Post by Drakz on Jun 24, 2015 6:12:19 GMT -5
"Unexpected Appointment"
(A.K.A. Dr. Donnie)
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I’ve spoken for weeks, maybe even months about the physical breaking point that I’m edging ever closer to. A series of attacks from every side have left me on wobbly legs, and that’s without even taking into account the toll the officiated, in ring battles are taking.
All of this pales in comparison though to what happened at New Dawn. Again, yes I took a beating. I spent the vast majority of my match under a pair of thumbs. That’s not what has left me feeling so disheveled though. No amount of strikes or stretches can truly get under my skin, and into my head. It was the reveal of one Michael Kyzer that has backed me into this corner in my own mind. An overbearing cloud of doubt pushes me closer and closer to the wall, and I feel there’s little I can do about it.
Am I distraught about the loss of a friend?
I’ve already grieved his apparent death, so no that’s not it.
Am I hurt by the ability to deceive?
I’ve been deceived before, on a much grander scale, so no that’s not it either.
The source of this doubt, the wound from which it spills, is my own inability to see it coming. What’s cutting me up the most is that I can no longer trust my own mind. I have always been able to rely on myself, regardless of who around me is throwing me to a hospital trip, or stealing from under my nose, I have always been able to sleep safe in the fact that my own mind is still sharper than my adversary’s.
Perhaps I’m dulling with age. Perhaps I’ve been on top so long that I’ve become complacent?
No.
I may have been vulnerable when in that wheelchair but my mind wasn’t suffering multiple fractures. My thoughts were entirely up to scratch, if not honed to perfection due to the countless hours spent on my own, in silence. I was deceived at the height of my mental capacity by a group of old f*cking men. I was led to believe I was part of a pack, not just a piece of meat groomed into acceptance. I was the paedo to their phile, and I took all 6 inches of it.
F*ck!
I am supposed to be the alpha male. Genghis Khan Jnr. The “God” Slayer.
I am designing myself as the greatest name this world has ever known…….and yet I was taken in by a group of washed up f*cking actors!
So now where does that leave me?
To say I already had trust issues is selling myself a little short. Add this to the pile and I may end up looking over my shoulder after every step. Who the f*ck do I have around me that I can put some faith in?
I’d wait for answer but let’s face it, there’s nothing to fill that void. The silence would hang like a strange fruit until it began to rot.
I am alone. I suppose that’s the way it should be for THE GOOD GUY on the top of the world.
The closest thing I have to a partner right now is Tugarin Zmey, a brain washed Slavic Dragon, bound by some kind of life debt. And who holds the reigns? A man who has always, and no doubt WILL always despise me. HA! It’s kind of funny when you think about it. The irony of this cruel fate is almost unbearable, to the point that if I don’t laugh about it I may have an aneurysm.
So what am I if not totally f*cked and on my own?
I’m a man with a dog.
5 men.
4 men.
3 men.
2 men.
1 man and his dog.
*WOOF*
Went to mow a meadow.
I can always trust Dog, but he’s not that capable of getting me out of a bind. His lack of posable thumbs makes most forms of support quite difficult.
I have to treat this whole thing as a bump in the road, not the end of it. I have to maintain trust in myself, trust in my own abilities as the greatest mind in this sport. I’m the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion for a reason and no one can say it’s down to a little help from my friends. I have no Final Revolution, no Saviors of Salvation, no KoKaine Konspiracy. I’ve not even got a New Epoch anymore. The band of brothers has indeed disbanded, with David in the corner of a man who finally seems to be grabbing every opportunity by the balls, and Michael playing catch with the ex-National Champion. They’re both doing fine in the friendship camp. No one stops to think of poor old Drakz though do they? The only thoughts I get coming my way are those of;
“How can we smash his knackers into a paste, butter them onto his bread and force it down his neck?”
It’s nice to be thought of I suppose, but I have to resent the reasoning behind it all. F*ck you Epoch alumni.
So if I do intend on holding my middle fingers in front of me as I charge into the sunset, who will bear the brunt of the initial burst of adrenaline? It seems that will be one Mr Hess. Lucas Crowe can tussle with The Dragon, so my thoughts need not be sullied by his obvious physical advantages. As for his mentor…………I’ll save that for another Tyme.
Pun-tastic.
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“You don’t take advice on board readily do you?”
Dr. Hershel spins his computer monitor my way. A mess of grey, blue and black glares back at me.
“I’m hoping visual cues might sink in a little more.”
I can feel my face is dead pan. Not in a cool, calm and collected way. More gormless than that.
“This….”
He jabs at the screen with his index finger.
“This is of course an X-Ray of your back.”
He looks at me for some recognition of his words. He gets nothing.
“And this…”
A more localised thrust of his digit..
“This is where we have a problem. As you can see there is slight misalignment in the vertebrae both above and below my finger, and in between, well you can’t look at that and tell me everything’s fine and dandy.”
Nothing.
“Isaac. This is serious. I know I’ve said that every time you’ve visited me, but this is the last time I’m going to attempt to dissuade you. It may be worth your time, and more importantly your legs, to at least listen.”
A subtle nod. Barely even a furrow of the brow in reality, but it’s enough for him to see willing on my part.
“This disc in particular is bulging, something that can be easily alleviated if it’s given time to rest and recover. If it herniates you’re going to be in a huge amount of pain. This isn’t the only disc that concerns me either. While it may be the most far gone, it certainly isn’t the only one that’s prone to herniation.”
I’m still not giving him the response he wants, and in all fairness it’s down to my not hearing much of what he’s really saying. My mind has been numb since about 9:34 last night. Right from the point an elderly man showed me, on live TV, how much of a fool I’ve been.
He turns the monitor away.
