Antagonize

Las Vegas breeds a certain kind of bastard. The bad apples of Sin City don't just want to ruin the whole barrel. We want to take the other apples for all they have, then split before things get rotten. It's not just that we do our part to make the world a little worse. We do it because it's the only way we know to make our own a little better.

Jesse Williams would understand. He's a practicing member of this particular religion, and while I've been less dedicated recently, it's still my faith of choice as well. You could blame geography, God, nature, or nurture, but the fact remains, the two of us have spent most of our professional lives being selfish, evil bastards who fucked other people over to get ahead. I was always miserable when I wasn't the certain of attention. Jesse was always miserable because Jesse Williams is fucking miserable. But he's a miserable winner of winners. The only time his life is bright and sunshiny is in the ten seconds after he gets declared victorious over another challenger who couldn't measure the fuck up.

Y'know, everyone.

I've held a lot of belts in my career, and I've done a lot of crazy shit to keep them, from hiding a pair of brass knuckles in my boxers to hitting a springboard Shooting Star Press on a guy that was fresh enough to pull his knees up. A lot of my tricks aren't particularly smart, but they served the purpose of keeping me in the spotlight at the expense of someone else. Jesse like the glitz and glam. He just wants to be the last guy in the spotlight when they shut it off. And at this rate, he probably will be.

Unless Ray Lopes takes that title shot and kicks the franchise's ass. But that's not entirely true.

It's like Yoda said in Empire. There is another.

***

Chase Johnson hasn't been on my list of people to talk to, ever since he pretended to die and I took the opportunity to steal his job. You can call me the bigger asshole here, but at least I didn't bullshit anybody. I just issued a challenge to a man whom I thought was deceased, so that I would be legally entitled to his position, salary, and benefits. Granted, I didn't check in to see if CJ had a family to support, but I figured if he did, insurance would take care of them. Come to think of it, he's probably had a lot of explaining to do since he popped out of that Lazarus Pit.

I can relate. I've had to explain to suit after suit why I should be able to fuck over certain wrestlers, why it was a good idea for me to step back into the ring with Darkstar for one night only, and why it's imperative that I tap Missy's ass by any means necessary. The fags just couldn't relate to that last one.

However, I've got some things to explain to CJ. Number one, I don't really know how to run a billion dollar company, and if I'm going to continue doing it, I need to know how I can fire whoever keeps me from enjoying my job. For that matter, if there's a trapdoor in his office, where's the fucking button? These questions and more have plagued my presidency. With my precursor back, I can finally get some answers with my trusty iPhone.

I've always suspected CJ used "It's Raining Men" as a ringtone. Unfortunately, I'll never know on this end of the line. While I await an answer, I'm treated to generic ringing, instead of something like "The Humpty Dance" to keep me occupied in the meantime. Johnson seems to cut corners at the expense of soul.

"Yeah," says the ex-president as if my call interrupted a masturbation session. Could be sex, but in CJ's case, I'm betting masturbation.

"Chase, it's your boss," I respond, making sure not to allow him a window for anything snappy. "Wanted to make sure I can count on you to be at work Monday."

There's no doubt in my mind that CJ still considers the OWF his company. Being chastized by the guy running your show has to be infuriating, but he handles it like a true professional. "You giving me my fucking job back?" Pretty sure that's the first thing that crossed CJ's mind when he crawled out of his grave or jumped through whatever ethereal hoop he had to on his way back to the land of the living.

"We'll talk about it," I assured him. It's true, but it's not a decision I've made. A decision I've made is that since I'm in charge now, I might as well give CJ a little extra grief. "How are you with a squeegee? The windows in my office look like shit." My theory is a disgruntled janitor's been jerking off onto my windows. Whether I'm right or not, the fact remains that they're still not streak free, and that definitely takes away the coziness.

CJ's got no quick draw response. Since Jesse put his offer on the table, I'm sure CJ's been waiting for me to bite the bait like a good little fish and leave the door to his office wide open. My reluctance is understandable to most of the company, but that wouldn't make it any more tolerable to a guy in CJ's position. "Did you call to cut a deal or to fuck with me?"

