Past Meets Present III: 39:13 Jun 3, 2023 22:20:30 GMT -5 Jonathan Bacchus, Jim Caedus, and 1 more like this
Post by Spencer Adams on Jun 3, 2023 22:20:30 GMT -5
It took this roster thirty-nine minutes and thirteen seconds to stave off its Spencer Adams problem. Those two words “stave off” are important, because that is what was done. It took nearly forty minutes in a battle royal just to put yours truly over a rope and knock me off an apron. No pinfall, no getting rid of Spencer Adams, just throwing him out of a fucking ring. Now, tell me how that bodes well for the locker room? Tell me what kind of message that sends, especially in the face of every Tom, Dick, and Harry that Page has put on his payroll?
I am an issue.
I knew that the moment I arrived in WGWF, I was going to be an issue and despite everybody trying to tell me that I wouldn’t be, I was proven goddamn right. The “small pond guy” was that fucking close to becoming a captain for this thing. I sell out stadiums, people treat it like they’re gyms, and how do I respond? By making the perceived top two guys along with a Hell of a lot of people in that front office sweat like it were going out of style. The first time I stepped into a ring here, I was main event. I showed EVERYONE who defines past, present, and future.
How did I follow that up? By turning three people into canon fodder in one night and making it look easy. I followed up forty fucking minutes with Brooke Blakely being unable to keep my name out of her mouth. I left Brooke seething and dwelling and I put DOWN Sam Chatman with a kick so hard that he forgot he supposedly hated me. I beat respect into the man, because he is symbolic of every other person in the back who has none, every last doofus who has chosen to treat Spencer Adams as someone lesser just because they haven’t been in that ring with him.
When they lower that cage wall and that structure fills up, I’m not just going to be one of ten people going at it for bragging rights. I’m going to walk in and walk out as exactly the competitor I know myself to be and that’s the fucking best, even if not everybody around here wants to admit it. When that bell rings, you’re either on the right side or the wrong one, Team Caedus or Team Five Guys without Badmon. I’m that motherfucker. I’ve BEEN that motherfucker and when the dust settles on that blood soaked canvas, Charlotte and the rest of the world are going to know whose match this really is.
With waves of attendee cheers and jeers moving up and down in volume outside the front of Colonial Life, I lean forward from my seat on the hood of the rental, elbows pressed lightly against my upper legs while clasping one hand in the other. I find myself dipping in and out of attention to the conversation around me mainly orchestrated by the supporters.
Spence, you good?
The events of the past couple weeks weighed heavy on the mind, especially while in her presence. Her face was still knowledge only I was privy to and she remained mostly quiet amongst them, protected by the sense of security that the ski masks seemed to bring and in a way, I understood where she and the rest of them were coming from. After all, they’re not here to subject themselves to camera flashes and pundit concerns in the same way that active talent was.
I didn’t have to wonder whether or not her silence was about that night. I knew it to be true. I could feel her guilt and the new found tension going both ways. She never struck me as a malicious person, just one caught up in a moment, but she wasn’t the one with the ring on her finger and she knew that. She knew that from the second she felt the recoil. I’ve made my own mistakes and been subject to bumps in the road that came via my own shortcomings and shortsightedness, but doing Adilene dirty isn’t part of the plan. I assured her that I was prioritizing safety here and that includes the family we’d built in whichever ways were applicable.
Spencer: I’m cool.
?: Spence. How the Hell ‘r ya?
The crunch of boots against scattered specks of chipped gravel sound off through a shorter nearby range, growing as the person occupying them closes in on our crew. The gravel in Jim’s own voice cuts through air like a bull in a dialect shop.
Jim: Oh, come on. Don’t tell me this is ya givin’ me the cold shoulder already. I need ya on the same page here.
I slide forward and hop off the hood, stepping to meet Jim face to face.
Spencer: You’re right and believe me, I’m there with you. There’s a lot on my mind, but don’t think I don’t recognize when I’ve got an opportunity staring me dead in the face.
Jim: That’s what I like t’hear and listen, I know things were a bit stressful back there. I mean, believe me, I was sweatin’ like a motherfucker thinkin’ I was goin’ at this with a handicap, but truthfully..I think Raven made the right call.
After a few more moments of stone facing, I crack a smile in Jim’s direction and respond with a smack on the shoulder.
Spencer: It wasn’t Raven’s decision.
“Generals gathered in their masses
Just like witches at black masses
Evil minds that plot destruction
Sorcerer of death's construction
In the fields, the bodies burning
As the war machine keeps turning
Death and hatred to mankind
Poisoning their brainwashed minds”
Every single thing that people tell me I can’t do, I do.
Everything they tell me I’m not, that’s what I become.
