Post by anthonyksavage on Aug 7, 2021 15:33:57 GMT -5
Chicago, Illinois
4:37 P.M CST
August 6th
They gave the drill Tony was practicing in the ring a menacing and accurate nomiker: headhunting!
“Keep the arms up, watch his shoulder. That’s where the punches come from!”His boxing coached instructed over the clamor of reporters, photographers, and gym patrons. He was prepping for his Aug. 28th WBC debut, and a chance for some promoting never escapes the brawling businessman.
Under normal conditions, sparring practices were operated with safety protocols in place. Both fighters wore pads and protective gear to prevent unnecessary injury. But in headhunting drills, the safety net for one fighters was yanked from under their feet, and they walked on a tightrope over nothing but hard, unforgiving ground.
Tony Savage and his camp developed this drill specifically to help him deal with a pesky problem of poor defense in the ring.5 3 minute rounds where his training partner had all the padding, and could throw anything they wanted at him. On the other hand, Tony had nothing but his cup and waist protector on. His head and torso were un-shielded from impact, and he was NOT permitted to punch back. This was a drill meant to instill proper mechanics in the ring. Protect yourself at all times, or…
“Shit!”
That was close. This bear of a Russian named Andrev almost decapitated Tony with a left hook, a battering ram of a shot Savage blocked within nanoseconds of impact. That brick attached to a wrist left a plum sized bruise on Tony’s right arm, and despite putting up guard, still swayed him like a tree branch in the wind. 2,3 years ago, Tony, still brutish and reliant on his raw strength and durability in a boxing ring, would have eaten that shot. But the years of perfecting his craft (and getting sick of taking a few too many head busting punches during a workout session)were paying off. His defense was tight; his head bobbing out of the way before hooks and uppercuts could hit the mark, and forearms took jabs and crosses that were meant to bruise and cut his face.
The workout session was almost almost over, and his boxing coach rang the bell at the three minute mark. “Alright, looking sharp, looking sharp! One more drill and…”
POP POP POP! *pause *POP POP!
Those loud, mechanical retorts from a pistol were an all too familiar song serenading Chicago these days. Somebody let off shots on the other side of the gym Tony was using for his training session/photo shoot for the Ring magazine. Everybody hit the deck; reporters and Tony’s corner-men took cover around the ring. Andrev stood there with a bewildered, deer in headlights gaze until Tony threw him down and shouted at him for being oblivious.
“SOMEBODY CALL 911! MAN’S BEEN HIT!”
When Tony heard that over the bedlam, instinct once again kicked in. He slid out of the ring and quickly, carefully, ran to the commotion. A young African American male was fat on his back next to an elliptical bicycle. His breathing was labored, his hands over his lower left chest covered in blood. People were panicking and fumbling around, or worse, filming the shit on their goddamned cameras.
“Get my gloves off!” Tony bellowed. His coach pulled out a box cutter from his pocket and removed them quick and dirty by slicing them off. “Somebody get me a sheet of plastic and some tape, and call EMT’s!”
The panicked gym rats just sat there dumbfounded or filming this for their Instagrams and TikToks. “MOTHERFUCKERS! GET OFF YOUR GODDAMN PHONES UNLESS YOU’RE CALLING 911 AND HELP ME, OR HE'S DEAD!!”
Tariq the gym manager kept his wits about him, and ran to his office. Within seconds, he had Scotch tape and a piece of plastic sheeting used to cover the floor when the office was being painted. There was some paint on the piece, not ideal considering he wanted a sterile piece, but Tony had to make due. 911 in the Chi was sketchy, and the ambulance could arrive in minutes or an hour.
“Tariq, right?” Tony asked the manager. “This is what I need you to do. One a count of three, lift his hands up, and I’m going to slap this plastic on the wound and tape it down so air doesn’t seep in and collapse the lung. You…shit!”
There was blood oozing out of the young man’s shorts. Tony caught the flow in the corner of his eye and pointed at the pool forming around the victim’s hip.
“Somebody grab a towel and put pressure on that leg wound, now!”
There was hesitation at first; most people tend to freeze up during moments like this, but a young local woman, no older than 19, 20, grabbed a handful of clean towels and ran over, as Tony applied tape to the plastic over the gaping chest wound. She was afraid, uncomfortable around blood, but Tony coached her. “I know it’s gross, but you can save this man’s life! Just put as much pressure as you can on the wound.”
The victim tried to talk, but Tony stopped him from wasting effort. “No, don’t say anything, man. Relax, keep your heart rate down.”
