautiful woman and alcohol, angry miserable malcontent...
What's his deal, anyhow?
Some people don't handle success well. He does. He loves success. And it's not that he doesn't handle failures... He just doesn't acknowledge them. What he doesn't handle, what he can't handle, is the indifference. When it's neither a failure nor a success. A few years ago, Phillip Schneider was at the top of his craft. He ran rough shot through anyone put in front of them and then overturned a man branded un
able, pardon my French. But fame is fleeting. And the championship he won and the glory that came with it didn't last forever.So now he's
ed up, pardon my French.Once you have a taste of traveling, being in front of the big crowds.. You love it. You've got to have it again. It's like a drug. No, it IS a drug. And there's no high like it. So yeah, detoxing can be pretty harsh, especially when you go from the highest of the highs to the lowest of the lows.
Keep something between us?
What's that?
I kind of like him, even if he is all
ed up. But I do need that money..No problem, that's why we're here.
Times have been tough for me lately and my car being all jacked up hasn't really helped matters. Not just my car either. I share it with my baby sister and we depended on that ride to get her back and forth from doctor appointments.
Is your sister sick?
She was pregnant. Isn't now. Healthy baby boy. But there's still check ups and appointments for the baby and crap and we had to borrow my ma's car. I was driving my ma's car back and forth to work and to take her to doctor's appointments and to get stuff for the baby plus running my ma where she needed to go since she was out a ride too for the whole week my car was in for repairs thanks to Mr. Exercise Wrestler McSmashmaster.
Phil said you mentioned there was a high deductible?
Yeah, three seventy five, out of pocket. It was five hundred something to fix it all together. Big dent, paint damage, muffler was
ed up, all out of alignment and crap..We'd like to make it right with you. Obviously Phil will cover the deductible, this whole ordeal was his fault. I'd personally like to give you something for your inconvenience too. You didn't choose to get hit by him, obviously.
Yeah, no crap.
Pulling out the Phillip Schneider petty cash billfold.. It's bad that as his handler I have to carry a second wallet with cash in it for when he gets mad and storms out of restaurants or causes property damage or needs a weapon of some sort.. Lots of weapons.. I'm running out of excuses to the guys at Tractor Supply of why I go through so much barbed wire.. I flip through the cash, laying it down on the bar.
One, two, three hundred.. And twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, four, twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, five, twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, six. Think that makes us even? Something for you and your family for your inconvenience?
Yeah, I'd say so.
She swoops up the small stack of bills, folding them over and stuffing them into her bra. I like a classy lady.
Pleasure meeting you Perry, I'll be on my way.
Meekly, I attempt to correct her.
It's Percy.
But it's too late, she's already out the door.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dad...
Things have been weird between Samantha and I as of late. She takes money and basically lives her own life under my roof. It's strange, but I accept that this is the life my little girl needs to have to grow up. She needs to be the strong independent type. If I could talk the landlord into it she'd have her own studio apartment here. I know she's not going to be drinking or bringing guys over or anything, she's better than that. This is one of those times when she needs money more than likely.
What's up, Sam?
I know what's up without asking. She needs money. She goes through about a hundred dollars a month between clothes, food and gas. I'm sure there's extra money each month but you know what, I'm not asking questions. She's a 15 year old girl who drives herself to school every day, feeds herself every night, and shops for all her own clothes. If she wants to budget in a new CD or something, I'm not going to judge.
Dad, do you have time to talk?
You know I always have time to talk, Sam..
She sits down in the old office chair I have in the corner, almost immediately bowing her head and looking at the floor.
When are you getting out Dad?
Huh?
She looks up at me, tears filling her eyes.
When are you getting out?
Getting out of what, Sam? What's wrong??
I can't live like this forever, Dad. I need my Dad back. “The Prophet of Ash” wiring me Paypal payments from hotel wifi so my debit card works.. It's not how I want to live my life. You don't get to make this choice any more. You've been the wrestler.. Now get out. You said not much longer. You said you wanted to make a point then get out. That was two years ago, Dad. Now you're cutting people's eyeballs? What happens when it happens to you? What goes around comes around, ya know? What happens when someone takes it upon themselves to cut your eyeball out? What happens if it's worse? I don't want to lose you, Dad. I can't lose you.
