Post by Deleted on Jun 29, 2016 18:48:53 GMT -6
Audio Transcription from 6/15/16
(Phone Ringing)
Howard Black: Hello?
Kaz Mazy: Howie, Jam Willy bless my poor ear, it been a right said minute since’n we last spoke man…(Pause)...how ya’ been, how ya’ been?...Where ya’ been?
Howard Black: ...Hello, Kaz.
Kaz Mazy: ...make a guy feel like Joey Flash with that greetin’...what’s goin’ on man? Sophia and I missed ya’ guys these last few months. Ya’d think we were strangers or summin’.
Howard Black: Oh. Um … Sorry. Things have just been a little busy lately.
Kaz Mazy: No need to apologize, brother. Just missed ya is all. You know little Em’ loves her cousin Joey, and Sophia be wantin’ to gaggle with Sarah summin’ fierce. Did he like dat present we sent him? Limited Edition Honey Badguh’ Black action figure...shit cost countless rupies and six of my finest goats, but it been worth it at least for the chucks man… (Laughs)
Howard Black: (Silence)
Kaz Mazy: You on Earth, Howie? You seem planets away bruv...Must be nerves. I heard you was gettin’ back in da ring again?
Howard Black: (Suddenly) Where did you hear that?
Kaz Mazy: It a small world How...especially ours. You know you can’t move any pieces around without someone lettin’ da cat out da bag.
Howard Black: ...Yeah, I guess so. Listen, keep that between us, will ya? I kind got some surprises planned, and I want it on the hush.
Kaz Mazy: I know how it is...my fat Cajun mouth is zipped shut, not summin’ I afford a lotta folk. How does Sarah feel about ya gettin’ back in da Thick of it?
Howard Black: Uh, well…. Um, she’s as supportive as she usually is, ya know? Understands and wants me to do what I need to do and stuff…
(Silence)
Kaz Mazy: What’s goin’ on How? Summin’ don’t feel right wit cha.
Howard Black: …(Sigh) Kaz… It’s, um… It’s not all good over here, I guess. Something happened. Between Sarah and I, I mean.
Kaz Mazy: What could ita’ been, man? Granted I ain’t heard from ya recently, but you and Sarah always been thick as thieves. Had to be somethin’ big…
Howard Black: I, uh… I guess I can’t really talk about it right now. I’m, uh, still at home, and, uh… I don’t really want her to overhear me saying anything.
Kaz Mazy: (pauses)...I feel ya, bro. Get back on da road, get ya thoughts sorted. Some time apart might be good for da two of ya, you know?
Howard Black: Yeah, I agree. That’s kinda what I’m thinking. (pauses) Hey, uh, I just… I just wanted to say I’m sorry.
Kaz Mazy: Sorry? What for? You ain’t done anythin’ wrong, my man…
Howard Black: Yeah, I guess so. But anyway, I need to go. Thanks for the call, man.
Kaz Mazy: Keep ya’ chin up, man. I’d fly out there for ya first show, but prior engagements, ya feel? I’m keepin’ my eyes peeled for ya’ though.
Howard Black: Don’t worry, you’ll see me (laugh)… Anyway, have a good night, man.
Kaz Mazy: You too...love you How.
Howard Black: ...Love you, too, Kaz. Stay safe.
Click.
Humboldt Park
Chicago, IL
June 26th, 2016
Before walking back up the ramp, Howard picked up the severed arm of Burn Out from the padding outside. The jeers of the audience rained down, intermixed with the pulsing din of his theme music as he turned the artificial appendage over in his hand, his eyes tracing along the intricate patterns of wires and fused edges. It was a prize worth of his first match, indeed; Howard looked up to the snarls and scowls of the crowd and raised the trophy in the air as a thin smile crossed his lips. The booing only intensified.
