I dreamed a dream, the other night.
Feb 9, 2018 2:27:02 GMT -5
"The Peoples GOAT" James Raven likes this
Post by Kyle Shane on Feb 9, 2018 2:27:02 GMT -5
"So you're... happier? Without her?"
This could really have been a question asked anywhere, but as we fade in it's not as glamorous as you'd think. He's being asked this while he's getting a refill of coffee, for one thing. He takes a big sip, and his eyes close in that momentary ecstasy you get from a damn fine cup of joe. Kyle is wearing a black suit that has been distressed and worn, the collar pulled, the shoulders frayed. His dress shirt is unbuttoned into a deep V and his tie hangs loose. And he drinks in the subtext, asking himself of all the things he's happier without. No titles currently. Free-wheeling at his job, not knowing where he stood in wrestling. No girlfriend. None of the touchstones of the usual Kyle Shane promos.
He swallowed, and raised a finger to the waitress, who brought another pot around, pouring in his cup. The diner had one of those old jukeboxes, the kind with the neon gas tubes which cast a red pallor over the floor of the diner at night. He had put in a few quarters to play something low and sad. The lady next to him was still looking at Kyle, as if expecting an answer. The Corries sang a rendition of "Lowlands Away", slow and sad.
He'd just been to an opening of her show, off-Broadway. Array Kadima, starring in "The Last Bar At The End Of the World", dir. Timoh Rehman, at the Capitol Players Theater.
She had looked radiant and he'd sat on the edge of her seat every time she was in the main spotlight, giving her generous monologue. He had been seated third row in, holding a bouquet of her favorite water lillies. And Array's eyes had met his. Her partner was at the other side of the set, the prop bar with the one tabe under the spotlight. "But Eloise, my words fail me now. I cannot tell you what we should already have said. I'm sorry, I'm going to have to close up the bar."
Array took a long, deep breath, standing there and wringing her hands. And when she opened her eyes, she looked out at the seats, and then I waved. Array's eyes sparkled as she looked on from the stage. And then, with a waver in her voice that gradually grew in strength, she began, "That night. In the garden. do you remember it?"
"I remember it so well." Her partner replied.
Array nodded. "I said, why are you touching me like that? Why are you looking at me like that? And you just smiled because you knew."
"You knew then what we meant to each other. And that's what you'll always mean to me."
He couldn't have felt more moved by her in that one, bright, shining moment, and the feeling of love and connection to her words. When he saw her next, and handed her the flowers.
I dreamed a dream, the other night. Lowlands, lowlands away, my john.
Clearly the old woman, with her ruddy, warted crone face and black eyes scrutinizing him from a shelf of flesh, had seen the bouquet of water lillies he had chucked in the fucking garbage can on the way into the diner. And she, inquiring soul, wanted to know the whys and wherefores that befell this relationship that had caused him to toss a symbol of affection in the trash. Was he happier without her? Was he happier without any of it?
He willfully ignored it, spun around on his stool and stretched across the aisle to deposit another quarter in the machine to play something dark, slow and haunting. There was her fucking answer if he was happier about not having her, or any of it.
Array had taken her bows after her masterful performance, and as people were leaving, filing out the theater, he had waited with his lillies, butterflies twinging like a little boy. And Array had smiled happily... as a wiry, rangy Australian hunk stood up in front of him. A kid named Alistair. The blonde asshole sauntered up to the stage, and Array met him with an embrace.
And as always, when he looked at what he didn't have, he only felt a void inside.
So was he happy? I mean...
It wasn't her fault that Array had gotten sick of the back and forth, the constant headaches, and used the last breakup to get off the exit ramp. It wasn't PCW or WGWF's fault that he couldn't commit to the grind for his mental health. It wasn't anyone's fault. But rationalizing that and yet seeing what he didn't have rankled him, and the question stuck in his mind why he was never able to move on.
Like with WGWF. Pretty sure he'd burned his last bridge there by insulting the entire company last time. So why couldn't he get it out of his mind? Why did he always refresh the page and check it later? Why was that feeling of a hole there when he thought of a company that aggravated him so damn bad?
Maybe because it did.
It fucking did and he had to be sure at this point Flash Rotten, Adam Barker and Chris Page knew it.
He'd had such dreams every time he'd taken part in the roster. To personify the best. To change the game. To win championships. He wore them with pride, trophies like achievements unlocked, and Achievement was the one deity the God of Freakin Game pledged as his master.
He'd dreamed of bringing honor and prestige to a title, making it the equal of the World Championship. And then he met an ignominious defeat and lost it to John Cable, who had fucking squandered it, a situation which still got under his skin.
