011 [DWF]

August 28, 2017

Max stared at the assembled crowd, feeling a shiver work its way up his spine. His merchandise was spread out on a table to the side, already halfway sold out of the big-ticket items. "Are you sure about this?" The question came out before he could stop it, instantly hating that uncertainty in his voice.

"It's good for your exposure, especially with that match against Aidan Carlisle you have coming up-"

"I don't see why it matters," Max protested, glancing back at his newly-hired agent. "She barely seems to pay attention these days."

"Precisely why you need to win over the fans. Get them in your corner before you dethrone the queen. Trust me, Max. I know what I'm doing." Wakefield clapped him on the shoulder.

"And if that fails, I'll reboot the gimmicks. I think I still have the sombrero somewhere. I could hot glue pompoms to my gear. Something for the kids – make it fun for them." The snarkiness of the comments sailed right over Wakefield's head.

"No. No. Absolutely not. That's unbelievably counter-productive. You want them – the company as a whole – to take you seriously. As a contender. You can't do that with a silly circus act."

"I could bleach one side of my hair or paint my stubble black. Wear a bandana and play air-guitar on a weight belt?"

"What?" Wakefield stared at him, "listen. I was Brad Jackson's agent for ten years, right up until he parted ways with CWF. I gave that nutbar advice that carried him through twenty championship reigns. The industry would have blackballed him back in 2003 if it hadn't been for me."

"I don't know who that is," Max murmured, glancing back out at the crowd. "If this doesn't work… I don't know what else you can do. I'm not trying to be a downer here. Just realistic. I'm not Johnny Charisma. Some of them are always gonna look at me the wrong way. See that sad story. Whisper to each other 'why would you watch that freak? It's disgusting'. You can push me out there more, push me down their throats, but you can't make them wanna swallow, you know? That's their choice."

Wakefield sputtered, shaking his head, trying like hell to muster a response that could counter that argument. He came up empty.

Max sighed, looking once more out the window before squaring his shoulders. "Fine. Let's get this over with." He looked down at the TMNT shirt he was wearing, wondering if anyone would find it amusing. He pushed through the door, holding up his hands with a brilliant smile on his face. A ripple of noise came from the crowd as he made his way over to the table with the DWF logo on it, sitting down in the same kind of cheap folding chair that usually got bashed over his head. Reaching for a Sharpie from the pile on the table, he rolled it across his knuckles of his good hand before pulling the cap off with his teeth, very much aware of the first few sets of eyes in line watching him. He braced himself for the whispers.

"Hey there, folks. I heard Jenni Drew will be here a little later – transportation issues." He glanced back to the doorway, seeing Wakefield nod. "So… who wants an autograph from the Defiant Title's number one contender?!"


History has this nifty way of repeating itself. The next time it comes around, I'm gonna get myself a dinosaur as a pet.

What, no chuckle? Is this thing on?

Well I guess Aidan was wrong. I'm not all that funny after all – granted she never said as much in those exact words. She painted me as a sidekick, a D-list nobody. Generally, a sidekick is meant as a buffer. Comic relief.

It's funny, I suppose, in retrospect. I lost to someone I painted in those same colors in that FAW Hardcore invitational. Never heard of Tanner Halsey before. Now I see the guy's made the finals. From zero to hero. And I suppose that could apply to you as well, if I'm going to be so bold as to connect the dots. Before a couple years ago, your name meant nothing. Before Boardwalk, before your little turn in Four Corners and the invention of this women's football league, you weren't on many lips. You claim you've been at this for ten years – me too. I've just kept to high school gyms and places that are either straight-to-DVD or YouTube only.

I feel like I should level with you, Aidan. I'd be completely full of shit if I said that I wasn't impressed. People who can paste the smile on, roll up the sleeves, and go out there like the sun is always shining blow my mind. I don't find it quite as easy to put that contempt up on the shelf. For you. For them. For those faces standing around that table, pushing merchandise at me I know they never wanted to buy. They came because the ad promised "Defiant Wrestling's top talent". They got me. I'm not really sure if Jenni ever showed up. I endured for two hours, smiling and scribbling and posing for pictures. Put a few kids in headlocks. Had some religious weirdo offer to "pray for my affliction". I've never seen you do it. I've never found any footage of you interacting with the public. I'm sure you do – face of the company and all. Maybe you just don't do it much on social media anymore.

