Willing to Break for What He Wants (vs. Gio)
Jun 27, 2023 9:06:30 GMT -5
"Cholo" Giovanni Santana likes this
Post by Max f'n Daemon on Jun 27, 2023 9:06:30 GMT -5
Max Daemon lets the smoke from his cigarette emit through his lips.
He stares at the image on the monitor in front of him.
It’s a commercial for Summer Madness highlighting the Intercontinental Title match between Giovanni and Johnny-boy.
With a grimace, he turns the monitor off and turns around towards the window.
Max clenches his fist and scowls.
The fist starts shaking. He bites down on his cigarette, tearing it in half and sending both sides onto the hotel carpet.
With a rough growl, he punches a hole through the window. The glass shatters to the floor. The blood drips from his fist, probably not completely healed due to his excessive action following his breaking of that airport screen ages ago.
Max lets out a sigh and grabs a nearby rag from the table. He exits the hotel room, narrowly missing Nathan Miles as he pops out of the bathroom to check on the commotion.
He doesn’t bother with a clinic. Most of it will be healed by the morning anyway. Instead, he wraps it in the rag and some painter’s tape he stumbled upon. From there, he quickly locates the nearest bar.
After a couple of sips, he starts getting the lecture.
“Jesus…” Max mutters through the alcohol in his throat.
What the hell are you doing?
Max throws a nondescript amount of bills on the counter and chugs his bottle down. Once it's emptied, he sets it back down and heads out.
Just a genuine question. It doesn’t seem like you fully understand what you’re proposing.
“I feel like I’m the only other one alive who does.”
Does your dad not count?
Max scowls.
Maybe think about at least telling him?
“The less involved the better.”
I feel like that’s kinda the issue here?
Max rolls his eyes as he opens the car door.
“Look, I’m tired of talkin about this. I’m tired of talkin about me supposedly ‘breakin’. I’m just…I’m fuckin tired of whatever other horse shit ya’ think I’ve got goin on. Just let me have a drink in peace, for fuck’s sake.”
The car starts and Max begins the drive back to the hotel.
Has your contact gotten back to you on that blood?
“No.”
Would you be willing to talk about WGWF?
“Fuck no.”
Then what the hell do you want?
“I want ya’ ta’ go away for a short amount of time so I can enjoy a drink and smoke in peace.”
Oh, you’d rather be reminded of your failures then? Cause I can do that easily.
The car screeches to a halt. Max stops on the side road, the tires squealing with the sudden stop.
“Listen here, ya’ bastard—”
What? Ya’ve never beaten David, which seems like enough of a white whale for you, but you’ve decided you needed two.
“I’ve beaten David Hunter.”
You’ve never pinned the guy, you pedantic prick.
Max grips the steering wheel as tight as he can, reopening the wound on his right hand.
What’s more is that you’ve never beaten Bacchus.
“I just need one mo—”
One more chance? Is that it? One more chance to win Havoc? One more chance to win another title? One more chance to beat Johnny, to beat Lissie, to beat Grace—
“Her name’s Ashley and you’ll be remiss ta’ call her anythin else around me.”
Wow, you are obsessed.
“With…?”
The lot of them. With winning. With success. You’re a fucking addict. And not to drugs or alcohol, but the spotlight. It’s…honestly it’s just sad.
“Oh fuck off!”
The car starts back up and Max beels outta there back onto the road.
You haven’t felt success in so long you’ve given up anything else just to get a fix. Who you are, all these contracts you're getting out of, your sense of survival. Jesus, what’s left? Your life.
“If that’s what it fuckin takes, yes!”
For what? A sense of entitlement you still hold? The attention you still crave?
Despite your losses? Despite your failures? Both inside and outside the ring?
How many girlfriends have you lost? How many relationships besides the few who care enough to stick around? You’re damn lucky your sister, father, and apprentice still deal with you, because let me tell you, if I had any choice in the matter?
I wouldn’t.
“Then just fuck off then! Save me the fuckin time! I don’t need ta’ be criticized for everythin I do! I get enough of it from the motherfuckers I face in matches! Who think they know me. Who think they can pinpoint me with a goddamn microscope. Who try to psychoanalyze me like they know even an ounce of who I am.”