One could tell Tony had done this before; he had treated a fair share of wounds back in the day. He sealed the plastic wrap with tape on three sides, leaving the bottom of the wrap unsealed for proper ventilation. Without it, the seal would cause his lung to collapse. They paramedics and doctors would have to deal with the blood pooling in his lungs. Tony was quick and careful, his hands working deftly despite being coated in red and his heart trying to rip itself out of his chest.
The erratic breathing stabilized. “You’re doing great, ma'am! I got this now.” He gently shoved his impromptu medic’s hand off the towels and held the pressure. He heard the siren of an ambulance outside, and it was a beautiful sound.
“You’re gonna make it, kid!” He told the young man on the floor. “Just hang on a few more moments.”
When the EMT’s carted him off, people took pictures of Tony. Some took pictures of him, other offered to buy him a drink or slapped him on the back. A few even called him a hero. That made him uncomfortable.
Since when did trying to do the right thing become something worth tooting your horn about? It should be inherent in people. He said nothing as he walked out the door, and took a ride in the ambulance hauling his patient to South Shore hospital. These emergency workers were the real heroes, just doing their best to keep the chaos to a minimum. He was just there to do what he could.
***
Saturday, UGWC Production Studio.
“My old regiment commander once told us “any asshole that runs around calling himself a hero isn’t one. Real heroes just keep their mouths shut and do their jobs. The other guy, he’s the one that causes more harm than good.” I saw that too often in Afghanistan; fake saviors being obstacles and fucking things up because their ego got in the way of their humanity, and the mission.”
Tony looked ragged, sitting on a bench outside the studio with a cup of coffee in his hand, looking at a bird building a nest in a tree. He hadn’t slept much in the last couple of days; between the shooting, spending much of the night at the hospital and trying to readjust to American time, he was exhausted. He pretty much was running on caffeine and a need to complete the job. His eyes were red, and sleep lines had dug trenches around and under his eyelids. He drank deep from his Starbucks cup, grimacing a bit because his brew was a little too sweet. Admittedly, he put a bit too much sugar in his Americano, but he needed an extra jolt to keep him going.
It wasn’t uncommon for him to go 24, even 48 hours with little sleep anymore. Between being an executive at another wrestling outfit, a dad and husband, and his combat sports schedule, he ran long and grueling hours. That’s the price one paid to be success in this industry; sometimes sleep had to be sacrificed in order to make dreams come true.
“People in this sport have a nasty habit of trying to simplify the complexities of human nature. Every day, I have to witness grown children shoehorn people into boxes they don’t fit in just to "prove" a narrative. You’re either good or evil, loyal or disloyal, with them or against them. Not surprising; this is an industry built on hyperbole, theatrics, and questionable choices in work uniforms. Emotional stimulus and imagery play a huge role in promoting in this sport. The heart overrules the brain, and when people see something loud, slick, and catchy, they tend to latch onto it. Believe a lie to be truth because it’s so big and in their face, they can’t help but be drawn to it.”
“Me, I try to avoid all that these days. Sure, I puff big and bad quite often on screen, but considering the life I’ve led, going hard is the speed I’m used to moving at. It’s taken years and a lot of blood and tears to realise sometimes one has to stop using their heart to think, and start using that other organ a couple feet above it. Lies get you in the show, but the truth keeps you relevant in it. Over time, costumes and gimmickry only carry you so far. Time reveals things about people, no matter how hard they try to hide their flaws and intents.”
“Guys like the Avenger irritate me to no end.” He grumbles, realizing he’s out of coffee after downing his last sip and throwing the cup into a waste bin nearby. “Let’s set aside the fact his whole persona and appearance is cookie cutter and banking on the trend that comics are part of the same food pyramid as wrestling in a mark’s diet. It’s well known the average fan has a stack of back issues to go with the graps for cash figurines. That his whole Caped Crusader schtick is something a dozen or more other motherfuckers every year try to pull of and fail at. Or even his fucking ring moniker is generic and a single letter and apostrophe away from being involved in a trademark infringement lawsuit.”
“The real problem I have with guys like Captain Special Needs is, that mask and cosplay get up of his hides more than just his identity; he uses them as camouflage for his true motivations and nature. From what I’ve seen and heard from him, that little creep is the biggest goddamn hypocritical fraud I’ve witnessed in a long time! And in a decade long career of dealing with dirt-bags, sociopaths, and whatever the hell Johnny Hitmaker is, that says a lot. At least they show some humanity from time to time. Vengy, what do you expect from a knock off of a knock off gimmick? Counterfeit bills tend to not have any value.”
Tony swats a fly away from the bench. He notices a few drops of coffee on his Nike shirt and scowls a bit.
“Don’t believe me, kids, lemme post a question nobody in the U seems to want to ask; what the FUCK has this guy done to make him a hero, huh? Tell me, what?!”
