Post by Max f'n Daemon on Sept 24, 2022 15:03:59 GMT -5
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Max Daemon enters his Treasure Island suite with a smirk on his face and a twinkle in his eye, not to mention a bank account somewhat lessened by his most recent daily trip to its bar.
His eyes lock onto the Las Vegas skyline, the sun retreating down into dusk. The sun provides just enough sunlight to miss the blind spot.
“What the hell are you doing?” it asks.
Max takes his two pistols out of his jean pockets. He aims them at the shadow, pulling the trigger back and losing his smirk.
The light switch flicks on to reveal Nathan Miles standing on the precipice of the bedroom and the main room.
“You would be dead,” he says.
“I would be, if, ya’ know…ya’ were an assailant,” Max retorts.
He uncocks his pistols before spinning them on his pointer fingers. Once he is satisfied, he places them back in his pants pockets.
“If I were an assailant, you would be dead,” Nathan concedes.
“But you’re not…are ya’?”
Nathan sighs, pinching his nose for a few moments before shaking his head.
“No. I am here on more personal matters,” he says.
“Ah. Yeah, can’t ever have a nice family outin, can we, ey’ pops?”
“When have the three of us ever had an actual outing that was not just a mission?”
“There was that time in Miami?”
Nathan lets out a sound of exasperation.
“Max, why the fuck are you back in WGWF?” he asks.
“I was defendin your legacy.”
“My legacy? You mean the one where I won the World Title and then immediately bolted? That one?”
Max pauses for a few moments as if to actually ponder on it.
“Yeah, that one.”
“The last thing I needed was defending, especially from the Hall and Oates combination of Page and Centurion. If people don’t like me, I have always had an open-door policy of put up or shut up, and it has not stopped yet. And the only reason I have never returned to wrestling or confronted them on any of the trash talk they’ve exhibited out is because they are not worth it.
Page is a moneymaker who has used whatever success he has to build an empire just to make himself look more important than he ever was. It does seem strange that the owner of everything he puts his name on is regarded so highly amongst said companies, no? No, it is not strange at all. It is easily explainable and Page is not fooling anybody. Or at least anybody of merit.
Meanwhile, Centurion is the only one I would willingly call a legend out of the two of them. I would, but unfortunately, I am not one to defend assholes.
So no. I did not need defending from them because they were not fucking worth it.”
"Bullshit."
“Max—”
“Nah, fuck off,” Max continues.
Nathan complies and exhales his words out before he can speak.
“I wanted ta’ win that PWV Title and throw it in the dumpster as a last hurrah cause of your legacy. And yeah, it’s a dick move, but quite frankly, it’s the least those motherfuckers deserved. And now look where they are? Gone.
Ya’ won the WGWF Title and did the same thing, and not long after, what happened ta’ ‘em? Gone.
Like a fuckin ouroboros swallowin itself, Page let his own ego define his company, and lo and behold, it all collapsed in on itself like a fucked-up wormhole. Now that he’s built back up enough of a brand and goodwill, he decided ta’ finally break his ribs and fellate himself on live television by restartin his company.
How fucked is it that it was leagues better ran by Paul Frost than it ever was with him in charge?”
“It is pretty fucked…”
“And Cent was real fuckin quick ta’ defend his honor. Makes ya’ wonder what he’s gettin outta it. Can’t be accomplishments, dude’s done everythin under the sun. Can’t be a future, he’s pretty clearly done after this match. Sure as fuck can’t be money, dude’s got plenty of it, probably more than me, and I’m fuckin loaded.
So what is it? Pride? He’s proud ta’ stick up for Page? He’s proud ta’ stick up for WGWF?
Or is he just proud ta’ try and inflate his legacy more? As if it’s not already fuckin bloated? He comes after me for givin Page and WGWF shit for when ya’ humiliated ‘em and suddenly I’m the biggest asshole.
Don’t get me wrong, I am, but I don’t pretend ta’ be anythin else. I don’t pretend that I’ve changed from who I was a decade ago when I made people like Page and Cent pay attention ta’ some piece of shit beatin Raven Hex for the World Title in his first match.
