III: Haves and Have-Nots
Jul 13, 2016 13:11:49 GMT -6
Spencer Adams, "Relentless" Andre Holmes, and 2 more like this
Post by Deleted on Jul 13, 2016 13:11:49 GMT -6
The Black Family House
Lincoln, NE
7/12/16
As he sat in the mostly barren concrete basement, resting on the crappy futon couch with his hands crossed and elbows on his knees, Howard placed his lips against his hands as he leaned forward, his eyes locked intently on the email in staring back at him from his inbox. He’d read it many times over – was he on the twelfth time? – and yet it still seemed hardly real to him. A thin smile curved across his lips as he read it over for the thirteenth time.
“Alright Howie, you’ve made your point:
You have one more opponent, and I’ll give you your match against Crow McMorris at #BeachMania. This opponent will be this week – former Television Champion Wentworth Updegraff Jr. Beat him? You got the match you’ve been pissing and moaning about.
Don’t think for a second I’m caving to your whiny little demands. Scarecrow wants this match as well as you, and I hope he teaches you a lesson to not fuck with this company and treat it like your toilet. You’ve made your bed, and I hope you get a shitty rest in it. I’ll be watching very eagerly.
But, of course, Updegraf first. You’ve shown can hang with any level of the card, but can you hang with a former champion? I don’t give a shit about any belts you held in WCF – this is UCI. If you can’t beat Hunter, you won’t be beating Crow, and you’ll have wasted everyone’s time involved.
You have a good week.
Jayson Price
General Manager, UCI”
A thin smile traced across Howard’s lips from behind his hands. Pushing himself back off his haunches, he flipped the top of the laptop down and let his eyes run over the cracking, dilapidated floor of the dilapidated house. He stood, crossing the floor to the old weight bench sitting in the adjoined space across from the futon, and laying across it once more, he reached up to grasp the metal bar above him. He flexed, raising the weighted bar from its resting place, and made a single rep. The weight felt comparatively light – he hadn’t touched the load since the last time he’d used this set-up. That last time, of course, had been before the Ultimate Showdown; after his injury, the family had moved to Honey Badger Ranch outside of Chadron, and he’d rehabilitated himself and trained to face Dune on a different set-up bought especially for that house. With a second effortless rep he smiled, his brows furrowing in a smug look of determination as he continued the set. With each successive rep, his smile only increased as he found just how much stronger he’d become since those days almost a year ago. Time had flown to be sure – the new Howard Black outmatched the old in every athletic membership.
The sound of feet on the stairs caused him to lurch, his hands and arms tightening to prevent the startle from causing him to drop or spill the weights from the bar. He kept his eyes focused on the ceiling, unwilling to visually acknowledge the visitor – after all, he knew exactly who it was. As he continued his work out, Sarah stood by and regarded him with dull blue eyes.
Sarah Black: Your win streak only continues. Last week was impressive.
Howard snorted, his eyes remaining fixed to a long crack in the rotting wooden boards composing the ceiling above him.
Howard Black: I don’t know why you’d think that – it was easy money I’d win. Is there anyone in UCI right now who can hold any semblance of a candle to me?
Howard set the bar once more in its resting place, his arms falling to his sides in repose. Sarah crossed the basement, sitting at the end of the weight bench between Howard’s legs. Despite her presence and proximity, his eyes never came down to meet her. Sarah smiled.
Sarah Black: No, of course not. You’re the Best Who Never Was. Soon enough, you’ll be the Best There Is.
She placed a hand on his thigh, feeling his muscles contract beneath her touch as if hoping to shrink from her. Her placement kept him frozen in place, unable to move away without regarding her – he stayed still and silent, his face falling into a cold, stoic stare ahead.
Sarah Black: But, if I may, I think the most striking moment of your match wasn’t anything between the bells… it was after.
Her smile slowly widened, her eyes locked on his unresponsive face.
Sarah Black: That was a noble gesture to Holmes after the match. Perhaps you still have a shred of humanity left in you.
Howard’s lip curled down into a snarl as he reached up to grip the bar once more.
Howard Black: And I’m sure a bloodsucker like you is thoroughly displeased with that.
Sarah guffawed, patting Howard affectionately on the leg.
Sarah Black: The way you talk to your wife sometimes is absolutely staggering.
Howard’s hands dropped from the bar as he bolted upright, his eyes finally locking with hers as his voice barked out in a sharp yell.
Howard Black: Stop! Fucking stop with shit like that!
Sarah’s lip curled down into a pout, the hand raising from his thigh to touch her breast in offense.
Sarah Black: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Howard Black: You know exactly what I’m talking about, and this shit isn’t going to work on me! You can’t just flit around like this situation isn’t what it is! Don’t you play me for a fucking idiot!
Sarah’s pout slowly lowered into a frown as she stood, still facing him.
Sarah Black: Eventually you’ll realize this attitude is the worst thing possible. And by then it’ll be too late.
Howard stood, his leg coming over the bench as he circled around to face her.
Howard Black: Are you threatening me?
A thin, sad smile crossed Sarah’s lips. Her voice was low and cold.
Sarah Black: How about instead you appreciate the only person who is actually supporting this career of yours. Or maybe keep your head on your goddamn opponent rather than me – isn’t distraction what you said did in Holmes last week?
Howard returned the smile, his own eyes shining slyly.
Howard Black: You aren’t a distraction. You’re my fuel through every fight I’ve had.
The sadness of Sarah’s smile slowly washed away, the corners of her lips gradually curving further upward. Her voice dropped practically to a whisper.
Sarah Black: Good.
Howard stepped past her, his shoulder lightly bumping hers. He paused for a moment, his eyes going to the floor as his head momentarily sagged, before he shook off any loose thoughts or stray emotions and continued for the stairwell. Sarah followed shortly behind him.
