Post by Chris Chaos on May 18, 2024 4:47:11 GMT -5
Chris Chaos sat alone in a wooden beach chair on the sun-kissed sands of Clearwater Beach, the waves lapping gently at the shore in a rhythmic dance that mirrored the rise and fall of his thoughts. The golden sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that stretched across the beach like fingers reaching for something just out of reach. Seagulls cawed overhead, their cries mingling with the whispers of the ocean breeze. The salty air was tinged with a hint of sunscreen and the faint aroma of grilled seafood from a nearby beachside café.
He adjusted his sunglasses and took a deep breath, letting the tranquility of the scene wash over him. Retirement was supposed to feel like this, he thought—peaceful, relaxing, a reward for years of hard work. But as much as he tried to immerse himself in the serenity of Clearwater Beach, a gnawing anxiety refused to let him fully enjoy the moment. In a few days, he would be standing in the center of the ring at XWF Warfare in Charlotte, the very place where his storied career began, to give his retirement speech.
Chris had spent more than a decade in the professional wrestling world, a place where chaos was not just his moniker but a way of life. From his debut as a fresh-faced rookie with stars in his eyes to his final match as a seasoned veteran with countless championships to his name, the journey had been nothing short of extraordinary. He had seen the industry evolve, experienced its highest highs and lowest lows, and now, it was time to say goodbye.
But how do you encapsulate a lifetime in a few minutes? What words could possibly convey the gratitude, the memories, the sacrifices, and the triumphs? Chris leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, trying to find the right words. The roar of the crowd, the feel of the mat beneath his feet, the adrenaline rush before a big match—all of it played in his mind like a highlight reel.
One he wished on days like this that he could forget, but that proved to be impossible.
One he wished on days like this that he could forget, but that proved to be impossible.
He remembered his first match in XWF, a nervous rookie stepping into the ring against a seasoned opponent. He had been so green, so eager to prove himself. The crowd had been electric, their energy fueling his every move. He had given it his all, and though he didn’t win that night, he had earned their respect. That respect had propelled him to hold every title in the company, some multiple times, and to be an XWF Top 50 All-Timer and Hall-of-Famer.
“Chris Chaos,” he muttered to himself, blowing out a puff of smoke as a slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. It had started as a nickname, a reflection of his unpredictable style and wild personality, but it had become so much more. It was an identity, a legacy. Fans had chanted his name, worn his merchandise, and followed his career with unwavering dedication. "Chris Motherfucking Chaos."
He let out a long sigh as he began going over talking points in his head, trying to find the perfect balance between gratitude and finality for his retirement speech. He thought about mentioning his early days, the mentors who had shaped him, the unforgettable matches, and the unwavering support of his fans. He wanted to convey how much the journey had meant to him and how it had changed his life.
Just as he was finding a rhythm in his thoughts, a familiar voice broke his concentration.
"Hey, Chris! There you are," called out Bruce Kehn, his old trainer and now his publicist, as he approached from behind.
Chris turned around, squinting against the setting sun. Bruce was a bear of a man with a grizzled beard and a presence that commanded attention. He had been instrumental in shaping Chris's career, pushing him to his limits and teaching him the ropes both inside and outside the ring.
"Bruce, I told you to leave me alone." Chris asked, a smile tugging at his lips despite the interruption.
Bruce walked up and clapped a hand on Chris’s shoulder. He was wearing a track suit in 90 degree heat. Why did he always wear that fucking track suit? "Needed to find you. We’ve got some business to discuss."
Chris arched an eyebrow. "Business? I thought my wrestling business was wrapping up."
Bruce shook his head, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Not quite yet, my friend. You’re booked in a match on WGWF Brawl."
The words hung in the air for a moment, and Chris blinked, trying to process what he had just heard. "Wait, what? Bruce, I’m retiring. I’ve got my speech to give in Charlotte. What’s this about a match?"
"You've been drafted to Monday Night Brawl."
"You've got to be kidding me."
"Wish I was."
"Is Page that desperate for talent that he's allow his yes-man GM's he loves to hire to kiss his dick draft someone who hasn't wrestled in almost a year? Someone whose retired? Someone whose......."