“I sense this isn’t the time. Isaac is there something you want to discuss? The Hippocratic Oath binds me to absolute confidentiality, even regarding matters of a personal nature.”
I’m not Josh f*cking Dean. I’m not Ace f*cking Bennet. I’m not Hutton f*cking Brown. I will not be spilling my guts to a shrink this side of dementia, no matter how much of a top man he may be, and no matter how scrambled my inner workings have become.
“I’m fine Doc. Let’s keep this about my paraplegic future.”
Hershel sighs, I guess having assumed we were best buds or something, and that I was going to open up to him. My Daddy beat me. Mommy wasn’t there. I was raped by a ghost. Pussies.
Hmmmm this seems to be working. Maybe cynicism and spiteful critique is the best medicine. F*ck laughter. Patch Adams can suck my c*ck.
Wow I’m getting quite verbal here. Apologies for the profanity.
“I don’t feel like wasting my time or yours right now. All of this can wait until you’re in a more…….responsive state of mind.”
He’s right about that. That seems to have been the issue since “Derek-Gate”. A total lack of response. The kill switch was crushed and I’ve been moping about it ever since. I’m here though aren’t I?
“I’m here aren’t I? Tell me what I need to know.”
What I already know. I’m the one living with it.
“Isaac, let me cut to the chase……again. I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to hint at my professional opinion without forcing it upon you. You know I’d rather your mental state was improved than have you sit at home, bored out of your mind. A mind is a beautiful thing, and to let it waste away seems like more of a crime than to let the body do the same, however, these are extenuating circumstances. This isn’t just a case of me telling someone, ‘stop sleeping on your side’, this is a far more aggressive situation that that.”
The nature of the beast.
“Each time I see you it transpires that someone else has tried to be the guy who broke your back for good. Every single time you go to work another person does their best to write you off. This is about the worst possible situation for someone with your injuries to be in. Don’t you think?”
It would be moronic to say otherwise. I refuse to let that credit stray onto someone’s resume though. I’m the best in the whole f*cking world. I’m not far from the greatest of all time. No arguments. That’s what I need to achieve before this vertebrae Jenga topples on me.
I nod.
“Let me ask you this. Have you got anyone to watch your back? I’m so sorry, excuse the pun.”
A talking dog? Probably best to leave that out.
“Not really.”
“That’s an issue. You need to change the way you do business if you really must continue. There has to at least be alterations made. Surely you, with an acumen for your sport, can see that?”
Evolve. Maybe it’s more than just changing the perception of me. Sol Inviticus. Maybe it’s more than just spouting a confusion of words, words that scare the life out of my detractors and my opponents. Perhaps it is time to truly evolve in myself. Taking trips in the forest is all well and good, but it seems the man must make his own implementation on the physical.
“I understand that. What do I do though? If people don’t like me enough to watch out for my health I can’t force them to. I’ve been on my own ever since this back injury mate. It’s dark days, but I eat the darkness. F*ck them all.”
Have I just started cutting a promo on my Doctor?
“There’s no one? No one at all?”
“I suppose there’s one man…..half man……he’s not exactly got my best intentions at heart though.”
Understatement.
“My health does directly effect his goals though, so perhaps I should be using that to my advantage?”
I don’t think relying on other people is going to help the man at the top though. I am a wanted fugitive in the eyes of the jackals around me. Most in that locker room would sell me out without a moment’s notice if they sniffed a chance at toppling the champ. The rug’s staying firmly beneath my feet, and I don’t need anyone to hold the corners.
“I think I’ve got it covered though. I hear what you’re saying, and I guess I just need to do a better job of protecting myself. It might be time to switch up the methods buried in the madness. If only to stop you staying up all night with worry.”
A joke? Maybe this talking sh*te is therapeutic? I’ve gone from dead to……at least docile, in 15 minutes. That’s got to be a victory in anyone’s book? A small book for a small victory. Pocket dictionary anyone?
Hershel smiles, but I can sense how serious he really is about this. It must be odd watching someone refuse what’s good for them, knowing that in the end they’re destroying themselves. He’s powerless really. behind all of his prescriptions and advice he can’t force anything on me. The Rape Doctor. Stuffing pills in holes that didn’t say yes. A New York Times Best Seller. Welcome to Oprah’s Book Club 2015.
What in the blue f*ck am I talking about? At least this is a sign of my tangent prone mind waking up. It’s been dormant for about 15 hours too long.
F*ck that old nigguh. Derek………Ricky Richards…..whatever his name is.
A pimple on the good doctor’s desk mounted tannoy panel begins to flash. He pushes a button on it and speaks. This is very Thunderbrids.
“Daisy?”
“There’s someone at reception asking for your patient Dr. Hershel.”
He glances at me.
“I’ll send him right out, we’re just wrapping things up in here.”
He releases the button and privacy is restored.
“No friends Isaac?”
“We don’t know who’s out there yet doc.”
He fills out the necessaries on my prescription note before tearing it off the pad and handing it over to me. We both rise and he opens the door for me. A gentleman.
“I’ll see you when you get back from your trip to Japan then yes?”
“Quite. Let’s hope I’m still walking by then ey doc.”
I wink at him, trying to make light of a very real problem and then head back to reception. There’s no one there?
“Sorry. Dr. Hershel said there was someone to see me?”
Daisy on reception flicks her head to the side, gesturing over the counter, her face tight and prone to laughter. I peer over and everything makes sense.
A half pint navy seal super soldier stands with his back to us, his shoulder and neck twitching ever so slightly, telling of his habit. Takes one to know one I suppose.
“Yes?”
He turns around with a little jump. Nervous?
“Good it IS you. The boss wants a word.”
“Where is he then?”
“Follow me.”
As we leave the building I’m hypnotised by the way my jailer walks, leading me to the chair. I feel the need to study the skeletal make up of these people. I’m transfixed by the awkward waddle.
