November 22, 2010
If there was one thing JC was sure about, it's that his headaches were finally subsiding. He was a lot angrier these days, particularly after the mess with his brother back in OWF, but at least the headaches were well and truly on their way out the door.
He knew he suffered a concussion at the most recent NLW event, but he couldn't remember how he got it. There would have been tape and he could have easily watched, but what did it matter? There was no reason to look at person forcing him to show weakness, so he didn't bother. Whoever did it and however it happened were a mere stopgap of his attempt to purify NLW and wrestling to how he wanted it to be.
A voice he sometimes heard, down deep in the recesses of his mind, concurred with this sentiment.
He sat in his own personal locker room backstage at Uprising 42, staring at the World title. They had the nerve, the nerve to try to force him to give this up. After how hard he worked to get here? Granted, he didn't exactly play the field correctly to beat The Phoenix for the belt, but damn it, he sacrificed years of his career, maybe even his life for this business. If that meant taking one shortcut, one route to the world title that meant he'd be unfair to Mr. Will Prydor, then the Phoenix would just have to get over it.
He was here with a grade-three concussion, that felt a little better than it did before, against doctor's orders. He was forced to sign a waiver to absolve NLW of responsibility, as he was in arguably the biggest match of his career. Everyone else was calling it that, but it was just another match to him. Go in, destroy the opposition and leave. He'd been doing that quite well in NLW and OWF before it, not that anyone was giving him any credit.
The idea was War Games, with all titles on the line. The stipulation was that JC would have to actually team The Phoenix, his partner Ice Man (both of them were tag champions at the time), Anarchy X champion Draco and Legacy champion Kevin Heat. They fought a team that consisted of Ray Lopes, Nick James (Perry, as JC knew him last), and the team of Paxton and Parker Prophet. Their fifth member, and the one challenging for JC's NLW World title, was Trent Steel.
JC had been tagging with Trent for some time now and they had grown to become friends. In a business where JC cared little for anyone but himself anymore, he liked the idea of at least having a partner in crime he could rely on who had the same goals in mind. Trent Steel may not have wanted to purify the business and restore it to how it used to be, but he did want to cause destruction and that was alright by him.
To the outside, The Rogues weren't as strong as they were in the OWF because there were only two of them now. To JC, they simply just cut the dead weight. What did they need Plague or Dude JoB for anyway? It was the two of them against the also-rans of NLW, guys that couldn't cut it in OWF and were now at the mercy of the tag team that run roughshod over it in its final months. They weren't yet the tag team champions, but they were close.
The only thing now was to make sure Trent understand the real goal of WarGames, and that was to hurt as many of these runner-ups as possible. He thought he did, but he waited for his partner to meet him to be sure. They would surprise some people, but they would also hurt people and that was good. You didn't put the NLW World champion in a match like this and not expect to pay for it.
"Well look what they left in here? What do I owe the pleasure?"
Trent burst in in his usual manner, without any real regard for privacy or the need for solitude. Not that it mattered, as JC had been waiting for him. The niceties could be saved for another time.
"It's about time you got here."
"What's on your mind sunshine? Or are you just here to scope out the competition or get a few shots in before the match? Eh!"
Trent mimed a boxer's stance at that point. He seemed unusually chipper, even for a guy that took pleasure in causing pain.
"I just wanted to talk with you about Wargames, even if you are my 'opponent.' We have to be ready for everyone else."
"You know they want us to tear each other apart because they are afraid of what you and I can do."
"Oh I know. NLW is afraid of us. They saw what we did in OWF and they're worried we'll do it here. We already are. If I had to fight with this damn concussion I'd prefer it to be against Ice Man and Phoenix. I'm sick of those pretenders holding belts that should be ours."
A pang of guilt came up about the way he took Prydor's belt from him and JC stuffed it back down. This belt was his now and the tag team belts would soon follow. He earned it. He deserved it. No one would take it from him. Not even Trent, although JC had to remain amiable to keep him on his side. For the moment, that seemed to be working.
"You're sick of it? I'm downright fucking pissed the goddamn-hell off to high fucking heaven! I say we nuke everyone and settle this in the most spectacular brawl these sad sack of shit fans have ever seen. They'll be begging to see us team up on these idiots."
JC smiled. It wasn't a very warm of pleasant smile, and someone who looked at him would see that his eyes were devoid of emotion. He was humoring Trent, but the thought of taking out everyone but the two of them was an idea he enjoyed.
