Post by Corey Black on Jan 15, 2023 21:30:08 GMT -5
The streets of New York City seem to be the place to be. You never know what you'll find. A proposal blends into a carjacking blends into a hot dog vendor blends into a shootout.. and that's just four blocks. The buildings kiss the sky but down here, where the regular people are, shit isn't so luxurious.
It's night time, the sky is dark but everything at ground level is still as bright as if it were noon. Lights from all around cast their multi-colored glow to the streets. Steam pours out of curbside storm drain grates, a flurry of snow cascading down from the heavens, leaving a light white coating on everything. There's people walking around, most of them keeping to themselves.
One man, though, seems even more in his own world than the rest. He's wearing white sneakers, camo cargo pants, a black hoodie, a black beanie and the hood up over it but an unmistakable beard hangs down his chest. His hands are in his pockets, shoulders tensed and he is leaning forward as he walks. Soon there's a red door to his left, he ducks into it and into a dive bar. Lone pool table in the back, couple of patrons bellied up to enjoy their favorite poison. Corey takes a position at the end of the bar, away from everyone else. He's approached by the young lady working.
"What will it be?" she asks, using a towel to dry the inside of a small cocktail glass.
"Diet Coke," Corey responds, "no ice, please."
A man at the other end of the bar laughs, slaps his buddy on the shoulder and continues consuming his very large drafty beverage. Corey doesn't even bat an eye, he removes his hoodie to reveal his full sleeve tattooed arms and a black Slayer t-shirt. The guys at the end of the bar, with their full three piece suits and three hundred dollar haircuts, just watch on.
The barkeep cracks open Corey's soda can and pours it into a glass, putting it down in front of him. "Two bucks," she says with a smile. Corey hands over a five and waves off any change, taking a sip of his drink. The Vikings game is on the TV, Cousins throws for three yards on fourth and eight, they lose.
"Bunch of fucking morons," Corey says under his breath. The fellas at the end of the bar perk their ears up and stand with anger in their eyes.
"The fuck you say to us boy?!" one says, marching over to where Corey is sitting. He exhales, just in time for the second guy to give his well thought out insult: "you put rum in that coke ya pirate pussy?!"
And that was just enough for Corey Black, he stands up and goes to put his hoodie on but the first man stops him. "Where ya goin' so fast?" he asks, grabbing onto the sleeve.
"Got some shit to do, sorry fellas, just needed one," Black responds, tugging the hoodie sleeve out of the man's grasp. The second guy has a pool cue behind his back, he spins and swings it as hard as he possibly can! Corey gets his arm up to block and the cue breaks around it, sending splinters all over the bar and the bartender squealing as she dives for cover!
"Goddamnit you stupid motherfuckers, just because you haven't seen my face in your bar, do you not know who I am?!" Corey grunts out, grasping the collar of the first man and walking him backward into the nearby wall. The second guy throws a punch but Corey ducks under and secures the man's collar from the back, pressing him against the wall next to his buddy.
"Okay okay!" the first business suited man begs off, putting his hands up. Corey looks him dead in the eye, then to the second man who he's turning around and keeping a grip on too. Corey relents, keeping them go and they fix their shirts. They both walk back to their seats with their heads down as Corey puts his sweatshirt on and heads for the door. As he gets there, he pauses.
"I just want you both to know.." Corey says, opening the door, "that he pissed his pants," pointing to the second guy's leg, which is clearly wet.
"BRUHHHHH!" he wails as Corey pushes through the door and back out into the crisp night air. His breath can be seen as he exhales, he looks up hoping to see a glimpse of the moon or stars but the city is just too bright for that. Still, Corey walks in the cold weather back a few blocks and into a rundown looking apartment building. He fumbles with the key to get into the outside door, then hikes up a couple flights of stairs to his door - where he again, fumbles around the keys looking for the right one. He finds it, opening the creaking door to what looks like an alright place to live. Large picture windows across the living room reveal some of the skyline, a kitchen with all the appliances you'd need, a bedroom and bathroom down a small hallway.. and yet it feels strange for a world famous professional to be living in what he is right now.