Sam....
This isn't the mob. You can leave. Just leave. You did it before. Leave. And don't ever go back. I need you around. I need you forever. I need for my kids to have their granddad around. You know what it's like to not have a granddad in your life, ever? I do... it sucks. All my friends had granddads in their lives.. I never had that, but I knew, when the day came that I had kids.. I knew my kids would have the best granddad ever, because I had the best dad ever. But what kind of granddad will you be, when the time comes.. if you can't hold your grandkids because you're crippled? Someone dropped you on your head in a wrestling match and broke your neck. Every time you take a bump in that ring you're rolling a dice, Dad. And you're playing higher and higher risks... What happens when you lose? What happens to me? What happens to you?
.........
You're not just f**king up your life any more, Dad. You're f**king up mine.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Look, now's not a good time. We'll talk about this later, Pierce.
I hear Phil from the other side of the apartment door and slowly, the door knob begins to turn. The door opens and Phil emerges through the entry way, his phone to his ear. He shuts the door behind him with a mule like kick.
Honestly, I don't give a damn right now Pierce. My focus is on Drakz. Period. Drakz. Not you, not her, not anything else in this company. This match with Drakz. Period. No, f**k you. F**k off man, if I don't beat him, you don't have a f**king job because I sure as f**k don't need a hired goon around if I'm not wrestling. F**k off.
He hangs up the phone. To my surprise, he doesn't throw it. Perhaps his looming mortality as a wrestler is making him more financially conscious of the needless destruction of technology. Or maybe he just wasn't angry enough to throw it. I spin the rest of the way around in my chair from the computer desk, grabbing a package off the near by table.[/color]
You got a package today.
Not now Perce.
What's up, Doc.
It's this Drakz match. I don't know what I was thinking with the career stipulation.
You were thinking you're going to beat him and become the World Champion for a third time.
And what happens if I don't, Percy? What happens if I don't? Then I'm out a job. It's not even the thirty minutes thing. I know it's going over thirty minutes. But can I beat him? WILL I beat him? I don't like being backed into a corner like this, Perce.
He reaches into his pocket, producing a box cutter. That's never a good sign with Phillip Schneider, but luckily for once, he's actually using it to cut a box. He slices the tape along two sides of the package he received, then across the top. He pulls the flaps open and freezes. He's just staring down into the package. It's t-shirts. Newly printed t-shirts. I'm guessing he either ordered these or they are comps from WFWF. He's just staring down at the shirts though. They're printed with a cartoon image of himself, needles stuck through the cheeks and skewers stuck in the head. Quite the grotesque macabre caricature.
I don't even know who I am anymore outside of wrestling, Perce.
He's staring down into the box of t-shirts, a tiny animated incapacitated and decapitated version of himself grimacing back up at him.
Every morning I wake up and I hurt. I feel the pain of the battles I've been through. I see the faded scars and lines. I know I've had this career, the places I've been.. the things I've done.. I know I've got the money.. And it all just feels meaningless. Truly and utterly meaningless. What goals do I truly have any more Percy? What do I still have to accomplish? Win the World title for a third time? I feel like I've barely been without it. I've had what, five matches without it? I think that's why I was so willing to put my career on the line for the rematch with Drakz.. Because he's the last want I need to accomplish. The last hurdle I NEED to accomplish. The title, the title's not important.. But beating Drakz... that's something I have to do.. Otherwise.. this is what I am.
He grabs a t-shirt off of the top of the stack, throwing it at me in a ball. I quickly unfold it to try to figure out what the hell he's talking about.