Before I know it I’m on the street, standing next to a Lincoln Town Car with the windows blacked out. I can only assume Donnie lies within. What the f*ck is he doing here? We’re a long way from Seattle.
The midget opens the door for me and I duck inside.
“You wanna explain what the f*ck this is then?”
Concise and to the point as ever. I get myself comfortable while avoiding eye contact. Donnie’s in the front passenger seat, looking back at me. I can feel his eyes burrowing a hole through my scalp.
“Why do I find you at a doctor’s surgery?”
I notice there’s little in the way of enforcement present. No Tugarin. No Ahriman. No Whitner. Just a driver and Donnie.
“Has the f*cking puss got your tongue you sh*t head? Because if I find out he hasn’t and you don’t start talking I'll cut it out myself!”
The infamous forehead veins begin to visibly throb. He’s definitely got a date with a coronary in the next couple of years. His little heart can’t be up to much more than this.
“Hello Donovan.”
“Hello who? Quit the f*cking sass you pretty mouthed, limey c*nt. I want answers! ANSWERS!”
A shade of beetroot fills his face like a cartoon character and I can’t hold back the smirk. He’s clearly got no time for this though.
“Okay, f*ck you!”
He turns away from me only to turn back with a pistol in his hand, the party end pointing directly at my chest. Instinctively my hands go up. Perhaps it’s time to defuse the situation, before I end up with a window installed in my guts.
“Donnie. Calm down. There’s no need to do anything that may jeopardise what we planned.”
“Me f*cking jeopardise things?! That’s why I’m here! You hiding any injuries from me and my tribe jeopardises everything……..your f*cking life included.”
Now there’s a stipulation for the tournament. If Drakz & Tugarin fail to win, your WFWF World Heavyweight Champion will be publicly executed.
“Woah, woah, woah. There’s no need to start throwing around threats Donnie. I’m just here for a check up mate. Have you forgotten that I had my back broken less than three years ago?”
He seems to cool initially and then jabs the gun in my direction again.
“And?”
“We’re all good.”
Is this a good idea?
“Of course my spine is never going to be as sturdy as it once was but I’ll settle for second best on this one.”
Lying to a lunatic with a gun in my face……what could go wrong?
“It’s as good as it’s getting.”
What indeed?
“You better be right, because if you cost the KKK our titles, if you cost me MY f*cking titles I will end you!”
“Donnie. Did I, or did I not beat Phillip Schneider twice in my current condition?”
“Who gives a f*ck about him?”
“How many times did Michael beat him?”
I let that hang like a bad fart and to my relief DMK begins to smile, begins to laugh.
We’re not out of the woods yet, but he at least puts his gun away……for now.
“From now on you keep me in the loop with all of your medical anomalies. I need to be one step ahead, and you keeping sh*t from me makes that more difficult than it should be. I didn’t choose to work with you, I like keeping my sh*t on lock. I prefer my soldiers to be loyal to the cause, not hired f*cking mercenaries.”
“I can empathise with that notion. Believe me though Donnie, I want to win this as much as, if not more than you.”
“Whatever puss. Just remember, in this relationship I’m the one handing out the d*ck. You just smile and take it. I AM THE MAN!”
Is this a come on?
“And another thing, I don’t want you sticking your bottom f*cking lip out and crying over your cadaver ex-boyfriend. Michael got you good, there’s no denying that, but are you going to let him gloat any more than he already has? Suck it up. I’ve got no time for tears. Zmey’s got no time for tears.”
Is Donnie actually consoling me? Is Donnie actually giving valid advice? If I want Kyzer to fall flat I need to let this roll off of me. The fact I’ve been betrayed during the most vulnerable period of my life is a deep wound, but if I want to keep Kyzer’s salty fingers out of there I have to shrug off his attempts to sour things for me.
I am The Undefeated Sun. I am Sol Inviticus. I feel no regret. I am a f*cking Super Saiyan.
“Michael’s got his own misfortunes to worry about anyway. It seems his tutelage of your newest recruit isn’t going so well.”
“Ante cost them the match, that’s a given. It f*cks me off to see one of the KoKaine Konspiracy made a fool of, but that’s eclipsed by the joy it gives me knowing Michael has been caught with his pants down.”
“If there is only one thing we can agree on, let it be that we outshine Michael Kyzer’s every attempt in this tournament. I want him to become the laughing stock of this business. His name being thrown under the bus would grant me even more satisfaction than throwing the man himself under there.”
Donnie lets out a little cackle. He knows whilst we may not be on the same page, or even the same chapter, my want to defile the myth surrounding The God of F*ck is more than enough fire power for me to deliver the goods.
“One more win and you and Zmey are in the finals. It’s almost been too easy. Those Hollywood f*ggots yet again proved they’re not worthy of cleaning up my sh*t. I bet you thought a fellow limey would have brought some legitimacy to their table didn’t you? Turns out he’s just another b*tch for me to roll over.”
“I don’t see our next match being a problem either.”
A look of confusion from Donnie.
“Who are you even destroying?”
“Lucas Crowe and Johnny Hess.”
“Who?”
“Hess is a non-starter. No worries there. This Crowe is a big lad though.”
“Bigger than my Dragon?”
“Not even close.”
“In that case I’ll see you in Japan. I might even buy you a geisha wh*re for your troubles.”
“Geisha aren’t prostitutes…..”
“I’ll find one that is. Now get the f*ck out of my car.”
I don’t think me and Donnie will ever be friends. I don’t really think we’ll ever even be associates. This relationship starts and ends with the tournament, that’s something we can both agree on. I’m not one for making a habit of stroking egos, and in Donnie’s case it’s about the only way you can avoid getting a slug in your ball bag.