No matter, Corey takes his hoodie off and throws it on his couch, waltzing over to the windows to look out over the city he can see. He breathes in deep, snow falling and he looks up, finally above all the lights below except for a single red blinking neon that bathes him in crimson every second or two, he can finally see the night sky for all its glory. A break in the clouds gives him eye shot of the moon. His phone beeps, breaking his concentration. It's a text message from someone labeled 'bexx <3' - certainly an alias.
bexx <3:
I'm so glad you're here in the city now! How is it been settling in?!
Corey goes to respond but he hesitates, looking to his left to the giant Minnesota Vikings tapestry on the wall by his door. He furls his lips, pressing them together and forcing out a smile.
You:
Home isn't a place I live, where I live isn't important. I've been settling in fine though, just went and got familiar with my surroundings.
He tosses his phone onto the couch, running his hands through his hair and pulling his beanie hat off. The beep happens again but he ignores it, instead going to a wall and pressing in, unlocking what looks like a hidden doorway. He slips through, closing it behind.
It's night time, the sky is dark but everything at ground level is still as bright as if it were noon. Lights from all around cast their multi-colored glow to the streets. Steam pours out of curbside storm drain grates, a flurry of snow cascading down from the heavens, leaving a light white coating on everything. There's people walking around, most of them keeping to themselves.
One man, though, seems even more in his own world than the rest. He's wearing white sneakers, camo cargo pants, a black hoodie, a black beanie and the hood up over it but an unmistakable beard hangs down his chest. His hands are in his pockets, shoulders tensed and he is leaning forward as he walks. Soon there's a red door to his left, he ducks into it and into a dive bar. Lone pool table in the back, couple of patrons bellied up to enjoy their favorite poison. Corey takes a position at the end of the bar, away from everyone else. He's approached by the young lady working.
"What will it be?" she asks, using a towel to dry the inside of a small cocktail glass.
"Diet Coke," Corey responds, "no ice, please."
A man at the other end of the bar laughs, slaps his buddy on the shoulder and continues consuming his very large drafty beverage. Corey doesn't even bat an eye, he removes his hoodie to reveal his full sleeve tattooed arms and a black Slayer t-shirt. The guys at the end of the bar, with their full three piece suits and three hundred dollar haircuts, just watch on.
The barkeep cracks open Corey's soda can and pours it into a glass, putting it down in front of him. "Two bucks," she says with a smile. Corey hands over a five and waves off any change, taking a sip of his drink. The Vikings game is on the TV, Cousins throws for three yards on fourth and eight, they lose.
"Bunch of fucking morons," Corey says under his breath. The fellas at the end of the bar perk their ears up and stand with anger in their eyes.
"The fuck you say to us boy?!" one says, marching over to where Corey is sitting. He exhales, just in time for the second guy to give his well thought out insult: "you put rum in that coke ya pirate pussy?!"
And that was just enough for Corey Black, he stands up and goes to put his hoodie on but the first man stops him. "Where ya goin' so fast?" he asks, grabbing onto the sleeve.
"Got some shit to do, sorry fellas, just needed one," Black responds, tugging the hoodie sleeve out of the man's grasp. The second guy has a pool cue behind his back, he spins and swings it as hard as he possibly can! Corey gets his arm up to block and the cue breaks around it, sending splinters all over the bar and the bartender squealing as she dives for cover!
"Goddamnit you stupid motherfuckers, just because you haven't seen my face in your bar, do you not know who I am?!" Corey grunts out, grasping the collar of the first man and walking him backward into the nearby wall. The second guy throws a punch but Corey ducks under and secures the man's collar from the back, pressing him against the wall next to his buddy.