I'm more of an idea than a person and the idea of that absolutely crushes me. I can't live with that. “The King of Gore” and “The Prophet of Ash” have overtaken Phillip Schneider. It's not just a part of me anymore, Percy. It is me. It's not me magnified.. it is me. This is real life, Percy. This is my life. The things I've done in the ring, they stick with me. It's not like I go to sleep at night and when I wake up, someone's shaken the Etch-a-Sketch of Phillip Schneider and given me a fresh start. This image can't be erased, Percy. This violence. It's a scar on me, Percy. And it's going to be the death of me if I don't get out.
Man, what ARE you talking about?
I don't have a f**king clue what I'm doing any more Percy... I'm scared.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I want out.
The Deville has been a bit absent as of late. When I gave him a simple instruction to smack Drakz in the back of the neck with a crowbar, he gave me a bunch of lip about felony assault. I have henchmen so I don't have to dirty my hands every time. It defeats the purpose of having henchmen when your henchmen won't hench. So this revelation of Deville wanting “out” isn't a complete shock to me.
Out of what?
Wrestling, violence, crime, the whole works. Look Philly boy, it wasn't you sitting behind bars for all those years. You know what I was doing while I was in there? Thinking. That's all I did. I sat and thought. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking about where things went wrong. Retracing my steps over and over and learning that in infinite alternate realities, infinite Devilles are in an infinite number of situations and frankly Philly boy, there's nothing stopping this Deville from doing a whole lot more than being a hired gun for a wrestling thug, no offense.
He stares off into the distant Chicago lights. The Deville has been fascinated by this rooftop perch for a while now, since I got him out of prison. Often he'll be up here for hours just staring at the lights of the city, the hustle and bustle of distant civilization. And now, now he can't even take his gaze off of the city long enough to look me in the eyes to tell me he's quitting. He's locked in the glow of the city.
What makes you think you just “get out”. There is no “get out” of this. You need to remember I am the one who gave you this opportunity. I gave you the life back that you want to escape to. If it wasn't for me, you'd still be rotting behind bars with your alternate realities.
You're not seeing my side of the story, Philly boy. It's all lights and glam to you. The rock star lie. But to me, I see a guy in a Joe Vandal costume attempting to kill another guy with a bag of bricks. Attempted murder. Felony assault. To someone like you, squeaky clean record.. maybe a few months in county. To someone like me? That's strike three. That's life. Maybe death. You understand what I'm saying Philly boy? The theatrics, stabbing women in the face, cutting people with knives, it's all well and good for you but I need something more. I need to get out of here. I didn't learn a trade in the clink so I could make you look good in music videos. I learned to edit video so I'd have a back up plan.. Life after wrestling.[/color]
You don't get to make this choice.
I do. You can't make me do whatever you say. You can't even control your daughter. How do you think you're going to control me? I'm a grown man.
He steps up onto the ledge, extending his arms to soak in the brisk Chicago air. He's staring down at the lights of the city.
The End Game. That's my final night, Phil. After that, you're on your own. Not that you'll need me in wrestling after that, anyhow.
He said things about my daughter and I didn't hit him.. But insulting my wrestling? I shove him from behind. A gentle shove. Just a “watch what you're saying, bucko” shove. Except he was standing on the ledge. And he didn't see it coming. The Deville does a front flip off of the ledge, saying off the edge of the building and out of sight. I simply turn around and walk away, pulling my phone out of my pocket as I do and dialing 911. Now time for a bit of acting. Cue the Phillip Schneider theatrics in five, four, three, two...
911, what's your emergancy?
Uhh.. uhh.. it's my friend, Pierce. I'm really worried. He's talking crazy talk, talking about “wanting out” and about his destiny... He's up on the roof of my apartment and he locked the door behind him.
I pull my free hand into the sleeve of my hoody, pulling the door shut slowly so it doesn't make a noise and then locking the deadbolt with no finger prints left behind.
What's your name?
Phillip, Phillip Schneider. You've got to come quick. I think he might jump!
*Might*
Stay on the line with me, okay. Can you give me your address? I've got help on the way.
Hurry *fake tear* please hurry. *fake sniffle*[/color]
Phillip, don't hang up on me, okay?