If his Dragon can get me what I want though then I’ll remain civil. It’s not a steady foundation I’m standing on though. One word from the midget and that Slavic leviathan will Bain me like Batman.
Straight over the f*cking knee.
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Has a chance encounter with the world’s angriest child put my mind at ease?
In a strange turn of events, yes it kind of has. I’ll be the first to admit coming out of a conversation with Donnie, especially one that started with my staring down the barrel of a gun, should do nothing but get my back up, but in this instance he’s managed to nullify that rock of doubt that had found its way into my stomach. He’s shown me how much he wants to win this tournament, almost at the expense of my own life, but it’s this unbridled passion of his that lets me know he and his Dragon are firmly on my side, if only to smear the name that is Michael Kyzer.
Before us though is one more match prior to Tokyo. It would be foolish of me to underestimate anyone at this stage in my career as we all know that the slightest hint of hubris can lead to the downfall of any man. I’ve seen it, but thankfully never suffered it, and I don’t plan on starting now.
Crowe & Hess barely scraped through their quarter final match a couple of weeks ago. Were it not for the sheer size of Lucas I fear that match was a foregone conclusion. Johnny Hess did nothing to impress anyone, nothing but show he makes a pretty sh*tty punch bag. If you can’t even get beaten up right then what’s left for you? Essentially I’ve written him off. He’s got no right to even be in this ring and it makes me wonder who’s d*ck he must have sucked for the chance to get here? The chance to get onto the TV only to be gang-banged by ThornGotch, a team that in and of itself reeks of no hope. The stench that fills the void of desperation is a tangy one, and it oozes from every pore of the aforementioned team. Throw them together and hope they can achieve something………anything. But no. One hot tag to The Motor City Mercenary and their collective pants were shat.
And so my only worry when it comes to Choke Hold is this man, this Lucas Crowe. Why? Because he’s a technically proficient beast of a man. It’s evident from his ring work that he’s not just a brute force, knuckle dragging Hominidae, and yet his taste in hero leads me to believe otherwise. Any man that venerates a homophobic, racist, right wing, gun touting guitar masturbator can’t really be worth my time. He’d probably consider DMK the second coming. After all Ted Nugent is just Donnie Monty Kent Lite.
Any merit this man may have though is sidelined, if not entirely eclipsed by the man that stands in my corner. Did I say man? I’m sorry, I never meant to mislead you. Tugarin Zmey is no man. He’s barely even a f*cking Dragon, it’s just easier to call him that.
I have no reason to truly believe this fight is anything but a bye to the finals. A handicap match? Essentially. I can only hope Crowe is placing no faith in his partner, as doing so would be tantamount to spreading his own arse cheeks. This tournament has been a nice way to get your foot in the door Lucas, but I recommend going it alone from here on out.
So call me foolish or a hypocrite, but I have to look beyond this week in Cincinnati. I have to wonder who is going to stand against us in the final of this tournament?
Right now there are only two options in my eyes:
"Sylvanian Families." Better known as Trace Demon & Nikki Dean. The loveliest, warmest, cuddliest team for all the family to enjoy.
or
"Master & Commander." The strange will they, won’t they teaming of “hot prospect…….is this ever actually going to happen?” Ante Whitner and everyone’s favourite drug lord Michael Kyzer.
Both teams pose quite the threat to myself and Zmey in terms of the individuals involved but I’m not so certain either team can become more than just the sum of their parts.
Trace Demon is currently without a cause. I slapped him down and so he reacted by beating up his friends. Now he wanders the wastelands, alone and confused. So confused he in fact has ended up with a tag team partner he never thought he wanted but………*feel the tension build*……………..it turns out he does want her!!!! They are kindred spirits in as much as their family values align, something I find hard to empathise with. Can you ever truly trust a Demon though? He’s not got the greatest resumé when it comes to sticking it out with team mates, something I’ve already heard him attest to personally. Nikki Dean on the other hand is perhaps too trusting. She’s jumped from one abusive relationship with her ex-husband into what could possibly be the most abusive relationship she’s ever known should she cost Trace his chance at winning the Tag Team Titles. She’s just a sucker for punishment it seems, and yet Josh strikes me as such a stand up guy?
Now Trace and Nikki are only one win away from losing to “George & The Dragon” where as Kyzer and Whitner still have to qualify to qualify to lose to us. It’s a long hard road but if anyone can tread it I believe it may be these two. So what if they lost to Nikki and Trace only last show? Retribution is an explosive fuel to any fire and if I know Mike he’ll be putting all of the blame onto Ante, which in my mind should give him the edge. Either Ante takes that pressure and shows his new Sugar-Daddy that he really IS worth all this effort, or he crumbles, in which case he may well be on the verge of re-enacting my infamous stage dive.
Can you feel my drive returning folks? Can you hear the punch restored to my enunciation? I’m on a roll here so if we’re playing devil’s advocate to my previous theory of “don’t go overlooking those in front of you” then I want to have a think about what lays beyond this tournament.
Win, lose or draw I will still be the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion and I need to source a new challenger for my title. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and let’s assume this little foray into uncharted tag team territory has satiated my curiosity for what else am I capable of, I will need to ensure my return to singles dominance is marked with a contender worthy of this new found vigour. Right now the only person who has childishly shouted;
“But I want a go!”
Is Yukio f*cking Blaze. I refuse to even waste my time responding to that insult. I need to find someone who will test me as much as Trace Demon tested me, someone who will stretch my capabilities as far as Phillip Schneider. I need someone new. Someone fresh.
At Choke Hold I can promise two things. Two hypocritical promises for the price of one.
Uno. Tugarin Zmey and myself will progress to the finals of this tournament.
Dos. I will make an announcement that will light a fire under a group of young men.
