Post by Jonathan Bacchus on Jun 3, 2023 14:49:12 GMT -5
She waited on bated breath at the baggage claim of Harry Reid International, her eyes darting between her watch and the steady stream of arrivals leaving the airport terminal. Her detective work over the past weekend had taken Ruby Goldhirsch on a madcap dash all of the Northern Hemisphere – Waco, New York City, the Maldives, Wyoming – all in the semi-vain efforts of locating the man she awaited. It was practically a stroke of audacious luck which revealed his eventual destination at this airport; the footprints of Jonathan Bacchus had been frustrating to follow. But finally the trail had terminated here in Las Vegas, a publicly available plane ticket confirmation giving her a time and place she could relent on her search.
Jonathan Bacchus had been missing for almost five days since he’d set out for the One World Observatory, determined to crash the party and interrupt the evening for the #exclusive. She’d known this; she expected a call from a police holding cell in Manhattan. When nobody had heard from him in eighteen hours, Ruby had taken it upon herself to get to the bottom of the disappearance. But it had not been without its perils or frustrations – whomever had wanted to make him disappear had been thorough. At times, she’d spent nights up in motels with names not worth remembering in towns whose own residents would forget them upon departure.
She glimpsed him through the next wave of departures, ten minutes delayed but as expected. His hair hung in front of his face, and in spite of attempts to clean himself (most likely in a bathroom sink) the lacerations and contusions signaled his presence against the pallor of his skin. He shuffled forward like a lumbering corpse from some 80’s horror flick, his clothing ripped and scuffed; it was the same clothing he’d last been seen wearing. His hands clutched an object draped over his shoulder like a cloak – it the Fight! Empire Championship.
When he looked up and their eyes locked, he stood mere feet from her. The abuse he’d suffered in the grips of the Arcadia Consortium was even more horrifying than she'd initially perceived. His black shirt and jeans were spattered with an unrecognizable black ichor, and intermingled were brownish stains she identified immediately as blood. He was split on the lip – and the forehead – and across the knuckles – and along both arms. Purple and blue bruising had swollen his left eye nearly shut, and in his right, she saw nothing but the dim light of recognition at her face.
Slowly, the corners of his mouth turned in a small smile, and Johnny gave her a weak laugh. Then he collapsed forward, Ruby darting underneath just in time to prevent him from toppling to the ground. As she lowered herself to a sitting position and his head into her lap, she ran her hands through blood-crusted hair and brought her face down to his, choking back her emotion. But in spite of her terror and nausea at his state, the only tear that rolled down Ruby’s face was one of relief.
It feels good to be king. It feels good when the whimsical little moniker you plucked from a book is validated. Your reputation precedes you – just as pride precedeth the fall – and the weight of that gold over your shoulder or around your waist is more metaphysical than literal. In the meanwhile, it’s as the old Pusha T line goes: “You laugh a little louder. The DJ says your name a little prouder.”
In fact, as I walk back into the CCPE Arena for my second ever WGWF match, my name probably doesn’t matter much either. After all, what has Jonathan Bacchus done since he removed the mask and stepped out from the shadows here in Las Vegas? Eaten a pin from Sam Chatman? Played Tom & Jerry with Fred Debonair? I don’t blame anyone for judging a book by the first couple of pages – I tend to read the last few first just because I hate surprises. It’s refreshing to understand I’m going into this match an underdog, even as I’m walking out with the highest prizes of two other companies in my arms.
A contender, no different than a champion, has a standard of excellence to bear. There’s a weight and expectation which follows you, one which every adversary will attempt to poke holes in to get under your skin. The opportunity does not make you – you make the opportunity, just as a champion makes the championship, not vice-versa. It takes a cool head, short term memory, and show of panache to be that guy.
Pomp and circumstance can get anyone high on their own supply – you come out to that big debut pop and have the eyes on you. You get a nice win over Chatman, something I failed to do, and you feel that tide rise. But then you take that embarrassing L in a battle royale – just miss that big four-way – don’t get picked for War Games dodgeball. And suddenly you’re howling at the moon like a puppy about Jimmy Caeds and CCPE doing you dirty.
Welcome to WGWF, Brooke – we’re all getting fucked by CCPE. But don’t think you can rage against the machine alongside us because they didn’t ask you to prom. Frankly, Brooke? You may be a pup, but you don’t got that dawg in you.