"Little from column A, little from column B," I confess. Even after I tried to play nice with CJ, I get the impression he never got over me as the anti-OWF guy. The MVW torch bearer. The fucking invader. When someone makes their mark by slandering what you've worked your entire life to build, it's got to stick in your craw. CJ might not hold a full blown grudge against me, but we're both smart enough to know that there are certain things you just don't get over. Some things, you can't help but hold against someone. "I'm not really in any position to cut a deal right now."

Think I heard the sound of hopes being crushed on CJ's end. No doubt he's already put unseen wheels in motion to take my seat, but if he really wants the presidency back, I'm sure he'd prefer to get it nice and clean. "And why's that?" he asks, sounding as if he's about to pitch his phone.

"Haven't decided which route I'm taking," I say, unable to stop a nervous chuckle afterwards. "Warrior or corrupt leader. I like them both."

"I'm a corrupt leader kind of guy, personally," admits CJ. Don't I fucking know it.

There is however, one big difference between his leadership style and my own. "But you're good at being a corrupt leader."

"Comes with experience," he assures me. "This your way of saying the gig's mine again?"

"I'll let you know on Monday," I say, snapping my phone shut. With Addiction and my deadline drawing near, I think to myself that I have more important things to do than call and antagonize Chase Johnson. Jesse Williams has forced me to make a decision that will define the rest of my career, whether it lasts decades or days. In the past, everything seemed so obvious. Piss off the guy with the belt until he gives you a match. If you lose the match, rinse and repeat. The formula of my career and so many others.

Jesse Williams is the one variable I can't solve, no matter what equation I plug him into. I can't just stare at the franchise and eventually see the hidden picture. I've already seen it. Jesse's an angry, half-crippled, destructive, unhappy bastard who won't let himself be beaten. He'll destroy his body, he'll torture his mind, and he'll cheat his opponent just to show the world he's willing to kill himself proving he's better than everyone else. As a guy who's run from his fair share of battles, I can respect that, even if I can't quite empathize.

I just can't beat it.

***

I've had a lot of rivalries in my career. First one was with a guy named Plague, who just happened to share his name with a few other wrestlers. This Plague wore a skull mask and liked hardcore matches. I thought he was too serious and kind of a homo, but when I stepped into the ring with him, I learned Plague was too serious, kind of a homo, and capable of kicking my ass. The lesson was learned, but I didn't exactly pass the class. I only played nice because we got recruited by the same stable. Hardcore wrestlers have always rubbed me the wrong fucking way.

About a year later, I smooth talked my way into burying the hatchet between us, because I needed a tag team partner for this new fed called MVW. Having worked together for a while, even begrudgingly, allowed us to make for an acceptable team, if not a successful one. After a couple of team losses, I kicked my first rival to the curb and moved onto greener fucking hatreds.

Enter Kid fucking Dynamo. Talented, successful, and boring as all hell. Dynamo was famous for promos longer than the Iliad, and while he was technically a face, I always assumed it was because he was great at helping people get a good night's sleep. Dynamo was good, according to most people. I was better, according to me and my undefeated record against him. Dynamo was fun because he just couldn't understand how a cocky, self-obsessed stoner with a passion for cartoons could get around a focused snoozefest like himself time and time again. The answer was simple. He took things personal. You start doing that, you start getting sloppy. You start losing and you keep losing. When you hate a guy who doesn't give two shits about you, he's already won. Whatever you do, his life will go the fuck on, while you have to sit back and complain to about how overrated your hated enemy is. And when you're complaining he'll fuck your girlfriend. Or he'll try to. I never successfully fucked one of Dynamo's girlfriends, but it wasn't for lack of effort. I think I would've had a shot with the dead one.