Sarah Black: Work-out over so soon?
Howard Black: Yes. I need to pack.
Sarah Black: Is that necessary? You’ve been practically living here again on your off time.
At the top of the stairs, Howard paused once more. He turned back to her, his eyes falling to the bottom of the stairs to meet hers.
Howard Black: And that’s been a mistake. After I finish my match in Ohio, I’ll be flying into Grand Island and driving to Chadron. I’ll be staying there indefinitely, and if you’re smart, you’ll respect my privacy.
Howard turned back to the interior of the house, crossing for the second flight of stairs leading to the second floor. Sarah called after him.
Sarah Black: So, right back where we started a month ago, hm? Or maybe you’ve decided to finally be a good father and see your boy?
Howard spun on his heel, his right hand lashing out as his fist slammed into the wall beside him, easily puncturing the dry wall and sending paint chips scattering to the floor below. She flinched back, her hand coming to her mouth as he regarded her with a seething, venomous look of malice.
Howard Black: Do. Not. Talk. About him.
Howard’s fist slowly withdrew from the wall, the two of them keeping eye contact for a moment before he turned back to the stairwell and ascended to the bedroom. When he was well out of sight, Sarah’s hand lowered from her mouth to reveal her smile.
The scene opened to the backseat of a taxi cab, the camera quality far inferior to previous videos Howard has sent in. The shakiness of the camera drew an obvious conclusion to visitors – Howard was using his cell phone, held at arm’s length, rather than the usual video camera on a tripod. The audio suggested just as much; the prevalence of background noise – the other vehicles on the road, the rushing of the wind outside, and even the mere shuffling of position and movement – seemed more intense as the vocal audio quality seemed muddier. Howard smiled wryly for the camera, his head canting to the side.
Howard Black: If you’re unsure of what this is, Wentworth, it’s called a taxi cab. And as I finish saying that, I can imagine the look of horror and revulsion which must be crossing your face right now, thinking about the uncomfortable, smelly, and mysteriously sticky environment which a cab backseat entails and how you’d never be caught dead in one. I’m sure you took a limousine to the airport, boarded a private jet, were on the tarmac by someone in a monkey suit holding a sign with your name, and were quietly shuffled off in another limousine to your five star suite in town as you poured bottles of champagne on the tits of whatever dollar-eyed bimbo you found five years your junior and half your IQ. This, of course, was the life you know regularly and I life I’ll probably never know. This is but one of the many things that separates you from me.
You are a Have. I am a Have-Not. I wasn’t every raised in luxury, Wentworth; hell, sometimes we didn’t have anything but spaghetti for weeks in my house. When we did, it was usually meat and potatoes – just like every other rural Nebraskan learned to appreciate and savor. Turns out, there’s a lot you can do with just meat, potatoes, and corn. Hell, there’s even a lot you can do with just pasta. Staples are staples for a reason – they’re something reliable that one can live on. They offer more of what you need to survive than any frivolous desserts or hors d’oeurve, and with a little resourcefulness, you learn to get by. This is – of course – why most of the “delicacies” of Europe started out as peasant food – you had to learn to make a shit sandwich not only edible but maybe even palatable. A man like you, of course, has never had to learn that sort of cunning or resourcefulness; you’ve had everything at the tips of your fingers.
From the day you were born, you were destined to do whatever you wanted and have whatever you desired. You’re six-two, born to an affluent family, conventionally good looking, and a naturally talented wrestler. On paper, you should be the absolute pinnacle of this company. For a moment, it looks like you’d actually do it. You had your hic-ups, sure. Not everyone is going to have Week One work out for them. I’d be a hypocrite if I tried to hammer you about “stumbling out of the gate” – instead you became the first Television Champion. Congratulations, Wentworth – I mean that. That’s a fighter’s belt; it takes some of the biggest balls to hold it and defend it weekly. Back in the WCF, that was the belt which made my career. And it could’ve made yours too, but we’ll get there.
By contrast, I was born with everything going against me. I didn’t have the luck of being born in a rich family – we were lower middle class. I didn’t even have the luxury of being born in an urban area – I grew up corn fed in rural, Western Nebraska. Do you know how many metropolitan areas exist within a one hundred mile distance of Chadron? One – Rapid City over in South Dakota. The second closest is Cheyenne in Wyoming at two hundred, and the third is Grand Island at over three hundred. We had no outside resources to fall back on. We had none of the luxuries one may associate with comfortable urban living – theme parks, museums, or night clubs – within reasonable distance. Hell, we had one Movie Theater and two grocery stores – Walmart and Safeway. And no, we still don’t have a Whole Foods; we don’t even have a goddamn Applebee’s. All we had was ourselves to count on to get by.
I wasn’t born conventionally attractive or physically blessed. I stand almost a half foot shorter than you. I wasn’t a wrestler – I was a football player who had to work hard to overcome his physical limitations. I’ve never had anything given to me in my life; I’ve earned everything from the sweat of my brow. That mentality has always been what drives me – it still drives me today. That drive and defiance for the perceived limitations of my birth is why I’m about to walk into #BeachMania against Crow McMorris and out with the UCI Championship. And that road goes through you.
Make no mistake, Wentworth – I will defeat you on Sunday. I don’t think anyone has the idiocy to bet against me at this point. Even those who hate me – which, in this case, is the majority – can tell you that I have all the intangibles that you don’t have. I’m more determined. My will power is greater than yours. I’m more aggressive, and I’m probably cleverer. You can fancy yourself as a ring strategist all you want, but I’ve proven time and time again that I’ve got a counter to anything thrown my way. You can’t out gambit me. You can’t outfight me. Despite your background, you won’t be able to outwrestle me. The reason is simple: our upbringing. You’ve never had to want. You’ve never had to truly claw your way for anything. I have. And that makes me hungrier than you’ll ever be. You’ll fall on Sunday because when we step into the ring, only one of us can leave the victor. And it will be me.