I won't, I'm here.
I'm back in my apartment. Taking a seat, sipping my hot tea and making myself look like a concerned citizen. F*ck off, Pierce Deville.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There's the issue of my son.
This is the first time I've heard him use possessive properties for the young child of New Kylie. The new baby Dean, presumably named after his former psychiatrist and not the man he attempted to behead on Pay Per View. His first born son, from a temporary minion he used as a play thing and fluid dumpster.
What about him?
I can't leave him with the whore. I can't let him grow up that way.
What way?
White trash, scum, commoner, in poverty..
She was good enough for you to lay with, why is she not good enough to raise the son that the two of you conceived?
Because he's my son and my son deserves better than that.
Like an absentee father who's constantly beat up and constantly traveling? Who has assistants and babysitters to do the necessary parenting?
He just stares. A cold stare.
Look, man. If you want to raise your son, that's all well and good but don't try to convince me for one second you're looking out for his best interests. You're trying to save face for yourself with the underlying cause of hurting your ex girlfriend. That's your way. It's never about anyone else's needs. It's about Phillip Schneider's needs and if someone else's needs happen to run parallel to that, awesome. You're friend rather than foe. I'm not going to be there to raise a baby for you.
Percy, I need to raise my son. I need to do it, for him.
Do that so you look good. So that people will say “oh, Phillip Schneider did the right thing”. I'm sick of your crap, man. I'm sick of this dynasty. I'm sick of the hanger ons. I'm sick of The Deville..
The Deville is gone.
So I heard. “Suicide”. Jumped off your roof and fell four stories to his death. Funny this happens when he starts saying things contrary to the Phillip Schneider philosophy. When he wants to write his own story deviating from your's, his comes to a crashing halt. Is me saying things against you going to bring an end to me, too? How are you gonna do it? Poison me? Strangle me? Are you going to cut the break lines on my car or worse yet, on your car and send me for an errand so you can get the insurance for a new car while settling a problem. Phil, your s***s grown old. It's time to man up, for real.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My Dad.
My Dad is different from most Dads. A lot of little girls grow up thinking their Dad is a superhero. My Dad actually is. This may seem a little bit farfetched, but what makes a superhero? Super powers, right? Like flying? My Dad can fly. I've seen him. He soars through the air and crashes down on his opponents in the ring. Superheroes wear costumes to identify themselves, to set themselves apart from the ordinary people. Check and check. Superheroes are known to vanquish evil. My passport's stamp from Japan is a memento from me seeing just that happen with my very eyes.
For as long as I can remember my Dad has been different from the rest of the world. I was just two years old, about to turn three, when he entered this strange world and took on the alter ego of a hobo to put food on our table and clothes on my back. And for the last twelve years, I've watched him wage war against every competitor the WFWF has to throw at him. You have any idea how hard it is for a little girl who can't even fully understand the concept of a toilet to watch her Dad get beat up on TV? To ride in a car for hours upon hours and never see home, because Daddy has to wrestle in a different city tonight.
By the time I was in first grade, I had been to eleven different schools. Some kids had friends from kindergarten. I was lucky to have friends from the previous week. I'm a junior in high school now. I've lost track of how many different schools I've been in. I was measuring it by states for a while but I've forgotten that now as well. Three countries, if that counts for anything. I've lived this nomad lifestyle for my entire life and I wouldn't have it any other way. How can someone say they'd want another life when they've only lived the one? Maybe if I had the idea of what another life is, I could make an educated assessment, but unfortunately I've lived just this one life and can say it's been a great one.
Most of the kids I know now haven't left the state of Illinois. I have a passport that's been stamped eleven times in Canada, six times in Mexico, four times for Germany, three times in England, and once for the Netherlands, Australia, Japan, and Singapore each respectively. I've seen forty of the fifty states including Hawaii and Alaska. I have my own car, fully paid for. I have more designer jeans than I can wear in a month and the newest iPhone. These are the luxuries I've been afforded simply because of who my Dad is.