After making his way up the ramp and pushing through the curtain constructed at the top of the stage, Howard climbed down from the erected podium and continued his walk towards the parking lot, the yells and derision of fans now replaced with the lights and sounds of camera flashes and anxious chatter of reporters. With the first brilliant flash of light, Howard froze in his place. It was an odd moment for Howard – during his time in WCF, he’d always had the quiet of the backstage hallways to allow him a hasty retreat. In times of extreme necessity, David would have been there to bat off the reporters and yell “no comment” ad nausea. This time? Howard stood alone before the masses. An electric sensation crawled up his spine and along his ribs, constricting itself across his chest before shooting down his arms and up into his skull. That wry smile crossed his lips once more – a simple attempt at concealing the cocktail of fascination, thrill, and disgust which swam through his head. The faces and voices blended into a single, indistinguishable mass as a hundred tongues clapped and two hundred hands flailed wildly for the Lost Boy.
Reporter: Howard, I’m with Sports Illustrated! Can I get a word?
Reporter: Howard Black, ESPN. A word, please?
Reporter: Mr. Black, CageSideSeats.com! Can you comment?
Howard shook his head before walking forward, the sound intensifying as he waded past the penned sheep to either side.
Reporter: Chicago Tribune – how does it feel to be back in the ring?
Howard yelled over his shoulder, his voice rising to cut through the din of voices.
Howard Black: I’m carrying a severed metal arm around – how do you think I feel? I feel great!
Reporter: Mr. Black, I’m with the Lincoln Journal-Star! Your return has been met with a mixture of reactions: confusion, disgust, hostility, shock, and derision. Recently, fellow UCI wrestler Shadowlove has vocally taunted you on Twitter; do you have any comment on Shadowlove or the things he has said?
Howard Black: Yeah, I got a comment: Shadowlove can blow me. Here’s my list of people who are worthy of stepping to me like that: Crow McMorris, Jay Omega, and David Sanchez. I don’t even know who the fuck Shadowlove is – he’s fucking irrelevant. He’s a nobody with no pedigree or prestige or anything of any value, and that showed considering he lost tonight and lost in his debut. Frankly, it shows just how fucking incompetent Spencer Adams was as an owner that Shadowlove was put anywhere near the main event on the first Overload. I’m just glad that problem has been rectified, and I hope Jayson Price keeps the trend going. This next week will be the highest point in Shadowlove will see on the card in some time, but it won’t be on account of his efforts – it will be because I’m kicking the shit out of him.
Reporter: So you intend to face him at Overload next week?
Howard Black: You’re goddamn right I plan to face him; I’ll hand out lessons like a third grade teacher to anyone who wants to pop off on me. Hell, why don’t you ask Tom Bates if you don’t believe me?
Reporter: Howard Black, the Wrestling Observer – earlier tonight, Buddy Roman said that you “weren’t over”. What is your response to this claim?
Howard laughed, stopping to turn towards the erected façade of Election Day.
Howard Black: He may be right that I “wasn’t over” back in WCF, but you see that shit?
Howard jabbed a finger in the air, pointing back to the gathered crowd.
Howard Black: You hear those boos? You hear that fucking reaction? That is what I call being fucking over. If these people want to hate me, then great! No one gave a shit when I was playing the good guy, but suddenly you’re falling all over yourselves when I go rogue. This is the exact sort of dumb shit reasons our sport is considered the hobby of mouth breathers.
Reporter: Hey Black, I’m here with Men’s Journal, and I want to know how your son feels to have a blind-siding coward for a father?
The world had dropped out from under Howard, and time had slowed to a crawl. He felt no control, no restraint, or no patience when he watched himself violently turn to the railing and reach over for the source of the voice, grabbing a heavy-set Italian man with a bulging double chin, curly short black hair, and a thin stubble with a “Men’s Journal” polo by the collar and wrenching him into the aisle, causing the metal barrier to collapse under the man’s weight as Howard climbed ontop of him, fist raised.
Howard Black: What the fuck did you say to me, fat boy? The fuck did you just say to me?!
An arm looped around Howard’s waist as two others looped under his arms, tearing him from the prone man as the three security guards forcibly walked him down the aisle. Howard flailed in their clutch, one hand extended and pointing a threatening finger at the shell-shocked reporter.
Howard Black: Don’t you ever talk about my fucking son, you lard-ass motherfucker! I’ll burn your fucking house down! I’ll fucking end you!