There is a reason you’re now a former two-time Television Champion rather than a current one time Television Champion – Haves don’t care about the things they have. Instead, what they care about is getting them; once they’ve been satisfied, they can hardly be bothered to care very much. When you won the Television Title for the first time, you stopped giving a shit about it; it was the new toy you demanded for Christmas and Daddy Spencer happily gave you. How else am I supposed to evaluate competition as anemic as Alex Richards and Asher Bradley? Asher Bradley never made it past being a footnote in your victory, and Richards has fallen back into the same place of being overshadowed by his more charismatic and notable teammates, like history is repeating itself. Your only successful title defense? Equally as disappointing in Shadowlove. Congratulations, Wentworth, you beat a less talented clone of yourself in his arrogance, his pompousness, and his superficiality. It was all that was needed to get your comfortable, bored, and apathetic. You never saw Beaver coming, did you?
Yeah, I said Beaver – how does it fail to hear that name again? Did you, for a second, imagine him to come slithering up behind you to snap the title from your hands? He caught you with your pants down. He caught you napping. And as a former teen popstar, formerly most notable for being the whipping boy of a failed stable, held that belt proudly above his head, I can only wonder what went through your mind. That wasn’t how you expected it to go, was it? You were Smaug, the fat and lazy dragon sitting on his treasure trove and hardly batting an eye to the Hobbit who ran in until he plunged the arrow in your chest. It wasn’t until then that we saw you become motivated again.
How dare that peasant take your thing, huh? Just like a child who doesn’t give a fuck about his toy until the parents decide to give it to Good Will, you became a man Hell-bent on revenge and repossession. I have to say, I was almost impressed: despite having no claim to a rematch – let alone choice in the stipulation – you were the squeaky wheel that Price gave the grease. You beat Beaver, and once more you held that belt above your head. Finally, you could turn your attention back to the real chase in your mind: Jay Omega. It was really always about him, wasn’t it? Beaver had simply been the temporary distraction who managed to pee in your Cheerios and reveal you for the insecure bully any of us could’ve guessed you were.
And when all was said and done? When you finally had that belt you supposedly cared so much about? The exact same fucking thing as last time: you shit the bed. This time? It was even worse. This time was even more embarrassing. You couldn’t even go through one successful defense – you couldn’t even lose to a good opponent. Instead, you were pinned the next week by one “Hot as Fuck” Jessica Buck. You got arrogant. You got stupid. You got lazy. If there’s any indication that your victory over Beaver can be written off as “fluke”, it’s that. A broken clock is right twice a day, but this Sunday isn’t going to be one of those times. You can only beat Beaver fifty percent of the time – you apparently can’t beat Jessica Buck – you have literally no chance walking out of this match in one piece.
You fucked up. You neglected your duties as champion and took your eye off the belt to put it on Jay Omega. So what happens now? Are you going to throw another temper tantrum to secure another shot? My guess is it’s too late – you’re already tied up in this pissing contest with Omega, and you’ve already cashed in all of your Cry Baby Points for the month. The irony of it, of course, will be if Jay Omega decides that now that you’re strapless you’re not worth his time. Frankly, I hope he comes to that conclusion – there’s nothing sweeter than watching a spoiled little rich boy having to play alone in the corner. To watch a Have reduced to a Have-Not.
You won’t beat me for the same reason Andre Holmes couldn’t beat me and the same reason you lost to Buck: your head isn’t in this. You’re distracted. You spend more time thinking about Jay Omega per week than the person you actually have to face. The difference between me and you is that I see the route to Crow as being blocked by all of you losers, and I can send my message to him with every elbow I hyperextend. You’ve yet to figure this out – he’s gotten in your head. Once more, two weeks in a row, Howard Black is going to curb stomp another “top talent” in the federation in the main event. Just wait until I do it to Crow in two weeks.
We are not the same – in fact, we’re opposites. This week, the Have will be meeting a Have-Not in the ring. I’m going full Bolshevik Revolution on your ass, Wentworth; I’m going to humiliate you like you’re on the stairs of the guillotine. When the bell rings, you’ll be able to go home to your mansion and your fancy cars and your bimbos. You’ll even still be able to go back to your match with Omega at #BeachMania. But only one of us will have the “W” – me. I’m a Have-Not; every match is Double-or-Nothing when you have nothing to lose. You’re weak, pampered, and spoiled. You’re arrogant and pretentious – less relevant than your brother Hunter who at least had the distinction of being a founding member of #BeachKrew. Stick to the Corporate World where you can fire fathers before Christmas, slash pensions, and do all sorts of things less detestable than making us have to put up with you for another week.
Match of the Month Candidate: Howard Black kills Wentworth Updegraff and leaves Jay Omega with vacation time.
The camera cut shortly after.
Fourth Street Bar & Grill
Columbus, OH
7/14/16
When David approached the brick-and-iron enclosed patio, the first thing which struck his notice about the table of his client was the presence of two empty bottles of Budweiser sitting beside the half-full beer in Howard’s hand. His client’s eyes were down, focused intently on the bottle as he itched away at the paper label. The labels of the other beer bottles had already been peeled off with some success and lay discarded on the table. Howard wore his standard black hoodie, pulled up over his head. His eyes were obscured by a pair of tinted aviator sunglasses, and his crucifix had been tucked into his shirt to conceal any obvious signs of his identity. It was strange to see Howard so guarded – in the past times they’d met to drink, Howard had always been casual and nonchalant about who he is; perhaps it was during a time he didn’t expect people to recognize him. David shook his head and sighed, making his way to the elevated table and plopped down on one of the bar stools circling it. He dropped his briefcase before him, letting it rest between his shins and the metal post holding the table up.
David Rogers: Christ, Howie, are all those beers yours?