"So tonight, we're all set on what we're going to do, right? I'm fine defending this against you, but I think we need to send a message to everyone else first."
"I like where this is going! Messages is what I do best bud. I'm going to enjoy sending a fucking statement!"
"Good. Everyone's going to be gunning for us, so we need to take them out first. Especially those fucking tag champs. I bet we can fuck up Ice Man's knee real good inside a cage."
"Why stop with one knee. Let's break every bone in his fucking body including his god damn jaw!"
Ice Man had had issues with his knee in the past and it had been a target the last time The Rogues had faced him. The thought of crippling someone wasn't entirely one that excited JC, but Ice Man opposed him. JC shifted in his chair and set the NLW World title he had been holding down on a nearby table. The match was set to start soon and the time for this little strategy session was nearing its end.
He acknowledged Trent with a wary eye. The two would be fighting tonight one way or another. Trent was a tricky opponent, perhaps trickier than any of his others. He had a high pain threshold and a mind that was skewed toward violence. It's why JC liked to keep him as an ally. Trent didn't know he was the biggest threat to the belt, or if he did, he didn't press the issue.
It's probably why JC liked him, in spite of the fact he didn't really like anyone anymore. Of course, it didn't matter who JC liked or who he didn't, because keeping the belt more important. His mission to cleanse the roster was the most important. Everything else was secondary.
With that, he placated his tag team partner with a lie.
"If we eliminate everyone else, then we can worry about each other. As long as we control this title, it doesn't matter who has it."
Trent regarded this for a moment, then grinned.
"Well, if you win at least someone I respect will have it, and if I win you know your better has a spot saved for you. Toodles pal...I've got some little tricks to set up of my own. No worries. If I go after you, you'll see it coming. Make sure you stretch first. We gotta eliminate a lot of dead weight!"
With that, Trent exited as quickly as he arrived. JC was once again alone. He looked around his locker room, now achingly silent and empty. He briefly considered the possibility that maybe what he was doing was wrong. It was a thought that came to him occasionally, as all of his actions had clearly been what some may consider deranged. However that thought of remorse was replaced by an all-too-familiar thought of bitterness.
They all deserved it. I'm doing what's right for me and I'm changing this business so wrestlers like me aren't cast aside again.
With that brief moral dilemma eliminated, JC scooped his belt back up and exited the room to the biggest match of his career. Anger was an all-consuming feeling these days, and it was easy to eliminate things like regret or nobility.
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September 5, 2017
An attack of pure, indescribable rage is a lot like an anxiety attack. It comes on suddenly, but it can be persistent and last months if the conditions are just right. Whatever provokes it leaves a raw, slowly healing wound. Any time those same conditions are met again, it's like a needle has been prodded into the soft bed of flesh that's still red and irritated. All it takes is a simple prod and it's like no time passed at all from the initial outburst.
When that anxiety, or rage, hits, it gnaws at the individual. They feel off, their pulse races and they may find their fists clenching unconsciously. It feels as though they could either have a heart attack or simply explode at the first person to cross them. Such is the case with JC. JC is a recovering addict to violence and rage, and lately his medicine schedule for his bipolar disorder has been erratic, to say the least.
JC's felt a lot of anger lately, along with that gnawing, unchecked emotions. It wasn't any better as he stomped through the backstage area of the Carnage Arena in Baltimore, not at all tired in spite of wrestling in the main event. He barely had a chance to do anything. Then, when he finally had Redemption in his hands, hoping to rip the ligaments in his leg as Redemption had done to his brother...Trent Steel stopped him.
Trent Steel, his best friend.
Or perhaps his former best friend.
It didn't make any sense. He had that masked psychopath dead to rights. Thanks to some precise timing, he managed to avoid Redemption's kick and his leg struck the hard steel ringpost. It was perfect. CJ Wylde and Trent Steel could handle themselves and he could get his vengeance. It didn't turn out that way, as Trent shoved him out of the hold.
JC found himself stalking the hallways. He wasn't sure if he was looking for Redemption or Trent. He thought he might settle for just about anyone, and that kind of thinking was dangerous. That was the way he used to think. There was no room for that now.
"FUCK!"
He swung his leg into the nearest equipment cart, roaring out a general cry of rage so pure it was vulgar. The cart flew a few feet until it skidded into the brick wall, chipping off some of the off-white paint. Not at all satisfied with the flaccid destruction his kick caused, he chose instead to sit down on it, not caring that all this equipment was packed up for a reason. He wiped his brow with his t-shirt and closed his eyes, trying very hard to calm himself.