“Oh, he crippled Eden Morgan Baal. Put her on the shelf for a minute. Oooooh, real benefit to humanity that act was, kneecapping a woman out there doing her job. Oh, don’t let the fact Eden and I are friendly to each other online every once in awhile fool ya; there are things about each of us the other doesn’t like. I’ve got no qualms admitting the way she and Gabe do business is janky, but as a real living, breathing human whose got his own questionable past, I can respect the fact she has valid reasons and motives for what she does. I get it, and what she does is no reason to go out of my way to unnecessarily and intentionally maim her.”
“Computer Generated Boy, on the other hand, he didn’t stop to consider for one fucking minute the ramifications of his actions. Didn't stop to calculate in his concussion and Green lantern addled brain his own deedswould be harmful. Nope, numb-nuts in his blind pursuit of his infantile concept of justice went out of his way to excessively wound somebody who had no real beef with him and not feel one bit bad about it. Sloan didn’t ask or demand of him that he take a pound of flesh for what happened to her. She even admitted it was partially her fault, and persuaded Seb not to make it about revenge, but to live well and prosper because THAT is the greatest form of recompense. Thriving when your so-called enemies go out of their way to starve you out.”
“But Vengy just HAD to play the hero.” Tony flatly stated, cutting the tip of a cigar and lighting it with a match. “Vengy just HAD to take on a fight that wasn’t any of his fucking business, and what happened? He got a new shiny, and a mother, wife, and business woman who feeds her people and has provided UGWC with millions in revenue and lifetimes of in-ring memories had her career shorted because this asshole didn’t like the way she did things. His “selfless act” didn’t speed up Sloan’s recovery, didn’t end Incendium, and didn’t make life any better than what it is. All it did was add to his resume. Fucked up part was, he didn’t even apologize for going too far or making her children cry because Mommy is hurt, and can't do what she's devoted a lifetime to doing on canvas.”
“Bra-fucking-vo, you little bitch! Way to make the world a better place.” The sarcasm came out of his mouth as thick as that Montecristo smoke floating in the air. “Or, how about Duncan Ryder? Where was your altruism and sense of decency when the man was on Twitter begging for a decent place to eat and sleep, maybe wash off that road funk and weariness of his? Did you jump up with your hand raise and tell him “I got you, fam!” Nope, your goofy masked mug stood in front of a camera all fucking festival telling people how you’re such a great guy, when you let a fellow wrestling stranded in the heat and sand. It had to be the guy that doesn’t like him to be the one to offer him shelter from the burning sun.”
“Then again, he was a potential threat to you in the tourney, so, how convenient it would have been for you to not have him at optimal conditions if you had to fight him. Leave it to a guy who’s an alleged figment of a nerd’s imagination to show a complete lack of humanity to another person.”
“Hell, the entirety of WrestleStock, you did nothing for anybody but yourself. You didn’t sacrifice time and money to rep your other employers, give them some shine in a spectacle meant to celebrate ALL of wrestling. You didn’t take time away from a camera lens to get to know your coworkers and hear their stories, get a taste their life. Maybe understand why they’re the way they are before you snub and label them. You didn’t spend any sleepless nights figuring out how to keep people employed and safe at a festival. All you did was tell everybody how great you are, while waiving your bony little finger at people like me and say “Tony’s a jerk; he’s what’s wrong with the U.”
“Where’d that get you, bub? Looking like an exponentially bigger douchebag than me, and not even coming close to the success, respect from my peers, and acclaim I acquired in Arizona.” The golden plaque Tony earned for conquering the Districts he pulled out of his gym bag was the forensic evidence that sealed the case for the prosecution.
“And that bullshit moral superiority complex of his, oh, that needs to be addressed. Hate to tell you this, buddy, but that Hall Monitor in a Halloween costume routine of yours is getting on people’s nerves at all frequencies of the moral spectrum. Who the fuck are you to gripe about people doing the wrong thing in the ring when you went out of your way to sideline somebody that didn’t fit your childish, naïve standards? Who are you to tell somebody it’s not alright to demand people bow before them when you expect everybody to act like you? Who are YOU…”His finger shot out in a flash and tapped on the camera lens. “Who are you kidding when you try to lie to people and claim you’re a hero when everything you’ve said and done has been about you…*tap*…you…*tap*…YOU!?!”
He shakes his head, blowing a smoke ring into an already hazy sky. “Sebastian was right about you, hell, he didn’t go far enough in my opinion. You’re past being no better than those nefarious types you claim to protect people from you’re even WORSE than them, because you cloak selfishness, judgment, and hatred for those that you don’t agree with under a persona meant to INSPIRE people to be better than that.”
