Post by Prophet of Ash on Jul 6, 2024 14:18:03 GMT -5
2020: The Devil on my Shoulder
No one dreams of this life. No one dreams of the pain. No one gets through a high school math class with dreams of laying on a physical therapy table for four to six hours a day, strapped to devices like a robot boy and icing down tired muscles for minimal relief in the interim. I certainly didn’t have the ambition of waking up and wondering how I’d survive another day in pain, how I’d get by just regular day to day activities like walking and driving to the grocery store, and no amount of money, glory, and fame can compensate for this sort of eternal agony and torment. To constantly be on the verge of tears, not from the physical pain but just from trying to understand how it got to this point, how strong will and determination can lead to pills by the handful, because it’s medicine, because a doctor said to.. they’re valid excuses, it’s what I have to do. I hurt, I’ve got to do this.
My dream wasn’t to endure this day to day pharma and physical hell, all while pundits and “insiders” make their living by speculating. The so called “dirt sheets” gaining monetarily and notoriety off the story I’ve created, gaining from my blood, but literally and figuratively. To have these so called experts talk on their shows, day after day, week after week, speculating.. putting pen to paper what I deal with weekly.. My knees are gone. My wrists are gone. The agony that my neck is in, it’s all a fluff piece for them, a segment between results and hype. And what am I to do other than recite the same tired script as I shove through this broken life; never sleeping on the road because it’s the road. Never sleeping at home because I hurt too bad from the road. Rinse and repeat. Get to sleep for a few hours but it’s five AM wake up for rehab. And through all of that, judgmental eyes expecting you to power through, expecting you to bring your best, when you’re at your worst.
“Oh, I’m hanging in there” the default line you say when you know you’re physically, spiritually, and emotionally damaged and nearing you breaking point. In the back of your mind, knowing that all of these issues are only getting worse. I used to heal up so quickly when I was younger, but those smaller injuries turn to big ones. Superficial cuts leave scars, but these deep tissue injuries, bone injuries, joint injuries.. even when they are fixed and healed. And when these injuries pile up, you’re at 75% and you get something else on top of it, 75% becomes your new 100%. And you’re hoping to get back to what was your 75%. And this law of diminishing returns slowly deteriorates your being. The body recovers a lot differently at 21 than it does at 27, and 37 yearns for 27.
You can call it a realization of mortality or you can call it a conjunction of realities, but either way, the body is failing. Even when your mind is still whole, your body cannot do this day to day grind. And when the mind checks out, it’s even more dangerous, because there’s not this safety net any more. The counterbalance is eliminated. You get out from the hot lights and you’re alone in a rental car on a dark and lonesome highway. And on those times, you just have the KT Tape, icy hot, and throbbing pain to remind you of where you’ve been. And the cameras are gone. The cheers of the fans aren’t there. The adrenaline has subsided and the cheers from the fans are a distant echo. And that big check every other week doesn’t fill the void. The luster is off the armor and the result is shining through. When you’re in the arenas, and you want to be on a beach. You want to be at home. You want to be at a cookout with the inlaws or literally anywhere but in the arena. Far away from the area. Free from the mental torment, anguish, and paranoia that you have to deal with every single day. Free from this world of pain. And yet, you go on because everything within your identity is tied to this falsehood you’ve created, your world is built around this fake and even if your body breaks, you continue on because there’s no alternative. This is reality now.
Living a gangsta life seems like a great idea. Fame, money, girls, guns, it all has a certain appeal to it. But you only get one life to live and if you try to live more than one, it’s going to cannibalize itself. That’s what happened to me, the career and the empire I had built for myself came crashing down in an instant, because the charismatic performer in wrist tape and elbow pads gave way to Inmate #B18338. And you learn a lot about yourself when you’re the only person you can talk to. And for seven hundred and thirty days, I was my companion. Yeah, I’d get visitors. Samantha, her girlfriend, Percy.. a diminishing number of fans and autograph seekers. They tried me with cellmates, but fame and a will to fight, while already tagged as a violent criminal, made that about impossible. So two years, seven hundred and thirty days, I am he is you are he and we are all together.
These sort of diatribal monologues get you through a day at some point, as you retell your life story. The only show on TV is you and we’re in an off season, so it’s a rerun. I became known as this psychopath, waving swords, flashing guns, brandishing knives and making bloodletting a typical spectacle performance. And in the Wild West world of the WFWF, that’s all well and good. So much so that when I stopped reinventing the wheel, everyone and their mother tied their horse and carriage to my new innovation, wearing my scarf like it’s the new fashion. This niqab I’ve created as my identity is now a political statement for the masses. Meanwhile, while these kids bite off my style, they prosper, I wilt. The innovator of madness sits locked in a cell while the imitators grow off this new style.
The thing I had to come to grips with the most was the face that the injector of this madness, the amplification of what was always there, the WFWF.. That’s the cause and effect for all of this. Every piece of the puzzle working forwards and backwards all links back to the WFWF. You can start at the very end, I’m arrested for an assault in a WFWF ring, I hung a man by meat hooks and was charged with assault. Would’ve been an in and out case, maybe a fine.. if I didn’t have the warrant for pulling a gun on New Kylie. Whom I would have never corrupted if it weren’t for the WFWF, whom would’ve never come into contact with The Deville. Who I truthfully would’ve never gained a taste for if it weren’t for Megan. And this is the branching path that led me to sitting in that prison, identified as Inmate #B18338 for two years. Because until Megan came back into my life, things weren’t going down the path of this outlaw ish. And until she came around the first time, things never really turned violent.
This is the linking game I played, over and over. This victim blaming, this character blaming. The people who around me are the blame, and this is what I had to work through. I had to accept that I, Phillip Schneider, am the only one responsible for my destiny, for the cause and effect that I’ve created. It’s not New Kylie’s fault, it’s not the WFWF’s fault, it’s not Percy’s fault. It’s not my mother’s fault. The only one sitting in that cell with me was me and the people in that cell were the only people responsible.
“That’s **** ish, man”
Stop.
He comes around from time to time. He can keep me company, but he’s not great company. I think he was always there, but having time with him in that cell really helped me get to know him.
You need to go out there, beat the piss out of someone. Find a greenhorn and humiliate him, make an example out of them.
I’m not doing that.
You’ve lost your edge. Prison is supposed to make people harder, it’s made you soft. I don’t even know who you are now. Who are you, what are you doing in the body *I* made famous?
He’s right. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. Nothing I’ve done has made me famous, made me money to support my family, and brought me critical acclaim. It’s all been him. Maybe he should be the controller again, and I should be the voice of reason on the outside.
There you go. Let me take back over
It’s not happening. We’re in this together now.
P*ssy
You sit there in your blind world and worry about what those around you are doing more than your own business at hand. You constantly maneuver in life to achieve what others have rather than setting your own targets and carving out your own path. You lack guidance. I’ll be the candle that guides you through the darkness.
*Suddenly a flicking lighter strikes a single candle. The warm orange glow illuminates the previously pitch black room in a 360 degree sphere. The holder of the candle is most visible now, while the foreground and background remain dim in the radius of the candle. The tattooed hand of the beholder is mostly still skewed, minus the shapes and lines, though the decidedly evil face of the beholder shines brightly. The scraggly dirty blonde hair and sunken eyeballs unmistakable to long term fans of WFWF, the Hall of Famer Phillip Schneider stands in this room now, the white candle glowing a warm glow throughout the dirty, dusty, dim room.*
I am here to be your guiding light. I am here to show you the way, because not just you, but the entire world has lost their way. The entire system has been broken and because of that, the infrastructure has crumbled. This world sits on a fragile axis and anything that disturbs it has to be abolished instantly for fear of total annihilation. You’ve got to trust the process in this system and somewhere along the way, the trust was broken. And my friend..
