Plettet Sjel Chapter II: Balfores Paradox
Mar 21, 2020 12:36:41 GMT -5
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Post by Odin Balfore on Mar 21, 2020 12:36:41 GMT -5
In this - these trying times of Corona, of COVID-19, that dank and dirty Wuhan Massacre people often do crazy things. I’ve seen it all my life. Up and down this country, dissension, desolation and desperation were ripe and ready to boil over. The world is ready to eat itself. COVID19 is just the seasoning that it needed. Preheat the oven to 2020, 3 months and then dig right in. They start at the fingers and the wrist. They start with the one thing they need to keep feeding themselves. And here I was rolling right along through it. We didn't know this was coming on the scale of which it is but people have put themselves on a collision course of certain impact. Take Alpha Pro Wrestling for example and the world champion that deems himself on the level of the living legend. These are musing of a child, reading themselves fantasies of Middle Earth, where in fact they would be the hero. MT. Doom, Everest - whatever you want to call it, it all looks climbable; until you get to the top. Let me be clear Smith Jones:
You stand atop a pebble.
There are those in your company right now - gunning for your title who don’t even know you’re the champion. They don’t know your name and they don’t know what you’re about. However, everyone knows who I am. Ignorance, foolishness and bravado blind those who don’t want to admit it to themselves- yes even you. You want me to beat you. You want me to make you famous. Because you can't do it yourself. Now ain't that a crying shame.
Hark the heavens, the angels sing. Sing to about whom? Not you. Sing to who: Nobody.
You stand in grand ego because you have no other recourse; none that would paint you in a positive light. Atomic nuclear fallout couldn't make you look appealing by comparison.
And I’m just being honest. That is, after-all, what everybody wants. They want me to try. They want me to be hungry.
They want the legends to be true and yet not at all.
It’s a paradox. You want the legend to be true to validate your fears but in turn, you don’t because you know that when you’re faced with it you won’t be able to overcome it.
Balfores Paradox. To be the legend and yet, not one at all.
Smith Jones, remember everything you say about me and everything you heard about me. Because the legends are true and I’m coming for you and your partner. Two shitty architects that couldn't use a plum bob to save their fucking lives. Keep it level but you can't. You don’t know how. It’s fine. The Enforcers will make quick work of you.
Because legends are indestructible.
____________________________________
I had made my way down from Utah to Philly. The show was in Hershey but there was something I needed here. Everythings closed, shuttered and barred. A Ghost Town and this Outlaw had just rumbled in. The Ape Hangers, the Screaming Eagle 131 engine; the black and blue paint with frost trim. It was the only thing on the deserted road. No one was on the streets. Everyone was inside but you could feel the heat, pent up anger and pulsing music. The life blood of the city was on life support because of the virus. Funny how when things get more chaotic, everything becomes clear. Freedom is an illusion. Maybe Zombie McMorris was right. All I knew is that I had to get to the Philly Gas Works. I had a feeling this was a lot bigger than WALTER.
The engine of my bike screamed and howled as I cruised towards the Gas Works in the midnight hour. I was looking for an old friend, Lafontaine. He ran a seedy nightclub that was disguised as just another abandoned part of the building. A Bastard's work is never done and neither is an Outlaws. When I arrived, my watch read half past two. Walking in a side door, the warehouse echoed with an empty pain. It rattled and shook in the wind, pretending to be monstrous to ward off any who would come by. When I got to the door, I was met with a scowling face.
“Brickson?” I asked. “ What the hell are you doing here. I thought you were in Cali?” Brickson, was a 6 foot 8 bouncer and built like a brick shit house. I guess his mama knew he’d grow up like this.
“Been back like eight months. I was getting homesick. Good thing, too. Everything shut down. If I was at any other club, I’d be outta work.”
“At least you're still getting paid. Is Lafontaine here?”
“He’s gotta be in the back somewhere. What brings you around.” He asks.
“Nothing good” I reply, patting the bulge of my gun underneath my coat.
“I hear that. Never is this line of work.”
“You mean our line of work?”
“You’re back?” He asked with a bewildered look on his face, tilting his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose. “Shee-it. Lifes a mother fuckah, aint it.”
“I’m gonna head inside. It was good seeing you Brickson. Tell your dad I said hello.”