A guy like Cent? He acts like he’s a retired legend who is ready ta’ take on the next generation and help get ‘em better.
I call bullshit on that too.
He’s a cocky fuck who’d rather let his own legacy continue ta’ become immortal, all for the sake and despite of, and honestly, to spite, a guy like me who’s ready ta’ take on the fuckin world and make it my bitch.
He wants ta’ have ‘one more match’ ta’ defend WGWF’s honor before sittin down at that commentary table like a fuckin bitch.
And then, after I’ve humiliated him in the main event of the return broadcast of the company he was ready ta’ attack me for, he’ll have ta’ sit there every single night and watch me, Max fuckin Daemon, topple everybody in my fuckin way.
Startin and endin with the same championship you threw in the dumpster.
And quite frankly, that’s all the legacy WGWF, Page, and Cent deserve.”
Max ends his rant, gripping the box of cigarettes in his back pocket. He grabs his zippo from the other one before using both of them. As the end of the shit-stick in his mouth burns and the smoke rises up to the ceiling, he watches Nathan stand there with his usual lack of emotion.
“Fine,” is all he says.
“But” he adds.
Max raises an eyebrow.
“I am coming with you.”
At that, Max lets the smirk shine through the smoke.
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Max Daemon stands in front of a seemingly innocuous dumpster. It is overflowing with trash and flies are buzzing around it. He has a smirk on his face.
Text appears on the screen.
OUTSIDE OF THE ECHO ARENA
LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND
FILMED A WEEK PRIOR
“The last time a member of my family was in Liverpool, England, the precious WGWF Title was thrown inta’ the dumpster behind me.
I stand in front of this dumpster not ta’ belabor a point, but ta’ make it clear how little it meant ta’ my dad, Nathan Miles.
Because it means more ta’ me.
That level of petty. That level of give-a-damn. That level of ‘fuck you’ is a personal testament ta’ the person I am.
How dare he take this…supposedly coveted championship and just throw it away like trash?
I can’t answer that for him.
But I can tell ya’ it was not enough for what it deserved.
Centurion and WGWF have very similar stories.
They started young, hot, and on fire, lettin the world and everyone know that they meant business and did not let anybody tell ‘em otherwise.
Even if the company had better product like PWE.
Even if the company had better business like EWC.
Even if the company was just plain bigger than it ever would be like XWF.
None of it mattered.
Centurion was a roamer. He didn’t have one home, but he found WGWF and helped establish it.
Both of ‘em kept growin until eventually, they became the pinnacle, the peak of where ya’ wanted ta’ be.
And after what seemed like forever but was only six years, WGWF began ta' burn out.
But long before that occurred, Cent himself found the weight of years of work and talent becomin harder and harder ta’ bear, until much like a star that explodes and becomes dust in the vast void of space…
…so too did Cent finally blow.
And when all that was left was a legacy ta’ endure and a career ta’ put behind him, it’s when people started ta’ realize.
His legacy…is bullshit.
I don’t like ta’ call a lotta people legends in professional wrestlin. This business we’re in does not often allow us the privilege of any kinda retirement, but ta’ end your career willingly and fade inta’ the idea of being known as a legend? The mere idea that ya' can walk away and be regarded as a legendary figure?
Few and far between.
And quite frankly, I don’t think ya’ fit the bill, Cent.
Your accomplishments are numerous. Your matches are stellar. And yeah, ya’ve earned an easy payday sittin on that commentary table and watchin guys like me do the things you did…but ten times better.
Because time is always movin, and history is always meant ta’ be learned from.
And your history, Cent? Much like your career…?
Ain’t.
Shit.
Respect given for all ya’ve done, sure, but personally?
I don’t fuckin like you.
You’re an arrogant piece of shit willin ta’ ride your own highs inta’ the ground until all that’s left is a mere remnant of what ya’ were.
You’re a veteran who thinks ya’ can just lace the boots back on and pull the tights back up and it’ll all be like ya’ never left. In reality, you’re not only rusty, but dealin with somebody faster, tougher, quicker than ya’ ever were.
You’re a commentator…signed onto a contract for that sole purpose…steppin over his own boundaries ta’ try and…what? Teach me somethin? Show me how it was? Defend the honor of WGWF?