Being a contender, let alone a champion, requires grit. It requires bite alongside bark to elevate a program. I have every intention of making the WGWF Intercontinental Championship the most prestigious prize in this company.
When his eyes opened, Johnny Bacchus found himself staring up at an unfamiliar white popcorn ceiling. The sun’s rays filtered through pulled blinds, and a faint pain throbbed in the side of his head. A noise in the corner stirred bleary attention to the source – Ruby Goldhirsch had stood up from the chair she was lounging in, a look of relief washing over her.
“Quel soulagement,” she exclaimed as she hurried to the sink and began to fill a glass of water.
Still processing his surroundings, Johnny looked down at the sheets of the bed he was sleeping in and slowly around the room. Ruby’s eyes darted to the blanket before back to Johnny, her hand coming up to slick back his hair and feel his forehead. “You’ve been out for almost two days,” she continued, “You got up once to use the bathroom – didn’t really react. I’ve got clothes from your room; I hope you don’t mind I took your shoes and jeans off. And your shirt, but I got you in a fresh one. I didn’t peek, I respect your privacy.”
“Ruby.”
“And I thought you might be hungry when you wake, so there’s some gazpacho soup in the refrigerator. Thought it would be the most pleasant thing you could have sitting in a hotel refrigerator.”
“Ruby.”
“Thankfully I’d already rented a two queen bed room. I was using it for laundry, but this worked out. Don’t worry, I gave you space, nothing weird.”
“Ruby.”
She paused, as he finished the water and slowly rose from the bed, averting the eyes as his underwear revealed itself to her. After grabbing a pair of his jeans and pulling them on, he walked back to her seat at the bed. When she rose, he pulled her in for a long embrace.
“You should take it easy,” she said softly.
“You know I can’t,” he replied before giving her an affectionate kiss on the crown of her head. They turned from one another before he could see her faint blush.
“I have a third belt to win,” he said as he opened the door, “Triples is best.”
I’ll apologize for any confusion I may be stirring – I’m well aware this little ladder match is a mere step towards the Intercontinental Championship, and one must never conflate opportunity as certainty. Mike Mason learned this the hard way when he became so enthralled with a petty grudge that he didn’t see all 245 lbs of Buster Gloves heading his way, leaving him in the cold for a showdown he felt destined.
On the other hand, one must never deflate opportunity as mere possibility. Since I entered this business just over two years ago, I’ve scratched and clawed my way to heights I never imagined through nothing but personal belief.
This is my primary focus. Victory is my sole objective. Nothing will distract me from it. It’s a shame we can’t say the same for you, can we Max?
Oh, I know your return the week after Wrestle Wars was no coincidence – you telephoned that as subtle as a firework as you rattled off a string of barely concealed puns about my affiliations the second a microphone was in your hand. You say there’s nobody but “him” in your sights? Well congratulations, Max, because for the third time and across three companies, your wish has been granted.
Don’t mistake me, Max, I don’t think you’re petty enough to throw this match so long as you take me down with you. You may be cruel and stupid, but you aren’t dumb. In fact, I think you’re petty enough to win this match just to rub it in my face. Wouldn’t that be cute.
But you’re not suited for the prize fight – your fire is personally motivated, and you’ve no qualms with Santana. I know you, Max, just as you know me – you’re myopic. You see red, and you tunnel your vision until greatness has slipped past your periphery. Beating me means the world to you – this is why you returned to WGWF.
That said, for all my disdain or acrimony towards Brooke and Max, I feel no such way towards you, Lexi. In fact, I quite admire you; I saw the adversity you faced as that creep Goth menaced you from within and without the shadows, and I cheered when you slapped his wannabe Luciferian-ass back to Hell at Wrestle Wars. You’re a legend not just in this company, but in this entire industry.
We live in the lion’s den – I’ve learned firsthand how CCPE’s hyenas lurk around every corner. It’s easy to sell out or make tentative alliances for your own survival; we see every week, new arrivals step through the door and wear the endorsement proudly on their chest. But for all your tenure and all your prestige, you walk to the beat of your own drum. Just like Santana, you play by your own rules.