Howard shrugged, the itching of the label ceasing but offering no reply.
David Rogers: Howard, it’s twelve thirty; the bar opened at fucking noon.
Howard’s head rose, his eyes tracing up the figure of David to lock with the small, bespectacled eyes of his friend. He let out a light sigh before folding his hand in front of him.
Howard Black: Yep. You’re right. What about it?
Howard offered a wry, defiant smile. David’s mouth fell slightly open, the audacity of his friend and client visibly perturbing him as he shook his head sadly.
David Rogers: Nothing. Just – Fuckin’ Christ, Howie.
Howard reached up for his sunglasses, pulling the aviators off his face and placing them on the table before him. With bloodshot eyes, he stared back at his agent.
Howard Black: David, you’re not my therapist or my fucking medical counselor. Can we talk about the match and the contract?
David stared in silence at Howard, his mouth closing as his jaw tightened in a lock of contempt and lingering pity. His voice was low and quiet.
David Rogers: No, first we need to talk about this. Howard, I… I talked to Sarah the other day.
It was Howard’s turn to let his mouth drop open, his body visibly tensing and his fingers gently trembling as frigid nerves rushed through his system. The shock was quickly replaced by quiet rage, his mouth closing to reveal bared teeth. His voice was low and hostile.
Howard Black: Excuse me?
David Rogers: Yeah, I called Sarah. What the fuck is this shit you say to her? You don’t let her touch you and sleep on the couch – you get drunk on a nightly basis! She is worried about you, Howard! She still loves you! That woman has the patience of a saint, and this is how you repay her? How you repay everyone? For what, a fucking belt?
Howard’s voice rose, matching the intensity of his agent. He jabbed an accusatory finger in David’s direction.
Howard Black: You don’t know a thing about what’s going on in my life! How dare you interject yourself! I’d never go call Jenn behind your back; how fucking dare you!
David Rogers: You are not yourself! I don’t know what the fucking snapped upstairs, but you can’t expect us to go on ignoring it! Some of us considered you a friend, and your response to all the friendship we’ve given you has been to drop your balls on us! Forgive me, but that’s not the Howard Black I knew! That’s not the Howard Black who I roomed with in college and introduced me to my fiancée! That’s not the Howard Black I traveled with in WCF! What the fuck happened to you? If you weren’t such an arrogant, dismissive prick about any concern lobbed your way, I’d almost think something was wrong! Instead, it’s just been attitude, defensiveness, and entitlement! That’s the same sort of shit you were stuck on back in the Indies.
Howard Black: I got screwed in the Indies!
David Rogers: Yeah, right, everyone screws Howard Black! High school screwed you and the Huskers screwed you and the Indies screwed you, now WCF and UCI have screwed you. You were always about earning your spot – after you got humbled by that falling out with AWF, you seemed like you were actually living that legitimately in WCF.
Howard Black: Yeah, and where did that get me?
David Rogers: Over! You were fucking over, Howie, even if Buddy Roman wanted to get in your head and say the contrary! People loved you! You were a hero!
Howard Black: Oh, I was? Tell me, David, to whom was I a hero?
David Rogers: How about for starters, to the fucking kid who sat in front of the television every week in your own house! How about your fucking son?!
In the flash of a moment, Howard sprung to his feet, shoving the table to the side and sending the three beer bottles crashing to the ground to shatter in a burst of glass. His hands whipped forward, grabbing David by the collar of his shirt as he lunged, pulling him in to bring the men face-to-face.
Voice: Hey! What’s going on out here?
Howard released David’s collar as both of them turned, a stout man in a “4th Street Bar” polo making his way to them from the closing front door.
Bartender: Get the hell out of here before I call the cops! Pay and go!
The bartender stood firm, staring the two down. Howard reached for his wallet before David pushed in front of him, pulling out his own wallet and drawing a fifty dollar bill.
David Rogers: He’s drunk, I’m sorry. We’re leaving right now.
The bartender took the bill, eying David once over before turning to quietly eye Howard. He looked back at David.
Bartender: If you’re not gone in five, I’m calling the cops. No second warning.
The bartender turned to go back into the restaurant. David turned back to Howard, a thin and sad smile stretching over his lips.
David Rogers: I’ll go over the contract, make any negotiations, and have it delivered to you at home.
Howard Black: Honey Badger Ranch.
David Rogers: I’m aware – Sarah told me. I expect my pay check promptly, and I’ll have my resignation tendered to you within a few days. I’ll stay on until #BeachMania, then this relationship is over.
David walked over to the overturned table, retrieving his toppled briefcase. He adjusted the lapels on his jacket and walked past Howard, giving him a pat on the shoulder on his way.
David Rogers: You have a good match, Mister Black.
Howard turned and watched David go before following through the front gate, splitting down the sidewalk the opposite direction from his former agent. As he walked back towards his hotel room, his mind went drifted back to the video he’d recorded about Wentworth and the things he’d said: Haves and Have-Nots. It was bitterly ironic – and one point Howard could easily have considered himself a “Have”; he had a loving family, friends, and an accomplished reputation. He’d had faith in God, a strong moral line, and an agent who just happened to be his best friend. It was all gone now; he'd reduced it all to ash. This time when Howard stepped in the ring, he was truly a Have-Not.
All he had left was one singular purpose: to win the UCI Championship. And maybe, he thought, just maybe that was the key to getting something back. Anything. When he’d step in the ring with Wentworth, it was the final obstacle between himself and Scarecrow. Truly, this would be Double or Nothing. There was no other outcome: he would win. After his victory, Crow would be next.
He was a self-imposed Have Not. That’s what everyone else would say and think. Howard’s perception was a self-fulfilling prophecy. They were wrong – all of them. But only he knew that. No matter how deep the hole he seemed to be in, none could truly tell the depth unless they sat at the bottom.