“Me,*snickers* I’m no hero. I’m no moral beacon or an unrealistic ideal personified into flesh. I’m just a man with flaws, wants and problems that became one of the best in the business. Somebody trying to feed mouths and get my life straight instead of butting my nose into business that isn’t mine and telling others how to live. I’m the guy that isn’t afraid to bear himself and the truths of what I am, instead of tucking it under a costume and using “I’m doing this for your own good” as a smokescreen to conceal your own dysfunctions and self-serving desires. I’m the guy that busts his ass in gyms and booking meetings elevating my craft while you putz around with losers and yes men living life like it was a role-playing game.”
“And COME FIGHT NIGHT, I’m the guy under the hot lights that’s going to pull your cape over your head like a hockey jersey and beat your ass for fronting like you’re anything but another gimmick rider conducting himself like the very thing you proclaim to hate; an narcissistic, bigoted, childish shit that just wants his shine like the rest of us. Because in the end, real skill, toughness, and dedication tends to beat out theatrics and bullshit once that bell rings.”
He can’t finish his stogie; the taste he gets talking about Avenger in his mouth ruins the flavor. He snubs the smoke out, throwing it away when it stops smoldering. “There are very few true heroes or villains in this life nor industry, Vengy. Just people that are human, or toy marketing ploys and cookie cutter dip-shits like you. Little word of advice, He Who Exists On a Hard-Drive; quit acting like you’re a superhuman. You’re dog-shit at it. Hell…”
“You’re not a very good straight up human being to begin with!”
***
Epilogue, South Shore Hospital, Chicago
11:05 P.M. CST
“Mr. Savage?”
Tony stayed in that E.R. waiting room for nearly 6 hours, because nobody else was there for the kid. The young man was named Titus Carpenter, a promising 18 year old boxing prospect from the West Garfield neighborhood, a place notorious for high crime and gang activity. The kid wasn’t with any of that, though. He left a bad home at 16 and made himself, graduating high school, working at a meat packing plant and training for his professional boxing debut in a few months without much help. The other man who was hit, the one Chicago P.D. suspected was the target of that assault, was a 19 year old gang member and supposed friend, who ran out of there as soon as he was hit, leaving his “boy” to catch a few stray rounds meant for him. The police still had no idea where the second victim was.
Tony had to dump his boxing trunks in a waste bag due to the blood on them. The hospital lent him some scrubs and had him shower off before they took tests to make sure he didn’t get infected with anything from contact with blood. He paced the waiting room, wired off coffee and nerves before the doctor, a tall Latina still in surgical scrubs stained in blood and sterile cap named Marisol Areno, came out to talk to him.
“How is he, Doc?”
She looked just as worn as Tony. E.R. doctors in South Side Chicago deal with a lot of bad shit everyday. The five hours of surgery she conducted was part of a 24 hour shift she ran because the place was a bit short staffed.
“His leg injury was easy enough to treat; he should recover fine on that end. The G.S.W. (Gun Shot Wound) to his chest…”
Her tone sounded ominous at first, but she flashed an uneasy smile. “He’ll be on a respirator for quite some time, and it’ll be months before Mr. Carpenter will breathe normally again, if ever. We’re not sure at this point if he’ll regain full cardiovascular function; that wound cause significant damage to his lung tissue. He’s still critical but stable…”
She could tell Tony was getting anxious, so long story short mode. “Myself and Dr. Tsang give him an 80% chance of survival. If you hadn’t administered first aid like you did, there’s a good chance he might not have made it.”
The sigh of relief from Tony sounded like a gust. His heart rate lowered, and for the first time since this afternoon, he smiled.
“You did great today, Tony. That man’s going to live because of you. You’re a hero today!”
His smile disappeared. Hero. He hated that term. So overused. So not him.
“Is that all, Doc? No offense, if there’s nothing here left I can do, I need to go back to my hotel room. I’m hungry. Call or text me if anything happens. I’ll try to visit tomorrow if I have time.”
That was bullshit; he was going to be there no matter how much shuffling he had to do with his itinerary. He just felt out of sorts being labeled that. To him, heroes were people like the Doc, or the cops and EMT’s who legit sacrificed their time and risked their lives and sanity with very little thanks, nor real desire to go around running that fact in people’s faces.
He shuffled out of the E.R. lobby to the parking lot, and slumped in the driver's seat of his rental BMW.
There were enough alleged saints, superheroes, and “good guys” running around in his line of work, and most of them were shit at their jobs.
For all his faults, all Tony could claim is that once in a minute, he can be a decent man that gives a damn about people, even if they didn’t deserve it.
The industry could use more decent humans; these cats running around with utility belts claiming they’re super…
Most of the time, they’re anything BUT that!