The mark of a champion or challenger is defined by the prestige they bear. It’s the strength – the courage – the valor – they may offer as a paragon of the title. From the moment my name was penned in this match to the moment the bell rings as I unhook that contract, all eyes will be on me: Max’s, Brooke’s, Lexi’s, Debonair’s, and Santana’s. The pen for my destiny has been in my hand; I'll write the next chapter greater than any before. You'll see what you've been missing. And I promise you’ll all understand the legends very thoroughly.
She found Johnny on the roof of the Strat overlooking the Las Vegas Strip. Heights and views were a favored locale of her friend whenever he visited a city; it was a simple deduction he’d retreated here. When she exited the elevator at the top, he was directly in her line of sight, standing by the guardrail beside the rollercoaster, a cigarette clutched in his fingers.
He didn’t acknowledge her accompaniment immediately, his gaze still locked on the city. It was a breathtaking view – the best in the city. From one direction, Ruby could follow the entire Strip down to its beginning at Mandalay Bay and even onwards toward Allegiant Stadium, UNLV campus, and Harry Reid International. From the other, she could see the glowing, phantasmagoric dome which covered the Fremont Street Experience and eventually onward where the glitter and glow of lights faded into the gloomy slums of North Vegas and suburbs of Centennial. Jonathan raised his cigarette to his mouth and took a drag, careful to ensure the exhale didn’t drift into her face.
“I fucking hate this view,” he said disdainfully before taking another drag, “You spend so much of your life wishing and wanting to go to Vegas until you finally make it. Then, suddenly, you find it’s a grotesque gilded city where misery and poverty slither down into the sewers like blood in the gutter just beyond the sparkle of the lights. A siren song for the stupid to be sucked dry and scattered sick to the slums.”
“Brushed up on your poetics?” she remarked, attempting levity.
“Didn’t have much else to do in Wyoming.”
A silence fell over them. “Thank you,” he said after a moment, “For looking for me. For getting me safe.”
"Well, somebody had to,” she said with an offered smile, pushing his shoulder, "How terrible would it look for me as an agent if I let my new star acquisition get kidnapped at a — qu'est-ce que c'est — 'Adrenochrome tasting'?"
She laughed, but he hadn’t matched her in kind, his eyes still out on the Strip and the slums beyond. Her smile fell, but her hand came forward to rest on his bice – it was this that turned his head and she forced her eyes to lock with his. “Besides,” she said softly, forcing another smile even as she struggled to regain eye contact, “I finally got to pay you back for getting me safe the first time we hit this town together."
The corner of his lips curled up slightly. After flicking his cigarette over the rail, he reached over to place his hand on hers.
“Do you trust me?” he replied softly, his piercing stare forcing her to avert her eyes even as she moved into him.
"It's funny,” she remarked wryly, “The first time we ever stood face-to-face, I trusted you enough to come hang out on a picket line and you took enough of a beating for the both of us to make sure I didn't wind up too brutalized.”
Their hands moved together as she spoke, their fingers slowly intertwining. He could feel her trembling with nervous energy, her eyes cast down as she talked. “I trusted you enough to drop acid for the first time in a strange, heartless city and you ushered me through that five-and-a-half minute hallway unscathed. Even now, I trusted you enough to follow your trail, knowing it wouldn't lead to some unmarked grave in the Zone of Death.”
She looked up at him, her eyes affirmative. “Of course I trust you — why wouldn't I?"
It was oddly natural for her; fluid even. She seemed to glide on instinct in perfect time with him, arching onto her toes as his arms moved around her and his neck craned down. She closed her eyes when their lips met, sinking into the moment of their first kiss – her first kiss. It hung in the space over the Vegas lights, still glittering below them like diamond clouds of Shangri-La. And when it broke, her mind was blank.
“Do you know how to skate?” he asked quietly. She could only shake her head.
“Ever wanted to learn?” he offered. She nodded affirmatively before pressing her lips back to his.
Jonathan Bacchus had been missing for almost five days since he’d set out for the One World Observatory, determined to crash the party and interrupt the evening for the #exclusive. She’d known this; she expected a call from a police holding cell in Manhattan. When nobody had heard from him in eighteen hours, Ruby had taken it upon herself to get to the bottom of the disappearance. But it had not been without its perils or frustrations – whomever had wanted to make him disappear had been thorough. At times, she’d spent nights up in motels with names not worth remembering in towns whose own residents would forget them upon departure.