"..........a former Universal, X-Treme, Television and Tag Team Champion? Someone whose name is still talked about today whenever anyone mentions those three letters? If wanted that is being desperate, Chris, then yes he is."
Chris sat for a moment. This was all a whirlwind.
Chris was supposed to have his final ride into the sunset with his long-time rival-turned-partner-turned-friend Gabe Reno, but Reno had done what Reno always did—he flaked out, chasing another opportunity or another drama, leaving Chris alone again. Chris could feel the sting of betrayal, but he was almost used to it by now. Gabe Reno had always been unpredictable, and their relationship had been a rollercoaster of highs and lows.
Chris stared out at the ocean, the waves continuing their ceaseless dance. He could get used to this retired life, he thought. The calm, the peace, the lack of constant pressure and physical pain.
"Whose the match against?"
"John Blade."
"John Blade?! That wanna-be wigger whose culture appropriating ass signs up for like 30 companies but he hasn't been successful in a single goddamn one of them? The Malibu's Most Wanted hack whose never been anything more than a joke wherever he goes?!"
"I see you've still been following along."
"John Blade?! That wanna-be wigger whose culture appropriating ass signs up for like 30 companies but he hasn't been successful in a single goddamn one of them? The Malibu's Most Wanted hack whose never been anything more than a joke wherever he goes?!"
"I see you've still been following along."
As Chris was about to read Bruce the riot act for getting him booked against a curtain jerker, the booming bass of a car stereo jarred him out of his anger. The unmistakable opening lines of Drake's "Started from the Bottom" filled the air. "Started from the bottom now we here," the rapper declared, a fitting anthem for someone like Chris who had clawed his way to the top from nothing.
Chris's lip curled into a sneer, and his expression hardened. The lyrics struck a chord with him, igniting a fire he thought had been extinguished by the prospect of retirement. He had indeed started from the bottom, and now, after a storied career, he was supposed to bow out gracefully against John Blade? No way. He was going to show everyone, including Blade, why he was a goddamn legend.
"Alright, Bruce," Chris said, his voice low and dangerous. "I'll do it. But make no mistake—I'm not just going to wrestle John Blade. I'm going to dismantle him."
Bruce raised an eyebrow, recognizing the steely determination in Chris's eyes. "There he is!"
Chris ashed his cigar, the embers glowing briefly before fading into the cool evening air. He stood up, taking one last look at the serene expanse of Clearwater Beach. The golden light of the setting sun painted a picture of tranquility, but Chris knew that paradise would have to wait. Duty called, and the ring was where he belonged, at least for one more night.
With a deep breath, he turned away from the peaceful shoreline and walked toward his rental car. The crunch of sand under his boots was a stark contrast to the roaring crowds and the hard mat of the wrestling ring. As he drove away, the Drake song from earlier echoed in his mind, stoking the flames of his resolve. "Started from the bottom, now we here." Indeed, he had come a long way, and on Brawl he was going to do what he does best.......be a fucking legend.
"I don't know if bringing me back to brawl is a compliment or an insult. I don't know if giving me another match is their best fucking idea. Might catch some feelings, again. Stick around a little longer. I wasn't supposed to be doing this. I planned on looking Theo Pryce in his dead shark eyes and shaking his boney hand, calling it a career on Warfare. Instead, I'll be in that shitheap known as Seattle for a match against
what would grow if we buried Newports in the ground and watered them with Monster Energy drink. Just the absolute lowest form of life on this planet. I thought Page had a bit more respect for me from back in the day when I was one of the names mentioned with his, Robert Main, Jim Caedus, Drew Archyle. When I had wars with APEX that made Gaza look like pre-prom foreplay. Instead, he throws me a textbook example of fetal alcohol syndrome and calls it a favor.
I don't know who Jack Daniels is page, and I don't care. He "needs" me to help keep Brawl the number one show---cool. But to lose a roster member just to gain one isn't good business. I am the best in the world at what I do. He isn't even the best in his group chat. He's an abject failure, a running joke, a complete culture-appropriating nobody whose best wrap should have been around his fathers meat stick so we didn't have deal with his nonsense. John, you're whiter than mayo on Wonderbread and listening to Kanye isn't ever going to change that.