The soothsayer hath spoken.
Let's see if I've got it right.
(A.K.A. Dr. Donnie)
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I’ve spoken for weeks, maybe even months about the physical breaking point that I’m edging ever closer to. A series of attacks from every side have left me on wobbly legs, and that’s without even taking into account the toll the officiated, in ring battles are taking.
All of this pales in comparison though to what happened at New Dawn. Again, yes I took a beating. I spent the vast majority of my match under a pair of thumbs. That’s not what has left me feeling so disheveled though. No amount of strikes or stretches can truly get under my skin, and into my head. It was the reveal of one Michael Kyzer that has backed me into this corner in my own mind. An overbearing cloud of doubt pushes me closer and closer to the wall, and I feel there’s little I can do about it.
Am I distraught about the loss of a friend?
I’ve already grieved his apparent death, so no that’s not it.
Am I hurt by the ability to deceive?
I’ve been deceived before, on a much grander scale, so no that’s not it either.
The source of this doubt, the wound from which it spills, is my own inability to see it coming. What’s cutting me up the most is that I can no longer trust my own mind. I have always been able to rely on myself, regardless of who around me is throwing me to a hospital trip, or stealing from under my nose, I have always been able to sleep safe in the fact that my own mind is still sharper than my adversary’s.
Perhaps I’m dulling with age. Perhaps I’ve been on top so long that I’ve become complacent?
No.
I may have been vulnerable when in that wheelchair but my mind wasn’t suffering multiple fractures. My thoughts were entirely up to scratch, if not honed to perfection due to the countless hours spent on my own, in silence. I was deceived at the height of my mental capacity by a group of old f*cking men. I was led to believe I was part of a pack, not just a piece of meat groomed into acceptance. I was the paedo to their phile, and I took all 6 inches of it.
F*ck!
I am supposed to be the alpha male. Genghis Khan Jnr. The “God” Slayer.
I am designing myself as the greatest name this world has ever known…….and yet I was taken in by a group of washed up f*cking actors!
So now where does that leave me?
To say I already had trust issues is selling myself a little short. Add this to the pile and I may end up looking over my shoulder after every step. Who the f*ck do I have around me that I can put some faith in?
I’d wait for answer but let’s face it, there’s nothing to fill that void. The silence would hang like a strange fruit until it began to rot.
I am alone. I suppose that’s the way it should be for THE GOOD GUY on the top of the world.
The closest thing I have to a partner right now is Tugarin Zmey, a brain washed Slavic Dragon, bound by some kind of life debt. And who holds the reigns? A man who has always, and no doubt WILL always despise me. HA! It’s kind of funny when you think about it. The irony of this cruel fate is almost unbearable, to the point that if I don’t laugh about it I may have an aneurysm.
So what am I if not totally f*cked and on my own?
I’m a man with a dog.
5 men.
4 men.
3 men.
2 men.
1 man and his dog.
*WOOF*
Went to mow a meadow.
I can always trust Dog, but he’s not that capable of getting me out of a bind. His lack of posable thumbs makes most forms of support quite difficult.
I have to treat this whole thing as a bump in the road, not the end of it. I have to maintain trust in myself, trust in my own abilities as the greatest mind in this sport. I’m the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion for a reason and no one can say it’s down to a little help from my friends. I have no Final Revolution, no Saviors of Salvation, no KoKaine Konspiracy. I’ve not even got a New Epoch anymore. The band of brothers has indeed disbanded, with David in the corner of a man who finally seems to be grabbing every opportunity by the balls, and Michael playing catch with the ex-National Champion. They’re both doing fine in the friendship camp. No one stops to think of poor old Drakz though do they? The only thoughts I get coming my way are those of;
“How can we smash his knackers into a paste, butter them onto his bread and force it down his neck?”
It’s nice to be thought of I suppose, but I have to resent the reasoning behind it all. F*ck you Epoch alumni.
So if I do intend on holding my middle fingers in front of me as I charge into the sunset, who will bear the brunt of the initial burst of adrenaline? It seems that will be one Mr Hess. Lucas Crowe can tussle with The Dragon, so my thoughts need not be sullied by his obvious physical advantages. As for his mentor…………I’ll save that for another Tyme.
Pun-tastic.
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“You don’t take advice on board readily do you?”
Dr. Hershel spins his computer monitor my way. A mess of grey, blue and black glares back at me.
“I’m hoping visual cues might sink in a little more.”
I can feel my face is dead pan. Not in a cool, calm and collected way. More gormless than that.
“This….”
He jabs at the screen with his index finger.
“This is of course an X-Ray of your back.”
He looks at me for some recognition of his words. He gets nothing.
“And this…”
A more localised thrust of his digit..
“This is where we have a problem. As you can see there is slight misalignment in the vertebrae both above and below my finger, and in between, well you can’t look at that and tell me everything’s fine and dandy.”
Nothing.
“Isaac. This is serious. I know I’ve said that every time you’ve visited me, but this is the last time I’m going to attempt to dissuade you. It may be worth your time, and more importantly your legs, to at least listen.”
A subtle nod. Barely even a furrow of the brow in reality, but it’s enough for him to see willing on my part.
“This disc in particular is bulging, something that can be easily alleviated if it’s given time to rest and recover. If it herniates you’re going to be in a huge amount of pain. This isn’t the only disc that concerns me either. While it may be the most far gone, it certainly isn’t the only one that’s prone to herniation.”
I’m still not giving him the response he wants, and in all fairness it’s down to my not hearing much of what he’s really saying. My mind has been numb since about 9:34 last night. Right from the point an elderly man showed me, on live TV, how much of a fool I’ve been.
He turns the monitor away.
“I sense this isn’t the time. Isaac is there something you want to discuss? The Hippocratic Oath binds me to absolute confidentiality, even regarding matters of a personal nature.”