4:37 P.M CST
August 6th
They gave the drill Tony was practicing in the ring a menacing and accurate nomiker: headhunting!
“Keep the arms up, watch his shoulder. That’s where the punches come from!”His boxing coached instructed over the clamor of reporters, photographers, and gym patrons. He was prepping for his Aug. 28th WBC debut, and a chance for some promoting never escapes the brawling businessman.
Under normal conditions, sparring practices were operated with safety protocols in place. Both fighters wore pads and protective gear to prevent unnecessary injury. But in headhunting drills, the safety net for one fighters was yanked from under their feet, and they walked on a tightrope over nothing but hard, unforgiving ground.
Tony Savage and his camp developed this drill specifically to help him deal with a pesky problem of poor defense in the ring.5 3 minute rounds where his training partner had all the padding, and could throw anything they wanted at him. On the other hand, Tony had nothing but his cup and waist protector on. His head and torso were un-shielded from impact, and he was NOT permitted to punch back. This was a drill meant to instill proper mechanics in the ring. Protect yourself at all times, or…
“Shit!”
That was close. This bear of a Russian named Andrev almost decapitated Tony with a left hook, a battering ram of a shot Savage blocked within nanoseconds of impact. That brick attached to a wrist left a plum sized bruise on Tony’s right arm, and despite putting up guard, still swayed him like a tree branch in the wind. 2,3 years ago, Tony, still brutish and reliant on his raw strength and durability in a boxing ring, would have eaten that shot. But the years of perfecting his craft (and getting sick of taking a few too many head busting punches during a workout session)were paying off. His defense was tight; his head bobbing out of the way before hooks and uppercuts could hit the mark, and forearms took jabs and crosses that were meant to bruise and cut his face.
The workout session was almost almost over, and his boxing coach rang the bell at the three minute mark. “Alright, looking sharp, looking sharp! One more drill and…”
POP POP POP! *pause *POP POP!
Those loud, mechanical retorts from a pistol were an all too familiar song serenading Chicago these days. Somebody let off shots on the other side of the gym Tony was using for his training session/photo shoot for the Ring magazine. Everybody hit the deck; reporters and Tony’s corner-men took cover around the ring. Andrev stood there with a bewildered, deer in headlights gaze until Tony threw him down and shouted at him for being oblivious.
“SOMEBODY CALL 911! MAN’S BEEN HIT!”
When Tony heard that over the bedlam, instinct once again kicked in. He slid out of the ring and quickly, carefully, ran to the commotion. A young African American male was fat on his back next to an elliptical bicycle. His breathing was labored, his hands over his lower left chest covered in blood. People were panicking and fumbling around, or worse, filming the shit on their goddamned cameras.
“Get my gloves off!” Tony bellowed. His coach pulled out a box cutter from his pocket and removed them quick and dirty by slicing them off. “Somebody get me a sheet of plastic and some tape, and call EMT’s!”
The panicked gym rats just sat there dumbfounded or filming this for their Instagrams and TikToks. “MOTHERFUCKERS! GET OFF YOUR GODDAMN PHONES UNLESS YOU’RE CALLING 911 AND HELP ME, OR HE'S DEAD!!”
Tariq the gym manager kept his wits about him, and ran to his office. Within seconds, he had Scotch tape and a piece of plastic sheeting used to cover the floor when the office was being painted. There was some paint on the piece, not ideal considering he wanted a sterile piece, but Tony had to make due. 911 in the Chi was sketchy, and the ambulance could arrive in minutes or an hour.
“Tariq, right?” Tony asked the manager. “This is what I need you to do. One a count of three, lift his hands up, and I’m going to slap this plastic on the wound and tape it down so air doesn’t seep in and collapse the lung. You…shit!”
There was blood oozing out of the young man’s shorts. Tony caught the flow in the corner of his eye and pointed at the pool forming around the victim’s hip.
“Somebody grab a towel and put pressure on that leg wound, now!”
There was hesitation at first; most people tend to freeze up during moments like this, but a young local woman, no older than 19, 20, grabbed a handful of clean towels and ran over, as Tony applied tape to the plastic over the gaping chest wound. She was afraid, uncomfortable around blood, but Tony coached her. “I know it’s gross, but you can save this man’s life! Just put as much pressure as you can on the wound.”
The victim tried to talk, but Tony stopped him from wasting effort. “No, don’t say anything, man. Relax, keep your heart rate down.”
One could tell Tony had done this before; he had treated a fair share of wounds back in the day. He sealed the plastic wrap with tape on three sides, leaving the bottom of the wrap unsealed for proper ventilation. Without it, the seal would cause his lung to collapse. They paramedics and doctors would have to deal with the blood pooling in his lungs. Tony was quick and careful, his hands working deftly despite being coated in red and his heart trying to rip itself out of his chest.