My face hurts from smiling. My back aches from the workout I did after – had to burn off that bad energy. I'm here, behind this smile. Hiding with my sarcastic thoughts, and my acid wit, trying to be whatever in the hell they wanted me to be as I put that ink on their paper. Unimpressed, filled to the brim with uncaring. You don't want to hear this, do you? You want me to tell you how much I love them. You want me to say that I love shaking hands, signing tits, and making small talk. Like I can make any sort of impact in the ten seconds spent with these people. Fuck no. I'm just so tired of trying so hard and falling on my face every time. What's the point in pandering to them? I felt like I was a conduit, and they were all pulling from me, sucking me dry.

Strangers, that's all they are. I'll never see them again, and if I do, I won't remember. That's not me being a jerk. Just honest. I'll still apologize for what happened today. I owe them that much. I know that, even though I don't really feel it.

I don't know what's happening to me. I hate feeling this way, feeling like everything is hopeless. I lost to you the last time. James Raven managed to make me feel like pinning Coral wasn't noteworthy. I guess I should be used to the casual dismissal from the so-called champions? I'm invisible, insignificant.

There's nothing more to say about you, Aidan. Nothing more to say about us that I haven't already put out there. I dislike you and your methods. I hate the way you minimize everything but expect us to see you as this shining monument to greatness in the next breath. That's not how it works yet your rhetoric never changes.

Nora wasn't good enough. Kasey was whiny. I was a shadow. You're the best. Everyone else is garbage. They can't back up their words. They're flimsy. They're weak. They're transparent.

And you're… restless?

Yes, Aidan. I saw that tweet of yours, asking Chris Madison if he likes the places he's working at this week. You've conquered the mountain. There's nothing left for your bored, complacent ass here anymore so you've got one foot out the door. Why not just throw the title in the trash? You're not fit to wear it with that kind of attitude. If it doesn't bring you pride, you're doing everything wrong.

That's why I need to take you down, take out the trash.

August 28, 2017

"You're Max Ironside, right?" The man held a clipboard, breaking the monotony.

"The Handicapped Hero. One-Armed and Dangerous. Future Defiant Champion – that's me." Max looked up with a wooden smile that faded as the man laid down a manila envelope.

"You've been served."

He stared at the envelope before looking back up, seeing the man's back as he wove through the crowd and he didn't think twice. He vaulted over the table, grabbing the guy. "What? What the hell?"

The man froze, looking down at the hand that was still gripping the arm of his jacket. "I suggest you take your hand off me before I have to call the authorities."

Max's first instinct was to lash out at the guy simply for the tone in his voice, that absolute disgust written all over his face. Instead he heard the buzz of the crowd, noticed a few cell phones pointed in his direction. Ashen, ashamed, he let his hand fall away, "who… who are you?"

"A process server," the man snapped, "doing my job." Before Max could interrogate him further, the man slipped away, leaving him no choice but to slink back towards the table, aware he was still being filmed. He had no idea what could possibly be inside that envelope. He had no wives, no children – had to be getting that regularly for it to even be a problem. He opened it, staring at the letters on the page.

It was a restraining order. From Kasey. Zero contact. If he was seen within 100 feet, he could be arrested. It was the sort of thing meant for an abusive boyfriend or a stalker. He was neither.

The letters swam in front of his eyes as he tried to shove it back into the envelope. "I…" he looked up to see strangers all around him, faces lit by the glow of cell phone screens. "I can't do this. Not today."

"Max!" Wakefield's voice rang out behind him as he pushed through the crowd. He didn't stop. He didn't even look back. He had to get the hell out of here before he did something catastrophic.