He was close – so fucking close. There could be no stopping now. He was going to take what he needed.
Lincoln, NE
7/12/16
As he sat in the mostly barren concrete basement, resting on the crappy futon couch with his hands crossed and elbows on his knees, Howard placed his lips against his hands as he leaned forward, his eyes locked intently on the email in staring back at him from his inbox. He’d read it many times over – was he on the twelfth time? – and yet it still seemed hardly real to him. A thin smile curved across his lips as he read it over for the thirteenth time.
“Alright Howie, you’ve made your point:
You have one more opponent, and I’ll give you your match against Crow McMorris at #BeachMania. This opponent will be this week – former Television Champion Wentworth Updegraff Jr. Beat him? You got the match you’ve been pissing and moaning about.
Don’t think for a second I’m caving to your whiny little demands. Scarecrow wants this match as well as you, and I hope he teaches you a lesson to not fuck with this company and treat it like your toilet. You’ve made your bed, and I hope you get a shitty rest in it. I’ll be watching very eagerly.
But, of course, Updegraf first. You’ve shown can hang with any level of the card, but can you hang with a former champion? I don’t give a shit about any belts you held in WCF – this is UCI. If you can’t beat Hunter, you won’t be beating Crow, and you’ll have wasted everyone’s time involved.
You have a good week.
Jayson Price
General Manager, UCI”
A thin smile traced across Howard’s lips from behind his hands. Pushing himself back off his haunches, he flipped the top of the laptop down and let his eyes run over the cracking, dilapidated floor of the dilapidated house. He stood, crossing the floor to the old weight bench sitting in the adjoined space across from the futon, and laying across it once more, he reached up to grasp the metal bar above him. He flexed, raising the weighted bar from its resting place, and made a single rep. The weight felt comparatively light – he hadn’t touched the load since the last time he’d used this set-up. That last time, of course, had been before the Ultimate Showdown; after his injury, the family had moved to Honey Badger Ranch outside of Chadron, and he’d rehabilitated himself and trained to face Dune on a different set-up bought especially for that house. With a second effortless rep he smiled, his brows furrowing in a smug look of determination as he continued the set. With each successive rep, his smile only increased as he found just how much stronger he’d become since those days almost a year ago. Time had flown to be sure – the new Howard Black outmatched the old in every athletic membership.
The sound of feet on the stairs caused him to lurch, his hands and arms tightening to prevent the startle from causing him to drop or spill the weights from the bar. He kept his eyes focused on the ceiling, unwilling to visually acknowledge the visitor – after all, he knew exactly who it was. As he continued his work out, Sarah stood by and regarded him with dull blue eyes.
Sarah Black: Your win streak only continues. Last week was impressive.
Howard snorted, his eyes remaining fixed to a long crack in the rotting wooden boards composing the ceiling above him.
Howard Black: I don’t know why you’d think that – it was easy money I’d win. Is there anyone in UCI right now who can hold any semblance of a candle to me?
Howard set the bar once more in its resting place, his arms falling to his sides in repose. Sarah crossed the basement, sitting at the end of the weight bench between Howard’s legs. Despite her presence and proximity, his eyes never came down to meet her. Sarah smiled.
Sarah Black: No, of course not. You’re the Best Who Never Was. Soon enough, you’ll be the Best There Is.
She placed a hand on his thigh, feeling his muscles contract beneath her touch as if hoping to shrink from her. Her placement kept him frozen in place, unable to move away without regarding her – he stayed still and silent, his face falling into a cold, stoic stare ahead.
Sarah Black: But, if I may, I think the most striking moment of your match wasn’t anything between the bells… it was after.
Her smile slowly widened, her eyes locked on his unresponsive face.
Sarah Black: That was a noble gesture to Holmes after the match. Perhaps you still have a shred of humanity left in you.
Howard’s lip curled down into a snarl as he reached up to grip the bar once more.
Howard Black: And I’m sure a bloodsucker like you is thoroughly displeased with that.
Sarah guffawed, patting Howard affectionately on the leg.
Sarah Black: The way you talk to your wife sometimes is absolutely staggering.
Howard’s hands dropped from the bar as he bolted upright, his eyes finally locking with hers as his voice barked out in a sharp yell.
Howard Black: Stop! Fucking stop with shit like that!
Sarah’s lip curled down into a pout, the hand raising from his thigh to touch her breast in offense.
Sarah Black: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Howard Black: You know exactly what I’m talking about, and this shit isn’t going to work on me! You can’t just flit around like this situation isn’t what it is! Don’t you play me for a fucking idiot!
Sarah’s pout slowly lowered into a frown as she stood, still facing him.
Sarah Black: Eventually you’ll realize this attitude is the worst thing possible. And by then it’ll be too late.
Howard stood, his leg coming over the bench as he circled around to face her.
Howard Black: Are you threatening me?
A thin, sad smile crossed Sarah’s lips. Her voice was low and cold.
Sarah Black: How about instead you appreciate the only person who is actually supporting this career of yours. Or maybe keep your head on your goddamn opponent rather than me – isn’t distraction what you said did in Holmes last week?
Howard returned the smile, his own eyes shining slyly.
Howard Black: You aren’t a distraction. You’re my fuel through every fight I’ve had.
The sadness of Sarah’s smile slowly washed away, the corners of her lips gradually curving further upward. Her voice dropped practically to a whisper.
Sarah Black: Good.
Howard stepped past her, his shoulder lightly bumping hers. He paused for a moment, his eyes going to the floor as his head momentarily sagged, before he shook off any loose thoughts or stray emotions and continued for the stairwell. Sarah followed shortly behind him.
Sarah Black: Work-out over so soon?
Howard Black: Yes. I need to pack.
Sarah Black: Is that necessary? You’ve been practically living here again on your off time.