After being safely removed from the mass of reporters and deposited into the parking lot, the security guards released Howard, giving him a hard shove on the chest to push him back against his rental car.
Security Guard: And don’t you think about pulling that shit again. Mr. Price isn’t going to deal with any lawsuits caused by you freaks.
As the guards turned away, the viscous chemical anger dripping through Howard did not relent. With his intimidation done and his back turned, the security guard hardly expected the clubbing blow to the temple which knocked him to the ground or the swift kick to the face which rendered him unconscious. The sound was enough to alert the other two guards, however, and the two wheeled immediately to face Black, his fists already raised in a fighting stance.
Security Guard #2: Oh, you dumb fuckin’ midget…
As the second guard careened forward with a haymaker, Howard stepped to the side and shot a hand up, gripping the guard around the wrist and carrying him forward. With a hand placed behind the guard’s head and a leg before his feet, Howard was easily able to carry the momentum of the punch into a guided trip, planting the guard face first into the taillight of the rental car. As the plastic taillight cover broke, the car alarm began its shrill siren. The guard slumped unconscious to the pavement, blood dripping down the gash in his forehead.
The third guard squared up with Howard, his hands trembling as his mouth fell open. Behind the Lost Boy, the two crumpled forms of his co-workers stared up with glazed eyes behind shut eyelids, both victims of a man at least half a foot shorter and fifty pounds less than them. With his forward left hand, Howard unclenched his fist and motioned toward the solitary bouncer. His lips parted to let out a low growl of voice.
Howard Black: C’mon, you big pussy, I’m going for a hat trick. Do your job and come at me.
The guard threw a quick jab, easily dodged by Black. A second jab produced similar results. Howard’s left hand flashed forward, the punch catching the security guard on the cheek, above the mouth and beside the nose. With a step back, the guard had already found himself stunned and off balance enough; as his arms loosened from the impact, Howard’s right hand shot up to catch the guard around the left wrist. With a violent yank forward, the guard collapsed to the ground, atop the waiting Howard Black and an easily applied Kimura Lock. A moment later, white hot pain like a million cigarette burns tore through his elbow, and the forearm to hand of the guard was overcome with a strange sensation, as though it had been transformed into a large rubber glove full of dry ice. Tears streamed down his cheeks as his scream ripped through the air, piercing the shrill scream of the car alarm. In the flashes of red and gray and pulsing of the world under the influence of adrenaline, the guard’s eyes ran from the protrusion of bone sticking out of his elbow to the figure of the man standing above him, a silhouette before the sun.
Howard Black: You tell Jayson Price that I’ll do whatever the fuck I want. And if I don’t get what I want? I’ll reduce his company to ashes.
Placing a foot on the guard’s chest, Howard rolled him aside from behind the parked rental car. His hand went to the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt, fishing inside for the car keys – upon their discovery, he hit the unlock button to end the blare of the alarm and leave only the screams of the guard to pollute the evening air. After getting into the vehicle, he cracked the window, lit a cigarette, turned up “Taking It Easy” by the Eagles, and left the park.
6/19/16 10:15 PM
You have reached the voice mailbox of (...Howard Black…) to leave a message, record at the tone.
Kaz Mazy: ...you mind tellin’ me what in DA HELL dat was all about?! Call me back, now!...
Beeeeeeeep.
The Warehouse
Chicago, IL
June 27th, 2016
Despite the influx of capital the new management of Price had signaled to UCI, his office was still a modest room in the Warehouse. It sat up on a catwalk, a wide window looking down on the empty ring and crowd area, but at the moment the blinds were drawn to retain privacy for the busy general manager. When Howard walked into the office without knocking, Price looked up and offered a wry smile, placing his pen down and leaning back in the black pleather office chair.
Jayson Price: Howie. I don’t suppose you’re here to pay the medical bills of the bouncers you put in the hospital on Sunday?
Howard scoffed as he walked to the old plastic school chair placed on the other side of the desk. A brief thought crossed his mind – he was only too sure Price had chosen this piece of furniture to let anyone who walked into his office know just who the principal was and who was the student. Not one to be intimidated or condescended, Howard sat down confidently. Price flipped open a leather bound planner, flicking through the pages before stopping on a calendar for June.