Omniscient, remember?
“Fuck outta here with that!”
I know more about you by my sheer existence than any of them do.
Hell, maybe even more than you do.
Why do you think I’m so insistent that, even now, you’re cracking so much?
You’re not heading for a breakdown, Max fucking Daemon.
You’re in one.
Max finds himself interrupted by the sounds of a police siren and the red and blue lights behind him.
“Huh.”
What?
“Been a long time since I’ve gone to jail…”
Why would you…oh, right, the drinking thing.
“Well, we can’t technically release you despite posting bail, and we can’t guarantee he’ll be out here until morning, but…for all intents and purposes, he’s free to go,” the cop on duty says.
Max sits in the local holding cell of whatever bumfuck town he found himself in. Probably the sheriff’s office. Meaning the guy Nathan is trying to haggle with is the sheriff.
Yeah that’s pretty spot on.
“Great…” Max mutters as he pinches his nose.
He’s lying on what counts for a bed.
Nathan approaches the cell, a disappointed look probably on his face.
There is, by the way.
“What the hell, Max?” Nathan asks.
“I’ll pay you back for the bail money,” Max says.
“It’s not about the bail money.”
Using contractions. He’s pissed.
“Oh, right, you’re probably also rich as fuck.”
“Max.”
Max doesn’t look over. He just closes his eyes and tries to pinch away the headache.
“Look at me, please.”
“Nah…”
Max hears Nathan let out a sigh.
“Fine then. I’ll be here in the morning to pick you up. Then we’re going to have a long talk about what the hell is happening with you. Am I clear?”
“I dunno. Are you pulling rank on me?” Max asks.
Oh, dude…
“I am now. Am I clear, soldier?”
Max braves the odds and glances over.
The anger on his father’s face is somehow easier to deal with than the disappointment.
“Yes sir,” Max states as clear as he can.
Nathan nods once and heads out, leaving Max alone in what’s essentially a glorified brig until the morning.
So, you ready to talk yet?
“Oh right I’m never fuckin alone anymore…”
“Despite this being a title match containing one of the highest paid talents on this roster (me).
Despite this being a title match featuring a tenured WGWF talent who has held his division with the amount of class and…panache the likes of which only he can (you, Santana, obviously).
Despite this being an actual Intercontinental Title match despite the pay-per-view still being a month and a half away.
The story isn’t about “Cholo” Giovanni Santana defending his title against Max fucking Daemon.
Nah, it’s Johnny-boy being placed ringside at commentary.
If Centurion having to suffer by calling my matches wasn’t enough, now Johnny-boy gets a front-row-seat to watch his hated rival claim a championship before he can, punching his ticket to the reason I’m here in the first place.
But despite my own goals being front and center here and despite the spotlight once again being on me in regards to a title match, there is but one obstacle yet again standing in the way of what I want.
Mr. Santana.
I made it crystal clear what my opinions were at War Games.
I was your next challenger.
And it seems like Flash Rotten saw the same damn thing cause…once again…I was right.
Now all I have to do is fulfill the other half of my promise, and that’s me kicking your ass until it’s mine.
And as much as I can appreciate a good tenured performer in any promotion, I want to make it clear that that’s all…whatever you are is.
Tenure.
You’re a champion based off a name you’ve established in WGWF and WGWF alone. And as I’ve proved since the day I walked back in here, WGWF is in desperate need of actual names and actual talent.
Suffice to say, Gio, you do not qualify for either.
Sure, you’re talented. You’re a good performer and know your craft. Though I could say that about half of the current roster.
But with the exception of a handful of wrestlers, nobody has the pure ability that I do.
Nobody has the name recognition I bring to any event I take part in.
Nobody has the absolute desire to survive that I do.
Don’t believe me?
Ask that motherfucker on commentary.
He knows what I’m capable of. More than anybody on this roster, he’s well aware of all that I can accomplish, of the hell I can dish out, not to mention the absolute massacre I can muster up if I’m motivated enough.