*Schneider smiles a sly smile directly into the glow of the candle.*
My friend you can trust me. I won’t mislead you. I will be there for you. If you want me to be your leader, I’ll be your leader. If you want me to be your friend, I’ll be your friend. If you want me to be your ally, I’ll be your ally and if you want me to be your messiah, I’ll be your messiah. I’m not here to lead you astray. I’ve walked the darkest paths in this world and I’m here to lead you to the shining light. I am your amigo. I am the shining light in this darkest world. Do you trust me?
*Schneider begins to pace back and forth, flicking the lighter in his hand in a way that’s most noticeable because the orange sparks briefly illuminate an entire second section of the room, albeit briefly. Once the orange sparks disappear, so does that visibility. Pacing and pacing, flicking and flicking, there’s a methodical madness at work as Schneider contemplates his next verbage.*
I left this world when I assumed it was at it’s most crumbling. I left when I felt I was obsolete, like the technology of the next generation had passed me by. I stepped back and stepped away for a while, not necessarily by choice, but by the do or die hand that I forced myself into. You see, I needed to do or I deserved to die. That was my loaded weapon and I put it in Drakz’ palm and frankly, I helped him pull the trigger. I deserved the mortal wound he inflicted upon me. The problem is, it wasn’t a mortal wound. The problem is, just like I knew he didn’t, Drakz didn’t have the guts to finish the job. Drakz didn’t have the fortitude to put me out of my misery. He didn’t have the fortitude to save the WFWF from the cancer that is Phillip Schneider, because deep down in the back of his twisted brain, he knew I was right. He knew my path was the right path. He knew the things I was saying were the right things and that’s what scared him. That’s exactly what pushed him to veer to the left and not take the headshot when he had it. Because while Drakz saw me as a cancer; he knew he wasn’t the cure. You see, Drakz knew in his heart of heart, I’m not evil. I’m a good guy. I’m here for what’s best for everyone. I’m your friend.
*Schneider smiles another sly, yet creepy smile, his smile illuminated in the warm light of the candle.*
I’m the cure. I’m here to spread my message to the sick. To the weak. To the malnourished. Because in my absence, as bad as things got, they’ve only gotten worse. Clearly Phillip Schneider was not the cancer suffocating the life out of the WFWF, because when I was put into remission, so was the entire WFWF. The decaying society continued to decay and the decay accelerated without the medicine. I’ll be the medicine again. I’ll fix this. I’ll make this better, if you need me to. I can be whatever you want me to be. I’m there for you, princess.
*Schneider smiles another sly yet sinister smile into the candlelight. There’s a certain deadness behind his sunken pupils, the life clearly drained from his eyes from whatever story the faded scars and lines sketched across his face tells.*
I thought popping back in for Scars and Stripes would be the quick fix. The night of returns and surprises! The night the future of the WFWF is shaped and the night the biggest match of the year is ultimately set off of the results of the traditional open invitational battle royal. But I did it wrong. I didn’t follow the script. The script was right there for me and I veered off. I didn’t follow my instincts. I know who I am and I know what the WFWF needs from me and I wasn’t there for her. Never again. I’m there for her. And the masks are off. The “reformed” Phillip Schneider is off, because the façade was transparent to begin with. I tried to give the dose of medicine the WFWF needed but I was too late and I went off script. I’m here now. If you need the medicine man, I’ll be your medicine man. If you need an angel, I’ll be your angel. If you need the devil, I’ll be your devil. If you need a hero..
*With a swift puff, Schneider blows the candle out, once again bringing the entire room to a pitch black darkness. His laugh resonates and echoes through the clearly cavernous room, his footsteps providing a clip clap sort of echo that slowly goes into the distance.*
I’ll never be a hero.
The serene calmnesss of blue lake water, the sun beaming down and reflecting in the wavepool; that’s the scenery directly surrounding the area. A small mossy hill leads to slightly overgrown grass and weeds, large rocks mounted firmly into the soil providing a pedestal overlooking the entire lake.
I come here sometimes to think. Just to think about things. There’s no distractions out here. There’s no cars, no computers.. There’s no cell phone reception out here. It’s the perfect place to just come and think. And when it’s as quiet as it is out here, you can really think. I don’t need to worry about what’s on social media, I don’t need to worry about the latest news.. I can just think.
Is that why we came out here today?
I’m firmly planted next to my father on one of these rocks. We’ve been out here for about an hour now, I can feel the sun toasting the moisture from my skin by the second. I’d like to jump into the lake, myself, but I know without a towel or a change of clothes the two plus mile hike back from wince we came would be a miserable one. In the time we’ve been sitting here, it’s mostly been silence. I’ve been programmed since I was way too young to not speak unless spoken to and while that guardian/child dynamic was somewhat shattered by my father’s extended vacation with the Illinois State Penitentiary, there’s times when the hardwiring in my brain just kicks back in and I fall back.
I don’t know, Sam, I’m really having an existential crisis, ya know. My belief system and the core fundamentals have been completely shattered to such a degree that I’ve fallen to complete nihilism.
Over wrestling?
He gives me a long, stern, glare. The type of long, stern, glare I’ve seen too many times in the past, the type of glare that’s programmed me to just shut up most times. Whipping his hair or possibly a bug out of his face, he breaks his glare momentarily and I can see a deadness in his eyes I never previously noticed, a welling of tears hidden just underneath his eyes, hidden by the fluttering of his eyelids at a much more rapid pace than is noticeable. It could be the glaring Illinois sun beaming down on us at high noon. It could be a dry contact lens from the boiling hot Illinois sun. Or maybe for once my father is showing vulnerability and emotion? Surely when confronted it’d be option A, option B, or a combination of A and B and never an admittance of C, but C seems the most probable from my perspective.
Wrestling was supposed to be the fixer. Wrestling was supposed to be there to bring me a degree of stability back to my life, Sam. I love you and the little one, but I’m not ready to be dear old grandpa, sitting back in the rocking chair and telling stories about how things used to be. I’m not prepared to just be Pawpaw.
He needs Pawpaw, though
But I need this outlet, Sam. I always have. But my body started breaking down. I didn’t want to walk away, but I had to. Too many years and too much punishment, I couldn’t keep up. But the time inside, I couldn’t do much. Got my knee fixed, finally. That’s a plus. Don’t even need the brace to run now. And I can run again. But I mostly sat. And sat. And sat. Four concrete walls surrounding me and a single florescent light above me. You know how many days or nights I’d just lay on the cold, concrete floor and stare at that light tube, and dream of being able to grab ahold of it? How many days I’d dream of grabbing that tube and shattering it to a million pieces. I could smell the dust inside of it, that familiar smell of mercury powder faintly mixed with copper from blood. I could literally smell that smell in my cell. And here I am, fantasizing about destroying the one thing that’s stopping me from 24/7 darkness. Interior cell, no daylight, this bulb is the one thing stopping me from being in sheer darkness all the time and yet the only thing I really want to do is to smash this bulb to bits.
Do we just need to make a trip to the hardware store and break some glass?
It’s not the glass I lust for, Sam. It’s the thrill. There’s a high associated with the glass. Junkie doesn’t want the pipe, junkie wants the crack in the pipe. For me, it’s the fans. Their shock, their horror, their cheers, their boos. That’s my hit and I need it more than anything else. It’s why I went back. It’s why after being gone for years, I just popped up in the big battle royal, because I relapsed. I’m a f*cking dirty junkie and I relapsed but you know what happened, Sam? My f*cking dealer got shot. The WFWF is dead. Did I kill it? I’m the Prophet of Ash, ya know. Everything I touch turns to scorched earth.
That’s not true and you know it. It’s smoke and mirrors.
Is it though? Where’s your Mom?