What did your doctor tell you?
The anger was part of his bipolar disorder, but it wasn't. His mental issues merely exacerbated his rage, which in turn complimented his manic behavior. The anger was always there, always would be there, and he just simply had to control it. The problem was that controlling it these days proved to be difficult.
With his eyes firmly shut (painfully so, as even his eyelids seemed to be tense), he began to slowly breathe in, then out. The exhales were ragged and shaky, as his entire body seemed to be on edge. His skin felt like it was electrically-charged, ready to shock the first person that made contact with him. His heart, which had previously been pumping at what could be an alarming rate, was now starting to slow to his breathing. This method normally didn't work, but it appeared to be doing the trick now.
All he had to do was not think about Redemption attacking his brother and not think about how Trent saved Redemption minutes earlier.
His fists clenched as his mind began to circle back to the very things he didn't want to focus on. He opened his eyes and feebly threw an arm back, hitting the wall without any force whatsoever.
JC knew this wasn't normally. While his anger isn't tied to his disorder, wasn't it easier to control when he was taking his medicine properly? Instead it was like it was when he first re-entered the business last year. He was pushing himself beyond his limits, taking match after match with no regard for his health and now, he was losing control of his anger.
He heard a buzzing from inside his gym bag and reached inside. It was Stacy, and of all things, she was on FaceTime. Joe didn't particularly want her to see him so angry, but there was nothing he could do. If he ignored the call, she'd worry. She worried a lot and he suspected that if he didn't get his condition back under control she'd start to think something was wrong.
Joe pressed "answer" and his wife's face took over the phone. She looked tired, which was pretty much expected as they were both new parents. He'd had his own share of it, with Lizzy deciding she had to be fed or changed at any hour of the night. Luckily his late night training sessions kept him awake for such requests, whenever he was home to do so.
"Hey, Stace. Can't sleep?"
"I actually stayed up to watch your match. I'm sorry you lost."
Did he lose? All he could remember was being denied what was his.
"Well, I wasn't pinned, so I don't really count it. How's Lizzy doing?"
"She's a very fussy baby. I think she misses her daddy."
He smiled. He felt awful on the inside, but the smile was still surprisingly easy to produce.
"She's two months old, I'm not sure she recognizes her daddy yet."
"Okay, so I miss you. When are you coming home?"
Home. It would be a terrific place to go. For that matter, it would be a terrific place to stay. He could resume his medication, take care of his family and leave this nasty Redemption/Trent Steel business behind. Let them kill each other. Let Brian Crucifix fight some other tired, worn-down veteran. Maybe it was getting time for Joe to let his body and more importantly, his mind, get some rest.
But he knew he couldn't do that. Any trip back to New Jersey would be soon followed by a return trip to Baltimore. He had to see this through, no matter what the cost.
"I'll drive back tonight. Then you've got me for about two weeks."
"You're booked again?"
"Yeah, I thought I told you. Some kid named Brian Crucifix wants to test himself against me."
"The bearded guy who kept kicking Boy in the head?"
"That's the one."
"Joe..."
"Stace, I'll be careful. I'm always careful. Besides, I think the kid has a lot of potential."
"Well as long as you've got a backup plan for his friends. You're already dead set on this thing with that Redemption guy, I don't need you coming back here with another injury."
"Any other wife would tell me to just quit."
"If I did, you wouldn't listen. So I'll just tell you to come back safe and change Lizzy's diapers."
"Oh shit, I think I'll just go ask Redemption to kick me in the head again."
The two laughed now. It felt good. Joe looked down at his fists and realized they were no longer balled up. He felt a slight tingle in his fingers as the nerve endings woke up and the blood flowed back into the rest of the body as it normally did. The fury had subsided.
"Seriously, get your ass back here."
"Alright, I'll leave now."
He thought for a moment about Trent Steel shoving him off of Redemption again. The anger tried to rise up, but this time he got a better handle on it and shoved it back down. In it's place was a touch of sadness.
"I have nothing left here for me anyway."
The two said their goodbyes and JC ended the call. Now all that was left to do was head to his car, drive two and a half hours to Jersey and call it a night. He wouldn't even have to look at Baltimore again until Chaos 42. By then he could focus on Brian Crucifix.