And with the spotlight once again on me and my trajectory once again pointing me towards a championship I have yet to hold, it’s a familiar position for me to be in.
Unfortunately Gio…you’re just the victim. It’s nothing personal. My goal since coming into WGWF has always been Johnny-boy and Johnny-boy alone.
And I’m tired of detours.
All this is…is the quickest route to that goal. No more ducking and weaving past strikers just to make my way towards the goaltender.
We’re lined up for the shot.
And in case you’re unaware, when my aim is locked in, I never fucking miss.
I don’t need to even dual-wield my pistols to blow your fucking head off. All I need is a well-timed Superkick or a well-placed shot in the dome with a chair and you’re lying on the mat covered in blood.
Or better yet, knocked the fuck out with your face touching your toes and your body crumpled in on itself.
A part of me does respect you Gio. You’ve got respect for days, and a sense of arrogance that I can admire.
But I’m tired of arrogance.
I’m tired of respect.
I’m on the verge of collapse and am looking for a remedy to this downfall, the cure for which is only gold.
Whether it be a championship or a spotlight, I don’t care.
You’ve got my remedy, Gio.
And I’m not leaving this arena until I’ve claimed it.
You’ve had a good, solid run. Three months isn’t anything to sneeze at.
But uh…
Achoo.”
Bless you.
“Thank ya'."
…
"It’s time for a change. Not only in the IC ranks, but also in me.
The time for carin about respect is over.
Cause as much as I might respect ya’, Gio…?
I don’t care what I have ta’ do ta’ beat ya’ down.
Whether you’re leavin on your own or you’re leavin on a stretcher, it doesn’t matter ta’ me.
I’m a sick, violent man. I’ve taken best shots from people that’ve left me in a hospital bed for days.
You’re not the kinda guy who’ll cripple me or wound me ta’ win. Maybe you’d try when it’s escalated ta’ it, sure, but compared ta’ me?
You won’t pull the trigger.
And uh…in case ya’ haven’t heard, pullin a trigger is kinda my thing.
Whether it be two pistols aimed at your fuckin skull or my modified leaping backstabber, the end result is still your unconscious body on the mat unable ta’ move for the three seconds it takes ta’ unseat ya’ for that title.
It’s nothin personal, but that challenger? That number one contender ya’ got?
I’ve called dibs.
And not even your bitch-ass will stay in my way.
So once again, from me ta’ you…”
Max spits on the cell floor, symbolically doing so at Giovanni’s feet, similar to what he did at War Games.
“…no thoughts needed. No worries, Gio. No more preparation. You're lookin at your next challenger. And despite what ya' might say or think…there's no gold for ya’ ta’ clutch onta’…there's no ascension past this left for ya’ ta’ crave…there's no wins ta’ look forward ta’…there's just Max…fuckin…Daemon…”
The signature smirk crosses his face for the first time in a while.
“…and me kickin your ass until that title is mine.
Click, click, Gio…”
He points out two finger guns resembling his two signature pistols.
“…bang.”
When the morning comes, Max exits the sheriff’s office. He is accompanied by both Holo and Nathan. They stand at his side like bodyguards, but in reality, are more like disappointed parents.
Ew…
Max nods once in agreement at that thought.
Nathan hands Max back the two pistols in question.
“I’ve got an idea,” Nathan says.
Max raises an eyebrow. He looks at over at Holo, who looks away. Max looks back, and Nathan is solemn with his arms crossed over his chest.
“A job.”
“Ah.”
Max spins his pistol around his fingers before putting them back in his pocket.
“Maybe it will get your mind right. I do not know for sure…at the very least it is worth a shot, right?”
Be smart about this.
“Pass.”
Oh good, you were.
“Pardon?” Nathan asks.
“I’m crackin, dad.”
Oh, really?
“…in what capacity?”
“Mentally,” Holo pipes in.
Nathan gives his son’s apprentice a look before giving his son a similar one.
Max merely shrugs.
“Is that so…?” Nathan asks.
“Apparently. It’s whatever. I’m dealin with it like I always do.”
“And you do not feel like this requires more attention?”