Jayson Price: Let’s see here… Well shit, I don’t seem to have you penciled in for an appointment right now. I guess that means you can get the fuck out of my office and come back when you’ve set one up with my secretary. I’m pretty busy, but I think I can squeeze you in around mid-November? No promises, of course.
Price flipped the book closed and regarded Howard with the unfaltering wry smile, a faint sense of smugness tugging at the corner of his lips. A pulse of red rage flashed before Howard’s eyes, but his composure remained collected.
Howard Black: I want to face Scarecrow at #BeachMania.
Jayson Price: And I’m the general manager who will make that decision. Frankly, if I didn’t expect your agent to hit me with a lawsuit, I’d already have your contract in the shredder for attacking not just three members of my security team but a reporter. You’re lucky he was too shaken up to press charges.
Howard Black: I deserve that shot.
It was Price’s turn to scoff.
Jayson Price: You don’t deserve shit. You’re a washed-up never-was who used his “friendly” relationship with Spencer Adams to drop his balls on this company. You don’t even deserve the match with Shadowlove this week; you should be opening the show with Luke and Michael Kairis.
Price paused, drumming his fingers on the table.
Jayson Price: You have this match because Shadowlove wanted it as much as you. Maybe if you can beat someone not named Burn Out, I’d take you a little more seriously, but right now, you’re just a bloated contract I’m waiting to cut from the budget.
The anger finally reached boiling point as Howard rose, knocking the small plastic chair to the ground behind him. His hands landed hard on Price’s desk as he leaned over and snarled at the General Manager.
Howard Black: The fuck are you gonna put up there besides me, huh? Chase Jackson? Andre Holmes? Or maybe you’ll go for Crow versus Omega III?
Price regarded Howard for a moment, his eyes dancing back and forth across the wrestler’s face. He slowly pushed himself up from his chair, staring down at Howard with the same unfaltering smile.
Jayson Price: And they’d all have a better case for it than you. Now get the fuck out of my office before I throw you out.
Howard rose, his head tilting up to make eye contact with Price. His lips curled down into a snarl.
Howard Black: I’m going to make you give me that match. Mark my words.
Jayson Price: I don’t negotiate with terrorists, Howie. Have a good rest of your week.
Price raised an arm, motioning for the door. Howard lingered a moment before he turned and stepped out of the office. As he walked the metal catwalk back to the stairs, he heard the door shut behind him. His hand went to the pocket of his blue jeans, sliding out the crappy flip phone and raising it before him. Flipping it open, he held down the two until speed dial activated, then raised the phone to his ear. After a few rings, the line clicked.
David Rogers: This is David.
Howard Black: David, it’s Howie.
The line was quiet for a moment. David’s voice came low and frustrated.
David Rogers: I suppose you need me to bail you out of a lawsuit for your little incident on Sunday? Maybe prison?
Howard Black: No. Not pressing charges.
David Rogers: Well how lucky for you, only having to give up your paycheck instead.
David’s voice dripped with hostility and sarcasm. Howard stopped at the top of the stairs, shifting uncomfortably for a moment. Giving an exasperated sigh, he started down as he spoke.
Howard Black: Look, I’m calling about travel to Minneapolis.
David Rogers: It’s booked. Just because you’ve become a real piece of work lately doesn’t mean I’m going to follow your lead as manager. You leave in two days.
Howard Black: I need the flight changed. I’m going back to Lincoln.
David Rogers: Oh yeah? Decided to do the right thing, go to marriage counseling, and see if you can salvage the pieces of your personally relationships by dropping this vendetta?
Howard snorted, shaking his head as he crossed the floor of the Warehouse to the door.
Howard Black: I need to do a few things. I just want my flight rescheduled to Lincoln, then a flight from Lincoln to Minnesota.
David sighed.
David Rogers: Yeah, fine Howie. When do you want to be in Lincoln and for how long?
Howard Black: Soon as possible. I’ll leave the next day.
