Infamy lives on

Part 1: Silent

Somewhere a song plays. It’s melody and overall composition are unknown, but the tone is felt without the tune being heard. It echoes through the heart of the loner as tears run down his face and his sweaty palm struggles to keep a grip secured around a paper cased bottle of gas station quality amber drink. As the fingers twitch and the pseudo-tremors carry on, the youth bathes in the feeling of the song with no sound, his mind traveling along with every sporadic piano note.

Like father, like son.

“Oh, you’re John Adams boy..” they’d utter with such lingering disdain.

You have your mother’s smile.

You have his burdens.

You’re his fucking mule.

John’s son was never much of a drinker, but following the sting of a man sized hand striking him across the face, the teenager who would one day grow to be The Antidote had swung open the fridge door and scooped up a still closed bottle of his father’s signature cheap liquor before making his way to his current location.

Silence.

Other than the occasional walls of lake Michigan splashing against the boardwalk’s green stained wooden pillars.

Like father, like son.

His thumb traces the cap as his eyes continue to pool, growing red and humid.

Like father..

He unscrews the bottle, staring down into the glass abyss, allowing the thick aroma to rape his nostrils which puff outward instantly.

I create my legacy, not you..

The young antidote turns the cylinder over, carefully examining the imagery and text etched on it’s exterior before cocking his arm back and launching it outward and watching it sink into the waters ahead.






Fired.

Sent away.

Relieved of the duties of a general manager.

Yet, no “Na na na na! Na na na na! Hey hey hey! Goodbye!” for Spencer Adams, only a collective sinking from the UCI faithful as the GM who worked for them was let go by mysterious higher ups. Soon, he would be replaced by the swilling bastard known as Jayson “With a y” Price.

The Antidote gave what he knew would be the last bow for the foreseeable future before stepping throw the ropes and dragging his hand through what seemed to be an endless pool of fans looking for high fives, desperate to have that “I’m never washing this hand again!” type moment.

Spencer parted the red cloth curtain concealing the Gorilla position of the Chicago Warehouse before stepping into the cramped backstage area.

He would then be bombarded with a string of “This sucks”, “Fuck, man..”, and “They’re really terminating your contract” from the more down to Earth faces of the locker room.

Men and women who Spencer had built mutual respect with.

People like Andre Holmes.

People like Alex Richards.

People like Bonnie Blue.

People like Crow McMorris.

People like Professor Coach.

The laminated name taped to the door reading “Spencer Adams: UCI Co-GM” had been torn away. Spencer chuckled at it’s absence before entering his office space.

Is this goodbye?

Do I leave it as is or do I scoop every last possession I can carry into my folded arms like Navin R. Johnson mid-meltdown?

Spencer ponders the decision on how to walk away before finally pushing the switch to the right of the entryway downward, instantly engulfing the room in black.

...or see you soon?

With this last thought on the brain and one foot out the door, Spencer’s finger runs up the wall one last time before he turns around, taking a few steps back into the thick of the black as his right hand searches for something in the air.

A string.

Like the puppeteer’s farewell to his branch of showbusiness, he tugs downward, smiling to himself as he stares at a lone bulb swaying back and forth.

Part 3: Hey, buddy..it’s been awhile

Spencer Adams: Are you one of the many I would address as “motherfucker”? I mean, you didn’t used to be. There was a time where you were one of the few people I may not try to throat rip inside the squared circle, one of those who I’d extend my hand to both before the first bell and after the second. You used to be someone different entirely. Concealed by the proud attire of a luchador was someone who I considered a hero to the masses and one of the best friends I’d ever had the pleasure of knowing.

What happened to the three people who made the decision to tip an entire organization upside down? What happened to the brothers in arms who once held multiple championships in the name of entertainment, in the name of those who paid scalper prices just to see us put on a show? I remember those days, back when we’d delay the plans of #BeachKrew’s takeover, back when we superkicked our way to victory and trios gold against the single biggest stable in the history of the company. What the fuck would Vic think of our last encounter?!

As the bulb sways above an unlabeled and unfurnished office space somewhere deep within the backstage area of The 2300, The Antidote speaks for the first time in months. His signature painted face is shown whenever the pendulum light makes it’s way to it’s designated center.

Spencer: Make no mistake about this, Teddy...Teo...whatever you want to call yourself as you try to sell yourself as the person who I’ve grown to know like a brother, you have earned “motherfucker” status in my book. I spent my career doing things the right way. When me, you, and Vic Venable formed The People’s Choice, we both fought with pride, we fought nobly. What the fuck changed?! A shot at a shot. That’s what caused this recent incarnation of this formerly masked star to change the formula, to throw the code out the window? God, how fucking pathetic.

Teddy has done this to himself. He is the one who will be responsible for THIS incarnation of Spencer Adams. Forget the incarnation of my lucha pal who turned his back on Spencer Adams, Teddy now has to deal with The Antidote as the bad guy. I’m no stranger to taking a risk and putting my own well being on the line to accomplish something and this will be no different. Hell, I once drove Adam Young skull first into the bottom of a fucking dumpster just to watch him bleed. That is what I bring to South Street on Monday Night, what I bring to little ol’ Teddy boy. I’ll not spend many more of my words on you, Teddy, but consider this a little “I told you so” in advance.

The light stops dead center as Spencer stares straight towards the lens and the scene cuts.






Worshipper: He was our leader! He was the one who showed us the light! Though he may be restrained, we must refuse to be for him and his cause! We must carry on!

The small gathering outside McGrady’s former residence cheers in approval of a young farm dressed man who appears to have taken on the role of their new leader.

Worshipper: Directionless we have been, lost we have felt! No more!

Another applause erupts from the crowd.

Worshipper: McGrady did this for us! Look what these faux forces have done to his home, to our land! His walls...littered with rounds from their weapons, but did McGrady give in?! No! He stood ground until the bitter end! We shall do the same as he did for us!

The young man extends a single finger forward, hushing the riled up crowd.

Worshipper: The Wave is something that their teachings and their ways have helped create, something that we should all take pride in for our own partaking. The lost bastards of old Chicagoland now roam free and this...this is where we rule with a watchful eye. Infamy lives forever!

Crowd: Infamy lives forever!