At the top of the stairs, Howard paused once more. He turned back to her, his eyes falling to the bottom of the stairs to meet hers.
Howard Black: And that’s been a mistake. After I finish my match in Ohio, I’ll be flying into Grand Island and driving to Chadron. I’ll be staying there indefinitely, and if you’re smart, you’ll respect my privacy.
Howard turned back to the interior of the house, crossing for the second flight of stairs leading to the second floor. Sarah called after him.
Sarah Black: So, right back where we started a month ago, hm? Or maybe you’ve decided to finally be a good father and see your boy?
Howard spun on his heel, his right hand lashing out as his fist slammed into the wall beside him, easily puncturing the dry wall and sending paint chips scattering to the floor below. She flinched back, her hand coming to her mouth as he regarded her with a seething, venomous look of malice.
Howard Black: Do. Not. Talk. About him.
Howard’s fist slowly withdrew from the wall, the two of them keeping eye contact for a moment before he turned back to the stairwell and ascended to the bedroom. When he was well out of sight, Sarah’s hand lowered from her mouth to reveal her smile.
Promotional Video Sent to UCI Headquarters
The scene opened to the backseat of a taxi cab, the camera quality far inferior to previous videos Howard has sent in. The shakiness of the camera drew an obvious conclusion to visitors – Howard was using his cell phone, held at arm’s length, rather than the usual video camera on a tripod. The audio suggested just as much; the prevalence of background noise – the other vehicles on the road, the rushing of the wind outside, and even the mere shuffling of position and movement – seemed more intense as the vocal audio quality seemed muddier. Howard smiled wryly for the camera, his head canting to the side.
Howard Black: If you’re unsure of what this is, Wentworth, it’s called a taxi cab. And as I finish saying that, I can imagine the look of horror and revulsion which must be crossing your face right now, thinking about the uncomfortable, smelly, and mysteriously sticky environment which a cab backseat entails and how you’d never be caught dead in one. I’m sure you took a limousine to the airport, boarded a private jet, were on the tarmac by someone in a monkey suit holding a sign with your name, and were quietly shuffled off in another limousine to your five star suite in town as you poured bottles of champagne on the tits of whatever dollar-eyed bimbo you found five years your junior and half your IQ. This, of course, was the life you know regularly and I life I’ll probably never know. This is but one of the many things that separates you from me.
You are a Have. I am a Have-Not. I wasn’t every raised in luxury, Wentworth; hell, sometimes we didn’t have anything but spaghetti for weeks in my house. When we did, it was usually meat and potatoes – just like every other rural Nebraskan learned to appreciate and savor. Turns out, there’s a lot you can do with just meat, potatoes, and corn. Hell, there’s even a lot you can do with just pasta. Staples are staples for a reason – they’re something reliable that one can live on. They offer more of what you need to survive than any frivolous desserts or hors d’oeurve, and with a little resourcefulness, you learn to get by. This is – of course – why most of the “delicacies” of Europe started out as peasant food – you had to learn to make a shit sandwich not only edible but maybe even palatable. A man like you, of course, has never had to learn that sort of cunning or resourcefulness; you’ve had everything at the tips of your fingers.
From the day you were born, you were destined to do whatever you wanted and have whatever you desired. You’re six-two, born to an affluent family, conventionally good looking, and a naturally talented wrestler. On paper, you should be the absolute pinnacle of this company. For a moment, it looks like you’d actually do it. You had your hic-ups, sure. Not everyone is going to have Week One work out for them. I’d be a hypocrite if I tried to hammer you about “stumbling out of the gate” – instead you became the first Television Champion. Congratulations, Wentworth – I mean that. That’s a fighter’s belt; it takes some of the biggest balls to hold it and defend it weekly. Back in the WCF, that was the belt which made my career. And it could’ve made yours too, but we’ll get there.
By contrast, I was born with everything going against me. I didn’t have the luck of being born in a rich family – we were lower middle class. I didn’t even have the luxury of being born in an urban area – I grew up corn fed in rural, Western Nebraska. Do you know how many metropolitan areas exist within a one hundred mile distance of Chadron? One – Rapid City over in South Dakota. The second closest is Cheyenne in Wyoming at two hundred, and the third is Grand Island at over three hundred. We had no outside resources to fall back on. We had none of the luxuries one may associate with comfortable urban living – theme parks, museums, or night clubs – within reasonable distance. Hell, we had one Movie Theater and two grocery stores – Walmart and Safeway. And no, we still don’t have a Whole Foods; we don’t even have a goddamn Applebee’s. All we had was ourselves to count on to get by.
I wasn’t born conventionally attractive or physically blessed. I stand almost a half foot shorter than you. I wasn’t a wrestler – I was a football player who had to work hard to overcome his physical limitations. I’ve never had anything given to me in my life; I’ve earned everything from the sweat of my brow. That mentality has always been what drives me – it still drives me today. That drive and defiance for the perceived limitations of my birth is why I’m about to walk into #BeachMania against Crow McMorris and out with the UCI Championship. And that road goes through you.
Make no mistake, Wentworth – I will defeat you on Sunday. I don’t think anyone has the idiocy to bet against me at this point. Even those who hate me – which, in this case, is the majority – can tell you that I have all the intangibles that you don’t have. I’m more determined. My will power is greater than yours. I’m more aggressive, and I’m probably cleverer. You can fancy yourself as a ring strategist all you want, but I’ve proven time and time again that I’ve got a counter to anything thrown my way. You can’t out gambit me. You can’t outfight me. Despite your background, you won’t be able to outwrestle me. The reason is simple: our upbringing. You’ve never had to want. You’ve never had to truly claw your way for anything. I have. And that makes me hungrier than you’ll ever be. You’ll fall on Sunday because when we step into the ring, only one of us can leave the victor. And it will be me.