David Rogers: Consider it done. And, uh…
The line went silent for a moment.
David Rogers: …Just don’t do anything stupid. Please.
Howard Black: I’m just getting some things and filming my promo. Nothing more.
David Rogers: Alright… And Howie?
Howard Black: Yeah?
David Rogers: Look, um… I know things are tense right now with us. But I’m still worried about you. You can talk to me.
Stepping outside, Howard paused, his eyes going to the ground. His frown deepened as he stood in silence for a moment before shaking his head.
Howard Black: Yeah. I’ll talk to you later.
David Rogers: Fair enough.
Howard closed his phone and shoved it back in his pocket. Back in his car, he started the engine and flipped to “7 & 7” on the Turnpike Troubadours CD in the stereo. As the song started, he sang along to himself.
Howard Black: “Back when you, when you were my darlin’/I didn’t mind to lose a little sleep/I didn’t mind to do a little walkin’/Reputation never meant that much to me…”
He headed straight to his motel room in Chatham; a warm bottle of Wild Turkey 101 was waiting for him.
6/19/16 10:45 PM
You have reached the voice mailbox of (...Howard Black…) to leave a message, record at the tone.
Kaz Mazy: Ok, since’n ya ain’t callin’ me back...Howie, what da fuck, man?! What was dat shit wit Crow?! Dat’s your brother! Dat’s someone dat would take a fukkin’ bullet for ya! Dat’s someone dat loves you...I just don’t get it man. (Silence) Please, call me back…
Beeeeeep
Court Street
Lincoln, NE
June 28th, 2016
When Howard stood on the sidewalk before the rickety wooden steps leading to the peeling painted white house, he had made sure to spend an extra few hours down at Bodega’s to make sure the walk home from downtown wouldn’t sober him up. He also made sure to wear a hat and keep his head down so nobody would notice him – in a little big city like Lincoln, it was hard to avoid people you knew and much harder to blend into the crowd when college was out of session. As he took the first step up the stairs, his hand reached out for the single guide rail to the left, which was unstable due to the bottom support rusting through and snapping. The state of his inebriation made the steps even more perilous, and he gripped the rail tightly to prevent himself from teetering to his right and falling from the unguarded right side. Finally making his way to the porch, he allowed himself to fall forward and lean against the door, bracing himself up as he fumbled for his keys. After retrieving them and flipping through his options, he settled on a dull brass key. He fitted this key into the deadbolt lock and turned until it clicked, then removed the key and flipped through to select a round silver key. He fitted this key into the lock on the doorknob, and after a turn and a click, he opened the door.
Stepping into his familiar tomb, he avoided the faded green wool upholstered couch, passed the flimsy brown double doors to his right, and stopped at the bottom of the archway connecting the living and dining room to look at the simple white bookshelf pushed into the back right corner of the room – the first piece of furniture he and Sarah had bought from Goodwill after the move. He braced himself on the couch with his right arm as he crept forward, his left hand reaching out for a picture frame placed on the middle shelf.
The frame was oxidized, green bronze, the details initially carved in the metal fading from time. The glass was foggy and scratched but still transparent. He remembered the frame well; when they’d bought the bookshelf, Sarah had complained about how empty it felt only holding their old school books and the occasional novel he bought or anthology of poetry she’d bought. She had bought the frame to hold their wedding picture; something to give the white walls of the room and solitary piece of furniture a little warmth. Now, the frame was empty.
Howard raised the frame to his face, his 101 proof breath fogging the glass further. He turned it over in his hand, his thumb caressing the wooden clasp which held it closed. With his other thumb, he flicked at the felt-covered leg which swung backwards to prop it up. Pushing the clasp open, he pulled the frame apart, examining the unobstructed pane of glass, dragging his index finger across it in a delicate stroke. After a moment of contemplation, he let it close, clasped it again, and set it back on the bookshelf. As he turned back to the dining room, lining himself for the hallway to the stairs on the left, he took a moment to absorb the old wooden table and its crude wooden chairs where they’d all once sat for innumerable lunches and dinners. His head was misty; he felt like a lurching phantom haunting the halls of his own home – with each passing memory, it was though another specter had risen to accompany him.