Nonetheless, she continued her pursuit. In spite of anxiety and concern, there was a simple truth:
Jonathan Bacchus was a survivor.
He would return.
Jonathan Bacchus was a survivor.
He would return.
She glimpsed him through the next wave of departures, ten minutes delayed but as expected. His hair hung in front of his face, and in spite of attempts to clean himself (most likely in a bathroom sink) the lacerations and contusions signaled his presence against the pallor of his skin. He shuffled forward like a lumbering corpse from some 80’s horror flick, his clothing ripped and scuffed; it was the same clothing he’d last been seen wearing. His hands clutched an object draped over his shoulder like a cloak – it the Fight! Empire Championship.
When he looked up and their eyes locked, he stood mere feet from her. The abuse he’d suffered in the grips of the Arcadia Consortium was even more horrifying than she'd initially perceived. His black shirt and jeans were spattered with an unrecognizable black ichor, and intermingled were brownish stains she identified immediately as blood. He was split on the lip – and the forehead – and across the knuckles – and along both arms. Purple and blue bruising had swollen his left eye nearly shut, and in his right, she saw nothing but the dim light of recognition at her face.
Slowly, the corners of his mouth turned in a small smile, and Johnny gave her a weak laugh. Then he collapsed forward, Ruby darting underneath just in time to prevent him from toppling to the ground. As she lowered herself to a sitting position and his head into her lap, she ran her hands through blood-crusted hair and brought her face down to his, choking back her emotion. But in spite of her terror and nausea at his state, the only tear that rolled down Ruby’s face was one of relief.
She’d trusted him.
He was a survivor.
And he’d won.
It feels good to be king. It feels good when the whimsical little moniker you plucked from a book is validated. Your reputation precedes you – just as pride precedeth the fall – and the weight of that gold over your shoulder or around your waist is more metaphysical than literal. In the meanwhile, it’s as the old Pusha T line goes: “You laugh a little louder. The DJ says your name a little prouder.”
Not that either belt on my shoulder means a hill of beans here.
In fact, as I walk back into the CCPE Arena for my second ever WGWF match, my name probably doesn’t matter much either. After all, what has Jonathan Bacchus done since he removed the mask and stepped out from the shadows here in Las Vegas? Eaten a pin from Sam Chatman? Played Tom & Jerry with Fred Debonair? I don’t blame anyone for judging a book by the first couple of pages – I tend to read the last few first just because I hate surprises. It’s refreshing to understand I’m going into this match an underdog, even as I’m walking out with the highest prizes of two other companies in my arms.
There’s stakes in these matches I have here for that very reason – there’s eyes on me tuning in from far beyond the lights of Las Vegas. But even for all that, I promise the three of you that as I walk into this match, my eyes are not on CU:LT nor on Fight!
My eyes are fixed to that contract above the ring, guaranteeing me the opportunity to take Cholo Santana’s Intercontinental Championship at Summer Madness.
A contender, no different than a champion, has a standard of excellence to bear. There’s a weight and expectation which follows you, one which every adversary will attempt to poke holes in to get under your skin. The opportunity does not make you – you make the opportunity, just as a champion makes the championship, not vice-versa. It takes a cool head, short term memory, and show of panache to be that guy.
I’ve been watching you, Brooke, and you’re not that guy.
Pomp and circumstance can get anyone high on their own supply – you come out to that big debut pop and have the eyes on you. You get a nice win over Chatman, something I failed to do, and you feel that tide rise. But then you take that embarrassing L in a battle royale – just miss that big four-way – don’t get picked for War Games dodgeball. And suddenly you’re howling at the moon like a puppy about Jimmy Caeds and CCPE doing you dirty.
Welcome to WGWF, Brooke – we’re all getting fucked by CCPE. But don’t think you can rage against the machine alongside us because they didn’t ask you to prom. Frankly, Brooke? You may be a pup, but you don’t got that dawg in you.
Being a contender, let alone a champion, requires grit. It requires bite alongside bark to elevate a program. I have every intention of making the WGWF Intercontinental Championship the most prestigious prize in this company.
Fuck an outside reputation, this is a demonstration.