“Be lucky I’m even acknowledgin it. I’m lettin things happen as they occur. Can’t hurt my odds of winnin any worse than they already are…”
Nathan looks like he really wants to argue, but upon seeing the look on his son’s face, lets out a sigh.
“Okay then. How about we head out to a bar? My treat.”
Max smiles.
“Now you’re speakin my language…”
He stares at the image on the monitor in front of him.
It’s a commercial for Summer Madness highlighting the Intercontinental Title match between Giovanni and Johnny-boy.
With a grimace, he turns the monitor off and turns around towards the window.
“Johnny repeatedly bashing him with a chair into his head until he collapses. The ref calls for the bell.”
“Johnny hitting his gutwrench powerbomb onto a bed of nails, forcing them into the back of his head. Johnny screams as the ref counts the three. The ref calls for the bell.”
“Johnny hitting a swanton bomb from a ladder onto Max and the other two competitors through two tables. Johnny climbs the ladder and crabs the contract. The ref calls for the bell.”
Max lets out a sigh and grabs a nearby rag from the table. He exits the hotel room, narrowly missing Nathan Miles as he pops out of the bathroom to check on the commotion.
-------------------------------------------------------
After a couple of sips, he starts getting the lecture.
“Jesus…” Max mutters through the alcohol in his throat.
What the hell are you doing?
Max throws a nondescript amount of bills on the counter and chugs his bottle down. Once it's emptied, he sets it back down and heads out.
Just a genuine question. It doesn’t seem like you fully understand what you’re proposing.
“I feel like I’m the only other one alive who does.”
Does your dad not count?
Max scowls.
Maybe think about at least telling him?
“The less involved the better.”
I feel like that’s kinda the issue here?
Max rolls his eyes as he opens the car door.
“Look, I’m tired of talkin about this. I’m tired of talkin about me supposedly ‘breakin’. I’m just…I’m fuckin tired of whatever other horse shit ya’ think I’ve got goin on. Just let me have a drink in peace, for fuck’s sake.”
The car starts and Max begins the drive back to the hotel.
Has your contact gotten back to you on that blood?
“No.”
Would you be willing to talk about WGWF?
“Fuck no.”
Then what the hell do you want?
“I want ya’ ta’ go away for a short amount of time so I can enjoy a drink and smoke in peace.”
Oh, you’d rather be reminded of your failures then? Cause I can do that easily.
The car screeches to a halt. Max stops on the side road, the tires squealing with the sudden stop.
“Listen here, ya’ bastard—”
What? Ya’ve never beaten David, which seems like enough of a white whale for you, but you’ve decided you needed two.
“I’ve beaten David Hunter.”
You’ve never pinned the guy, you pedantic prick.
Max grips the steering wheel as tight as he can, reopening the wound on his right hand.
What’s more is that you’ve never beaten Bacchus.
“I just need one mo—”
One more chance? Is that it? One more chance to win Havoc? One more chance to win another title? One more chance to beat Johnny, to beat Lissie, to beat Grace—
“Her name’s Ashley and you’ll be remiss ta’ call her anythin else around me.”
Wow, you are obsessed.
“With…?”
The lot of them. With winning. With success. You’re a fucking addict. And not to drugs or alcohol, but the spotlight. It’s…honestly it’s just sad.
“Oh fuck off!”
The car starts back up and Max beels outta there back onto the road.
You haven’t felt success in so long you’ve given up anything else just to get a fix. Who you are, all these contracts you're getting out of, your sense of survival. Jesus, what’s left? Your life.
“If that’s what it fuckin takes, yes!”
For what? A sense of entitlement you still hold? The attention you still crave?
Despite your losses? Despite your failures? Both inside and outside the ring?
How many girlfriends have you lost? How many relationships besides the few who care enough to stick around? You’re damn lucky your sister, father, and apprentice still deal with you, because let me tell you, if I had any choice in the matter?
I wouldn’t.
“Then just fuck off then! Save me the fuckin time! I don’t need ta’ be criticized for everythin I do! I get enough of it from the motherfuckers I face in matches! Who think they know me. Who think they can pinpoint me with a goddamn microscope. Who try to psychoanalyze me like they know even an ounce of who I am.”