Dynamo carried that particular torch for his entire MVW career. I got baked and kept winning titles and matches. And I met someone else. Darkstar the Deadly, which is and always was a pretty lame ass ring name. One, he wore makeup to the ring. Two, he was essentially a wrestling goth kid. Three, he never killed anybody in the ring. Despite MVW's reputation, it wasn't Mortal fucking Kombat. I wanted to rip plenty of heads off and leave the spinal cords hanging, and believe me, I could've. I just didn't because I'm a professional. And as far as names go, I think Dorkstar the Dainty would've been more appropriate.

I'm overlooking our rivalry, of course. Back then, Darkstar was the one nut I couldn't fucking crack. I didn't think I was better. I knew I was better and the fact that I couldn't say it with a victory over the guy drove me to the fucking brink. All I could do was keep my cool and do everything within my power to drive him to the brink, and it worked like a charm. Tried to make out with his girlfriend(a recurring theme in my arsenal), chloroformed him into losing a title, and generally did everything I could to ring all the anger I could out of the big blue psycho.

Didn't work. The ass kickings, I didn't mind so much. While I ducked out of them as often as I could, I knew taking some was just part of the deal. You want the big wins, there's going to be a price. Unfortunately, I paid for those wins in full, and they never came in the fucking mail. Darkstar turned me back every time we faced each other, and by the time MVW shut its doors, I was left with a chip on my shoulder the size of Caesar's Palace. Darkstar disappeared back into the Great White North. I jumped to some new companies and never made much of a splash. My groove was gone because it turned out the Specter method didn't work. I couldn't beat everybody by getting in their head. And while I let that eat me alive, I watched my fellow MVW alums move onto bigger and better things while I stuck it in neutral for years.

Until the OWF came knocking. Well, Nick Perry came knocking. In return, I stuck my hand out and asked for a paycheck. For the sake of Nick Perry's personal card, CJ happily obliged and turned a one-night-only deal into a steady job. Kind of funny how one man's Quest for the Best prize would bring me back, and another's might end me once and for all. Once I made it back, I hit my groove again, sticking to the old trick of representing a different fed than the one you're in for the sake of heat. Works every fucking time, especially if the fed you're championing went under years back. There's nothing quite like telling an arena full of people that your dead company is better than the one they shelled out their kid's junior college money to come see. A lot of the OWF took it personally, but for me, it was all fun and games. No ill will intended. I just wanted to be a winner again. Besides, I already had a grudge-mate I was perfectly happy with, and I knew even if we never stepped into the ring again, he felt the same way.

So the Specter Virus ran its course, poisoning the healthy body of the OWF. It got sick, but the fed was a fighter, and it had a roster full of devoted talent more than willing to play vaccine in an effor to shut me up. I took some lumps, but win, lose, or draw, I stuck to my number one rule. Whatever happens, never shut your mouth. Even in the face of Armageddon.

Until I ran into Jesse Williams. At first, we were just vying for Nick Perry's adulation. Nick was a dangerous combination of promising and dumb, and both Williams and myself were inclined to sway him to our particular way of thinking. Basically, we were fighting over the affections of a seventeen-year-old. Probably not the first time Jesse's done that. Things started verbally, but if you know anything about wrestlers, you know that we never settle a dispute without throwing punches sooner or later.

It started when I left Jesse to be murdered by the rest of the OWF in a multi-man gimmick matchl. Technically, I was supposed to be his partner, but I had a match against the very kid who I was trying to inspire later than night, and there was a title on the line. Pressing matters. Besides, Jesse was holding the big belt way back then, too, and I was a long way down on the list of priority challengers. A few people cut in front of me when they were beating the shit out of Jesse in the parking lot.

Of course, being me, I weaseled my way into a title match. After I won a clusterfuck, Santa stuck a title shot under my tree for Christmas. My New Year's Resolution became taking the belt off the franchise. As opposed to my usual cheap tricks, I got serious. I kicked weed, I recruited my old manager, and I started getting my head in the game. In a reasonable world, a guy in the best shape of his life, with everything to win for should have no problem polishing off a bitter half-cripple. Turns out the wrestling world isn't reasonable. Jesse beat me, by being smart enough to throw me off my game plan. By antagonizing me. In one move, he did what I could never do to my most hated enemy.