I am a legend. I am one of the best in the business. I am the one whose going to kick your head off your shoulders. Bargain Bin Boi is about to be in for a whole world of hurt. This was supposed to be my last hurrah. My final moment of glory. My ride off into the sunset Peyton Manning style with the world in my palm but the plan fell through. I only came back to tag with Reno, beat the brakes of Sports Entertainment Express and walk out of WGWF completely with a belt over my shoulder--summer of Punk style. Unfortunately, Reno pulled a Reno and that couldn't happen. Oh well....I have a good life, a tight girl, a fast car, and the memories of being at the top of the game. XWF is no slouch. They have the reputation for being one of the hardest places to be successful because of the talent they harbor there and I was the king of the castle for a long fucking time. I was the gatekeeper anyone who wanted to fuck around and find out. People like you, John......people like you don't make it to the top of that mountain. You're in nearly every fed in existence because you're hoping that if you join enough of them, eventually someone won't recognize you as the complete waste of oxygen you are. I am going to roll into Seattle and give you a beating so bad those liberal cucks will probably want to cancel me. I can see the petition on Page's desk as I speak. Young children will cry, women will cover their mouths, men will avert their eyes, and the medical staff will earn their goddamn paychecks. I don't just want to prove I've still got it, I want to prove you never did. Nobody has been able to take you out back and put the bullet in your head that you deserve........until now. John Blade after Brawl it's gonna be hard to kick tight flows with your jaw wired shut."
"I don't know if bringing me back to brawl is a compliment or an insult. I don't know if giving me another match is their best fucking idea. Might catch some feelings, again. Stick around a little longer. I wasn't supposed to be doing this. I planned on looking Theo Pryce in his dead shark eyes and shaking his boney hand, calling it a career on Warfare. Instead, I'll be in that shitheap known as Seattle for a match against
what would grow if we buried Newports in the ground and watered them with Monster Energy drink. Just the absolute lowest form of life on this planet. I thought Page had a bit more respect for me from back in the day when I was one of the names mentioned with his, Robert Main, Jim Caedus, Drew Archyle. When I had wars with APEX that made Gaza look like pre-prom foreplay. Instead, he throws me a textbook example of fetal alcohol syndrome and calls it a favor.
I don't know who Jack Daniels is page, and I don't care. He "needs" me to help keep Brawl the number one show---cool. But to lose a roster member just to gain one isn't good business. I am the best in the world at what I do. He isn't even the best in his group chat. He's an abject failure, a running joke, a complete culture-appropriating nobody whose best wrap should have been around his fathers meat stick so we didn't have deal with his nonsense. John, you're whiter than mayo on Wonderbread and listening to Kanye isn't ever going to change that.
I am a legend. I am one of the best in the business. I am the one whose going to kick your head off your shoulders. Bargain Bin Boi is about to be in for a whole world of hurt. This was supposed to be my last hurrah. My final moment of glory. My ride off into the sunset Peyton Manning style with the world in my palm but the plan fell through. I only came back to tag with Reno, beat the brakes of Sports Entertainment Express and walk out of WGWF completely with a belt over my shoulder--summer of Punk style. Unfortunately, Reno pulled a Reno and that couldn't happen. Oh well....I have a good life, a tight girl, a fast car, and the memories of being at the top of the game. XWF is no slouch. They have the reputation for being one of the hardest places to be successful because of the talent they harbor there and I was the king of the castle for a long fucking time. I was the gatekeeper anyone who wanted to fuck around and find out. People like you, John......people like you don't make it to the top of that mountain. You're in nearly every fed in existence because you're hoping that if you join enough of them, eventually someone won't recognize you as the complete waste of oxygen you are. I am going to roll into Seattle and give you a beating so bad those liberal cucks will probably want to cancel me. I can see the petition on Page's desk as I speak. Young children will cry, women will cover their mouths, men will avert their eyes, and the medical staff will earn their goddamn paychecks. I don't just want to prove I've still got it, I want to prove you never did. Nobody has been able to take you out back and put the bullet in your head that you deserve........until now. John Blade after Brawl it's gonna be hard to kick tight flows with your jaw wired shut."