I give him his own familiar glare. With his same piercing eyes, same nose, and same brow I’ve been told the Schneider glare was inherited. I don’t entirely believe it, but the menacing glare is something I feel like I have, regardless.
How about Meg? You got close with her, not as close as I did, but close.. Where’s she at these days? Same place as Ashley. How about Alexis?
Her’s was drugs.
So was your Mom’s and neither one of them would’ve gotten the stuff if they weren’t around me. Percy wouldn’t be in that f*cking chair if it wasn’t for me. You… you wouldn’t be as f*cked up as you are if it weren’t for me….
How exactly am *I* f*cked up?!?
If you had any sort of healthy relationships around you your entire time growing up, I’m sure your life would be a hell of a lot better. But instead you had The King of Gore as a father, dragging you all over the world as he mutilated himself and spread blood across 4 continents. You had a junkie for a Mom because Dad got her hooked on a bunch of stuff because he was in the circus. How about New Kylie? Was she a healthy influence in your life?
No…
It’s okay because she’s f*cking dead too. How about The Deville. Remember him? Our old dog fighting, drug dealing, mafia connected roommate? The one who started this whole downward spiral to begin with? It was right here, Sam. About fourteen years ago, maybe more, I realized he’s the source of my pain. Everything was fine until I got involved with him. And it took me throwing it all away, and coming here, and just looking out at the water, for me to realize it. Everything was great and I threw it away. And everything’s been rotten since.
So you’re really gonna sit here and point everything bad that’s happened in your life at this guy who hasn’t been in your life in a decade and a half? You’re gonna sit here with your woe it’s me, staring off at your private lake on your private property, and complain that some guy you knew for six months ruined your life? He redirected you on this terrible path that you just can’t get off of? F**k off, Dad.
Sam..
No, f**k off Dad. I thought you changed. I thought prison *finally* made you pull your head out of your ass, and that’s the only reason I let you around my kid in the first place. You sure as hell aren’t qualified to be any sort of positive male influence in his life, cause he’s doing just fine without knowing the exact angle to jam skewers into someone’s head or what blood smells like or whatever other sick s**t goes through your concussion addled brain. I’m going to walk back to the road now, till I get cell service, and uber back to the city. You’ve got five days to get your s**t out of my warehouse.
Sam…
Property manager don’t like you anyhow. Says you look like a junkie and he don’t like you coming around at all times of the night doing whatever it is you’ve been doing in that back room, but you know what, I stood up to him, I said “that’s my Dad, I love him, go easy on him, he’s had it rough, he’s trying his best”, but you ain’t. you ain’t trying s**t. You’re lusting over smashing light bulbs. And what the f*ck were you doing the other night?
What?
I saw the security cameras, you were walking around like a crazy person, talking to yourself with all the lights off except for a candle. For hours. Talking, talking, blow the candle out, talking, talking, blow the candle out. What the f*ck was that? When I saw it, I was worried you were going to burn down my warehouse and all my inventory. But you know what, I let it go, you’re my Dad, I love you, I’ll go easy on you, but f*ck, enough is enough. So go find a different warehouse to do weird s**t in the middle of the night in, go find a new space to make into your halcyon days vanity project gym, you’re not welcome around my business any more.
Sam..
You’re not welcome around me any more, Phil.
It’s been a grueling match and with every other competitor eliminated, we’re down to the final three in the Scars and Stripes Battle Royal. Remember, the winner of this match goes on to compete for the WFWF Championship at Superbrawl. And coming into this match, who could’ve predicted that Phillip Schneider would even be an entrant, much less one of the final three standing in the ring?
Schneider paces around his other two opponents, eyeing them up. They’re both eyeing him down and realize that taking the veteran out is the smartest chance either of them have in surviving the Survival of the Fittest. After all, staring across the ring from someone who was once the longest reigning WFWF champion of all time, when you didn’t expect him to be in the match at all, is no favorable task. And the two on one advantage can do nothing but help them, especially as Schneider’s gas tank has to be nearing empty. After all, he’s survived much of the field to get to this point, where as his two much younger opponents had a much easier trek to the finale.
The two circle around Schneider, Schneider light on his feet as he circles with them, both opponents nearing ever so closer to Schneider as he’s keeping an eye on both of them. Both grapplers seem set to strike. And at once, they both rush in. However, Schneider sees it coming and rolls to the mat, rolling right underneath the oncoming attack! Both opponents miss a dead on collision by mere foot steps. Schneider rushes at both opponents, arms splayed to the sky, crashing into both opponents with a double clothesline. Both grapplers stumble backwards towards the ropes, with the one on the left, taking the blow from Schneider’s dominant hand, stumbling further backwards and actually going into the ropes.
Schneider’s on the attack now. He goes after the prone opponent laying in the ropes, first grabbing at his opponent’s eyes, then at his leg. He’s doing everything he can to get his opponent over the top rope. A firm punch to the genitals from Schneider is able to get the opponent off balance enough that Schneider gets him up over the top rope, but not all the way over. The opponent reaches in and grabs a handful of Schneider’s stringy blonde hair, forcing Schneider to lower him back to the mat. From out of nowhere, the other opponent rushes in. He’s targeting Schneider, but Schneider sees him coming and dodges. The two adversaries of Schneider crash into one another and the already weakened opponent in the ropes goes tumbling over the top rope and to the floor!
It’s now down to a one on one encounter. The fans are at a fever pitch. None of them expected to see Phillip Schneider at all, much less for him to make it to the final two. The completion of this Randy the Ram esque saga is in it’s final act. The one opponent is still stunned, looking downwards at his amigo now prone on the floor and eliminated. Schneider throws a dropkick, possibly the first dropkick of his career because it’s awkward and off balance. Certainly the first dropkick since getting his knee scoped in 2020. The dropkick barely lands and mostly just serves to irritate his opponent. The opponent grabs Schneider by the hair and pulls him back to his knees and then his feet. Schneider’s fighting to get free. Punches to the mid section free Schneider from his grasp. Schneider backs up. Big clothesline rocks the opponent off of his balance but not off of his feet. A second has a similar Weebles wobble but they won’t fall down effect. Schneider backs up, then charges forward, bringing all of his mass into a signature Yakuza Kick, driving his boot into his opponent’s face and sending him tumbling backwards into the ropes!
The opponent is now dazed in the ropes and it’s just Schneider on his feet on the offensive. Schneider quickly regains his bearings. He measures up and nails a big spinning back fist. It doesn’t catch all of it’s intended target and Schneider knows this. He measures up again and throws a second spinning back fist and this one lands flush! The opponent is out on his feet! Schneider quickly scoops him up, dumping him over the top rope and to the floor! The bell sounds. “Paint it Black” by the Rolling Stones begins to echo throughout the arena, only interrupted by the ring announcer making it official.
“Your winner of the Scars and Stripes Battle Royal and advancing to Superbrawl to face the WFWF World Champion, The King of Gore, the Prophet of Ash, the WFWF Hall of Famer, welcome back Phillip Schneider!”
The crowd goes insane, confetti begins to fall from the ceiling, completely enveloping the crowd in a sea of cray paper. Deafening pyrotechnics explode. Friends of Schneider and media rush into the ring, everyone wanting to be a part of this historic moment. They hoist the exhausted Schneider onto their shoulders. One onlooker hands him a bouquet of flowers, with the commentator aptly pointing out “look at that, Schneider finally got his flowers!” as his closing message as the broadcast goes off the air.
In a Black Mirror world, that’s how it was supposed to go. That’s how the story was supposed to end. But it didn’t. There was no confetti. There were no pyrotechnics. There were no flowers. For all concerned, there may as well have been no Phillip Schneider, because this was the very moment the universe fractured.
So what’s the point of this?