I’m not Josh f*cking Dean. I’m not Ace f*cking Bennet. I’m not Hutton f*cking Brown. I will not be spilling my guts to a shrink this side of dementia, no matter how much of a top man he may be, and no matter how scrambled my inner workings have become.
“I’m fine Doc. Let’s keep this about my paraplegic future.”
Hershel sighs, I guess having assumed we were best buds or something, and that I was going to open up to him. My Daddy beat me. Mommy wasn’t there. I was raped by a ghost. Pussies.
Hmmmm this seems to be working. Maybe cynicism and spiteful critique is the best medicine. F*ck laughter. Patch Adams can suck my c*ck.
Wow I’m getting quite verbal here. Apologies for the profanity.
“I don’t feel like wasting my time or yours right now. All of this can wait until you’re in a more…….responsive state of mind.”
He’s right about that. That seems to have been the issue since “Derek-Gate”. A total lack of response. The kill switch was crushed and I’ve been moping about it ever since. I’m here though aren’t I?
“I’m here aren’t I? Tell me what I need to know.”
What I already know. I’m the one living with it.
“Isaac, let me cut to the chase……again. I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to hint at my professional opinion without forcing it upon you. You know I’d rather your mental state was improved than have you sit at home, bored out of your mind. A mind is a beautiful thing, and to let it waste away seems like more of a crime than to let the body do the same, however, these are extenuating circumstances. This isn’t just a case of me telling someone, ‘stop sleeping on your side’, this is a far more aggressive situation that that.”
The nature of the beast.
“Each time I see you it transpires that someone else has tried to be the guy who broke your back for good. Every single time you go to work another person does their best to write you off. This is about the worst possible situation for someone with your injuries to be in. Don’t you think?”
It would be moronic to say otherwise. I refuse to let that credit stray onto someone’s resume though. I’m the best in the whole f*cking world. I’m not far from the greatest of all time. No arguments. That’s what I need to achieve before this vertebrae Jenga topples on me.
I nod.
“Let me ask you this. Have you got anyone to watch your back? I’m so sorry, excuse the pun.”
A talking dog? Probably best to leave that out.
“Not really.”
“That’s an issue. You need to change the way you do business if you really must continue. There has to at least be alterations made. Surely you, with an acumen for your sport, can see that?”
Evolve. Maybe it’s more than just changing the perception of me. Sol Inviticus. Maybe it’s more than just spouting a confusion of words, words that scare the life out of my detractors and my opponents. Perhaps it is time to truly evolve in myself. Taking trips in the forest is all well and good, but it seems the man must make his own implementation on the physical.
“I understand that. What do I do though? If people don’t like me enough to watch out for my health I can’t force them to. I’ve been on my own ever since this back injury mate. It’s dark days, but I eat the darkness. F*ck them all.”
Have I just started cutting a promo on my Doctor?
“There’s no one? No one at all?”
“I suppose there’s one man…..half man……he’s not exactly got my best intentions at heart though.”
Understatement.
“My health does directly effect his goals though, so perhaps I should be using that to my advantage?”
I don’t think relying on other people is going to help the man at the top though. I am a wanted fugitive in the eyes of the jackals around me. Most in that locker room would sell me out without a moment’s notice if they sniffed a chance at toppling the champ. The rug’s staying firmly beneath my feet, and I don’t need anyone to hold the corners.
“I think I’ve got it covered though. I hear what you’re saying, and I guess I just need to do a better job of protecting myself. It might be time to switch up the methods buried in the madness. If only to stop you staying up all night with worry.”
A joke? Maybe this talking sh*te is therapeutic? I’ve gone from dead to……at least docile, in 15 minutes. That’s got to be a victory in anyone’s book? A small book for a small victory. Pocket dictionary anyone?
Hershel smiles, but I can sense how serious he really is about this. It must be odd watching someone refuse what’s good for them, knowing that in the end they’re destroying themselves. He’s powerless really. behind all of his prescriptions and advice he can’t force anything on me. The Rape Doctor. Stuffing pills in holes that didn’t say yes. A New York Times Best Seller. Welcome to Oprah’s Book Club 2015.
What in the blue f*ck am I talking about? At least this is a sign of my tangent prone mind waking up. It’s been dormant for about 15 hours too long.
F*ck that old nigguh. Derek………Ricky Richards…..whatever his name is.
A pimple on the good doctor’s desk mounted tannoy panel begins to flash. He pushes a button on it and speaks. This is very Thunderbrids.
“Daisy?”
“There’s someone at reception asking for your patient Dr. Hershel.”
He glances at me.
“I’ll send him right out, we’re just wrapping things up in here.”
He releases the button and privacy is restored.
“No friends Isaac?”
“We don’t know who’s out there yet doc.”
He fills out the necessaries on my prescription note before tearing it off the pad and handing it over to me. We both rise and he opens the door for me. A gentleman.
“I’ll see you when you get back from your trip to Japan then yes?”
“Quite. Let’s hope I’m still walking by then ey doc.”
I wink at him, trying to make light of a very real problem and then head back to reception. There’s no one there?
“Sorry. Dr. Hershel said there was someone to see me?”
Daisy on reception flicks her head to the side, gesturing over the counter, her face tight and prone to laughter. I peer over and everything makes sense.
A half pint navy seal super soldier stands with his back to us, his shoulder and neck twitching ever so slightly, telling of his habit. Takes one to know one I suppose.
“Yes?”
He turns around with a little jump. Nervous?
“Good it IS you. The boss wants a word.”
“Where is he then?”
“Follow me.”
As we leave the building I’m hypnotised by the way my jailer walks, leading me to the chair. I feel the need to study the skeletal make up of these people. I’m transfixed by the awkward waddle.