The stairs were steep – this was a common occurrence in a house built so long ago. When he reached the landing at the top of the stairs, the light shining through the crack under the bedroom door caused him to pause. He swore silently before mustering the courage to reach for the doorknob. The door squeaked loudly as it opened – another common occurrence in a house so old – and when he stepped into the bedroom, a form under the covers rolled over to look at him. The hazy blue eyes of Sarah Black opened, blinking a few times as she pushed herself up in bed. A faint smile spread across her lips.
Sarah Black: Welcome back, Howard.
A surge of electricity rushed through him, running up his spine and back down his chest before it sat in his stomach like a lump of lead. He walked past her to the closet.
Howard Black: Don’t.
She tilted her head, letting the smile drop into a frown.
Sarah Black: I’ve missed you.
Howard scoffed, pulling open the door and retrieving a duffle bag from the top shelf. He walked back to the dresser without looking at her, but his response was cool.
Howard Black: Yeah, I bet you have.
As he pulled open the top drawer and began to drop pairs of socks into the open bag, Sarah slid her legs to the side of the bed, placing her feet on the ground and rising up.
Sarah Black: I suppose you won’t be coming to bed, then?
Howard stopped, a pair of underwear clenched in his hand as his eyes remained locked on the interior of the sock drawer.
Howard Black: What do you think?
Sarah’s lip curled down in a pout, her arms folding across her chest.
Sarah Black: And you’re drunk, aren’t you?
Another dry laugh escaped Howard’s throat as movement came back into him. After dropping the pair of underwear into the bag, he closed the drawer and opened the one beneath it.
Howard Black: Yeah. Sue me.
Sarah Black: I suppose you somehow think getting drunk will make things better?
Howard paused again, now turning to face her. His hands balled tightly into fists as he spoke through clenched teeth.
Howard Black: It makes me feel a whole lot better, so why the fuck not?
He returned to the dresser, his drunkenly uncoordinated movements hastening as he tossed shirts into the bag. A thin smile crossed Sarah’s lips.
Sarah Black: So, if you aren’t here to see me, why are you here?
Howard closed the drawer and knelt down, opening the bottom drawer and retrieving two pairs of pants.
Howard Black: We’re touring. I need more clothes than I have in Chicago. And I need to start filming promos again, so I figured I’d pick up my camera while I’m here.
Sarah approached him from behind, kneeling to drape her arms around his shoulders. He tensed beneath her, his muscles contracting as though ready to pounce.
Sarah Black: I suppose facing Burn Out went well?
Howard’s voice dropped low and tense.
Howard Black: Just. Fine.
Sarah’s own voice dropped, her mouth tilting towards his ear.
Sarah Black: And this week?
Howard Black: Shadowlove. No problem at all.
She removed her arms from him, turning back to the bed and sitting down.
Sarah Black: I’m sure you’ll be great. You know I’ll be watching.
Howard didn’t respond as he slung the bag over his shoulder, crossing to the door. As his hand wrapped around the knob, her next words made him freeze.
Sarah Black: And I’m sure he’ll be watching as well.
Howard turned, the bag sliding from his shoulder and falling to the floor as jabbed a finger in the air.
Howard Black: No, he will not be watching! I have expressly forbidden him from watching!
Sarah’s thin smile widened darkly. Her voice was low.
Sarah Black: Just imagine what he’d think to see his father like this.
The room went silent, thicker than the hot, humid air of the Nebraska summer evening. Howard’s voice was low.
Howard Black: Go to hell.
He turned back to the door, throwing it open, and trundling down the stairs, careful not to stumble, leaving Sarah behind in the illuminated room, staring at the door frame.
6/19/16 11:00 PM
You have reached the voice mailbox of (...Howard Black…) to leave a message, record at the tone.