There is a reason you’re now a former two-time Television Champion rather than a current one time Television Champion – Haves don’t care about the things they have. Instead, what they care about is getting them; once they’ve been satisfied, they can hardly be bothered to care very much. When you won the Television Title for the first time, you stopped giving a shit about it; it was the new toy you demanded for Christmas and Daddy Spencer happily gave you. How else am I supposed to evaluate competition as anemic as Alex Richards and Asher Bradley? Asher Bradley never made it past being a footnote in your victory, and Richards has fallen back into the same place of being overshadowed by his more charismatic and notable teammates, like history is repeating itself. Your only successful title defense? Equally as disappointing in Shadowlove. Congratulations, Wentworth, you beat a less talented clone of yourself in his arrogance, his pompousness, and his superficiality. It was all that was needed to get your comfortable, bored, and apathetic. You never saw Beaver coming, did you?
Yeah, I said Beaver – how does it fail to hear that name again? Did you, for a second, imagine him to come slithering up behind you to snap the title from your hands? He caught you with your pants down. He caught you napping. And as a former teen popstar, formerly most notable for being the whipping boy of a failed stable, held that belt proudly above his head, I can only wonder what went through your mind. That wasn’t how you expected it to go, was it? You were Smaug, the fat and lazy dragon sitting on his treasure trove and hardly batting an eye to the Hobbit who ran in until he plunged the arrow in your chest. It wasn’t until then that we saw you become motivated again.
How dare that peasant take your thing, huh? Just like a child who doesn’t give a fuck about his toy until the parents decide to give it to Good Will, you became a man Hell-bent on revenge and repossession. I have to say, I was almost impressed: despite having no claim to a rematch – let alone choice in the stipulation – you were the squeaky wheel that Price gave the grease. You beat Beaver, and once more you held that belt above your head. Finally, you could turn your attention back to the real chase in your mind: Jay Omega. It was really always about him, wasn’t it? Beaver had simply been the temporary distraction who managed to pee in your Cheerios and reveal you for the insecure bully any of us could’ve guessed you were.
And when all was said and done? When you finally had that belt you supposedly cared so much about? The exact same fucking thing as last time: you shit the bed. This time? It was even worse. This time was even more embarrassing. You couldn’t even go through one successful defense – you couldn’t even lose to a good opponent. Instead, you were pinned the next week by one “Hot as Fuck” Jessica Buck. You got arrogant. You got stupid. You got lazy. If there’s any indication that your victory over Beaver can be written off as “fluke”, it’s that. A broken clock is right twice a day, but this Sunday isn’t going to be one of those times. You can only beat Beaver fifty percent of the time – you apparently can’t beat Jessica Buck – you have literally no chance walking out of this match in one piece.
You fucked up. You neglected your duties as champion and took your eye off the belt to put it on Jay Omega. So what happens now? Are you going to throw another temper tantrum to secure another shot? My guess is it’s too late – you’re already tied up in this pissing contest with Omega, and you’ve already cashed in all of your Cry Baby Points for the month. The irony of it, of course, will be if Jay Omega decides that now that you’re strapless you’re not worth his time. Frankly, I hope he comes to that conclusion – there’s nothing sweeter than watching a spoiled little rich boy having to play alone in the corner. To watch a Have reduced to a Have-Not.
You won’t beat me for the same reason Andre Holmes couldn’t beat me and the same reason you lost to Buck: your head isn’t in this. You’re distracted. You spend more time thinking about Jay Omega per week than the person you actually have to face. The difference between me and you is that I see the route to Crow as being blocked by all of you losers, and I can send my message to him with every elbow I hyperextend. You’ve yet to figure this out – he’s gotten in your head. Once more, two weeks in a row, Howard Black is going to curb stomp another “top talent” in the federation in the main event. Just wait until I do it to Crow in two weeks.
We are not the same – in fact, we’re opposites. This week, the Have will be meeting a Have-Not in the ring. I’m going full Bolshevik Revolution on your ass, Wentworth; I’m going to humiliate you like you’re on the stairs of the guillotine. When the bell rings, you’ll be able to go home to your mansion and your fancy cars and your bimbos. You’ll even still be able to go back to your match with Omega at #BeachMania. But only one of us will have the “W” – me. I’m a Have-Not; every match is Double-or-Nothing when you have nothing to lose. You’re weak, pampered, and spoiled. You’re arrogant and pretentious – less relevant than your brother Hunter who at least had the distinction of being a founding member of #BeachKrew. Stick to the Corporate World where you can fire fathers before Christmas, slash pensions, and do all sorts of things less detestable than making us have to put up with you for another week.
Match of the Month Candidate: Howard Black kills Wentworth Updegraff and leaves Jay Omega with vacation time.
The camera cut shortly after.
Fourth Street Bar & Grill
Columbus, OH
7/14/16
When David approached the brick-and-iron enclosed patio, the first thing which struck his notice about the table of his client was the presence of two empty bottles of Budweiser sitting beside the half-full beer in Howard’s hand. His client’s eyes were down, focused intently on the bottle as he itched away at the paper label. The labels of the other beer bottles had already been peeled off with some success and lay discarded on the table. Howard wore his standard black hoodie, pulled up over his head. His eyes were obscured by a pair of tinted aviator sunglasses, and his crucifix had been tucked into his shirt to conceal any obvious signs of his identity. It was strange to see Howard so guarded – in the past times they’d met to drink, Howard had always been casual and nonchalant about who he is; perhaps it was during a time he didn’t expect people to recognize him. David shook his head and sighed, making his way to the elevated table and plopped down on one of the bar stools circling it. He dropped his briefcase before him, letting it rest between his shins and the metal post holding the table up.
David Rogers: Christ, Howie, are all those beers yours?
Howard shrugged, the itching of the label ceasing but offering no reply.