At Clash of Champions, Jesse Williams made me fucking hate him. He outsmarted me. He fucked with me. He beat me. In every conceivable way. I always told myself if you could just make somebody hate you, they'll never beat you, however things work out. But what do you do when the guy you hate beats you? Especially at your own game, in front of the whole fucking world. Jesse Williams beat me so horribly, I became a face out of pity. The OWF fans that I used to incite to rioting now felt so sorry for me that they actually liked me. I didn't take it well.

So I had a new grudge. Jesse motherfucking Williams. And I would hold onto that grudge until I was able to snake my way into the OWF presidency. The hows aren't as important as the whys. I stole the presidential spot for one reason: to screw over Jesse Williams. Imagine how fucking irate I was when it turned out I couldn't use the job to book myself into a title match with the cocksucker. I'd have to settle for making Jesse's life a living hell. But getting him back into the ring as long as I was in charge? Not an option.

There I was. Running one of the most successful companies in wrestling history. I was in a position millions of people would kill to be in, and I was there out of spite. Jesse Williams pretty much made me the president. That wasn't easy to live with.

Lucky for me, Zack Perry gave me something else to focus on. Darkstar. The white whale in the blue facepaint. The other one I could never beat in the ring. But I could piss Darkstar off. And who knows? I stuck around the ring longer than Darkstar did. Surely I'd be in better fighting shape. I signed on for Life Sentence, and immediately started racking my brain for ways to make Darkstar miserable. They were coming in droves. Which made me a little sick.

All it took was the mention of Darkstar to drive me back into a frenzy. Because I thought beating him might actually be doable. Because beating Jesse sure as fuck wasn't. Then, an odd thought occured to me. Darkstar, for all the things in life we don't see eye to eye on, deserved better. Guy never provoked a fight with me outside of the ring. I just singled him out as the object of my aggressions. So I did something crazy. The craziest thing I ever did.

I made piece with the psycho. Paid him a visit in Alaska, talked to him like one fucked up human being to another, and buried the fucking hatchet. Then we agreed to kill each other, but in the ring. Out of respect for each other as combetitors. No spite involved. Oddly enough, the spite-free match ended up being more brutal than any of our past ones. Guess we both did some growing up over the years.

Making it out of that fight wasn't easy, but I did it. And when I did, I got met with a choice. Presidency or revenge? Hand in my suit in exchange for one more chance to shut Jesse up, the whole reason I took it in the first place. All that spite and ill will came flooding back. Worse than ever. Turned out there was a reasonable human being inside that monster in Alaska. But there's no reason with Jesse. He's worse than a monster. He's a guy with all his faculties. He's decisive, competitive, spiteful, and in the business of proving no matter what, he can beat anybody.

He doesn't look like much, but that's what you're supposed to think. That's what everybody thinks before they get into the ring against the franchise. Nagging injuries, history of drug abuse, a personal life that would've driven anybody else to snacking on a bullet a long time ago. This is what Jesse deals with every day of his fucking life, just to prove that he can take more from life than anybody else. And it's true. He's proves it every time he gets into the ring. He can't be broken. Jesse will keep winning, keep being miserable, and keep making everybody else miserable until he's a corpse. Then he'll get to hell and challenge Satan. That's who Jesse Williams is. The ultimate glutton for punishment. And no matter how much of it he gets, it doesn't phase him. He knows he can take it and he knows you can't. That's why he's better than the rest of the company.

That's why he's better than me. That's why he's forcing me to make this choice. Jesse knows beating him is all I have left. He knows I want the shot, and he knows no matter what I do, I lose. Facing him means throwing away the job that could ensure my future. Not facing him means telling the world I know I can't get the job done. It's win-win for Jesse. It's lose-lose for me.

Winning isn't an option. I'll just have to find a way to make losers out of both of us.