I haven’t “risen” to some new heights by coming to WGWF, but rather brought everything around me up to where I already was. This standard for Spencer Adams isn’t new, it’s just new to you. Are you seeing it now, Team Vaughn? Are you starting to understand the hype yet? I’ve only spoon fed it to you like a bunch of fucking infants over the past couple months. Win after win, overachieving performance after overachieving performance and you’ll still have the fucking gall to act as if Spencer Adams isn’t the ace, as if Spencer Adams isn’t the difference maker.
I stepped up.
I seized a moment.
You’ll have to go practice necromancy for a fifth man willing to fill out your squad.
You sure you’re feeling good about this, Pete?
In a sense, maybe it makes some. Matching a grizzled old vet in Robert Main with one of your own, that experience and that energy. Having someone who thrives off being calloused is something of a safety net inside a structure like War Games, but let’s not ignore the science here. You’re not bringing an aging body, you’re bringing a corpse and expecting an athlete to show up, one whose muscles can flex and bend the right way. We’re not talking about a little stretch and being ready to match the level of physicality, but a few week’s notice at most and a speedrun past required rehabilitation.
I don’t eat my meat and veggies to beat up a bag of bones who operates barely a half step past a Weekend at Bernie’s bit, I do it to keep an edge on ELITE fucking workers all doing the same so that they can try to top me. The inclusion of Outcast in this match doesn’t inspire extra hours in the gym, it prompts me to desire jamming my palm into my face and out the back end of my fucking head so that when my soul leaves my body and floats up to Cloud City real estate, I can drain my hose and drop piss from there like a Calvin decal down to whatever cavern of Hell y’all want to leave the man at when he inevitably costs you this match.
Mac Bane though?
The man you expect to be something of a steady hand.
That’s my harbinger.
That’s my Paul Revere.
I’ve got nothing up the sleeve nor is there anything hiding in plain sight. I want you to know what’s coming before it hits you, because you falling for the classic blunder of not being prepared for Spencer Adams adding a dent or five to your skull is the type of shit that I live for. It’s why I owe you a bit of gratitude for your short sightedness, Pete. You brought along one of the fallen, someone I helped put down once before and in doing so, have enlisted someone to give me away. He can tell you all about it, really let you know what he, Page, and J Mont had to try to look competent against.
Spoiler: They failed.
Double spoiler: You will too.
In Mac Bane, you’ve chosen someone who is one thing on the outside from a legally blind glance and another if you squint just like…a little bit. What you get with Mac is exactly what anyone in this business for more than a cup of coffee would tell you, a man playing cornstarch cowboy for whoever it is that lines him up and says “Run, Mac, run” and the only reason that jog towards the next level doesn’t come off as much as a waddle as it really is? Well, because he’s got left footed blowhards to make his own drunken two step look like he’s not fighting with a rhythm like Navin Johnson.
Mac is a good enough man on the surface, but that’s just the thing, Peter. He’s nice. He falls in line with an emphasis on the falling part. Mac Bane won’t raise Hell the way you think he will and that’s why you’re not really even the first person to roll him out for some D list Avengers take like you talked him down to a can of jerky chew and a little “attaboy” pat on the head as the means of compensation. We’re supposed to respect the man, to FEAR the man, but find me one motherfucker in that locker room more content with being around. It takes a real moron to bring a knife to a gun fight, but you’ve topped that by bringing a walking Sam Elliot meme to War FUCKING Games.
The thing is that these guys you’ve enlisted to avoid proving that J Mont saved you from being Thanos snapped from your scotch tape throne on Championship Monday? I am all of their trials and tribulations and then some. Voltron Adams is here in the flesh and I can do so, because I’ve rode for family like Cholo, played my part like Mac, and been to Hell and back like Outcast just as I’ve spent every waking second of my career operating out of SPITE of whoever doesn’t believe in me like Mark Flynn. I get that guy, because I am that fucking guy.
It wasn’t just a shitty pundit or two or an opinionated chunk of a fanbase, either. I grinded my ass off and won a lot of those people over as a result, but shit that I’ve been through? That little bit extra of an obstacle. King of the Midcarders? Lord of the Dollhouse Ceiling? Try being put in a box by people who cut the checks. Try being treated like fodder by a scrawny drunkard in puke green briefs, because two geriatrics fighting a thousandth rematch even THEY didn’t want was enough to elicit a seal clap from him and him alone. How about being pushed out by someone whose empire you built, because Viacom had a hard on for trying to reproduce Lissie Hope 2.0.
You’ve brought The King of the Midcarders?
Spencer is King of the Whole Fucking Show.