Before I know it I’m on the street, standing next to a Lincoln Town Car with the windows blacked out. I can only assume Donnie lies within. What the f*ck is he doing here? We’re a long way from Seattle.
The midget opens the door for me and I duck inside.
“You wanna explain what the f*ck this is then?”
Concise and to the point as ever. I get myself comfortable while avoiding eye contact. Donnie’s in the front passenger seat, looking back at me. I can feel his eyes burrowing a hole through my scalp.
“Why do I find you at a doctor’s surgery?”
I notice there’s little in the way of enforcement present. No Tugarin. No Ahriman. No Whitner. Just a driver and Donnie.
“Has the f*cking puss got your tongue you sh*t head? Because if I find out he hasn’t and you don’t start talking I'll cut it out myself!”
The infamous forehead veins begin to visibly throb. He’s definitely got a date with a coronary in the next couple of years. His little heart can’t be up to much more than this.
“Hello Donovan.”
“Hello who? Quit the f*cking sass you pretty mouthed, limey c*nt. I want answers! ANSWERS!”
A shade of beetroot fills his face like a cartoon character and I can’t hold back the smirk. He’s clearly got no time for this though.
“Okay, f*ck you!”
He turns away from me only to turn back with a pistol in his hand, the party end pointing directly at my chest. Instinctively my hands go up. Perhaps it’s time to defuse the situation, before I end up with a window installed in my guts.
“Donnie. Calm down. There’s no need to do anything that may jeopardise what we planned.”
“Me f*cking jeopardise things?! That’s why I’m here! You hiding any injuries from me and my tribe jeopardises everything……..your f*cking life included.”
Now there’s a stipulation for the tournament. If Drakz & Tugarin fail to win, your WFWF World Heavyweight Champion will be publicly executed.
“Woah, woah, woah. There’s no need to start throwing around threats Donnie. I’m just here for a check up mate. Have you forgotten that I had my back broken less than three years ago?”
He seems to cool initially and then jabs the gun in my direction again.
“And?”
“We’re all good.”
Is this a good idea?
“Of course my spine is never going to be as sturdy as it once was but I’ll settle for second best on this one.”
Lying to a lunatic with a gun in my face……what could go wrong?
“It’s as good as it’s getting.”
What indeed?
“You better be right, because if you cost the KKK our titles, if you cost me MY f*cking titles I will end you!”
“Donnie. Did I, or did I not beat Phillip Schneider twice in my current condition?”
“Who gives a f*ck about him?”
“How many times did Michael beat him?”
I let that hang like a bad fart and to my relief DMK begins to smile, begins to laugh.
We’re not out of the woods yet, but he at least puts his gun away……for now.
“From now on you keep me in the loop with all of your medical anomalies. I need to be one step ahead, and you keeping sh*t from me makes that more difficult than it should be. I didn’t choose to work with you, I like keeping my sh*t on lock. I prefer my soldiers to be loyal to the cause, not hired f*cking mercenaries.”
“I can empathise with that notion. Believe me though Donnie, I want to win this as much as, if not more than you.”
“Whatever puss. Just remember, in this relationship I’m the one handing out the d*ck. You just smile and take it. I AM THE MAN!”
Is this a come on?
“And another thing, I don’t want you sticking your bottom f*cking lip out and crying over your cadaver ex-boyfriend. Michael got you good, there’s no denying that, but are you going to let him gloat any more than he already has? Suck it up. I’ve got no time for tears. Zmey’s got no time for tears.”
Is Donnie actually consoling me? Is Donnie actually giving valid advice? If I want Kyzer to fall flat I need to let this roll off of me. The fact I’ve been betrayed during the most vulnerable period of my life is a deep wound, but if I want to keep Kyzer’s salty fingers out of there I have to shrug off his attempts to sour things for me.
I am The Undefeated Sun. I am Sol Inviticus. I feel no regret. I am a f*cking Super Saiyan.
“Michael’s got his own misfortunes to worry about anyway. It seems his tutelage of your newest recruit isn’t going so well.”
“Ante cost them the match, that’s a given. It f*cks me off to see one of the KoKaine Konspiracy made a fool of, but that’s eclipsed by the joy it gives me knowing Michael has been caught with his pants down.”
“If there is only one thing we can agree on, let it be that we outshine Michael Kyzer’s every attempt in this tournament. I want him to become the laughing stock of this business. His name being thrown under the bus would grant me even more satisfaction than throwing the man himself under there.”
Donnie lets out a little cackle. He knows whilst we may not be on the same page, or even the same chapter, my want to defile the myth surrounding The God of F*ck is more than enough fire power for me to deliver the goods.
“One more win and you and Zmey are in the finals. It’s almost been too easy. Those Hollywood f*ggots yet again proved they’re not worthy of cleaning up my sh*t. I bet you thought a fellow limey would have brought some legitimacy to their table didn’t you? Turns out he’s just another b*tch for me to roll over.”
“I don’t see our next match being a problem either.”
A look of confusion from Donnie.
“Who are you even destroying?”
“Lucas Crowe and Johnny Hess.”
“Who?”
“Hess is a non-starter. No worries there. This Crowe is a big lad though.”
“Bigger than my Dragon?”
“Not even close.”
“In that case I’ll see you in Japan. I might even buy you a geisha wh*re for your troubles.”
“Geisha aren’t prostitutes…..”
“I’ll find one that is. Now get the f*ck out of my car.”
I don’t think me and Donnie will ever be friends. I don’t really think we’ll ever even be associates. This relationship starts and ends with the tournament, that’s something we can both agree on. I’m not one for making a habit of stroking egos, and in Donnie’s case it’s about the only way you can avoid getting a slug in your ball bag.