I feel like this is a question I’ve asked Phillip Schneider a million times in my life. Sometimes the things he does in life have an objective. Sometimes it’s completely random filler. Perhaps out of boredom or perhaps out of a perpetual need to just stir the pot, in the twenty years I’ve been professionally associated with Phillip Schneider, “so what’s the point of this” seems like the most consistent inquiry.
What do you mean?
What do you mean, “what do you mean?” I mean, what’s the point of this? There’s no WFWF any more, it’s gone, kaput.
And when the libraries of Alexandria burnt, history was erased?
I would hardly call the deletion of a wrestling federation to the scale of the libraries of Alexandria burning.
I would. It’s part of my fiber, it’s part of my identity. You and I are forever bonded to this company, so to see it go, it’s just not something I can take. I mean, you can’t use your legs because of this company.
I can always tell when he’s trying to get under my skin, because it’s *always* the wheelchair. Every time with the wheelchair. It’s like he thinks I’ve forgotten I’m in a chair. For every waking moment I’m in a chair. For some sleeping moments, I’m in this chair. And yet, Phillip Schneider hones in on it whenever he thinks I’ve gotten the better of him in verbal chess match.
Look Percy, I thought I was good without the WFWF, twice in fact. I took my sabbatical the first time and what did I end up with? My marriage ended.
You don’t think all of the cheating and lying had anything to do with that? It’s the WFWF’s fault?
Took my sabbatical the second time, by force.. And ended up in prison.
You don’t think the robbery and murder had anything to do with that? It’s the WFWF’s fault?!?
Every time I go away, or it goes away, something bad happens. And I was ready to correct my path. I was ready to correct all the wrongs. I was ready to be a good guy! You know, hero’s welcome after several years away, returning champion wins the battle royal!
Returning from a stint in federal prison for armed robbery and murder..
I was never convicted of murder.
You say that like you weren’t involved.
The State of Illinois decided I was not involved in any way they could prove.
The State of Percy Jackson calls bulls**t, and knows you f*cking killed her. You leave a wake of chaos behind you everywhere you go. You literally call yourself “Prophet of Ash” because you’re constantly leaving scorched earth on everything you touch, and you’re wanting me to believe you *didn’t* kill your girlfriend when things went south?
She was never my girlfriend.
The girl that you were regularly depositing your bodily fluids into and who shared a bed with you, who suddenly turned up dead. The State of Illinois may have only found you guilty of possession of controlled substances with intent to distribute..
They’re were all mine, I’m a piece of s**t old broken down wrestler with a drug addiction.
But I know better, I know she found *something* out that you just couldn’t handle and you killed her. I suspect you killed Meg. I imagine you killed Ashley. It wouldn’t surprise me if you killed Baldwin.
Baldwin died of cancer.
The others?
Look, I’m just saying, I need the WFWF as much as the WFWF needs me, so this comeback run, it’s not just to revitalize my career. It’s to revitalize *everyone’s* career. I’m going to be the hero everyone needs, even if I have to be a deplorable scumbag piece of s**t to do it. Not every hero wears white.
As he’s ranting and raving like a lunatic, I take a long sip of my coffee. Black with sugar. I can’t do a lot of dairy any more. I’m soaking in Phillip Schneider, he’s truly in rare form at the moment.
So what’s your big plan?
I’m the draw.
The draw of what?
The WFWF
That hasn’t existed in over a year. You know what went down at Scars and Stripes. What the HELL are you talking about?
Percy, riddle me this, do you remember how we first won the WFWF Tag Team championships, some twenty years ago?
Three team, tables, ladders, and chairs inside of a Hell in a Cell. Remember it like it was yesterday. Think it was my first or second match in the company, too
Close, oh so close.
No, it was, I remember, because we just took the belts and started saying we were the champions, and told everyone if they had a problem with that, come take them back. And no one really did.
Bingo.
And we’re to the point, time is a flat circle and Phillip Schneider is an enigma, that we circle back. At least now my chicken alfredo has arrived. The cute, young waitress places my plate in front of me, then after taking a long look at Phil, places his burger and salad near him, but not nearly as near him as my food was placed. Maybe it’s supporting the local cripple, maybe it’s the fact she can tell Phil’s a prison hardened drug addict who’s possibly killed a dozen people. Who knows.
[waitress] Can I get you gentlemen anything else?
No ma’am..
Before I can even get that out, Phil pipes in, a mouth full of arugula.
More Dr Pepper. Light ice this time.
Charming. Our waitress gathers his mostly ice cup from the table, as well as what remains of the buttered bread, and disappears back into the lobby.
Now what the hell are you talking about?
We took the WFWF Tag Team titles and just started saying they were our’s and told anyone that had a problem with that to step up, and we’d handle it by force. It’s a proven plan here. I did the same thing with The Deville, more or less.
You did a lot of things with Pierce, “more or less” that should probably not be spoken about….
There’s no one to stop me, Percy. WFWF changes ownership all the time. ZMaster, King Kraig and Napoleon, whoever CBT and Rev had pretending they were running things as they puppet-mastered the ship, Drakz and Kyzer.. There’s been a dozen or more owners or administrators over the years, none more competent than the last, and frankly, the current administration seems the most incompetent of any. Even under the mayhem of Drakz and Kyzer, the entire system didn’t crumble.
What I’m saying, Percy, is I’m going to resurrect the WFWF. I’m going to rebuild it. This time in my image. Just like every previous administration has done before me. The sports entertainment of ZMaster, the ‘pure rules’ whatever that means of CBT & Rev’s run, the chaos of Drakz and Kyzer.. The autocratic bulls**t and red tape of King Kraig.. It’ll all pale in comparison to what I have to offer. This is going to be a new regime, Percy. Dead Idol Productions Proudly Presents: The WFWF.
Quickly swallowing a mouthful of alfredo doused chicken, because I expected this tangent to go on longer;
You’re not the owner, Phil.
Says who?
Says the people in charge.
I don’t see them here to stop me.
In this restaurant?
Anywhere.
So you intend to just overthrow the WFWF, in some kind of putsch?
Don’t treat it like an insurrection, Percy, I’m simply going to revitalize it. I’m going to inject new life into this company that’s been left for dead. And if that means cashing in every bit of clout I have, cashing every bit of fandom I have.. Cashing out those bonds.
He looks at me with a wink. I hate when he talks about ‘those bonds’. It’s always an absolute headache when ‘those bonds’ come up and I’m *always* the one who has to deal with it.
I’ll do it. Last shot to hit or miss, Percival. This is it.
You have no infrastructure.
I have a ring.
You don’t have a building.
He gestures out the window. In the immediate horizon, the United Center, the 23,000 seat home of the Chicago Bulls.
This restaurant wasn’t a random choice, Percy. And it wasn’t for the food, by any means. You think I told you to bring my checkbook to pay for our $26 lunch?
What are you getting at??
Step two, we secure the building
What’s step one?
Finishing lunch.
2024
He's always been here.
At all the greatest triumphs, he laughed. At the greatest tragedies, he laughed more. At the disasters, he laughed himself to tears. This voice in the back of my head that tells me to do bad things. I know everyone has one, but I've always felt like mine's a little stronger. I've always felt like mine is different.
Most people have the ability to turn that voice off. To tell it not to push the old lady in the wheel chair over just because it'd be funny, to tell you not to pop the kid's balloon just because it's funny. And sometimes, I feel like my voice is the one controlling me, with no restrictor plate to slow him down.
He's most at home in the ring. That's where he can be as awful as he wants to be to whoever he wants to be and no one says otherwise. He's most at ease in the ring where he can be as mean and violent as he wants to be. That uncontrollable urge to do bad things has an outlet.
For a long time, I tried to control him. I tried to make him stop. Then I spent two years alone in a room with him. And I realized I can't not be him. He is me. I am him.
I tried to be good. I tried to be nice. I tried to play by the rules.
It broke everything.
Now I'm back to be as bad as I can be.