I have these luxuries in my life because of the sacrifices my Dad has made. I watch him. I see the way he walks with a limp and I look at my car and know the two are directly connected. I see him in our pool with discolored lumps all over his back, the faded scars and lines telling the story of where this pool came from. I can take a picture of him with my phone and I see it in his eyes, the pain he carries with him every day to give us the lifestyle we live. These are the sacrifices he chose to make to ensure I wouldn't have to.
My Dad is a complex man. He's different from the rest of the world. He's strong willed and stronger opinionated.. He's out spoken... But at the same time, he's quiet. He's introverted. He'd rather sit alone for hours and watch movies by himself than be in a large group of people at a party. He's a violent man, the wars in the ring show exactly that. But whenever I've needed it, he's been there to make a silly face at me or give me a hug. There's a difference between Phillip Schneider the wrestler and Phillip Schneider my father. I wish he still used a character inside of the ring so there was a more distinct difference between the two.
I've come to grips with the fact that my father is an entertainer and that's what has given me everything I know as my life. But this is a finite profession. I have a plane ticket to fly to Phoenix, Arizona and I'm boarding that plane with the idea that this may in fact be my final flight. This could be the final time I travel by my father's side to see him wrestle. And I'm fine with that.
I'm fine with Phillip Schneider the wrestler dissolving.
Because he'll always be Phillip Schneider: Dad.
- Samantha Schneider.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Let's talk this over. It's not like we're dead.
I'm dead to you. Remember? Why the sudden change of heart?
I'm sitting in this slum of a trailer at a kitchen table. It's only a kitchen table because it's a table that happens to be in a kitchen. The wall paper is yellowed and tarnished from years of cigarette smoke and the wood paneling is coated in a layer of dust. The carpet is an unusual brown, heavily worn in a “walking path” and blotted with stains of filth and decay. This is no sort of place for my son to be raised.
Because I've had a sudden realization of mortality. The Deville committed suicide.
So I heard. Seems there's a history of your friends killing themselves. Your old girlfriend that you named me after, Deville..
Amanda, look around. You're having a hard enough time caring for yourself. How are you going to make ends meet for a baby too?
I'm sure hefty child support will help.
So you want to go to court over this? I mean, we can, but what makes you think a judge is going to rule in your favor, to keep a baby in this meth lab you're calling a home?
Versus you, Mr. Father of the Year, who chooses to travel the globe instead of being home with his kids every night.
I'd like to punch this stupid little whore in the mouth but that wouldn't accomplish anything. I'm realizing now that in all the time she lived with me, I never sat down and had a conversation with her and I'm now seeing why. She was a lot more interesting without her pants on, or with her mouth full of my genitals. Or both. Sometimes both. I take a deep breath, swallow my pride, and continue to treat the former New Kylie like a human.
This match coming up might be my last match. If it is.. I could be a full time stay at home Dad. I've got the money that I'd never have to go to work. I could be with him 24/7.
I don't work. My mom pays my bills. So it's checkmate
I'm his father.
And I'm his mother.
What do you want from me, Amanda? You want to move in too? You want things to go back to how they were? You want to be my personal little play thing again? Because fuck, I'll do that if that's what you really want.
You're just not getting it. I'm not worried about what I want. I'm worried about what you want, and you're not getting it. You spoiled rotten bastard, your money isn't getting you what you want. Your fame is worthless. You said you didn't want this baby when he was taking his first breaths, you heartless son of a bitch.
There's a knock on the outside door and then it swings open. Because in hilbilly methville, knocking is only a signal that you're about to enter apparently. And... I'm confused. I'm greeted by my current crush face to face, the snow white vixen Lilly, who's car I hit last fall.
Sis? …...You fuckin' kidding me? HE'S the Dad? Mr. Auto Accident Exercise Loser Fuck?
Phillip Schneider. You know him?