This place ain’t worth defendin. Any place that gives Mic fuckin Ferrari a title match is not a place worth the money it’s 'earnin'.
How ya' did it, how it was when ya’ were on top, doesn’t fuckin matter. It’s my game now. Ya’ had your time and ya’ ran the fuckin gamut with it. And ya’ were good at it, but you’re no longer throwin the dice. You’re no longer countin the cards. You’re the chump who loses everythin on a whim. And that’s all this came from: a wim. A small iota of an idea that ya’ might be able ta’ beat me. That ya’ might have a chance. That ya’ might wanna step in and show us your legend’s worth a damn.
Ya’ can’t.
Ya’ don’t.
It isn’t.
And what the fuck can a shithole like you teach me, anyway?
How ta’ be successful despite everyone around ya’ bein subpar? Know that shit by heart.
How ta’ stand out as a spotlight performer on a card of talent that also ain’t shit? Got that one in the bag.
Oh, I know!
How ta’ be a disgruntled veteran in the face of somebody talkin mad shit and instead have you come across as the whiny piece of shit.
My words were never for you.
My words were never for WGWF.
Y’all came ta’ me cause I dared ta’ call ya’ out when ya’ were fuckin embarrassed on pay-per-view cause suddenly ya’ were down a champion.
And even when Paul Frost beat-up a look-a-like who looked like my father, it was all just ta’ save face for the fact that he embarrassed this whole goddamn company.
All I wanted ta’ do was repeat history. By winnin the PWV tournament. Winnin the PWV Title. And then tossin it in the trash on my way out.
But suddenly all of that was a problem for ya’.
And ya’ wanted me in the ring.
It wasn’t a surprise when Page made it official as the first main event.
And don’t let that last segment Page booked with Mac Bane fool ya’…this is the match people are comin ta’ see. They’re comin ta’ Vegas ta’ see Centurion vs. Daemon. They’re buyin this shit in droves just ta’ watch a cross generational battle.
But this isn’t the main event because of Centurion. Not anymore.
It’s because I’m…in it.
I wouldn’t agree ta’ this unless I was paid all that I was owed, and my contract is not only lucrative, but bulletproof, which means you’re stuck with me, Cent, for the long haul.
And I would fuckin love nothin more than ta’ see ya’ every night and just smirk at ya’.
Because ya’ know, that after Brawl, after our match, you’ll be lookin at not only the guy that was right.
But the guy that beat you.
Decisively.
Definitively.
Dominatingly.
And all ya’ can do is just watch and call the action as I soon hold that WGWF Title tight. And flick ya’ off for good measure.”
Max lets out a sigh, the smirk on his face ever present.
“The last time I was in Vegas I beat the greatest fighter in the world like the pussy he is.
Now that I’m back?
Well…let’s just say Cent’s gonna be wishin he stayed retired.”
Max walks off screen. The camera films the dumpster for a few moments before fading out.
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“Why are we here, exactly?” Nathan asks.
“Ta’ train me,” Max says.
Nathan’s eyes narrow, locking with Max’s.
“You rented an entire arena just to train you?”
Max shrugs.
“It means a lot ta’ me. I can’t come here when they’re normally present, but imaginin that octagon up? And I’m surrounded by guards and that company’s best? Well…I get a smile on my face just imaginin the chaos I caused.”
“But now you are banned.”
Max deadpans at Nathan.
“Because you were arrogant.”
“I tend ta’ be.”
“But you lost.”
“And?”
“You lost. You might have gone three rounds with him, but you still got knocked on your ass and lost consciousness for three seconds.”
Max growls at the honesty.
“Are ya’ goin anywhere with this?”
“Yes, actually.”
Max opens his mouth to retort, but before he can, his vision suddenly goes black.
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Above him, Nathan stands with his hands folded behind his back.
“You were out for thirty minutes. All I did was slam you on the floor,” he says.
Max gets up, charging for his father. The two trade grapples for a few moments. Nathan feigns a stomp at the foot, but that’s enough for him to blast a forearm into Max’s chin.
He backs up and doesn’t notice the left jab.
Nathan fades into the Fighter, the one he lost to.