He is in charge.
No one dreams of this life. No one dreams of the pain. No one gets through a high school math class with dreams of laying on a physical therapy table for four to six hours a day, strapped to devices like a robot boy and icing down tired muscles for minimal relief in the interim. I certainly didn’t have the ambition of waking up and wondering how I’d survive another day in pain, how I’d get by just regular day to day activities like walking and driving to the grocery store, and no amount of money, glory, and fame can compensate for this sort of eternal agony and torment. To constantly be on the verge of tears, not from the physical pain but just from trying to understand how it got to this point, how strong will and determination can lead to pills by the handful, because it’s medicine, because a doctor said to.. they’re valid excuses, it’s what I have to do. I hurt, I’ve got to do this.
My dream wasn’t to endure this day to day pharma and physical hell, all while pundits and “insiders” make their living by speculating. The so called “dirt sheets” gaining monetarily and notoriety off the story I’ve created, gaining from my blood, but literally and figuratively. To have these so called experts talk on their shows, day after day, week after week, speculating.. putting pen to paper what I deal with weekly.. My knees are gone. My wrists are gone. The agony that my neck is in, it’s all a fluff piece for them, a segment between results and hype. And what am I to do other than recite the same tired script as I shove through this broken life; never sleeping on the road because it’s the road. Never sleeping at home because I hurt too bad from the road. Rinse and repeat. Get to sleep for a few hours but it’s five AM wake up for rehab. And through all of that, judgmental eyes expecting you to power through, expecting you to bring your best, when you’re at your worst.
“Oh, I’m hanging in there” the default line you say when you know you’re physically, spiritually, and emotionally damaged and nearing you breaking point. In the back of your mind, knowing that all of these issues are only getting worse. I used to heal up so quickly when I was younger, but those smaller injuries turn to big ones. Superficial cuts leave scars, but these deep tissue injuries, bone injuries, joint injuries.. even when they are fixed and healed. And when these injuries pile up, you’re at 75% and you get something else on top of it, 75% becomes your new 100%. And you’re hoping to get back to what was your 75%. And this law of diminishing returns slowly deteriorates your being. The body recovers a lot differently at 21 than it does at 27, and 37 yearns for 27.
You can call it a realization of mortality or you can call it a conjunction of realities, but either way, the body is failing. Even when your mind is still whole, your body cannot do this day to day grind. And when the mind checks out, it’s even more dangerous, because there’s not this safety net any more. The counterbalance is eliminated. You get out from the hot lights and you’re alone in a rental car on a dark and lonesome highway. And on those times, you just have the KT Tape, icy hot, and throbbing pain to remind you of where you’ve been. And the cameras are gone. The cheers of the fans aren’t there. The adrenaline has subsided and the cheers from the fans are a distant echo. And that big check every other week doesn’t fill the void. The luster is off the armor and the result is shining through. When you’re in the arenas, and you want to be on a beach. You want to be at home. You want to be at a cookout with the inlaws or literally anywhere but in the arena. Far away from the area. Free from the mental torment, anguish, and paranoia that you have to deal with every single day. Free from this world of pain. And yet, you go on because everything within your identity is tied to this falsehood you’ve created, your world is built around this fake and even if your body breaks, you continue on because there’s no alternative. This is reality now.
Living a gangsta life seems like a great idea. Fame, money, girls, guns, it all has a certain appeal to it. But you only get one life to live and if you try to live more than one, it’s going to cannibalize itself. That’s what happened to me, the career and the empire I had built for myself came crashing down in an instant, because the charismatic performer in wrist tape and elbow pads gave way to Inmate #B18338. And you learn a lot about yourself when you’re the only person you can talk to. And for seven hundred and thirty days, I was my companion. Yeah, I’d get visitors. Samantha, her girlfriend, Percy.. a diminishing number of fans and autograph seekers. They tried me with cellmates, but fame and a will to fight, while already tagged as a violent criminal, made that about impossible. So two years, seven hundred and thirty days, I am he is you are he and we are all together.
These sort of diatribal monologues get you through a day at some point, as you retell your life story. The only show on TV is you and we’re in an off season, so it’s a rerun. I became known as this psychopath, waving swords, flashing guns, brandishing knives and making bloodletting a typical spectacle performance. And in the Wild West world of the WFWF, that’s all well and good. So much so that when I stopped reinventing the wheel, everyone and their mother tied their horse and carriage to my new innovation, wearing my scarf like it’s the new fashion. This niqab I’ve created as my identity is now a political statement for the masses. Meanwhile, while these kids bite off my style, they prosper, I wilt. The innovator of madness sits locked in a cell while the imitators grow off this new style.
The thing I had to come to grips with the most was the face that the injector of this madness, the amplification of what was always there, the WFWF.. That’s the cause and effect for all of this. Every piece of the puzzle working forwards and backwards all links back to the WFWF. You can start at the very end, I’m arrested for an assault in a WFWF ring, I hung a man by meat hooks and was charged with assault. Would’ve been an in and out case, maybe a fine.. if I didn’t have the warrant for pulling a gun on New Kylie. Whom I would have never corrupted if it weren’t for the WFWF, whom would’ve never come into contact with The Deville. Who I truthfully would’ve never gained a taste for if it weren’t for Megan. And this is the branching path that led me to sitting in that prison, identified as Inmate #B18338 for two years. Because until Megan came back into my life, things weren’t going down the path of this outlaw ish. And until she came around the first time, things never really turned violent.
This is the linking game I played, over and over. This victim blaming, this character blaming. The people who around me are the blame, and this is what I had to work through. I had to accept that I, Phillip Schneider, am the only one responsible for my destiny, for the cause and effect that I’ve created. It’s not New Kylie’s fault, it’s not the WFWF’s fault, it’s not Percy’s fault. It’s not my mother’s fault. The only one sitting in that cell with me was me and the people in that cell were the only people responsible.
“That’s **** ish, man”
Stop.
He comes around from time to time. He can keep me company, but he’s not great company. I think he was always there, but having time with him in that cell really helped me get to know him.
You need to go out there, beat the piss out of someone. Find a greenhorn and humiliate him, make an example out of them.
I’m not doing that.
You’ve lost your edge. Prison is supposed to make people harder, it’s made you soft. I don’t even know who you are now. Who are you, what are you doing in the body *I* made famous?
He’s right. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. Nothing I’ve done has made me famous, made me money to support my family, and brought me critical acclaim. It’s all been him. Maybe he should be the controller again, and I should be the voice of reason on the outside.
There you go. Let me take back over
It’s not happening. We’re in this together now.
P*ssy
~~~~~
You sit there in your blind world and worry about what those around you are doing more than your own business at hand. You constantly maneuver in life to achieve what others have rather than setting your own targets and carving out your own path. You lack guidance. I’ll be the candle that guides you through the darkness.
*Suddenly a flicking lighter strikes a single candle. The warm orange glow illuminates the previously pitch black room in a 360 degree sphere. The holder of the candle is most visible now, while the foreground and background remain dim in the radius of the candle. The tattooed hand of the beholder is mostly still skewed, minus the shapes and lines, though the decidedly evil face of the beholder shines brightly. The scraggly dirty blonde hair and sunken eyeballs unmistakable to long term fans of WFWF, the Hall of Famer Phillip Schneider stands in this room now, the white candle glowing a warm glow throughout the dirty, dusty, dim room.*
I am here to be your guiding light. I am here to show you the way, because not just you, but the entire world has lost their way. The entire system has been broken and because of that, the infrastructure has crumbled. This world sits on a fragile axis and anything that disturbs it has to be abolished instantly for fear of total annihilation. You’ve got to trust the process in this system and somewhere along the way, the trust was broken. And my friend..