When his eyes opened, Johnny Bacchus found himself staring up at an unfamiliar white popcorn ceiling. The sun’s rays filtered through pulled blinds, and a faint pain throbbed in the side of his head. A noise in the corner stirred bleary attention to the source – Ruby Goldhirsch had stood up from the chair she was lounging in, a look of relief washing over her.
“Quel soulagement,” she exclaimed as she hurried to the sink and began to fill a glass of water.
Still processing his surroundings, Johnny looked down at the sheets of the bed he was sleeping in and slowly around the room. Ruby’s eyes darted to the blanket before back to Johnny, her hand coming up to slick back his hair and feel his forehead. “You’ve been out for almost two days,” she continued, “You got up once to use the bathroom – didn’t really react. I’ve got clothes from your room; I hope you don’t mind I took your shoes and jeans off. And your shirt, but I got you in a fresh one. I didn’t peek, I respect your privacy.”
“Ruby.”
“And I thought you might be hungry when you wake, so there’s some gazpacho soup in the refrigerator. Thought it would be the most pleasant thing you could have sitting in a hotel refrigerator.”
“Ruby.”
“Thankfully I’d already rented a two queen bed room. I was using it for laundry, but this worked out. Don’t worry, I gave you space, nothing weird.”
“Ruby.”
She paused, as he finished the water and slowly rose from the bed, averting the eyes as his underwear revealed itself to her. After grabbing a pair of his jeans and pulling them on, he walked back to her seat at the bed. When she rose, he pulled her in for a long embrace.
“You should take it easy,” she said softly.
“You know I can’t,” he replied before giving her an affectionate kiss on the crown of her head. They turned from one another before he could see her faint blush.
“I have a third belt to win,” he said as he opened the door, “Triples is best.”
And once more, Ruby was alone, her eyes lingering on the stacked CU:LT New World and Fight! Empire Championships.
I’ll apologize for any confusion I may be stirring – I’m well aware this little ladder match is a mere step towards the Intercontinental Championship, and one must never conflate opportunity as certainty. Mike Mason learned this the hard way when he became so enthralled with a petty grudge that he didn’t see all 245 lbs of Buster Gloves heading his way, leaving him in the cold for a showdown he felt destined.
On the other hand, one must never deflate opportunity as mere possibility. Since I entered this business just over two years ago, I’ve scratched and clawed my way to heights I never imagined through nothing but personal belief.
I believed I could make a new career outside of Action Wrestling.
I believed I could shine a light onto CU:LT.
I believed I could be #exclusive.
And I believe I can make the WGWF Intercontinental Championship the envy of Peter Vaughn after a single match with Gio Santana.
Oh, I know your return the week after Wrestle Wars was no coincidence – you telephoned that as subtle as a firework as you rattled off a string of barely concealed puns about my affiliations the second a microphone was in your hand. You say there’s nobody but “him” in your sights? Well congratulations, Max, because for the third time and across three companies, your wish has been granted.
And I hate to sound like a broken record with you, but be careful what you wish for.
Don’t mistake me, Max, I don’t think you’re petty enough to throw this match so long as you take me down with you. You may be cruel and stupid, but you aren’t dumb. In fact, I think you’re petty enough to win this match just to rub it in my face. Wouldn’t that be cute.
But you’re not suited for the prize fight – your fire is personally motivated, and you’ve no qualms with Santana. I know you, Max, just as you know me – you’re myopic. You see red, and you tunnel your vision until greatness has slipped past your periphery. Beating me means the world to you – this is why you returned to WGWF.
But beating you means nothing to me, Max. It’s simply a bonus of winning the contendership. And we know that eats you alive.
That said, for all my disdain or acrimony towards Brooke and Max, I feel no such way towards you, Lexi. In fact, I quite admire you; I saw the adversity you faced as that creep Goth menaced you from within and without the shadows, and I cheered when you slapped his wannabe Luciferian-ass back to Hell at Wrestle Wars. You’re a legend not just in this company, but in this entire industry.
You are a warrior, Lexi Gold.
You deserve to be in this match.
You deserve to be favorite in this match.
You probably even deserve better than this match.
That’s why it’s going to be an honor to face you – and to beat you.
You are inspiring, Lexi. You're the person who will make me worthy of facing Santana in your defeat. When I hold that prize after Summer Madness, I hope I can thank you with a conventional opportunity. Good luck – I mean that sincerely. And I'm sorry – luck won’t be enough. But thank you – you'll be my resurrection.