“Absolute. No doubt. You do the same.”
I gave Brickson a passing glare and gentle nod in the negative and make my way inside.
The club was dark with only little candles at the tables. The bar was back lit to show stock and nothing else. It was one of those swingers clubs; studio 54 came back to life. Even with the travel ban and the ‘social distancing’ the club still had people. These were rich upper class types. CEOs, socialites and the dirty capitalist underbelly where I used to work, all gathered to enjoy themselves away from that corporate lifestyle. Tommy Lafontaine was my contact when I used to work on the East Coast. I took a seat in a booth by myself, away from everyone else. When the waitress came by I ordered a whiskey on the rocks and just absorbed the atmosphere, allowing faded memories to breathe new life and restore some color. I used the whiskey and pills to suppress them. Now, they were going to be the adrenaline shot to bring them all back.
[ Flash back to a younger Odin Balfore sitting in this exact spot having an unheard conversation. ]
[ To him crushing pills in his hand and snorting them off his palm. ]
They say that wrestling stays with you always; that it’s the hardest business to get out of. Yet here I was, retracing and reliving my steps.
“Balfore. It’s been a long time.” I’m snapped back to reality by the rapping of knuckles on the table and the shifting booth cushion. It was Tommy. He was short and grey with deep pitted scars on his face yet his smile told me that he was glad to see me.
“Twelve years, has it? Picked up some solid wrestling gigs and suddenly you’re too good for your old friend, Tommy?” Tommy Cracked a broken toothed smile and patted me on the shoulder. “ Its good to see youm even with the world actually going to shit this time. What brings you back here?”
After taking a long sip of my drink I give him the answer. “ Life. You know how this goes. You can never get away no matter how far you get.”
“Yah Mav’, I know. Something big must have happened for you to come all the way back here.”
“Is my account still open?”
“No. We closed that out like 8 years ago. Its probably sitting in Records.”
“I need my coins.” I say, rather bluntly, continuing to sip my drink.
“I don’t think I have them. If anything they’re in the Coal Mine but I’ll go check.” Tommy pats me on the shoulder again as he leaves the table and I watch the bestial and generative nature of society.
Architects, look around. You both long for control and take it in whatever benign forms you find. You long for it because its something neither one of you actually had to begin with. From being at the ‘ top of the mountain’ and thinking you’re in control of APW or this match, for that matter to even the sexual desires of your ‘loved ones.’ Both of you want to play this game of stop and go. Red light and green light. Damon, you play that game with your partner knowing that the red light will ever happen because you know that he never wants to disappoint you. In this, you are a child handed fake keys to the car so that you can pretend. Neither one of you has control or authority. Especially over me or Richards. Hell, Smith was green lighting his own butt fucking in his own promo because he doesn't understand concepts, continuity or even what that gold me on his shoulder. And sure, you’ll fight each other for that world title and it’ll be awkward. One of you is going to lose and that’ll cause problems but for who? Smith Jones loses his seat of power and that pebble turns to silica dust or for Damon who realizes that he’s never in real control of anything, much less his own life. Much less anyone else's. However, before all this you’re going to team up with the power of friendship and defeat me. Yah, I’ve heard that all before. I know that you’re waiting for this hero and icon to mellow with age but I’m no hero. I’m an outlaw. I’m a Maverick. I’m a Plettet Sjel, a tainted soul and I continue my journey in wrestling despite all my accolades because I’m Smaug. I sit on a horde of treasures that as hard as you try, you cannot attain or even steal from me. The fact is that you cannot make the world forget about me, as much as you try. However, deep down, you know that I can erase your anemic legacies in this company. No ones going to know your names and no one is going to care and that bothers you because that's everyone's goal in this business to be remembered. However, mine is one of the few that can never be forgotten. So come on, Architects. Build yourselves a legacy.. If you fucking can. All I know is that the Enforcers are going to smash you to pieces and no one will remember we beat you for the tag team titles. I would tell you to rise against but by the looks of it, neither of you know how to fucking stand. I’m going to fucking break the both of you. It’s going to hurt. It won’t last long and yet it will last forever. Nothing and nobody will stand in my way… from being a champion… for dominating… for being Odin fucking Balfore. I’m coming for both of you and Ragnarok is in my wake.
So I have spoken.. So it shall come to pass.