*Schneider smiles a sly smile directly into the glow of the candle.*
My friend you can trust me. I won’t mislead you. I will be there for you. If you want me to be your leader, I’ll be your leader. If you want me to be your friend, I’ll be your friend. If you want me to be your ally, I’ll be your ally and if you want me to be your messiah, I’ll be your messiah. I’m not here to lead you astray. I’ve walked the darkest paths in this world and I’m here to lead you to the shining light. I am your amigo. I am the shining light in this darkest world. Do you trust me?
*Schneider begins to pace back and forth, flicking the lighter in his hand in a way that’s most noticeable because the orange sparks briefly illuminate an entire second section of the room, albeit briefly. Once the orange sparks disappear, so does that visibility. Pacing and pacing, flicking and flicking, there’s a methodical madness at work as Schneider contemplates his next verbage.*
I left this world when I assumed it was at it’s most crumbling. I left when I felt I was obsolete, like the technology of the next generation had passed me by. I stepped back and stepped away for a while, not necessarily by choice, but by the do or die hand that I forced myself into. You see, I needed to do or I deserved to die. That was my loaded weapon and I put it in Drakz’ palm and frankly, I helped him pull the trigger. I deserved the mortal wound he inflicted upon me. The problem is, it wasn’t a mortal wound. The problem is, just like I knew he didn’t, Drakz didn’t have the guts to finish the job. Drakz didn’t have the fortitude to put me out of my misery. He didn’t have the fortitude to save the WFWF from the cancer that is Phillip Schneider, because deep down in the back of his twisted brain, he knew I was right. He knew my path was the right path. He knew the things I was saying were the right things and that’s what scared him. That’s exactly what pushed him to veer to the left and not take the headshot when he had it. Because while Drakz saw me as a cancer; he knew he wasn’t the cure. You see, Drakz knew in his heart of heart, I’m not evil. I’m a good guy. I’m here for what’s best for everyone. I’m your friend.
*Schneider smiles another sly, yet creepy smile, his smile illuminated in the warm light of the candle.*
I’m the cure. I’m here to spread my message to the sick. To the weak. To the malnourished. Because in my absence, as bad as things got, they’ve only gotten worse. Clearly Phillip Schneider was not the cancer suffocating the life out of the WFWF, because when I was put into remission, so was the entire WFWF. The decaying society continued to decay and the decay accelerated without the medicine. I’ll be the medicine again. I’ll fix this. I’ll make this better, if you need me to. I can be whatever you want me to be. I’m there for you, princess.
*Schneider smiles another sly yet sinister smile into the candlelight. There’s a certain deadness behind his sunken pupils, the life clearly drained from his eyes from whatever story the faded scars and lines sketched across his face tells.*
I thought popping back in for Scars and Stripes would be the quick fix. The night of returns and surprises! The night the future of the WFWF is shaped and the night the biggest match of the year is ultimately set off of the results of the traditional open invitational battle royal. But I did it wrong. I didn’t follow the script. The script was right there for me and I veered off. I didn’t follow my instincts. I know who I am and I know what the WFWF needs from me and I wasn’t there for her. Never again. I’m there for her. And the masks are off. The “reformed” Phillip Schneider is off, because the façade was transparent to begin with. I tried to give the dose of medicine the WFWF needed but I was too late and I went off script. I’m here now. If you need the medicine man, I’ll be your medicine man. If you need an angel, I’ll be your angel. If you need the devil, I’ll be your devil. If you need a hero..
*With a swift puff, Schneider blows the candle out, once again bringing the entire room to a pitch black darkness. His laugh resonates and echoes through the clearly cavernous room, his footsteps providing a clip clap sort of echo that slowly goes into the distance.*
I’ll never be a hero.
~~~~~
The serene calmnesss of blue lake water, the sun beaming down and reflecting in the wavepool; that’s the scenery directly surrounding the area. A small mossy hill leads to slightly overgrown grass and weeds, large rocks mounted firmly into the soil providing a pedestal overlooking the entire lake.
I come here sometimes to think. Just to think about things. There’s no distractions out here. There’s no cars, no computers.. There’s no cell phone reception out here. It’s the perfect place to just come and think. And when it’s as quiet as it is out here, you can really think. I don’t need to worry about what’s on social media, I don’t need to worry about the latest news.. I can just think.
Is that why we came out here today?
I’m firmly planted next to my father on one of these rocks. We’ve been out here for about an hour now, I can feel the sun toasting the moisture from my skin by the second. I’d like to jump into the lake, myself, but I know without a towel or a change of clothes the two plus mile hike back from wince we came would be a miserable one. In the time we’ve been sitting here, it’s mostly been silence. I’ve been programmed since I was way too young to not speak unless spoken to and while that guardian/child dynamic was somewhat shattered by my father’s extended vacation with the Illinois State Penitentiary, there’s times when the hardwiring in my brain just kicks back in and I fall back.
I don’t know, Sam, I’m really having an existential crisis, ya know. My belief system and the core fundamentals have been completely shattered to such a degree that I’ve fallen to complete nihilism.
Over wrestling?
He gives me a long, stern, glare. The type of long, stern, glare I’ve seen too many times in the past, the type of glare that’s programmed me to just shut up most times. Whipping his hair or possibly a bug out of his face, he breaks his glare momentarily and I can see a deadness in his eyes I never previously noticed, a welling of tears hidden just underneath his eyes, hidden by the fluttering of his eyelids at a much more rapid pace than is noticeable. It could be the glaring Illinois sun beaming down on us at high noon. It could be a dry contact lens from the boiling hot Illinois sun. Or maybe for once my father is showing vulnerability and emotion? Surely when confronted it’d be option A, option B, or a combination of A and B and never an admittance of C, but C seems the most probable from my perspective.
Wrestling was supposed to be the fixer. Wrestling was supposed to be there to bring me a degree of stability back to my life, Sam. I love you and the little one, but I’m not ready to be dear old grandpa, sitting back in the rocking chair and telling stories about how things used to be. I’m not prepared to just be Pawpaw.
He needs Pawpaw, though
But I need this outlet, Sam. I always have. But my body started breaking down. I didn’t want to walk away, but I had to. Too many years and too much punishment, I couldn’t keep up. But the time inside, I couldn’t do much. Got my knee fixed, finally. That’s a plus. Don’t even need the brace to run now. And I can run again. But I mostly sat. And sat. And sat. Four concrete walls surrounding me and a single florescent light above me. You know how many days or nights I’d just lay on the cold, concrete floor and stare at that light tube, and dream of being able to grab ahold of it? How many days I’d dream of grabbing that tube and shattering it to a million pieces. I could smell the dust inside of it, that familiar smell of mercury powder faintly mixed with copper from blood. I could literally smell that smell in my cell. And here I am, fantasizing about destroying the one thing that’s stopping me from 24/7 darkness. Interior cell, no daylight, this bulb is the one thing stopping me from being in sheer darkness all the time and yet the only thing I really want to do is to smash this bulb to bits.
Do we just need to make a trip to the hardware store and break some glass?
It’s not the glass I lust for, Sam. It’s the thrill. There’s a high associated with the glass. Junkie doesn’t want the pipe, junkie wants the crack in the pipe. For me, it’s the fans. Their shock, their horror, their cheers, their boos. That’s my hit and I need it more than anything else. It’s why I went back. It’s why after being gone for years, I just popped up in the big battle royal, because I relapsed. I’m a f*cking dirty junkie and I relapsed but you know what happened, Sam? My f*cking dealer got shot. The WFWF is dead. Did I kill it? I’m the Prophet of Ash, ya know. Everything I touch turns to scorched earth.
That’s not true and you know it. It’s smoke and mirrors.
Is it though? Where’s your Mom?
I give him his own familiar glare. With his same piercing eyes, same nose, and same brow I’ve been told the Schneider glare was inherited. I don’t entirely believe it, but the menacing glare is something I feel like I have, regardless.