He'd dreamed of staying away from the World Title, far away from the constant power plays and ENDLESS fucking stable wars the WGWF seems so fascinated by.
Then Chris Page had to book himself against Kyle Shane.
Curious fact: Kyle Shane has never been able to decisively pin Chris Page, despite them facing each other almost ten times at this point. Not really. Unless it happened via some interference on a Brawl nobody remembers. Each and every single time Chris Page has wanted to build his ego up, he's faced Kyle Shane. And beaten him, more often than not. He even took the fucking World Championship from him in 2014, adding to his number of six while Kyle was at 3 or 4, because nobody can ever outshine Page. And last year, it was prime to happen again, Chris Page was in line for a World Title shot, so Chris Page clearly needed to face Kyle Shane, because God dammit, if facing a champion who he hadn't had any contact with in a year while they were still both fan favorites didn't sell tickets for a World title match who knew what would?
He blew out an exhausted breath into his mug, but stared at the distorted face swirling in the black pool.
There was bitterness there when he thought about the WGWF and yet he still missed it like a phantom limb. He dreamed of it. And when it was gone, it resonated with him like an old, sad dirge for what might have been.
Was he happier without her?
He still had such dreams.
He wanted to win the Television title and be the only man to win every single title available to the roster for an entire decade.
He wanted to go seven and freaking zero at Wrestlewars.
He wanted to face James Raven one on one in a match Raven competitively tried winning.
He wanted... to be more than just a sad idiot with a broken fucking brain and an excessive need for coping mechanisms.
He wanted to be him.
To compete at his best and highest level.
To change the game, to bring content that was decisively his best. He had to admit to himself, after John Cable defeated him by basically co-opting and writing a version of Kyle Shane into his own stories he had been so fucking angry and demoralized that he had just cannibalized his own work, because literally what the fuck was the point. But that fit into his own regrets. He wanted to be better. To do better. To be more.
So maybe it was a good thing that he wasn't able to let things go, he said, giving one glance back to the crumpled bouquet of water lillies dripping over the rim of the metal bin outside the door. He tossed a twenty on the diner's counter for the waitress, for the cup of joe.
Maybe it wasn't holding on to what came before that fascinated him, but the endless potential for trying anew.
He stepped out into the night air and the little bell above the chromed metal door jingled happily. He breathed in deep the air of Boston, tilting his head back.
He looked down at the flowers and thought against picking them back up and going to find her, just yet. Against going back to what he had before.
Maybe it was time to try something else, and see if that made the hole better.
This could really have been a question asked anywhere, but as we fade in it's not as glamorous as you'd think. He's being asked this while he's getting a refill of coffee, for one thing. He takes a big sip, and his eyes close in that momentary ecstasy you get from a damn fine cup of joe. Kyle is wearing a black suit that has been distressed and worn, the collar pulled, the shoulders frayed. His dress shirt is unbuttoned into a deep V and his tie hangs loose. And he drinks in the subtext, asking himself of all the things he's happier without. No titles currently. Free-wheeling at his job, not knowing where he stood in wrestling. No girlfriend. None of the touchstones of the usual Kyle Shane promos.
He swallowed, and raised a finger to the waitress, who brought another pot around, pouring in his cup. The diner had one of those old jukeboxes, the kind with the neon gas tubes which cast a red pallor over the floor of the diner at night. He had put in a few quarters to play something low and sad. The lady next to him was still looking at Kyle, as if expecting an answer. The Corries sang a rendition of "Lowlands Away", slow and sad.
He'd just been to an opening of her show, off-Broadway. Array Kadima, starring in "The Last Bar At The End Of the World", dir. Timoh Rehman, at the Capitol Players Theater.
She had looked radiant and he'd sat on the edge of her seat every time she was in the main spotlight, giving her generous monologue. He had been seated third row in, holding a bouquet of her favorite water lillies. And Array's eyes had met his. Her partner was at the other side of the set, the prop bar with the one tabe under the spotlight. "But Eloise, my words fail me now. I cannot tell you what we should already have said. I'm sorry, I'm going to have to close up the bar."
Array took a long, deep breath, standing there and wringing her hands. And when she opened her eyes, she looked out at the seats, and then I waved. Array's eyes sparkled as she looked on from the stage. And then, with a waver in her voice that gradually grew in strength, she began, "That night. In the garden. do you remember it?"
"I remember it so well." Her partner replied.
Array nodded. "I said, why are you touching me like that? Why are you looking at me like that? And you just smiled because you knew."
"You knew then what we meant to each other. And that's what you'll always mean to me."
He couldn't have felt more moved by her in that one, bright, shining moment, and the feeling of love and connection to her words. When he saw her next, and handed her the flowers.