The mark of a champion or challenger is defined by the prestige they bear. It’s the strength – the courage – the valor – they may offer as a paragon of the title. From the moment my name was penned in this match to the moment the bell rings as I unhook that contract, all eyes will be on me: Max’s, Brooke’s, Lexi’s, Debonair’s, and Santana’s. The pen for my destiny has been in my hand; I'll write the next chapter greater than any before. You'll see what you've been missing. And I promise you’ll all understand the legends very thoroughly.
It doesn’t matter the heights I’ve scaled before here – I’ll be leaving my mark on WGWF by scaling the streets of Las Vegas to the stars in Heaven.
And I can’t wait to see the view.
She found Johnny on the roof of the Strat overlooking the Las Vegas Strip. Heights and views were a favored locale of her friend whenever he visited a city; it was a simple deduction he’d retreated here. When she exited the elevator at the top, he was directly in her line of sight, standing by the guardrail beside the rollercoaster, a cigarette clutched in his fingers.
He didn’t acknowledge her accompaniment immediately, his gaze still locked on the city. It was a breathtaking view – the best in the city. From one direction, Ruby could follow the entire Strip down to its beginning at Mandalay Bay and even onwards toward Allegiant Stadium, UNLV campus, and Harry Reid International. From the other, she could see the glowing, phantasmagoric dome which covered the Fremont Street Experience and eventually onward where the glitter and glow of lights faded into the gloomy slums of North Vegas and suburbs of Centennial. Jonathan raised his cigarette to his mouth and took a drag, careful to ensure the exhale didn’t drift into her face.
“I fucking hate this view,” he said disdainfully before taking another drag, “You spend so much of your life wishing and wanting to go to Vegas until you finally make it. Then, suddenly, you find it’s a grotesque gilded city where misery and poverty slither down into the sewers like blood in the gutter just beyond the sparkle of the lights. A siren song for the stupid to be sucked dry and scattered sick to the slums.”
“Brushed up on your poetics?” she remarked, attempting levity.
“Didn’t have much else to do in Wyoming.”
A silence fell over them. “Thank you,” he said after a moment, “For looking for me. For getting me safe.”
"Well, somebody had to,” she said with an offered smile, pushing his shoulder, "How terrible would it look for me as an agent if I let my new star acquisition get kidnapped at a — qu'est-ce que c'est — 'Adrenochrome tasting'?"
She laughed, but he hadn’t matched her in kind, his eyes still out on the Strip and the slums beyond. Her smile fell, but her hand came forward to rest on his bice – it was this that turned his head and she forced her eyes to lock with his. “Besides,” she said softly, forcing another smile even as she struggled to regain eye contact, “I finally got to pay you back for getting me safe the first time we hit this town together."
The corner of his lips curled up slightly. After flicking his cigarette over the rail, he reached over to place his hand on hers.
“Do you trust me?” he replied softly, his piercing stare forcing her to avert her eyes even as she moved into him.
"It's funny,” she remarked wryly, “The first time we ever stood face-to-face, I trusted you enough to come hang out on a picket line and you took enough of a beating for the both of us to make sure I didn't wind up too brutalized.”
Their hands moved together as she spoke, their fingers slowly intertwining. He could feel her trembling with nervous energy, her eyes cast down as she talked. “I trusted you enough to drop acid for the first time in a strange, heartless city and you ushered me through that five-and-a-half minute hallway unscathed. Even now, I trusted you enough to follow your trail, knowing it wouldn't lead to some unmarked grave in the Zone of Death.”
She looked up at him, her eyes affirmative. “Of course I trust you — why wouldn't I?"
It was oddly natural for her; fluid even. She seemed to glide on instinct in perfect time with him, arching onto her toes as his arms moved around her and his neck craned down. She closed her eyes when their lips met, sinking into the moment of their first kiss – her first kiss. It hung in the space over the Vegas lights, still glittering below them like diamond clouds of Shangri-La. And when it broke, her mind was blank.
“Do you know how to skate?” he asked quietly. She could only shake her head.
“Ever wanted to learn?” he offered. She nodded affirmatively before pressing her lips back to his.
She trusted him.
He was a survivor.
And he’d be on his way to the Intercontinental Championship.