Get Popped

Hate is no match for love. Is that the lesson that should be taken from my complete dismantling of Alexander Hate at the last Victory for PWE? Maybe I’m just leaning too hard on metaphors. Regardless it felt good to be back in the win column. I need to shake off this ring rust and get back to World Championship form.

That’s what it’s all about. Not so I can have it chiselled onto my grave, but so I remind each and everyone of these mother fuckers they just aren’t excellent enough.

It’s late. I’m tired. My body is sore from another day of training. Another day of breaking myself down, just to build myself up. I pulled the sheets up and shoved the wireless pods in my ear listening to the next episode of the Podcast I was on last week.

“Charlie Davis here with another episode of Surviving Madness continuing our series on the Cleaver Killer. Last week we had the actual son of The Cleaver Killer, and professional wrestler, Casanova English on the show,” her voice squealed through my earbuds.

“This week we flipped the script and interviewed the mother of a survivor of a Cleaver Killer attack. Welcome to the show Eileen.”

“Good to be here,” she said, her calm demeanour striking me as I lay in my bed listening.

“Tell me, what is it like being the daughter of a woman who survived an attack from the notorious Cleaver Killer, not only that, but the woman who got him caught?,” Charlie asks.

‘Well, to be honest survival has always been in my blood. I was born with the umbilical cord tied tight like a noose around my neck. Came out with my little baby face pretty well a dark shade of purple – but one slap on the ass and I was gasping for air getting ready to hit that prick back,” Eileen said.

“So what do you know about how your mom escaped the attack?”

“Well, from what she told me before her mind went. She told me she was trying to hitch a ride back home. She worked up the interstate as a waitress at a diner. Now, she always avoided the truckers, saw the way they treated some of the working girls. Then in comes this unassuming little shit in a business suit. She figures she could get the jump on the little bastard if she needed to anyway. She was single, he was cute, why not take a ride home see what they talk about,” Eileen said.

“She didn’t really tell me what they talked about.. The weather, small talk and shit I guess. Anyway he took her to a secluded road – locked the door – there was a struggle. He’s got his grimy hands around my mother's throat squeezing hard. He loosened to grab for his cleaver and she kicking him in the fucking jaw. She grabbed the cleaver and smashed the window out. She ran with that thing in her hand, her stomach cut to shit from crawling out of the window… she ran for miles. Then she slept in the woods on the side of a hill, the blade clutched tight to her chest. The morning she went to the police and they caught the fucker a few days later.”

“That’s insane, tell me about…”

I fell asleep somewhere, both their voices droning on in the background as I dreamed of sleeping outside embedded in the side of a hill. Covering myself with dark, cool, reeking mud trying to let it insulate my bones.

That’s all I’ve ever been. Dirt.

Maybe that’s why I am hell bent on burying every one of these fuckers.

I’m on stage now, a spotlight beaming down on me, nearly blinding me as Bash Daddy adjust s the camera for the heavy lights and clicks record.

“Kim fucking Kaewood. I don’t know you, but I know your family. The son of an actor and a multi-millionaire, but by the time I am finished with you the only thing you’ll be famous for is being disfigured on live TV.”

I smirk and place a cigarette between my lips and pull a pack of matches from my pocket.

“Despite everything, the greatest privilege in your left you have yet to experience. Stepping through ropes and into the squared circle with a man who can bludgeon you're pretty little face all the way to a five star classic.”

I strike the match, light my cigarette. I throw the match in the ground and extinguish it with my boot. I take a few sharp hits of nicotine.

“I’m off a big win here Kim. I just made short work of Alexander Hare and that’s only a fraction of the brutality I can bring to the table. I know you have turned yourself into a student of the game. I know you spent all the cash you could on the very best trainers in the world. I know you probably downloaded this on Oculus and spent hours talking bumps in your riverside mansion. I get it. Mommy and Daddy payed for a few trips to Japan so people could pretend to work your ass.”

Sweat starts trickling down my face.

“I don’t think you can really handle the spotlight the wrestling business comes with. It’s all you are interested in, becoming famous, and you somehow think this right here is the easy route. And sure it’s fun and games in bingo halls and senior's homes fundraisers, but this is the big leagues. You want to be famous, slap a K-pop song together and get your mom and dad to fund it. You need to turn away before it is too fucking lare kid, before you get hurt. Once in a while there is a once in a century talent – and trust me – it isn’t you. People like you have it all fucked up. At Victory your song will hit, it’ll be your honeymoon moment with the fans. It’ll be cute and shit, but you get lose in the moment like so many before you and next thing you know you are landings on your fucking neck.”

Sweat has my hair sticking to my face as I take another deep pull off my cigarette.

“You run to the shiny gold and the big light and well… sometimes you are just an ant under a magnifying glass… the wrong fucking place at the wrong fucking time.”

I drop my cigarette to the ground and walk out of frame the scene widening to show a giant magnifying glass has been upping the intensity of the light. The cigarette on the ground ignites as Bash Daddy zooms in on it.