The erratic breathing stabilized. “You’re doing great, ma'am! I got this now.” He gently shoved his impromptu medic’s hand off the towels and held the pressure. He heard the siren of an ambulance outside, and it was a beautiful sound.
“You’re gonna make it, kid!” He told the young man on the floor. “Just hang on a few more moments.”
When the EMT’s carted him off, people took pictures of Tony. Some took pictures of him, other offered to buy him a drink or slapped him on the back. A few even called him a hero. That made him uncomfortable.
Since when did trying to do the right thing become something worth tooting your horn about? It should be inherent in people. He said nothing as he walked out the door, and took a ride in the ambulance hauling his patient to South Shore hospital. These emergency workers were the real heroes, just doing their best to keep the chaos to a minimum. He was just there to do what he could.
***
Saturday, UGWC Production Studio.
“My old regiment commander once told us “any asshole that runs around calling himself a hero isn’t one. Real heroes just keep their mouths shut and do their jobs. The other guy, he’s the one that causes more harm than good.” I saw that too often in Afghanistan; fake saviors being obstacles and fucking things up because their ego got in the way of their humanity, and the mission.”
Tony looked ragged, sitting on a bench outside the studio with a cup of coffee in his hand, looking at a bird building a nest in a tree. He hadn’t slept much in the last couple of days; between the shooting, spending much of the night at the hospital and trying to readjust to American time, he was exhausted. He pretty much was running on caffeine and a need to complete the job. His eyes were red, and sleep lines had dug trenches around and under his eyelids. He drank deep from his Starbucks cup, grimacing a bit because his brew was a little too sweet. Admittedly, he put a bit too much sugar in his Americano, but he needed an extra jolt to keep him going.
It wasn’t uncommon for him to go 24, even 48 hours with little sleep anymore. Between being an executive at another wrestling outfit, a dad and husband, and his combat sports schedule, he ran long and grueling hours. That’s the price one paid to be success in this industry; sometimes sleep had to be sacrificed in order to make dreams come true.
“People in this sport have a nasty habit of trying to simplify the complexities of human nature. Every day, I have to witness grown children shoehorn people into boxes they don’t fit in just to "prove" a narrative. You’re either good or evil, loyal or disloyal, with them or against them. Not surprising; this is an industry built on hyperbole, theatrics, and questionable choices in work uniforms. Emotional stimulus and imagery play a huge role in promoting in this sport. The heart overrules the brain, and when people see something loud, slick, and catchy, they tend to latch onto it. Believe a lie to be truth because it’s so big and in their face, they can’t help but be drawn to it.”
“Me, I try to avoid all that these days. Sure, I puff big and bad quite often on screen, but considering the life I’ve led, going hard is the speed I’m used to moving at. It’s taken years and a lot of blood and tears to realise sometimes one has to stop using their heart to think, and start using that other organ a couple feet above it. Lies get you in the show, but the truth keeps you relevant in it. Over time, costumes and gimmickry only carry you so far. Time reveals things about people, no matter how hard they try to hide their flaws and intents.”
“Guys like the Avenger irritate me to no end.” He grumbles, realizing he’s out of coffee after downing his last sip and throwing the cup into a waste bin nearby. “Let’s set aside the fact his whole persona and appearance is cookie cutter and banking on the trend that comics are part of the same food pyramid as wrestling in a mark’s diet. It’s well known the average fan has a stack of back issues to go with the graps for cash figurines. That his whole Caped Crusader schtick is something a dozen or more other motherfuckers every year try to pull of and fail at. Or even his fucking ring moniker is generic and a single letter and apostrophe away from being involved in a trademark infringement lawsuit.”
“The real problem I have with guys like Captain Special Needs is, that mask and cosplay get up of his hides more than just his identity; he uses them as camouflage for his true motivations and nature. From what I’ve seen and heard from him, that little creep is the biggest goddamn hypocritical fraud I’ve witnessed in a long time! And in a decade long career of dealing with dirt-bags, sociopaths, and whatever the hell Johnny Hitmaker is, that says a lot. At least they show some humanity from time to time. Vengy, what do you expect from a knock off of a knock off gimmick? Counterfeit bills tend to not have any value.”
Tony swats a fly away from the bench. He notices a few drops of coffee on his Nike shirt and scowls a bit.
“Don’t believe me, kids, lemme post a question nobody in the U seems to want to ask; what the FUCK has this guy done to make him a hero, huh? Tell me, what?!”