How about Meg? You got close with her, not as close as I did, but close.. Where’s she at these days? Same place as Ashley. How about Alexis?
Her’s was drugs.
So was your Mom’s and neither one of them would’ve gotten the stuff if they weren’t around me. Percy wouldn’t be in that f*cking chair if it wasn’t for me. You… you wouldn’t be as f*cked up as you are if it weren’t for me….
How exactly am *I* f*cked up?!?
If you had any sort of healthy relationships around you your entire time growing up, I’m sure your life would be a hell of a lot better. But instead you had The King of Gore as a father, dragging you all over the world as he mutilated himself and spread blood across 4 continents. You had a junkie for a Mom because Dad got her hooked on a bunch of stuff because he was in the circus. How about New Kylie? Was she a healthy influence in your life?
No…
It’s okay because she’s f*cking dead too. How about The Deville. Remember him? Our old dog fighting, drug dealing, mafia connected roommate? The one who started this whole downward spiral to begin with? It was right here, Sam. About fourteen years ago, maybe more, I realized he’s the source of my pain. Everything was fine until I got involved with him. And it took me throwing it all away, and coming here, and just looking out at the water, for me to realize it. Everything was great and I threw it away. And everything’s been rotten since.
So you’re really gonna sit here and point everything bad that’s happened in your life at this guy who hasn’t been in your life in a decade and a half? You’re gonna sit here with your woe it’s me, staring off at your private lake on your private property, and complain that some guy you knew for six months ruined your life? He redirected you on this terrible path that you just can’t get off of? F**k off, Dad.
Sam..
No, f**k off Dad. I thought you changed. I thought prison *finally* made you pull your head out of your ass, and that’s the only reason I let you around my kid in the first place. You sure as hell aren’t qualified to be any sort of positive male influence in his life, cause he’s doing just fine without knowing the exact angle to jam skewers into someone’s head or what blood smells like or whatever other sick s**t goes through your concussion addled brain. I’m going to walk back to the road now, till I get cell service, and uber back to the city. You’ve got five days to get your s**t out of my warehouse.
Sam…
Property manager don’t like you anyhow. Says you look like a junkie and he don’t like you coming around at all times of the night doing whatever it is you’ve been doing in that back room, but you know what, I stood up to him, I said “that’s my Dad, I love him, go easy on him, he’s had it rough, he’s trying his best”, but you ain’t. you ain’t trying s**t. You’re lusting over smashing light bulbs. And what the f*ck were you doing the other night?
What?
I saw the security cameras, you were walking around like a crazy person, talking to yourself with all the lights off except for a candle. For hours. Talking, talking, blow the candle out, talking, talking, blow the candle out. What the f*ck was that? When I saw it, I was worried you were going to burn down my warehouse and all my inventory. But you know what, I let it go, you’re my Dad, I love you, I’ll go easy on you, but f*ck, enough is enough. So go find a different warehouse to do weird s**t in the middle of the night in, go find a new space to make into your halcyon days vanity project gym, you’re not welcome around my business any more.
Sam..
You’re not welcome around me any more, Phil.
~~~~~
It’s been a grueling match and with every other competitor eliminated, we’re down to the final three in the Scars and Stripes Battle Royal. Remember, the winner of this match goes on to compete for the WFWF Championship at Superbrawl. And coming into this match, who could’ve predicted that Phillip Schneider would even be an entrant, much less one of the final three standing in the ring?
Schneider paces around his other two opponents, eyeing them up. They’re both eyeing him down and realize that taking the veteran out is the smartest chance either of them have in surviving the Survival of the Fittest. After all, staring across the ring from someone who was once the longest reigning WFWF champion of all time, when you didn’t expect him to be in the match at all, is no favorable task. And the two on one advantage can do nothing but help them, especially as Schneider’s gas tank has to be nearing empty. After all, he’s survived much of the field to get to this point, where as his two much younger opponents had a much easier trek to the finale.
The two circle around Schneider, Schneider light on his feet as he circles with them, both opponents nearing ever so closer to Schneider as he’s keeping an eye on both of them. Both grapplers seem set to strike. And at once, they both rush in. However, Schneider sees it coming and rolls to the mat, rolling right underneath the oncoming attack! Both opponents miss a dead on collision by mere foot steps. Schneider rushes at both opponents, arms splayed to the sky, crashing into both opponents with a double clothesline. Both grapplers stumble backwards towards the ropes, with the one on the left, taking the blow from Schneider’s dominant hand, stumbling further backwards and actually going into the ropes.
Schneider’s on the attack now. He goes after the prone opponent laying in the ropes, first grabbing at his opponent’s eyes, then at his leg. He’s doing everything he can to get his opponent over the top rope. A firm punch to the genitals from Schneider is able to get the opponent off balance enough that Schneider gets him up over the top rope, but not all the way over. The opponent reaches in and grabs a handful of Schneider’s stringy blonde hair, forcing Schneider to lower him back to the mat. From out of nowhere, the other opponent rushes in. He’s targeting Schneider, but Schneider sees him coming and dodges. The two adversaries of Schneider crash into one another and the already weakened opponent in the ropes goes tumbling over the top rope and to the floor!
It’s now down to a one on one encounter. The fans are at a fever pitch. None of them expected to see Phillip Schneider at all, much less for him to make it to the final two. The completion of this Randy the Ram esque saga is in it’s final act. The one opponent is still stunned, looking downwards at his amigo now prone on the floor and eliminated. Schneider throws a dropkick, possibly the first dropkick of his career because it’s awkward and off balance. Certainly the first dropkick since getting his knee scoped in 2020. The dropkick barely lands and mostly just serves to irritate his opponent. The opponent grabs Schneider by the hair and pulls him back to his knees and then his feet. Schneider’s fighting to get free. Punches to the mid section free Schneider from his grasp. Schneider backs up. Big clothesline rocks the opponent off of his balance but not off of his feet. A second has a similar Weebles wobble but they won’t fall down effect. Schneider backs up, then charges forward, bringing all of his mass into a signature Yakuza Kick, driving his boot into his opponent’s face and sending him tumbling backwards into the ropes!
The opponent is now dazed in the ropes and it’s just Schneider on his feet on the offensive. Schneider quickly regains his bearings. He measures up and nails a big spinning back fist. It doesn’t catch all of it’s intended target and Schneider knows this. He measures up again and throws a second spinning back fist and this one lands flush! The opponent is out on his feet! Schneider quickly scoops him up, dumping him over the top rope and to the floor! The bell sounds. “Paint it Black” by the Rolling Stones begins to echo throughout the arena, only interrupted by the ring announcer making it official.
“Your winner of the Scars and Stripes Battle Royal and advancing to Superbrawl to face the WFWF World Champion, The King of Gore, the Prophet of Ash, the WFWF Hall of Famer, welcome back Phillip Schneider!”
The crowd goes insane, confetti begins to fall from the ceiling, completely enveloping the crowd in a sea of cray paper. Deafening pyrotechnics explode. Friends of Schneider and media rush into the ring, everyone wanting to be a part of this historic moment. They hoist the exhausted Schneider onto their shoulders. One onlooker hands him a bouquet of flowers, with the commentator aptly pointing out “look at that, Schneider finally got his flowers!” as his closing message as the broadcast goes off the air.
In a Black Mirror world, that’s how it was supposed to go. That’s how the story was supposed to end. But it didn’t. There was no confetti. There were no pyrotechnics. There were no flowers. For all concerned, there may as well have been no Phillip Schneider, because this was the very moment the universe fractured.
~~~~~
So what’s the point of this?
I feel like this is a question I’ve asked Phillip Schneider a million times in my life. Sometimes the things he does in life have an objective. Sometimes it’s completely random filler. Perhaps out of boredom or perhaps out of a perpetual need to just stir the pot, in the twenty years I’ve been professionally associated with Phillip Schneider, “so what’s the point of this” seems like the most consistent inquiry.