Bloody hell I do. He's the one who hit our car, sis. He's the one who put us out all winter because he's a selfish ass. He's the one who tried to bang me in McDonalds like a common prostitute. He's the one who's been stalking me for the last few months, “running into me” to try to win me over. I knew he was an undignified scumbag, but I didn't realize he was the same undignified scumbag who knocked you up and ran. Should've known. The fake wrestler homo crap, no one in their right mind does it. Get the fuck outta here, homo. Kid's staying here.
Look....
Shut the fuck up, ass hole. Get the fuck out of my ma's house now.
I'm really not that bad of a guy.
You used to call yourself God and you had followers who you made call you God too.
.........
You manipulated a man with Aspergers syndrome to do your physical bidding..
I...
You hired a homeless man with one arm as an assassin.
Come on, that's...
You bailed a murderer out of prison to work as a hitman too.
Pierce was never convicted of murder, just animal cruelty.
Like that's better?? Worst of all.. you put your teenage daughter in the middle of this vortex of violence. You exposed her to this whole morbid circus of your's. You didn't care if she was getting raped every night by your circus freaks, as long as they were there to do your bidding at the wrestling matches.
Didn't want to do this, but I'm getting my way today..
Reaching into my hoodie, I produce my nine millimeter problem solver. It goes right to Amanda's head. And suddenly, there's a silence in the room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A lot of people have their addictions. Some people like to smoke. They spend their money on something they know is bad for them, makes them feel bad, and makes them smell bad. They make the choice to do something that makes them repulsive to a large portion of the world. Then there's the drinkers. Get a drink or two or twelve in ya, makes your stresses of the day go away.. Eats away at your liver. Alcoholism is the only disease that you can choose to give yourself. No one wakes up one day and says “You know what, I want heart disease. You know what, I want diabetes now”. But alcoholism, that's a disease. Because it's a DISEASE that people can't say no to that Bud Light, can't stay away from the shots of Jack Daniels and they let it eat them from the inside.
I've got an addiction of my own. I've got a vice that I know is slowly destroying me and yet, I can't walk away. I've got something that I do that is destructive to every other aspect of my life and yet I continue to pursue it with my entire being. It's an addiction I can't break, either. I've tried to go cold turkey and when times get weird, I always come back to it. Pro wrestling. The WFWF.
I hate the WFWF with everything in me and yet I can't just let it die. I can't write it off from being a part of me because there IS a part of me that wants it like a baby with a bottle. There's no reason I want it. It's not rewarding to me. It's not beneficial to me any more. But I want it. And I want success in it. And I continue to come after this fleeting glory long past the time when it's socially acceptable for me to pursue, simply for the perverse joy of the fuel of my addiction.
Drakz, we're walking into the same battleground, Phoenix, Arizona. The veil's lifted now though. You and I aren't strangers any more. I know what you're bringing to the table and you know what I've got in my bag of tricks after our first battle, an hour plus of war waged and we know exactly what one another brings. But the thing you've got to realize is Drakz, there's an aspect to me now that wasn't present before. It's desperation.
There's a desperation to me for redemption to prove to myself what I know, that I'm better than you. If I wasn't better than you, then it wouldn't have taken you sixty six minutes to beat me. You would've beat me like I've done to the people I'm clearly superior to on TV. Head through the curtain and ten minutes later you're on the other side. It wasn't some cat and mouse game, it took you an hour and change to finish me off and if it wasn't me that made a slip after that time, it would've been you and history would look differently on our “Match of the Year” match. I know you're going to say that the end result is all that matters but when you and I went to war for north of an hour, I was scouting. I was watching you from the closest seat in the house. Because the National title? That's not what's important. Deep down inside, you and I both know that. You vacated it instantly.
Drakz, this is immortality at stake. This is forever, a lifetime at work on the line for one final chance, one final line on the marquee, one final notch in the bedpost. I've held the championship for longer than any man or woman in a single reign and Drakz, you are not better than me. The End Game, I'm going to take back the championship I was never defeated for and I'm going to even the score from Superbrawl. Drakz, the End Game is coming. And once again, we go to war. War does not determine who's right. It determines who's left.