“Oh, he crippled Eden Morgan Baal. Put her on the shelf for a minute. Oooooh, real benefit to humanity that act was, kneecapping a woman out there doing her job. Oh, don’t let the fact Eden and I are friendly to each other online every once in awhile fool ya; there are things about each of us the other doesn’t like. I’ve got no qualms admitting the way she and Gabe do business is janky, but as a real living, breathing human whose got his own questionable past, I can respect the fact she has valid reasons and motives for what she does. I get it, and what she does is no reason to go out of my way to unnecessarily and intentionally maim her.”
“Computer Generated Boy, on the other hand, he didn’t stop to consider for one fucking minute the ramifications of his actions. Didn't stop to calculate in his concussion and Green lantern addled brain his own deedswould be harmful. Nope, numb-nuts in his blind pursuit of his infantile concept of justice went out of his way to excessively wound somebody who had no real beef with him and not feel one bit bad about it. Sloan didn’t ask or demand of him that he take a pound of flesh for what happened to her. She even admitted it was partially her fault, and persuaded Seb not to make it about revenge, but to live well and prosper because THAT is the greatest form of recompense. Thriving when your so-called enemies go out of their way to starve you out.”
“But Vengy just HAD to play the hero.” Tony flatly stated, cutting the tip of a cigar and lighting it with a match. “Vengy just HAD to take on a fight that wasn’t any of his fucking business, and what happened? He got a new shiny, and a mother, wife, and business woman who feeds her people and has provided UGWC with millions in revenue and lifetimes of in-ring memories had her career shorted because this asshole didn’t like the way she did things. His “selfless act” didn’t speed up Sloan’s recovery, didn’t end Incendium, and didn’t make life any better than what it is. All it did was add to his resume. Fucked up part was, he didn’t even apologize for going too far or making her children cry because Mommy is hurt, and can't do what she's devoted a lifetime to doing on canvas.”
“Bra-fucking-vo, you little bitch! Way to make the world a better place.” The sarcasm came out of his mouth as thick as that Montecristo smoke floating in the air. “Or, how about Duncan Ryder? Where was your altruism and sense of decency when the man was on Twitter begging for a decent place to eat and sleep, maybe wash off that road funk and weariness of his? Did you jump up with your hand raise and tell him “I got you, fam!” Nope, your goofy masked mug stood in front of a camera all fucking festival telling people how you’re such a great guy, when you let a fellow wrestling stranded in the heat and sand. It had to be the guy that doesn’t like him to be the one to offer him shelter from the burning sun.”
“Then again, he was a potential threat to you in the tourney, so, how convenient it would have been for you to not have him at optimal conditions if you had to fight him. Leave it to a guy who’s an alleged figment of a nerd’s imagination to show a complete lack of humanity to another person.”
“Hell, the entirety of WrestleStock, you did nothing for anybody but yourself. You didn’t sacrifice time and money to rep your other employers, give them some shine in a spectacle meant to celebrate ALL of wrestling. You didn’t take time away from a camera lens to get to know your coworkers and hear their stories, get a taste their life. Maybe understand why they’re the way they are before you snub and label them. You didn’t spend any sleepless nights figuring out how to keep people employed and safe at a festival. All you did was tell everybody how great you are, while waiving your bony little finger at people like me and say “Tony’s a jerk; he’s what’s wrong with the U.”
“Where’d that get you, bub? Looking like an exponentially bigger douchebag than me, and not even coming close to the success, respect from my peers, and acclaim I acquired in Arizona.” The golden plaque Tony earned for conquering the Districts he pulled out of his gym bag was the forensic evidence that sealed the case for the prosecution.
“And that bullshit moral superiority complex of his, oh, that needs to be addressed. Hate to tell you this, buddy, but that Hall Monitor in a Halloween costume routine of yours is getting on people’s nerves at all frequencies of the moral spectrum. Who the fuck are you to gripe about people doing the wrong thing in the ring when you went out of your way to sideline somebody that didn’t fit your childish, naïve standards? Who are you to tell somebody it’s not alright to demand people bow before them when you expect everybody to act like you? Who are YOU…”His finger shot out in a flash and tapped on the camera lens. “Who are you kidding when you try to lie to people and claim you’re a hero when everything you’ve said and done has been about you…*tap*…you…*tap*…YOU!?!”
He shakes his head, blowing a smoke ring into an already hazy sky. “Sebastian was right about you, hell, he didn’t go far enough in my opinion. You’re past being no better than those nefarious types you claim to protect people from you’re even WORSE than them, because you cloak selfishness, judgment, and hatred for those that you don’t agree with under a persona meant to INSPIRE people to be better than that.”