"Okay okay!" the first business suited man begs off, putting his hands up. Corey looks him dead in the eye, then to the second man who he's turning around and keeping a grip on too. Corey relents, keeping them go and they fix their shirts. They both walk back to their seats with their heads down as Corey puts his sweatshirt on and heads for the door. As he gets there, he pauses.
"I just want you both to know.." Corey says, opening the door, "that he pissed his pants," pointing to the second guy's leg, which is clearly wet.
"BRUHHHHH!" he wails as Corey pushes through the door and back out into the crisp night air. His breath can be seen as he exhales, he looks up hoping to see a glimpse of the moon or stars but the city is just too bright for that. Still, Corey walks in the cold weather back a few blocks and into a rundown looking apartment building. He fumbles with the key to get into the outside door, then hikes up a couple flights of stairs to his door - where he again, fumbles around the keys looking for the right one. He finds it, opening the creaking door to what looks like an alright place to live. Large picture windows across the living room reveal some of the skyline, a kitchen with all the appliances you'd need, a bedroom and bathroom down a small hallway.. and yet it feels strange for a world famous professional to be living in what he is right now.
No matter, Corey takes his hoodie off and throws it on his couch, waltzing over to the windows to look out over the city he can see. He breathes in deep, snow falling and he looks up, finally above all the lights below except for a single red blinking neon that bathes him in crimson every second or two, he can finally see the night sky for all its glory. A break in the clouds gives him eye shot of the moon. His phone beeps, breaking his concentration. It's a text message from someone labeled 'bexx <3' - certainly an alias.
bexx <3:
I'm so glad you're here in the city now! How is it been settling in?!
Corey goes to respond but he hesitates, looking to his left to the giant Minnesota Vikings tapestry on the wall by his door. He furls his lips, pressing them together and forcing out a smile.
You:
Home isn't a place I live, where I live isn't important. I've been settling in fine though, just went and got familiar with my surroundings.
He tosses his phone onto the couch, running his hands through his hair and pulling his beanie hat off. The beep happens again but he ignores it, instead going to a wall and pressing in, unlocking what looks like a hidden doorway. He slips through, closing it behind.
"I run into wrestlers and reporters backstage at the best professional wrestling promotion on the planet, Action Wrestling, and they all ask me why? Why does someone like me venture out into the world at large when it has little to no impact on my home promotion? We don't need the advertisement. I don't need the clout that comes with it. So really, what's the point? Especially for CCPE vs The World, for the Cannabis Cup, where the guy pulling the strings walked into my home with his goons and declared war. I didn't have to fight these battles, we drove them back to the depths and their faces haven't been seen around my parts since. Do I really just love slapping Chris Page and his cronies around that much? Short answer; yes. I do. It brings me pleasure. But that isn't entirely it, there's more to my madness. I do this shit for the wrestlers that can't anymore. The men and women of unmeasurable talent that'll be lost to the tides because their name wasn't featured in a marquee match on a supercard. My friends like Jonny Fly, Jeff Purse and Steve Orbit. Three of the best, most talented men that I have had the pleasure of working with.. and their names fall on deaf ears when I say them. It's a fucking shame. Our world is large and vast, I get it. We come together every so often and all wandering eyes are on us. I'd be remiss if I didn't reflect and give adulation to those that deserve it, maybe even more than I do. Hello again, Sebastian. It's been a while, hasn't it? I think we both knew this was an inevitable outcome, though. Whether your cheerleader Chris Page got it set up, Denzel Porter did it or hell, maybe even if you crossed the line into my world - you and I have been destined to go one on one for a long time. You could call it a revenge story, if you want. I wouldn't. In our meetings, you've been there to shove my face in the dirt. Taking me out of the first main event at the Cruise where my name truly took off to the stratosphere, leading your team to victory over my cobbled together mess of stars in Hawaii.. a lesser man would be looking for your head based on this alone. Me, though, Sebastian? I'm not a lesser man. A peasant would run up and down your list of accomplishments and counter with their own. Someone with less talent would mock your upbringing, as