I dreamed a dream, the other night. Lowlands, lowlands away, my john.
Clearly the old woman, with her ruddy, warted crone face and black eyes scrutinizing him from a shelf of flesh, had seen the bouquet of water lillies he had chucked in the fucking garbage can on the way into the diner. And she, inquiring soul, wanted to know the whys and wherefores that befell this relationship that had caused him to toss a symbol of affection in the trash. Was he happier without her? Was he happier without any of it?
He willfully ignored it, spun around on his stool and stretched across the aisle to deposit another quarter in the machine to play something dark, slow and haunting. There was her fucking answer if he was happier about not having her, or any of it.
Array had taken her bows after her masterful performance, and as people were leaving, filing out the theater, he had waited with his lillies, butterflies twinging like a little boy. And Array had smiled happily... as a wiry, rangy Australian hunk stood up in front of him. A kid named Alistair. The blonde asshole sauntered up to the stage, and Array met him with an embrace.
And as always, when he looked at what he didn't have, he only felt a void inside.
So was he happy? I mean...
It wasn't her fault that Array had gotten sick of the back and forth, the constant headaches, and used the last breakup to get off the exit ramp. It wasn't PCW or WGWF's fault that he couldn't commit to the grind for his mental health. It wasn't anyone's fault. But rationalizing that and yet seeing what he didn't have rankled him, and the question stuck in his mind why he was never able to move on.
Like with WGWF. Pretty sure he'd burned his last bridge there by insulting the entire company last time. So why couldn't he get it out of his mind? Why did he always refresh the page and check it later? Why was that feeling of a hole there when he thought of a company that aggravated him so damn bad?
Maybe because it did.
It fucking did and he had to be sure at this point Flash Rotten, Adam Barker and Chris Page knew it.
He'd had such dreams every time he'd taken part in the roster. To personify the best. To change the game. To win championships. He wore them with pride, trophies like achievements unlocked, and Achievement was the one deity the God of Freakin Game pledged as his master.
He'd dreamed of bringing honor and prestige to a title, making it the equal of the World Championship. And then he met an ignominious defeat and lost it to John Cable, who had fucking squandered it, a situation which still got under his skin.
He'd dreamed of staying away from the World Title, far away from the constant power plays and ENDLESS fucking stable wars the WGWF seems so fascinated by.
Then Chris Page had to book himself against Kyle Shane.
Curious fact: Kyle Shane has never been able to decisively pin Chris Page, despite them facing each other almost ten times at this point. Not really. Unless it happened via some interference on a Brawl nobody remembers. Each and every single time Chris Page has wanted to build his ego up, he's faced Kyle Shane. And beaten him, more often than not. He even took the fucking World Championship from him in 2014, adding to his number of six while Kyle was at 3 or 4, because nobody can ever outshine Page. And last year, it was prime to happen again, Chris Page was in line for a World Title shot, so Chris Page clearly needed to face Kyle Shane, because God dammit, if facing a champion who he hadn't had any contact with in a year while they were still both fan favorites didn't sell tickets for a World title match who knew what would?
He blew out an exhausted breath into his mug, but stared at the distorted face swirling in the black pool.
There was bitterness there when he thought about the WGWF and yet he still missed it like a phantom limb. He dreamed of it. And when it was gone, it resonated with him like an old, sad dirge for what might have been.
Was he happier without her?
He still had such dreams.
He wanted to win the Television title and be the only man to win every single title available to the roster for an entire decade.
He wanted to go seven and freaking zero at Wrestlewars.
He wanted to face James Raven one on one in a match Raven competitively tried winning.
He wanted... to be more than just a sad idiot with a broken fucking brain and an excessive need for coping mechanisms.
He wanted to be him.
To compete at his best and highest level.
To change the game, to bring content that was decisively his best. He had to admit to himself, after John Cable defeated him by basically co-opting and writing a version of Kyle Shane into his own stories he had been so fucking angry and demoralized that he had just cannibalized his own work, because literally what the fuck was the point. But that fit into his own regrets. He wanted to be better. To do better. To be more.
So maybe it was a good thing that he wasn't able to let things go, he said, giving one glance back to the crumpled bouquet of water lillies dripping over the rim of the metal bin outside the door. He tossed a twenty on the diner's counter for the waitress, for the cup of joe.
Maybe it wasn't holding on to what came before that fascinated him, but the endless potential for trying anew.
He stepped out into the night air and the little bell above the chromed metal door jingled happily. He breathed in deep the air of Boston, tilting his head back.
He looked down at the flowers and thought against picking them back up and going to find her, just yet. Against going back to what he had before.
Maybe it was time to try something else, and see if that made the hole better.