David Rogers: Howard, it’s twelve thirty; the bar opened at fucking noon.
Howard’s head rose, his eyes tracing up the figure of David to lock with the small, bespectacled eyes of his friend. He let out a light sigh before folding his hand in front of him.
Howard Black: Yep. You’re right. What about it?
Howard offered a wry, defiant smile. David’s mouth fell slightly open, the audacity of his friend and client visibly perturbing him as he shook his head sadly.
David Rogers: Nothing. Just – Fuckin’ Christ, Howie.
Howard reached up for his sunglasses, pulling the aviators off his face and placing them on the table before him. With bloodshot eyes, he stared back at his agent.
Howard Black: David, you’re not my therapist or my fucking medical counselor. Can we talk about the match and the contract?
David stared in silence at Howard, his mouth closing as his jaw tightened in a lock of contempt and lingering pity. His voice was low and quiet.
David Rogers: No, first we need to talk about this. Howard, I… I talked to Sarah the other day.
It was Howard’s turn to let his mouth drop open, his body visibly tensing and his fingers gently trembling as frigid nerves rushed through his system. The shock was quickly replaced by quiet rage, his mouth closing to reveal bared teeth. His voice was low and hostile.
Howard Black: Excuse me?
David Rogers: Yeah, I called Sarah. What the fuck is this shit you say to her? You don’t let her touch you and sleep on the couch – you get drunk on a nightly basis! She is worried about you, Howard! She still loves you! That woman has the patience of a saint, and this is how you repay her? How you repay everyone? For what, a fucking belt?
Howard’s voice rose, matching the intensity of his agent. He jabbed an accusatory finger in David’s direction.
Howard Black: You don’t know a thing about what’s going on in my life! How dare you interject yourself! I’d never go call Jenn behind your back; how fucking dare you!
David Rogers: You are not yourself! I don’t know what the fucking snapped upstairs, but you can’t expect us to go on ignoring it! Some of us considered you a friend, and your response to all the friendship we’ve given you has been to drop your balls on us! Forgive me, but that’s not the Howard Black I knew! That’s not the Howard Black who I roomed with in college and introduced me to my fiancée! That’s not the Howard Black I traveled with in WCF! What the fuck happened to you? If you weren’t such an arrogant, dismissive prick about any concern lobbed your way, I’d almost think something was wrong! Instead, it’s just been attitude, defensiveness, and entitlement! That’s the same sort of shit you were stuck on back in the Indies.
Howard Black: I got screwed in the Indies!
David Rogers: Yeah, right, everyone screws Howard Black! High school screwed you and the Huskers screwed you and the Indies screwed you, now WCF and UCI have screwed you. You were always about earning your spot – after you got humbled by that falling out with AWF, you seemed like you were actually living that legitimately in WCF.
Howard Black: Yeah, and where did that get me?
David Rogers: Over! You were fucking over, Howie, even if Buddy Roman wanted to get in your head and say the contrary! People loved you! You were a hero!
Howard Black: Oh, I was? Tell me, David, to whom was I a hero?
David Rogers: How about for starters, to the fucking kid who sat in front of the television every week in your own house! How about your fucking son?!
In the flash of a moment, Howard sprung to his feet, shoving the table to the side and sending the three beer bottles crashing to the ground to shatter in a burst of glass. His hands whipped forward, grabbing David by the collar of his shirt as he lunged, pulling him in to bring the men face-to-face.
Voice: Hey! What’s going on out here?
Howard released David’s collar as both of them turned, a stout man in a “4th Street Bar” polo making his way to them from the closing front door.
Bartender: Get the hell out of here before I call the cops! Pay and go!
The bartender stood firm, staring the two down. Howard reached for his wallet before David pushed in front of him, pulling out his own wallet and drawing a fifty dollar bill.
David Rogers: He’s drunk, I’m sorry. We’re leaving right now.
The bartender took the bill, eying David once over before turning to quietly eye Howard. He looked back at David.
Bartender: If you’re not gone in five, I’m calling the cops. No second warning.
The bartender turned to go back into the restaurant. David turned back to Howard, a thin and sad smile stretching over his lips.
David Rogers: I’ll go over the contract, make any negotiations, and have it delivered to you at home.
Howard Black: Honey Badger Ranch.
David Rogers: I’m aware – Sarah told me. I expect my pay check promptly, and I’ll have my resignation tendered to you within a few days. I’ll stay on until #BeachMania, then this relationship is over.
David walked over to the overturned table, retrieving his toppled briefcase. He adjusted the lapels on his jacket and walked past Howard, giving him a pat on the shoulder on his way.
David Rogers: You have a good match, Mister Black.
Howard turned and watched David go before following through the front gate, splitting down the sidewalk the opposite direction from his former agent. As he walked back towards his hotel room, his mind went drifted back to the video he’d recorded about Wentworth and the things he’d said: Haves and Have-Nots. It was bitterly ironic – and one point Howard could easily have considered himself a “Have”; he had a loving family, friends, and an accomplished reputation. He’d had faith in God, a strong moral line, and an agent who just happened to be his best friend. It was all gone now; he'd reduced it all to ash. This time when Howard stepped in the ring, he was truly a Have-Not.
All he had left was one singular purpose: to win the UCI Championship. And maybe, he thought, just maybe that was the key to getting something back. Anything. When he’d step in the ring with Wentworth, it was the final obstacle between himself and Scarecrow. Truly, this would be Double or Nothing. There was no other outcome: he would win. After his victory, Crow would be next.
He was a self-imposed Have Not. That’s what everyone else would say and think. Howard’s perception was a self-fulfilling prophecy. They were wrong – all of them. But only he knew that. No matter how deep the hole he seemed to be in, none could truly tell the depth unless they sat at the bottom.
He was close – so fucking close. There could be no stopping now. He was going to take what he needed.