if they didn't wish for the fortune you've had. Hell, you might even get some dipshit laughing you off because they only see the surface level you have to offer. How deep will you go? Will you recognize that I have been to the highest of highs? Your life of luxury and excess was something I found myself engrossed in. Perfect woman on my arm, huge home, owned businesses all because I am the best. Started from nothing and got there. Now, though, I make this city home. I've lived in Denmark and Norway in castles you wouldn't believe. I just moved from the top of a skyscraper in my hometown of Minneapolis and I came here to the greatest city on Earth to remind myself what it was like to be scraping and clawing. Yeah, my bank account says otherwise. And if I wanted to, I could go back at any time and be who I used to be. At the snap of a finger. Yet it isn't the life for me. I had so many people relying on me and in the end they only wanted me for what I represented, for what I used to be. Not who I am. I found the real me recently, thanks in no part to the endeavors outside my walls. I'm the deathmatch guy, SEB. Every other 'king' out there claiming what they thought belonged to them can fight over it, I don't want that shit anymore. I'm the man that will roll around in barbed wire, glass and whatever else to inflict pain and suffering on himself and his opponent. I know you like your submissions and your kicks, it's probably rolling around in your head the fun ways you think you'll stretch and wear me down. Is there any wrestler out there that's just a one note competitor? You know better. You know I will be looking to turn your skull into a crater, my elbow the asteroid. Don't need a steel chair for that. I'll come off that top rope and crush your ribcage with any number of moves. You know better. Or at least you think you do. In our yearly meetings, one thing has been pretty clear, SEB. You don't know me - and you don't care to. First I was the guy that beat James Raven and talks. Then I was the guy that you pinned and took a break from wrestling. Unbelievably astute observations, did pappy pay for that education too? Sorry, that was too easy. I said I wouldn't do that and I meant it. No Sebastian, I'm not going to stoop to your nickname slicing wit, which is all you seem to throw at me, instead I'm going to ask you something very - VERY serious. I know you've garnered a lot of success where you ply your craft and these outside event things are just as new to you as they are to me. What happens when the man you continue to underestimate cuts clean through your cranium? Do you go back to your longest reigning Chaos Championship and sulk as you watch me wipe out the rest of your pathetic team in the main event? Do you call for Sloane's embrace and cry tears of sadness into her soft chest? Do you go drop a couple hundred racks on a new speedboat? For me, this is it, Sebastian. Like it or not, no matter what I do outside my comfort zone, the ring is my home. What happens there is holy. Between those ropes, you're not a posh jackass - you're a piece of meat this wolf will consume. Bend me, break me, try to knock me out.. I'm the fuckin' deathmatch guy, there isn't quit in me. You rest on the laurels of pinning me in a match your team ended up losing. I'll rest mine on truly leading that one to victory and picking up the pieces of a broken one to give CCPE the fight of their lives. Something I look forward to doing for a second time when The World finally gets one over on the hosts. You'll break eventually. You came here three and a half years ago with vigor and a chip, potato not fries, on your shoulder. You've run through everything since with almost no resistance, placing your already fast chariot along with CCPE's other horses in a kind of weird harmonious dick showing contest between the lot of ya, surprisingly not all terrible people but four out of five wrestlers agree; if you have the CCPE badge, you're a douchebag. You're the type that, when faced with true adversity and someone that will take you part your breaking point, you'll pack your shit and head back across the pond where the wrestlers aren't nearly as good as the ones you are seeing across the ring from you on the twenty second in Vegas. I've been around for two decades, bruv. I've seen a million Sebastian Everett-Bryces come and I have seen a million of you go. Even in my section of this world, you're not special. You're not different. You're fuckin' not. And I just know so many people have told you that, it's got to be nauseating. But Sebastian, let's be actually real here; I've been around the block about as long as you've had hair on your pecker, Nandos Warrior, there isn't shit you can say or do to me that someone better hasn't already tried. You're going to have to kill me. And I think we all know that my nicknames aren't just random bullshit." |