Cholo Santana is great, but is Gio gonna save you? How do you think goodwill holds up when it’s smashed face first into four sides of steel? You know what the really fucked up part of this all is too? I LIKE Cholo. I admire the guy more than most who show up for this company, but a feel good story and a happy ending don’t always go hand in hand. Narratives can change in a sentence, at just a moment's notice and you drafted a problem solver and a peacemaker inside of one man and have asked him to step up and be something out of character.
Beating Mike “MAGA” Mason? Putting Away Blister Mittens? That’s bowling with the bumpers up. As huge as holding that US title may be, this is a different ball game. There is not a singular fucking ounce of peace to be made here. This isn’t some relationship on shaky ground that needs a mediator to help you shimmy over to the sunny side of things. You want tone setters in those rings, people who have that dog in them. What you have is a megafan of creature comforts who you are putting in an uncomfortable situation.
You’re so goddamn irresponsible it hurts me.
What you’ve done up to this point is occupy the ground floor. I can recognize the skillset, the cunning in you, Peter. I can also look and see somebody who has helped usher in a successful reboot for WGWF. Cool. Great. Awesome. When you misstep and plummet, how will you fair? How is Peter Vaughn going to respond to no longer being number one in WGWF. It’s something that you’ve already seen coming down the pipeline and we both know that’s why you’ve responded to yours truly the way that you have.
Caedus raised an eyebrow for you.
I’m here to fuck up your whole sleep schedule.
For all the people who like to tell me I haven’t been challenged, I don’t think YOU have been challenged. If we want to talk about the pressure and who is expected to crack first, I’ll match that attitude with you and anybody else. I’ll tell you loud and proud that NOBODY in the back has had to share a space with Spencer Adams for as long as I’ve been on my shit. My longevity versus yours? I’m goddamn stubborn and in a match where just ONE person has to give, I’ll fight like a hundred motherfuckers. Don’t look South, Pete, because as a good friend of mine once said..
“It’s such a long way down.”
Lycana: God DAMMIT!
Main: Fuck, man!
Dolly: We didn’t sign up for this. This is our blood on your hands, Jim.
Hands press down across our backs and necks in near perfect sync, tapping into nerves and muscles that haven’t been loosened up in God knows how long. The other three fall momentarily silent as a hard crack from the middle of Jim’s spine seems to shatter the sound barrier within the modestly sized and candlelit inner sanctum.
Jim: We needed this. Little team therapy.
I can feel my own body tensing and loosening as a thumb presses inward and sends a brief, but electric tingle from outward from a centermost point.
Masseuse: Wrestling’s no joke, huh?
Main: Are they supposed to talk?
Jim: I told’em ‘ta do so, figured it’d be a little less awkward, fer’them and us.
Masseuse: You’re knotted up pretty good.
Spencer: Yeah? How so?
Masseuse: Well, right here.
Spencer: Apron senton.
Spencer: Railing powerbomb.
Masseuse: What about-?
Spencer: I don’t remember, actually.
Mane: Just know, I’m not going down for your shit, Jimmy.
Jim: I ain’t gonna let no Violenzas get us. I told you, we’ll figure this shit out however we gotta do it.
Dolly: Maybe talking a little too comfortably in front of present company, don’t you think, Jim?
Jim: Oh no, I slipped’em a little extra to keep it in this room. These guys ain’t gonna say a word.
Anxieties and tension were both at an uncomfortable peak with news of Jim’s “situation.” The others were pissed and if it were just me out here, I might be too, but I know what I bring with me. Even when it’s me on the road alone, I carry family with me and I’d seen how getting caught up on bullshit could do a lot more than just jeopardize their safety. When we learned about The Violenzas, a big part of me wanted to snap on the man, but I knew I couldn’t. If we’re really in the spot Jim says we are, then preservation is a must and getting sloppy with any next moves couldn’t be an option.
Maybe it was easier for me to be the calm one amongst us all. They knew Jim better than I did and probably felt a little more inclined to lash at his throat. Maybe I was privileged in that sense. On one hand, I saw the shortsightedness and disregard that had them up in arms. On the other, I can’t say that I wouldn’t have done the same in his position. He’s doing what he has to and I know that feelings aside, we will too.
Lycana: You better figure it out, Jimmy.
Jim: I gotcha. I don’t give a flyin’ fuck if it’s five’oh, a little cave in West Virginia or’sum shit, or anything. None of us is goin’ to the pen and I won’t let’em hurt a hair on ‘yer heads. We’ll talk more after dinner.
Lycana: Promise me.
Jim lets out a yelp as a right elbow makes contact with a muscle he himself probably couldn’t pronounce without sounding like a stroke was coming on.
Dolly: Oh, and whatever you’re paying these guys. Give them more to keep going.
Jim: Ya heard the woman.