Omniscient, remember?
“Fuck outta here with that!”
I know more about you by my sheer existence than any of them do.
Hell, maybe even more than you do.
Why do you think I’m so insistent that, even now, you’re cracking so much?
You’re not heading for a breakdown, Max fucking Daemon.
You’re in one.
Max finds himself interrupted by the sounds of a police siren and the red and blue lights behind him.
“Huh.”
What?
“Been a long time since I’ve gone to jail…”
Why would you…oh, right, the drinking thing.
-------------------------------------------------------
Max sits in the local holding cell of whatever bumfuck town he found himself in. Probably the sheriff’s office. Meaning the guy Nathan is trying to haggle with is the sheriff.
Yeah that’s pretty spot on.
“Great…” Max mutters as he pinches his nose.
He’s lying on what counts for a bed.
Nathan approaches the cell, a disappointed look probably on his face.
There is, by the way.
“What the hell, Max?” Nathan asks.
“I’ll pay you back for the bail money,” Max says.
“It’s not about the bail money.”
Using contractions. He’s pissed.
“Oh, right, you’re probably also rich as fuck.”
“Max.”
Max doesn’t look over. He just closes his eyes and tries to pinch away the headache.
“Look at me, please.”
“Nah…”
Max hears Nathan let out a sigh.
“Fine then. I’ll be here in the morning to pick you up. Then we’re going to have a long talk about what the hell is happening with you. Am I clear?”
“I dunno. Are you pulling rank on me?” Max asks.
Oh, dude…
“I am now. Am I clear, soldier?”
Max braves the odds and glances over.
The anger on his father’s face is somehow easier to deal with than the disappointment.
“Yes sir,” Max states as clear as he can.
Nathan nods once and heads out, leaving Max alone in what’s essentially a glorified brig until the morning.
So, you ready to talk yet?
“Oh right I’m never fuckin alone anymore…”
-------------------------------------------------------
Despite this being a title match featuring a tenured WGWF talent who has held his division with the amount of class and…panache the likes of which only he can (you, Santana, obviously).
Despite this being an actual Intercontinental Title match despite the pay-per-view still being a month and a half away.
The story isn’t about “Cholo” Giovanni Santana defending his title against Max fucking Daemon.
Nah, it’s Johnny-boy being placed ringside at commentary.
If Centurion having to suffer by calling my matches wasn’t enough, now Johnny-boy gets a front-row-seat to watch his hated rival claim a championship before he can, punching his ticket to the reason I’m here in the first place.
But despite my own goals being front and center here and despite the spotlight once again being on me in regards to a title match, there is but one obstacle yet again standing in the way of what I want.
Mr. Santana.
I made it crystal clear what my opinions were at War Games.
I was your next challenger.
And it seems like Flash Rotten saw the same damn thing cause…once again…I was right.
Now all I have to do is fulfill the other half of my promise, and that’s me kicking your ass until it’s mine.
And as much as I can appreciate a good tenured performer in any promotion, I want to make it clear that that’s all…whatever you are is.
Tenure.
You’re a champion based off a name you’ve established in WGWF and WGWF alone. And as I’ve proved since the day I walked back in here, WGWF is in desperate need of actual names and actual talent.
Suffice to say, Gio, you do not qualify for either.
Sure, you’re talented. You’re a good performer and know your craft. Though I could say that about half of the current roster.
But with the exception of a handful of wrestlers, nobody has the pure ability that I do.
Nobody has the name recognition I bring to any event I take part in.
Nobody has the absolute desire to survive that I do.
Don’t believe me?
Ask that motherfucker on commentary.
He knows what I’m capable of. More than anybody on this roster, he’s well aware of all that I can accomplish, of the hell I can dish out, not to mention the absolute massacre I can muster up if I’m motivated enough.
And with the spotlight once again on me and my trajectory once again pointing me towards a championship I have yet to hold, it’s a familiar position for me to be in.
Unfortunately Gio…you’re just the victim. It’s nothing personal. My goal since coming into WGWF has always been Johnny-boy and Johnny-boy alone.