Kaz Mazy: I’m gettin’ a little sick of reachin’ ya voicemail, How. Dis how ya’ treat fam, now? We ain’t disposable, mothafukka. What ya throwin’ us out for anyway? A piece of gold n’ leatha’? Dat...dat just ain’t how we do things in my family…
Beeeeeep
Promotional Video Sent to UCI Headquarters
The video opened to the basement of the Black Family house, an area of hard concrete floors and walls with an old, partially rotted wooden ceiling exposing in places the wooden boards of the floor above. Howard sits before the camera on a black futon pad, propped up against a metal frame to make a cheap couch. The hood of his sweatshirt is drawn up, his face half shadowed and illuminated faintly by the glow of the cigarette between his lips. He takes a long drag, reaching up to claps it between his fingers before sweeping the hood off his head with his other hand. He flicks the ash from the end into a black plastic ashtray sitting on a table before him, next to a half-full bottle of Wild Turkey 101. He smiles at the camera.
Howard Black: Hello Shadowlove. After a few stupid comments and your desire to follow me around like a poodle puppy on Twitter, incessantly barking until you finally deserve a square kick or trip to the vet to get neutered, you’ve provoked me into a match. I’m sure Ms. Miyamoto is patting you on the back right now, and if not, you should probably do it yourself. You were able to shit talk your way into the biggest match of your career; you’ve made a gamble, hoping it pays off. Step one of your idiotic plan? Complete.
Step two? I guess, you’re supposed to beat me. If you’re not getting that pat on the back, this is probably why – I can’t imagine you thought this far ahead. In fact, I can only wonder how the reality of the situation is sinking in for you. My guess? Probably not at all. You’ll have to forgive me, but I hardly see anything in you, let alone savvy or common sense. I assume most of your brain got whittled away with your first “classically masculine and modern mussed, razor-textured, choppy finished” haircut. Then again, that you ever spent that much time and consideration on a haircut when going into professional wrestling suggests you were probably stupid to begin with. For the life of me, I will never understand people like you who think that time and effort spent on their looks and appearances will somehow translate to time and effort spent on being a decent in-ring performer. I’ve seen people like you my whole life: the Jamed Holmeses, Kyle Kemps, Wentworth Updegraffs, and Johnny Manziels of the world. Some of them succeed, but most of them fail. The ones who succeed? Those were the ones born lucky.
You were not born lucky. You were not born talented. Your record shows as much. You’re at, what, two and three, soon looking at two and four? You’ve when pitted against Jay Omega, Alex Richards, Michael, or any competitor with real credibility or potential, you’ve come up short. You’re not a threat, Shadowlove. You’re not even a speed bump. You’re pebbles on the highway to be run over without the slightest bit of hesitation. You’ve failed to best Wentworth Updegraff twice now, the only man I can think of who is as full of pomp with no circumstance as you. Against someone of the same cloth you were cut, you are the runt of the litter.
And when it comes to the cloth we’re cut from, we are not the same. I’m the opposite of you in every way – I’m accomplished. I may not be respected, but I am feared. The reaction I get is louder than any you’ll ever have. I’ve held more belts than you ever will – and that’s only “two” at the moment. I’ve tussled with bigger and better men, and I’ve come out on top. I’ve clawed my way from the bottom to carve my place out in this industry, while you strutted out on the catwalk and made a career in endorsements by looking good and doing fuck all. But the biggest difference between us? I actually have talent where you have none. You’re living proof that “glamour muscles” don’t mean shit when you hit the ring and take a fist to the jaw. You’ve got the fortitude of an issue of GQ magazine and the ability of Milli Vanilli. Christ, at least Mick Jagger could sing and David Beckham could play soccer.
He paused to raise the cigarette to his lips, taking a drag before letting out a slow exhale. With a flick of his thumb, he ashed it once more.
Howard Black: This match has zero chance of going in your favor because you don’t care enough. Nothing about you suggests any effort or vested thought into your career, from the same stupid promotional video with a generic shoot in a different location to seem varied to the lazy “Howard the Duck” jokes you recycled from Katherine Phoenix a year ago. Ms. Miyamoto herself even said in week one that you don’t care if you win or lose the match. That you somehow think you’ll ever be successful in spite of not caring about your record is fucking baffling. Zero sense. Do you think you can just politick your way to the top? That you can flash Price a little nipple and he’ll give you the belt? Do you even understand that you can’t earn the title without winning a match? Do you understand you can’t beat me without actually being good?
