Post by Max Ironside on Sept 27, 2020 20:16:41 GMT -5
“Strange, I thought, how you can be living your dreams
and your nightmares at the very same time.”
and your nightmares at the very same time.”
― Ransom Riggs, Hollow City
His throat hurt like hell – he'd had nightmares again, had seen the face of Hell's Favourite Harlot in his mind for so many nights that he'd started to think he needed to see a professional about it. A dull ache in the back of his head had become a sort of constant companion these days but he always forced a smile and got to work – the sleep paralysis demon could get fucked for all he cared. Priscilla had begat Coral Rose and now it had gone from the orange-haired succubus to the pink-haired cunt whispering awful things in his ears. He couldn't NOT hear the things, as much as he tried.
"You're up early," his wife murmured, startling him so much he almost yelped. She lifted her head and pushing the hair from her eyes. He was lucky that she slept as hard as she did.
"Bad dream," he muttered, stumbling out of the bed, feeling weak and exhausted. The window was wide open, a cool fall breeze filling the room and he shivered as the sweat on his skin turned to ice. "Go back to sleep, Bunny. It's fine. I just need a drink of water. Maybe some Tylenol."
The whole bottle wouldn't be enough to fix all the things that hurt.
"Come back to bed?" Rayna already sounded like she was about to drift off again.
"Maybe in a little while," he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. "I'm gonna just record a little thing for Alpha Pro."
Max Ironside
I've been awake for two hours. Finally gave up on the prospect of sleep and figured I may as well do one of these things – it's been a hot minute, hasn't it? It's funny how time gets away from you though, isn't it? Funny how much you can dupe yourself if you really put your mind to it.
He sighs.
Max Ironside
See, I woke up this morning with that leaden certainty that things could (and very likely WILL) get worse before they ever get better. I walked out on Alberta Wrestling and the critics were harsh. They called me a chickenshit. Called me a sore loser. Called me a joke. And that's fine. They weren't there. They didn't have to endure the humiliation and degradation. They didn't have to watch absolute trash like Orange Cassidy and Priscilla Kelly steal the spotlight. Hell, even Raging Dead... God rest his soul... bailed on the shithole before he passed on.
He lifts his good hand, rubbing his eye for a moment.
Max Ironside
I took a few weeks to heal up after the assault at their final show and then I returned to the ring for Overpowered Wrestling. Why am I telling you all of this? Patience, please. It will all make sense in the end, I promise. So, I went back to Christian Kincaid's company and I was stoked to be welcomed back with open arms. I booked some airtime so I could connect with the people. So, I could apologize for disappearing in such a random way because they deserved much better than my cowardice. I got to say maybe ten words of that planned speech before my moment was crashed by Coral Rose. I don't expect anyone in this circle to know who she is but we shared a locker room in Defiant Wrestling years ago. We often chatted backstage. I mistook that for a friendship – allowed myself to be fooled, I suppose. She came out and ripped me apart. Said I was worthless. Said the only emotion I ever evoked in her was pity and she just couldn't bring herself to fake friendliness any longer. She said she needed to save the fans from me, as if I've ever done anything untoward? Sorry. I'm not James Ceno, for pity's sake! Save them from being bored to death? Save them from having to feel sorry for me? I don't know. She never really explained that part of it.
His voice shakes but he manages to keep himself from breaking down.
Max Ironside
She kept at me, week in and week out until a match was scheduled and I thought that would be the end of it. I thought she'd get it out of her system and find someone else to play her Mean Girl games with.
He blinks and shrugs.
Max Ironside
Yeah. Wrong again. I lost a match on Friday night because I let her distract me when she came out to hassle my manager. I let myself get caught up in the moment, let myself get drawn into the quicksand and now the more I flail, the deeper I sink. I'm facing a giantess and a man who speaks in Wingdings – things will only get worse, you see. I can see the clouds rolling in, threatening on the horizon and while I never really fancied myself as a fortune-teller swindling marks for their last twenty dollars whilst peering into the murky depths of my crystal ball, I can't keep the words and thoughts to myself. I won't walk out of World War Wrestling with my hand raised in victory. I mean, I didn't read my tea leaves this morning or check the alignment of the moon and stars… so there may be a slim chance I'm wrong.
He rolls his eyes.
Max Ironside
I might be "broken", but I'm not that big of a crackpot.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
Max Ironside
I've always had to work harder. I don't expect anyone to give me props or a medal for that. I don't expect anyone to care any more than I need someone to ruffle my hair, pat me on the head and tell me it'll all be okay. The self-doubt is a constant. The more time invested in this business, the more times I reach for the opportunities only to be denied, the more I hate myself. Does that make sense? Maybe not. I just don't have the ego, that giant zoot suit of confidence I can don before I get up on the rooftops and crow. No. I wear my inadequacy out in the open.
He rolls the wrist of his bad hand, sighing.
Max Ironside
The bullshit meter isn't running today, but if it were, it would bottom out. I feel like stripping this down. No smiles for the camera, no careful mask of perfection. No Hollow-wood bullshit. Fuck that. I'm not trolling for pity. I'm not asking for a handout. I'd just like to have a moment where I'm seen as an equal rather than some sideshow commodity – fuck you, Barnum. Seriously. Fuck. You.
Max Ironside
So, here's some truth: I know I can never be the "future of this business". I know there are companies who will never hire me, who see me as nothing more than a joke. I've heard the critics who say I kill the believability worse than chicks fighting dudes – fuck you too, Cornette. I'm very much aware that I'm not the future. I'll likely never hold championship gold. It's fine. I'm the guy who lives my dream and lies to myself that it's not a nightmare, that it's not eroding me a little bit each time I lace up my boots. I have no clue how I got here, or what to do next. You heard me: I don't know anymore. I don't know who I am. I have no idea why there are people who see me as a hero, as a role model… why there's this huge disparity. Maybe that's pity, too. Maybe that's the crux of it all. Maybe I'm never going to be anything more than that. I should let ❄︎❒︎♋︎❖︎♓︎⬧︎ just kill me and get it over with. Cast off the pain and the angst and all of that – I'd have earned the pity then, right? Broken for a cause. Go out with a bang. Sounds like a hell of a plan.
He gets up, shaking his head and reaches for the phone this is obviously being recorded on, his last words nothing more than a mumble under his breath, unfortunately captured and sent out into the aether of the Internet.
Max Ironside
...I can't fucking do this anymore.