If his Dragon can get me what I want though then I’ll remain civil. It’s not a steady foundation I’m standing on though. One word from the midget and that Slavic leviathan will Bain me like Batman.
Straight over the f*cking knee.
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Has a chance encounter with the world’s angriest child put my mind at ease?
In a strange turn of events, yes it kind of has. I’ll be the first to admit coming out of a conversation with Donnie, especially one that started with my staring down the barrel of a gun, should do nothing but get my back up, but in this instance he’s managed to nullify that rock of doubt that had found its way into my stomach. He’s shown me how much he wants to win this tournament, almost at the expense of my own life, but it’s this unbridled passion of his that lets me know he and his Dragon are firmly on my side, if only to smear the name that is Michael Kyzer.
Before us though is one more match prior to Tokyo. It would be foolish of me to underestimate anyone at this stage in my career as we all know that the slightest hint of hubris can lead to the downfall of any man. I’ve seen it, but thankfully never suffered it, and I don’t plan on starting now.
Crowe & Hess barely scraped through their quarter final match a couple of weeks ago. Were it not for the sheer size of Lucas I fear that match was a foregone conclusion. Johnny Hess did nothing to impress anyone, nothing but show he makes a pretty sh*tty punch bag. If you can’t even get beaten up right then what’s left for you? Essentially I’ve written him off. He’s got no right to even be in this ring and it makes me wonder who’s d*ck he must have sucked for the chance to get here? The chance to get onto the TV only to be gang-banged by ThornGotch, a team that in and of itself reeks of no hope. The stench that fills the void of desperation is a tangy one, and it oozes from every pore of the aforementioned team. Throw them together and hope they can achieve something………anything. But no. One hot tag to The Motor City Mercenary and their collective pants were shat.
And so my only worry when it comes to Choke Hold is this man, this Lucas Crowe. Why? Because he’s a technically proficient beast of a man. It’s evident from his ring work that he’s not just a brute force, knuckle dragging Hominidae, and yet his taste in hero leads me to believe otherwise. Any man that venerates a homophobic, racist, right wing, gun touting guitar masturbator can’t really be worth my time. He’d probably consider DMK the second coming. After all Ted Nugent is just Donnie Monty Kent Lite.
Any merit this man may have though is sidelined, if not entirely eclipsed by the man that stands in my corner. Did I say man? I’m sorry, I never meant to mislead you. Tugarin Zmey is no man. He’s barely even a f*cking Dragon, it’s just easier to call him that.
I have no reason to truly believe this fight is anything but a bye to the finals. A handicap match? Essentially. I can only hope Crowe is placing no faith in his partner, as doing so would be tantamount to spreading his own arse cheeks. This tournament has been a nice way to get your foot in the door Lucas, but I recommend going it alone from here on out.
So call me foolish or a hypocrite, but I have to look beyond this week in Cincinnati. I have to wonder who is going to stand against us in the final of this tournament?
Right now there are only two options in my eyes:
"Sylvanian Families." Better known as Trace Demon & Nikki Dean. The loveliest, warmest, cuddliest team for all the family to enjoy.
or
"Master & Commander." The strange will they, won’t they teaming of “hot prospect…….is this ever actually going to happen?” Ante Whitner and everyone’s favourite drug lord Michael Kyzer.
Both teams pose quite the threat to myself and Zmey in terms of the individuals involved but I’m not so certain either team can become more than just the sum of their parts.
Trace Demon is currently without a cause. I slapped him down and so he reacted by beating up his friends. Now he wanders the wastelands, alone and confused. So confused he in fact has ended up with a tag team partner he never thought he wanted but………*feel the tension build*……………..it turns out he does want her!!!! They are kindred spirits in as much as their family values align, something I find hard to empathise with. Can you ever truly trust a Demon though? He’s not got the greatest resumé when it comes to sticking it out with team mates, something I’ve already heard him attest to personally. Nikki Dean on the other hand is perhaps too trusting. She’s jumped from one abusive relationship with her ex-husband into what could possibly be the most abusive relationship she’s ever known should she cost Trace his chance at winning the Tag Team Titles. She’s just a sucker for punishment it seems, and yet Josh strikes me as such a stand up guy?
Now Trace and Nikki are only one win away from losing to “George & The Dragon” where as Kyzer and Whitner still have to qualify to qualify to lose to us. It’s a long hard road but if anyone can tread it I believe it may be these two. So what if they lost to Nikki and Trace only last show? Retribution is an explosive fuel to any fire and if I know Mike he’ll be putting all of the blame onto Ante, which in my mind should give him the edge. Either Ante takes that pressure and shows his new Sugar-Daddy that he really IS worth all this effort, or he crumbles, in which case he may well be on the verge of re-enacting my infamous stage dive.
Can you feel my drive returning folks? Can you hear the punch restored to my enunciation? I’m on a roll here so if we’re playing devil’s advocate to my previous theory of “don’t go overlooking those in front of you” then I want to have a think about what lays beyond this tournament.
Win, lose or draw I will still be the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion and I need to source a new challenger for my title. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and let’s assume this little foray into uncharted tag team territory has satiated my curiosity for what else am I capable of, I will need to ensure my return to singles dominance is marked with a contender worthy of this new found vigour. Right now the only person who has childishly shouted;
“But I want a go!”
Is Yukio f*cking Blaze. I refuse to even waste my time responding to that insult. I need to find someone who will test me as much as Trace Demon tested me, someone who will stretch my capabilities as far as Phillip Schneider. I need someone new. Someone fresh.
At Choke Hold I can promise two things. Two hypocritical promises for the price of one.
Uno. Tugarin Zmey and myself will progress to the finals of this tournament.
Dos. I will make an announcement that will light a fire under a group of young men.
The soothsayer hath spoken.
Let's see if I've got it right.