What do you mean?
What do you mean, “what do you mean?” I mean, what’s the point of this? There’s no WFWF any more, it’s gone, kaput.
And when the libraries of Alexandria burnt, history was erased?
I would hardly call the deletion of a wrestling federation to the scale of the libraries of Alexandria burning.
I would. It’s part of my fiber, it’s part of my identity. You and I are forever bonded to this company, so to see it go, it’s just not something I can take. I mean, you can’t use your legs because of this company.
I can always tell when he’s trying to get under my skin, because it’s *always* the wheelchair. Every time with the wheelchair. It’s like he thinks I’ve forgotten I’m in a chair. For every waking moment I’m in a chair. For some sleeping moments, I’m in this chair. And yet, Phillip Schneider hones in on it whenever he thinks I’ve gotten the better of him in verbal chess match.
Look Percy, I thought I was good without the WFWF, twice in fact. I took my sabbatical the first time and what did I end up with? My marriage ended.
You don’t think all of the cheating and lying had anything to do with that? It’s the WFWF’s fault?
Took my sabbatical the second time, by force.. And ended up in prison.
You don’t think the robbery and murder had anything to do with that? It’s the WFWF’s fault?!?
Every time I go away, or it goes away, something bad happens. And I was ready to correct my path. I was ready to correct all the wrongs. I was ready to be a good guy! You know, hero’s welcome after several years away, returning champion wins the battle royal!
Returning from a stint in federal prison for armed robbery and murder..
I was never convicted of murder.
You say that like you weren’t involved.
The State of Illinois decided I was not involved in any way they could prove.
The State of Percy Jackson calls bulls**t, and knows you f*cking killed her. You leave a wake of chaos behind you everywhere you go. You literally call yourself “Prophet of Ash” because you’re constantly leaving scorched earth on everything you touch, and you’re wanting me to believe you *didn’t* kill your girlfriend when things went south?
She was never my girlfriend.
The girl that you were regularly depositing your bodily fluids into and who shared a bed with you, who suddenly turned up dead. The State of Illinois may have only found you guilty of possession of controlled substances with intent to distribute..
They’re were all mine, I’m a piece of s**t old broken down wrestler with a drug addiction.
But I know better, I know she found *something* out that you just couldn’t handle and you killed her. I suspect you killed Meg. I imagine you killed Ashley. It wouldn’t surprise me if you killed Baldwin.
Baldwin died of cancer.
The others?
Look, I’m just saying, I need the WFWF as much as the WFWF needs me, so this comeback run, it’s not just to revitalize my career. It’s to revitalize *everyone’s* career. I’m going to be the hero everyone needs, even if I have to be a deplorable scumbag piece of s**t to do it. Not every hero wears white.
As he’s ranting and raving like a lunatic, I take a long sip of my coffee. Black with sugar. I can’t do a lot of dairy any more. I’m soaking in Phillip Schneider, he’s truly in rare form at the moment.
So what’s your big plan?
I’m the draw.
The draw of what?
The WFWF
That hasn’t existed in over a year. You know what went down at Scars and Stripes. What the HELL are you talking about?
Percy, riddle me this, do you remember how we first won the WFWF Tag Team championships, some twenty years ago?
Three team, tables, ladders, and chairs inside of a Hell in a Cell. Remember it like it was yesterday. Think it was my first or second match in the company, too
Close, oh so close.
No, it was, I remember, because we just took the belts and started saying we were the champions, and told everyone if they had a problem with that, come take them back. And no one really did.
Bingo.
And we’re to the point, time is a flat circle and Phillip Schneider is an enigma, that we circle back. At least now my chicken alfredo has arrived. The cute, young waitress places my plate in front of me, then after taking a long look at Phil, places his burger and salad near him, but not nearly as near him as my food was placed. Maybe it’s supporting the local cripple, maybe it’s the fact she can tell Phil’s a prison hardened drug addict who’s possibly killed a dozen people. Who knows.
[waitress] Can I get you gentlemen anything else?
No ma’am..
Before I can even get that out, Phil pipes in, a mouth full of arugula.
More Dr Pepper. Light ice this time.
Charming. Our waitress gathers his mostly ice cup from the table, as well as what remains of the buttered bread, and disappears back into the lobby.
Now what the hell are you talking about?
We took the WFWF Tag Team titles and just started saying they were our’s and told anyone that had a problem with that to step up, and we’d handle it by force. It’s a proven plan here. I did the same thing with The Deville, more or less.
You did a lot of things with Pierce, “more or less” that should probably not be spoken about….
There’s no one to stop me, Percy. WFWF changes ownership all the time. ZMaster, King Kraig and Napoleon, whoever CBT and Rev had pretending they were running things as they puppet-mastered the ship, Drakz and Kyzer.. There’s been a dozen or more owners or administrators over the years, none more competent than the last, and frankly, the current administration seems the most incompetent of any. Even under the mayhem of Drakz and Kyzer, the entire system didn’t crumble.
What I’m saying, Percy, is I’m going to resurrect the WFWF. I’m going to rebuild it. This time in my image. Just like every previous administration has done before me. The sports entertainment of ZMaster, the ‘pure rules’ whatever that means of CBT & Rev’s run, the chaos of Drakz and Kyzer.. The autocratic bulls**t and red tape of King Kraig.. It’ll all pale in comparison to what I have to offer. This is going to be a new regime, Percy. Dead Idol Productions Proudly Presents: The WFWF.
Quickly swallowing a mouthful of alfredo doused chicken, because I expected this tangent to go on longer;
You’re not the owner, Phil.
Says who?
Says the people in charge.
I don’t see them here to stop me.
In this restaurant?
Anywhere.
So you intend to just overthrow the WFWF, in some kind of putsch?
Don’t treat it like an insurrection, Percy, I’m simply going to revitalize it. I’m going to inject new life into this company that’s been left for dead. And if that means cashing in every bit of clout I have, cashing every bit of fandom I have.. Cashing out those bonds.
He looks at me with a wink. I hate when he talks about ‘those bonds’. It’s always an absolute headache when ‘those bonds’ come up and I’m *always* the one who has to deal with it.
I’ll do it. Last shot to hit or miss, Percival. This is it.
You have no infrastructure.
I have a ring.
You don’t have a building.
He gestures out the window. In the immediate horizon, the United Center, the 23,000 seat home of the Chicago Bulls.
This restaurant wasn’t a random choice, Percy. And it wasn’t for the food, by any means. You think I told you to bring my checkbook to pay for our $26 lunch?
What are you getting at??
Step two, we secure the building
What’s step one?
Finishing lunch.
~~~~~~
2024
He's always been here.
At all the greatest triumphs, he laughed. At the greatest tragedies, he laughed more. At the disasters, he laughed himself to tears. This voice in the back of my head that tells me to do bad things. I know everyone has one, but I've always felt like mine's a little stronger. I've always felt like mine is different.
Most people have the ability to turn that voice off. To tell it not to push the old lady in the wheel chair over just because it'd be funny, to tell you not to pop the kid's balloon just because it's funny. And sometimes, I feel like my voice is the one controlling me, with no restrictor plate to slow him down.
He's most at home in the ring. That's where he can be as awful as he wants to be to whoever he wants to be and no one says otherwise. He's most at ease in the ring where he can be as mean and violent as he wants to be. That uncontrollable urge to do bad things has an outlet.
For a long time, I tried to control him. I tried to make him stop. Then I spent two years alone in a room with him. And I realized I can't not be him. He is me. I am him.
I tried to be good. I tried to be nice. I tried to play by the rules.
It broke everything.
Now I'm back to be as bad as I can be.
He is in charge.