And I’m tired of detours.
All this is…is the quickest route to that goal. No more ducking and weaving past strikers just to make my way towards the goaltender.
We’re lined up for the shot.
And in case you’re unaware, when my aim is locked in, I never fucking miss.
I don’t need to even dual-wield my pistols to blow your fucking head off. All I need is a well-timed Superkick or a well-placed shot in the dome with a chair and you’re lying on the mat covered in blood.
Or better yet, knocked the fuck out with your face touching your toes and your body crumpled in on itself.
A part of me does respect you Gio. You’ve got respect for days, and a sense of arrogance that I can admire.
But I’m tired of arrogance.
I’m tired of respect.
I’m on the verge of collapse and am looking for a remedy to this downfall, the cure for which is only gold.
Whether it be a championship or a spotlight, I don’t care.
You’ve got my remedy, Gio.
And I’m not leaving this arena until I’ve claimed it.
You’ve had a good, solid run. Three months isn’t anything to sneeze at.
But uh…
Achoo.”
Bless you.
“Thank ya'."
…
"It’s time for a change. Not only in the IC ranks, but also in me.
The time for carin about respect is over.
Cause as much as I might respect ya’, Gio…?
I don’t care what I have ta’ do ta’ beat ya’ down.
Whether you’re leavin on your own or you’re leavin on a stretcher, it doesn’t matter ta’ me.
I’m a sick, violent man. I’ve taken best shots from people that’ve left me in a hospital bed for days.
You’re not the kinda guy who’ll cripple me or wound me ta’ win. Maybe you’d try when it’s escalated ta’ it, sure, but compared ta’ me?
You won’t pull the trigger.
And uh…in case ya’ haven’t heard, pullin a trigger is kinda my thing.
Whether it be two pistols aimed at your fuckin skull or my modified leaping backstabber, the end result is still your unconscious body on the mat unable ta’ move for the three seconds it takes ta’ unseat ya’ for that title.
It’s nothin personal, but that challenger? That number one contender ya’ got?
I’ve called dibs.
And not even your bitch-ass will stay in my way.
So once again, from me ta’ you…”
Max spits on the cell floor, symbolically doing so at Giovanni’s feet, similar to what he did at War Games.
“…no thoughts needed. No worries, Gio. No more preparation. You're lookin at your next challenger. And despite what ya' might say or think…there's no gold for ya’ ta’ clutch onta’…there's no ascension past this left for ya’ ta’ crave…there's no wins ta’ look forward ta’…there's just Max…fuckin…Daemon…”
The signature smirk crosses his face for the first time in a while.
“…and me kickin your ass until that title is mine.
Click, click, Gio…”
He points out two finger guns resembling his two signature pistols.
“…bang.”
-------------------------------------------------------
Ew…
Max nods once in agreement at that thought.
Nathan hands Max back the two pistols in question.
“I’ve got an idea,” Nathan says.
Max raises an eyebrow. He looks at over at Holo, who looks away. Max looks back, and Nathan is solemn with his arms crossed over his chest.
“A job.”
“Ah.”
Max spins his pistol around his fingers before putting them back in his pocket.
“Maybe it will get your mind right. I do not know for sure…at the very least it is worth a shot, right?”
Be smart about this.
“Pass.”
Oh good, you were.
“Pardon?” Nathan asks.
“I’m crackin, dad.”
Oh, really?
“…in what capacity?”
“Mentally,” Holo pipes in.
Nathan gives his son’s apprentice a look before giving his son a similar one.
Max merely shrugs.
“Is that so…?” Nathan asks.
“Apparently. It’s whatever. I’m dealin with it like I always do.”
“And you do not feel like this requires more attention?”
“Be lucky I’m even acknowledgin it. I’m lettin things happen as they occur. Can’t hurt my odds of winnin any worse than they already are…”
Nathan looks like he really wants to argue, but upon seeing the look on his son’s face, lets out a sigh.
“Okay then. How about we head out to a bar? My treat.”
Max smiles.
“Now you’re speakin my language…”