It distracts Max long enough to take the right hook on the chin and collapse to the floor.
The last thing he hears is Nathan sighing.
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“How long was that?” he asks.
“Ten minutes. Not good enough,” Nathan retorts.
Max stands to his feet, holding his arms up.
“How long do we have until your match?” Nathan asks.
“It’s Monday.”
With a nod, Nathan says, “Good.”
Max doesn’t see Nathan swerve behind. He locks in a sleeper hold. Max tries to fight out of it, but Nathan’s patented Head Crusher, the same move he won the WGWF Title with, is nigh impossible to break the grip of.
Max starts to fade, but only then does Nathan let him go. He throws the right arm away, leaving Max open for another left jab and right hook, both to the chin.
His boy hits the floor with a thud.
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“Ha!” he shouts.
“Congratulations. You can no longer lose consciousness. One problem there, son,” Nathan says.
Max scowls at the downpour on his parade.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“Left jab, right hook. You can beat it when your opponent is weak or you are focused, but distract you long enough and it becomes your bane.”
“My Bane?”
Nathan sighs.
“No, your bane. Your weakness. Pardon the pun, but your downfall.”
“Ah.”
“Yes, ‘ah.’”
“Your proposition?”
“Easy. So easy that you just need to figure it out the hard way.”
Max raises an eyebrow.
Nathan raises his right pointer finger.
“Dodge.”
Max stares at Nathan for a few moments.
His mind tries to wrap his head around the one word. The one goal. The one task.
It suddenly hits him.
“HMM?!”
“Dodge,” it was a command this time.
Max is distracted enough not to notice the left jab, right hook.
Even if he gets up a second after fading away, it still doesn’t stop the confusion.
“You’re shittin me.”
“Negative,” is Nathan’s retort.
Max ducks the left jab.
“Dad, this is stupid.”
Nathan knees Max in the face, backing him up and leaving him open for another left jab, right hook.
The next time Max is standing, Nathan has his arms folded across his chest.
“You can focus all you want on Centurion or Chris Page or WGWF. You can focus on the match itself and your ability. You can even focus on the aftermath and what you will do with it. But right now? This is your focus,” Nathan says before capitalizing it with a “Dodge.”
The two trade blows with Max ducking and weaving where he can.
After five minutes of this, Max trips over his feet. That’s enough for Nathan to nail Max twice, taking him to the floor once more.
Max groans, regaining his faculties and kipping onto his feet.
“I’m gonna kill you!”
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“Can we”—ducks a punch—“please”—moves out of the way of the jab—“take a break?”
“No.”
The left jab hits, but Max throws the right punch away.
With a loud growl, Max unleashes his own left jab.
Nathan grabs Max’s arm before he can hit the right hook.
With the right arm incapacitated, Nathan pops off an elbow that rocks Max long enough to be open for the left-right combination.
Max awakens soon after, but doesn’t stand.
“Dad, I don’t think I can take much more of this,” he says.
“You’re right. You can’t. So why have you not adapted to it?” Nathan asks.
Max matches his dad’s eyes, ignoring the smirk on the latter’s face.
The former slaps the arena floor.
“Fuck,” is all he says.
He takes the offered hand and rises.
“So what will you do now?” Nathan asks.
“Focus on avoidin the blow while adaptin ta’ it,” Max replies.
“And?”
“…not losin sight of the task due to my anger?” Max asks.
Nathan nods.
“Now,” he says. “Dodge.”
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He does this by repeatedly insulting Nathan and his fellow soldiers.
Even a guy like him as a soft spot, who knew?
“Good job,” Nathan says, returning to his feet. “Now, when you step in here come Monday, you’ll not only be better prepared for Centurion, but also for whatever else is to come.”
“Oh, the event isn’t here,” Max says.
Nathan drops his smile.
“It’s not?”
“Nope.”
“Then why did you waste money on renting it out?”
“Because I like spendin time with ya’ and it means a lot ta’ me. Plus I needed the distractions ta’ help me focus.”
“Then where the fuck is the event?”
“I’ma be honest, dad, I am way too drunk ta' even know where we parked, let alone know its location.”
“How do you know not know?!”