Pity Party [HavocOW/SRW]

Pity Party [HavocOW/SRW] Aug 16, 2020 17:09:55 GMT -5

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Post by Admin on Aug 16, 2020 17:09:55 GMT -5

(the present: Miami, Florida)
August 15, 2020

"I'm not taking my shirt off…" Max Ironside laughed, shaking his head as he watched the comments scroll across the screen. He was on Instagram Live, like he'd been doing for the past month or so, ever since his departure from Alberta Wrestling. He'd started doing it as a way to connect with the fans, to communicate since he wasn't really out there in front of a crowd while he was rehabbing his shoulder. Now it had become a part of the routine and he enjoyed it. There were only ten fans on the stream but the banter was good today and he'd just unearthed an old match, his first ever match when he was fresh out of Wild Ones in 2009, and he was currently encoding it and was getting ready to upload it to YouTube. It was surreal to think that it had only been a little over three and a half years since his debut in a legitimate company, that being Defiant Wrestling. It felt like another lifetime – maybe that was why he'd considered Coral Rose to be an old friend, or at least he had until she'd unceremoniously interrupted his return to Havoc programming a couple weeks ago. He'd asked for the time, had wanted to talk about the things that had gone down with Priscilla in a context that wasn't disgusting or degrading. He'd wanted to talk about how he'd struggled not to lose his smile, how he'd found the inspiration to work his way back to the ring through the support of the fans like those he was interacting with right now on social media.

"The video's almost ready to go up," he nodded, glancing at the screen of his laptop. He saw the little notification bell on Twitter and clicked idly over to it, chuckling to himself when he saw that Coral had replied to his RT of the Havoc stream from the night before. "Oh, here we go," he muttered, rolling his eyes as he looked back to the phone. "Looks like my new pink-haired nemesis wants to rattle cages – it's too early for this shit when I don't have an energy drink."

He laughed when he saw the comments scroll past, "yeah, Juan. Definitely picked the wrong week to stop huffing glue – nice Airplane reference."

He wasn't really thinking, wasn't really completely engaged in the whole back and forth as she threw out a few insults, saying she was going to injure him again. He'd heard that before, many times. Some of the threats had come true over the years. Some hadn't. He'd stopped reacting as if those were prophetic a long time before he'd ever even met Coral.

There were twelve fans now and they were wilding, talking back and forth, egging him on as they watched him reply to each of Coral's posts. He was leaning forward now, eyes on the laptop screen and he had to blink a few times before he realized that he'd completely spaced out into silence.

"Pity?" He didn't even realize he'd spoken aloud until he heard the chimes, the notices going off all over the place and his gaze was drawn back to the screen of his phone after he typed out a reply. "Oh, no… you guys… I don't think…"

They were calling him an inspiration, saying he was the nicest guy, the sweetest to his fans. He felt sick, those words cutting deep. More than once, he'd been on the receiving end of that particular sentiment, had been tossed bullshit bookings in the dumbest gimmick matches because the promoter felt sorry for him. He'd gotten into this business because he loved it more than anything else – he'd always been a fan at heart. He'd wanted to prove that he could do it, that his handicap could be overcome and some places had welcomed him with open arms, had treated him like an equal competitor. Southern Rebellion was like that, his match with Luther Thunder one for the ages and he wondered if Coral had seen that, had felt like she needed to undermine the praise that the legendary Thunder had lavished on him after the match. He hadn't been victorious and he hadn't minded that loss one bit because he'd been able to take Thunder to the limit, had reached into his bag of tricks and had an answer for almost everything the guy had put out there.

"Okay…" he forced a smile, closing out of Twitter before he typed something he'd truly regret later, "the video's almost done. I'll settle on a good thumbnail and it'll be up in a few minutes, I promise. Then you'll get to see me with the worst faux-hawk ever and a pukka shell necklace." He pushed his glasses up his nose and checked the timer on the phone.

"We've only got twenty-five seconds left here, so I'm gonna bounce. Finish up this video for you guys. Thanks for joining me." This time the smile was genuine as he watched them all say their farewells. "You guys are the best – truly. I love you."

He reached out and tapped the screen, ending the stream and then looked up to see Rayna standing in the doorway. Sighing, he set his phone down on the desk, facedown and bowed his head. "It's true, what they tell you. There aren't any real friends in the wrestling business."

She walked in, resting her hand on his shoulder as she leaned in to kiss his cheek. "It was still uncalled for."

"She got what she wanted, though. Instant heat at my expense. Anyone who sees me as an inspiration is going to be running up one side of her and down the other until that Super Show. Provided any of those folks are real. Maybe I've been deluding myself this whole time – it's all pity. All of it."

"Even me?"

Max chuckled and it sounded bitter. "Oh, especially you. I was broken when we met, remember?"

"Max-"

"Bunny…" he cut her off with a sigh, "don't tell me I'm not. I wasn't. It's always been a struggle."

"You're not broken," she replied, her tone gentle, "you're the bravest man I know and every day you continue to amaze me, struggle or not. The fact that you're doing this… that you're making people happy and that you go out there and inspire so many people… that's a huge thing. It's everything. If Coral Rose can't see that, she can go play in rush hour traffic, for all I care."

He nodded, still feeling heartbroken and sick – it was betrayal, really. He'd believed in that illusion of friendship, of camaraderie and now he was second-guessing everything else. Was squeaky-clean Chris Styles going to turn on him next? Was Luther going to take back the things he'd said? Was Jackson going to fire him for losing both of the matches he'd had so far in Southern Rebellion?

"She'll get hers. Eventually."