“Me,*snickers* I’m no hero. I’m no moral beacon or an unrealistic ideal personified into flesh. I’m just a man with flaws, wants and problems that became one of the best in the business. Somebody trying to feed mouths and get my life straight instead of butting my nose into business that isn’t mine and telling others how to live. I’m the guy that isn’t afraid to bear himself and the truths of what I am, instead of tucking it under a costume and using “I’m doing this for your own good” as a smokescreen to conceal your own dysfunctions and self-serving desires. I’m the guy that busts his ass in gyms and booking meetings elevating my craft while you putz around with losers and yes men living life like it was a role-playing game.”
“And COME FIGHT NIGHT, I’m the guy under the hot lights that’s going to pull your cape over your head like a hockey jersey and beat your ass for fronting like you’re anything but another gimmick rider conducting himself like the very thing you proclaim to hate; an narcissistic, bigoted, childish shit that just wants his shine like the rest of us. Because in the end, real skill, toughness, and dedication tends to beat out theatrics and bullshit once that bell rings.”
He can’t finish his stogie; the taste he gets talking about Avenger in his mouth ruins the flavor. He snubs the smoke out, throwing it away when it stops smoldering. “There are very few true heroes or villains in this life nor industry, Vengy. Just people that are human, or toy marketing ploys and cookie cutter dip-shits like you. Little word of advice, He Who Exists On a Hard-Drive; quit acting like you’re a superhuman. You’re dog-shit at it. Hell…”
“You’re not a very good straight up human being to begin with!”
***
Epilogue, South Shore Hospital, Chicago
11:05 P.M. CST
“Mr. Savage?”
Tony stayed in that E.R. waiting room for nearly 6 hours, because nobody else was there for the kid. The young man was named Titus Carpenter, a promising 18 year old boxing prospect from the West Garfield neighborhood, a place notorious for high crime and gang activity. The kid wasn’t with any of that, though. He left a bad home at 16 and made himself, graduating high school, working at a meat packing plant and training for his professional boxing debut in a few months without much help. The other man who was hit, the one Chicago P.D. suspected was the target of that assault, was a 19 year old gang member and supposed friend, who ran out of there as soon as he was hit, leaving his “boy” to catch a few stray rounds meant for him. The police still had no idea where the second victim was.
Tony had to dump his boxing trunks in a waste bag due to the blood on them. The hospital lent him some scrubs and had him shower off before they took tests to make sure he didn’t get infected with anything from contact with blood. He paced the waiting room, wired off coffee and nerves before the doctor, a tall Latina still in surgical scrubs stained in blood and sterile cap named Marisol Areno, came out to talk to him.
“How is he, Doc?”
She looked just as worn as Tony. E.R. doctors in South Side Chicago deal with a lot of bad shit everyday. The five hours of surgery she conducted was part of a 24 hour shift she ran because the place was a bit short staffed.
“His leg injury was easy enough to treat; he should recover fine on that end. The G.S.W. (Gun Shot Wound) to his chest…”
Her tone sounded ominous at first, but she flashed an uneasy smile. “He’ll be on a respirator for quite some time, and it’ll be months before Mr. Carpenter will breathe normally again, if ever. We’re not sure at this point if he’ll regain full cardiovascular function; that wound cause significant damage to his lung tissue. He’s still critical but stable…”
She could tell Tony was getting anxious, so long story short mode. “Myself and Dr. Tsang give him an 80% chance of survival. If you hadn’t administered first aid like you did, there’s a good chance he might not have made it.”
The sigh of relief from Tony sounded like a gust. His heart rate lowered, and for the first time since this afternoon, he smiled.
“You did great today, Tony. That man’s going to live because of you. You’re a hero today!”
His smile disappeared. Hero. He hated that term. So overused. So not him.
“Is that all, Doc? No offense, if there’s nothing here left I can do, I need to go back to my hotel room. I’m hungry. Call or text me if anything happens. I’ll try to visit tomorrow if I have time.”
That was bullshit; he was going to be there no matter how much shuffling he had to do with his itinerary. He just felt out of sorts being labeled that. To him, heroes were people like the Doc, or the cops and EMT’s who legit sacrificed their time and risked their lives and sanity with very little thanks, nor real desire to go around running that fact in people’s faces.
He shuffled out of the E.R. lobby to the parking lot, and slumped in the driver's seat of his rental BMW.
There were enough alleged saints, superheroes, and “good guys” running around in his line of work, and most of them were shit at their jobs.
For all his faults, all Tony could claim is that once in a minute, he can be a decent man that gives a damn about people, even if they didn’t deserve it.
The industry could use more decent humans; these cats running around with utility belts claiming they’re super…
Most of the time, they’re anything BUT that!