He thought again of his words to Stacy. Besides, I think the kid has a lot of potential.
That was true. He saw a lot of himself in Brian Crucifix. Unfortunately, a lot of that was also bad, as JC's prime was filled with causing sorrow and inflicting pain. That was when the world hated JC and the only person he had by his side was his partner in crime. He knew he was in for a fight in two weeks. Anyone that reminded JC of himself would definitely bring the fight, regardless of who that person was. He hoped one day Crucifix would get it and become better, as he had. Or at least as he hoped he had.
He wasn't too sure anymore.
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After all, I competed in both OWF and Carnage at the same time, then Carnage and UGWC and the result was a concussion that kept me out of action for six months. A concussion that could have been avoided if I wasn't pushing myself so hard. But that's what I do. I push my body to its limits and then I either break myself under pressure or I succeed.
Now I'm doing it again, because in the middle of this war with Redemption, which will inevitably take everything I have to end, I find myself taking a detour to fight Brian Crucifix. I can't blame Redemption for that. I can't even blame Brian Crucifix. All he did was accept a challenge that I laid down because I wanted to shut his mouth.
Not that I'm complaining. I could use a good workout.
That's not to say I don't think Crucifix will be a tough battle. I'm not stupid. I'm not going to look past him. He's one half of the tag team champions. He's shown to be pretty ruthless in doing whatever it takes to win a match. To look past Crucifix because I have bigger fish to skin would be a rookie mistake, and let's be honest folks, I'm no rookie. I'm a veteran that gets more grizzled by the week.
Crucifix not only thinks that's a detriment, but he seriously said he's going to end my career. Boy did he pick the wrong fucking week. Crucifix, if you're trying to test yourself, you should have waited. Right now is the worst possible time because I feel like I'm teetering on the edge of becoming the worst possible JC. Lately I've felt like the boiler in the Overlook that Jack Torrance neglects to check. If you don't know how that ends, read a book.
You're the kind of guy that we say has potential, but you'll never live up to it. You lost in OWF because you were lazy and you're winning in Carnage because you're even lazier. You rely on others, you steal the playbooks and material from those that are better than you and you have yet to do a single damn thing on your own. Personally, I don't care, because I've seen enough Brian Crucifixes come and go to know that if you vanish like the El Plagas and Jesse Jamesters of the world, no one's gonna notice.
If nothing else, that should bother you. That should be what wakes you up, makes you take some pride in yourself and try to win a match clean. You're the type of wrestler who wants so desperately to be noticed. "Look at me," he cries. "Pay attention to me!" He trolls a dead Twitter account for a dead federation because it hurts him that he never became anything there. He goes after OWF wrestlers because they achieved the success he never could. For a guy that seemingly doesn't want a promotion to come back, you're all to quick to bring it up constantly.
You dredge up the past so much you're a fucking throwback. What exactly separates C.O.N. from the Hostile Takeover, or The Rogues or the Glitterati or the Shovel-Headed Kill Machine? You think you're the first tag team to run amuck and make the division hell? For that matter, what separates you from the pack of people that said all the very same things you're saying only to end up losing?
You're going to retire me? The last guy that tried to do that got dropped on his head and put in his place. You're courting UGWC, strike up a conversation with Jet Somers about me. Here's another gem. JC is the reason everything's bad! Hey, you've been reading from the Redemption playbook! And clearly stealing from it, what with the third-rate Halloween mask you sometimes wear, the trolling on Twitter and that desperate need to have your ego placated.
I'm glad you're training, because I don't want to fight a wrestler that half-asses it and waits for his buddies to show up. If you want to compete, then great. That's the best way to prove anything to anyone. Even a hard-fought loss is better than the way you win. But I think these semi-respectful comments are a smokescreen. I think Zodiac and Ragnarok will be out there and I think I'm going to have to kick some heads in on my way to beating you. That's how you roll, Crucifix. You're a small-time wrestler with a Napoleon complex. That kind of behavior is expected.
I never thought you were a fly on my shoulder. Flies are active. Flies are persistent. Flies put a lot of effort into buzzing their little fly wings with enough speed to avoid the lumbering blows of the larger humans. You're the slug that washes up on the porch. You're slow, you're slimy and it'll take very little effort to dispose of you. Not because you don't have the skill, but because you don't have the fortitude to actually apply yourself.
Nothing would make me happier than for you to prove me wrong, but just in case, I have the salt ready.