And before you get self-congratulatory about ending the career of Chance von Crank, may I remind you he did absolutely fuck-all in WCF besides beat up some lesbian poker player? The last I recall, he was getting beaten via roll-up by Kyle Kemp after a distraction. Of course, some people will grasp desperately at straws to pad their records. You saying you ended the career of Chance is like me saying that the match in which I won a shot at the Television Title ended the career of Eve Vega. If your response to that is, ‘Who?’, then you get my point just fine. It’s fucking irrelevant. It’s a line on a page or a question in Trivia Pursuit UCI Edition. Just also happens to be a line nuzzled between “Loss” and “Loss”.
When the bell rings on Sunday, you may as well pack up and go home. I’ll hit you harder than the bass drop out of a Bose speaker. I’ve got more power than your Ducati Diavel, and I’ll fuck your head up worse than trying to do the crossword in the Wall Street Journal. I’m not a series of images or products – I’m all killer, no filler. But if I wanted, I could do you better than you could. You picked up the receiver, and now I’m going to make you a believer. When the bell rings, you’ll be the first stepping stone on my way to the top of the mountain, left with nothing but your tired gay jokes and a broken arm.
And don’t worry about your precious little Ms. Miyamoto because I’m certainly not. I could take both of you at once, and the length of the match wouldn’t even differ. But don’t worry, I don’t need to take some cheap shots at a non-wrestler to kick your ass back to Chicago. I don’t even need to acknowledge her; it’s hard to distract a ref long enough to avoid a ten count. All the yelling in the world won’t keep your screams of mercy from his ears. And considering what a bitch you’ll go down looking like, I doubt she’ll even want to stick around to lick your wounds for you afterwards.
This isn’t a match. This isn’t even an example or a warning. This is the end, my only friend… The End!”
Howard stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray as he reached up to turn off the camera. The video cut immediately.
6/20/16 12:00 AM
You have reached the voice mailbox of (...Howard Black…) to leave a message, record at the tone.
Kaz Mazy: … Fukkin’ why, How? Why?
Beeeeeep
Williams Arena
Minneapolis, Minnesota
July 3rd, 2016
It had been a lonesome week in Minneapolis, training in solace at the local parks and gyms and grabbing the occasional – or more than occasional – drink at one of the numerous bars downtown. With Sunday finally upon him, Howard found himself staring up at the red stone exterior of the Arena, home of the University of Minnesota Golden Gophers. It was an odd feeling to be here, the home turf of a rival team from his college days. Content to spend little time reminiscing, Howard dropped and crushed out his cigarette, pulled open the front door and walked into the arena.
The hallways were large and spacious, and the interior was certainly state of the art. After wandering the labyrinth of hallways, vainly searching for the locker room, Howard’s eyes caught a sign directing the way to the arena floor. His eyes followed the arrow to a door, a small glass window allowing him to peak through into the venue. Curiosity got the better of him; he stepped forth, opened the door, and entered the main room.
Stepping down the stairs between the rows of seats, Howard’s eyes scanned the room – the massive jumbotron hanging from the ceiling, the erected stage, the rows and rows of empty seats. He lowered himself onto the step, his arms resting on his knees as he sat listening to the muted hustle of stage hands preparing for the evening. His mind wandered to familiar memories, the roar of the crowd and the weight of the Television Championship around his waist when he stepped out onto the stage. He thought of the feeling of tape wrapping around his wrists as he sat on the lattice plastic and metal bench in the Sentinels locker room. He thought of the day he received his UNL Husker jersey. He thought of opening the door to his house and being greeted by smiling faces.
So much had changed in such a short amount of time. Reaching for his back pocket, he removed his wallet and unfolded it, reaching inside to retrieve a folded object. As he spread it out carefully, the familiar smiling face of a beautiful woman with her arms around the man she loved on her wedding day stared back at him. Howard sat in solitude staring at the picture, his eyes tracing over every familiar detail, before he hung his head.
All that was left was for him to fight.