Post by "Mr. Showtime" Johnny Holliday on Oct 20, 2010 17:33:27 GMT -6
The following supposed 'last words' of “Mr. Showtime” Johnny Holliday as he enters his supposed 'execution' at Road to the Gold Pay-Per-View this Sunday is brought to you by...
The Rat Pack.
The Rat Pack: Don't troll us. We'll troll you.
And now, for the actual logo...because we have that kind of ego...and we're that classy...and...oh, to hell with it, when you become big in the industry, and not just one specific company, you can do this too.
[/i]The Rat Pack.
The Rat Pack: Don't troll us. We'll troll you.
And now, for the actual logo...because we have that kind of ego...and we're that classy...and...oh, to hell with it, when you become big in the industry, and not just one specific company, you can do this too.
* * *
“The greater difficulty, the more glory in surmounting it. Skillful pilots gain their reputation from storms and tempests.” - Epicurus
Ah, yes. The underdog position. I know thee well. You stuck to me like flies on sh*t for nearly eight years. Las Vegas odds, dirtsheets, armchairs critics...always going on about how Johnny Holliday would get squashed. Yet, everytime...every single time, Johnny Holliday got one up.
Was that luck?
Maybe the first one or two times.
But how about the next fifty or so times? It's hard to attribute something to luck if something KEEPS happening and KEPT happening for so many years?
No, then it becomes talent. However, why would people who claim to be 'analysts' and 'experts' admit to being wrong? That way, they can simply jump all over the time I actually DO lose (Dexter Damage ring a bell?) and say I really was nothing but a fluke after all.
No matter what you do, they'll always seem to keep you at the odds-on loser.
I remember growing up, I had written a quote on my bedroom door so that I would see it every morning. Every morning that I didn't want to wake up because of bullies. Every day I woke up because of the bigger, tougher, and meaner guys who would pick on the awkwardly growing guy. It wasn't until late in High School that my body ended up filling itself out and I actually LOOKED like an athlete.
Nonetheless, that quote was from E.W. Howe - someone who used his wit consistently in his magazines. It was someone my Dad told me about, and someone my English teachers told me about.[/center][/color]
If you succeed in life, you must do it in spite of the efforts of others to pull you down.
There is nothing in the idea that people are willing to help a man and those who can, help themselves.
People are willing to help a man who can't help himself...
...But as soon as a man is able to help himself and does it...
...They join in making his life as uncomfortable as possible.
[/right]There is nothing in the idea that people are willing to help a man and those who can, help themselves.
People are willing to help a man who can't help himself...
...But as soon as a man is able to help himself and does it...
...They join in making his life as uncomfortable as possible.
That quote has never left my mind. It was burned into there. When I was finally pushed over the edge from the bullies, I fought back. I thought I had finally proved to people that they should lay off, but the bigger and badder ones kept coming. The fights kept coming. It was the bigger and badder ones who didn't pick on me because I wasn't a threat to them. When I took out the “low-level” bullies, apparently, it was a ladder I had to work my way up from with people in school doubting me the whole way.
It's been the same way in this business for the past ten years for me.
My Dad had been friends with various people through connections with his Dad. My Dad knew Rocky Marciano. He died before I was born, but my Dad learned so much from him. He learned how to pick up on the slightest twitch when one was to go for a punch. How to properly take a punch and have your body absorb much of the blow and deal one out with more power. I had the privilege of knowing Jack Dempsey as a teen through my Dad, who taught me how to be that aggressive. He was an old man by then, but he knew so much about punches, it was unbelievable. He taught my Dad at a local gym when my Dad was growing up, and my Dad learned from him to be aggressive not only in defense, but in life. If you wanted something, you had to step up and take it...nothing was going to be handed to you.
It was from the knowledge of these two men...Dempsey and my father...three if you count everything Marciano taught my father, who then taught me, that I learned how to brawl. I learned how to punch and punch hard. Punch unusually hard. Throughout high school, I had a frame fit for football, but I didn't have the muscle build. I never got into weights until Junior year. Then, every day...it was weights, sparring, and more weights. I was never heavy on my feet – that came naturally from doing Judo since I was a kid. I never practiced it in fights because you were taught only to defend, not to fight back. I lived by that code for so long. I avoided being beaten up too badly, but I never fought back. I was agile, and sometimes I goaded my Dad on in sparring, like he had done so many times.
Then I fought back.
That's how that all began. Then there was the trip to Japan a month after achieving Rokudan...meeting Yoshihara Kano, a submissions expert. Learning from him, competing against him, training eight hours a day. My body would be black and blue, the lactic acid on my joints built up so much I couldn't lift my arm to block a punch sometimes.
I kept working at it. Learning pressure points. Chokes. How to manipulate a limb and cause enough pain. How to counter locks. How to keep a lock as tight as possible so to give myself time to breathe and heal and they had to tire themselves out if they had to find any way of getting out of it.
Then, let's fast forward to finally meeting Ander Carvetti in 2003. A guy who had the same history I did. Being beaten up...growing up, finally not taking it anymore, and then learning to fight back. Putting in so many hours to train, to fight...to survive. Here, I met this guy, who had the same chip on his shoulder. He was smaller, lighter, less powerful...but what he lacked in punching power, the guy made up for in kicks. Flying around, doing kicks...kicks, kicks, kicks. I taught him punching power and what I learned in submissions, he taught me kicks and what he's learned in submissions. We studied pressure points on each other.
We literally..and willingly, kicked each other's asses for hours at the gym just to learn more.
What to expect.
How to block out pain and continue to focus.
Carvetti and I now know what each other is going to do seemingly before we do it. It's why people are always so hyped to see a rematch when we go head to head. It's like fighting a clone of yourself. You never see the same things twice. Spinning kick? Countered into an armbar that gets rolled into a triangle chok that gets picked up and powerbombed down that leads to the choke being locked in tighter that leads to a giant swing that could knock the head against the turnbuckle.
Truly, our matches were insane.
That's how I came to be one of the best...physically. As far as the eyes being on me...that's been happening all my life. I was always the charismatic one. I was always the one who wanted the spotlight, the people watching...to be an entertainer. I was a fast talker, I had great wit, and I was a natural for the theatre.
One incident changed the course of my life and sent me down that road that I'm on. One that made me who I am. All that learning about the body. Fighting. Aggressiveness. Respect. The ability to endure pain with patience. To learn how to develop strategies on the spot.
This was actually a blessing in disguise for Ander and I. We were able to look behind us as the road that took us to where we are today. We were able to 'trim the fat' of our laziness and get back that will to want to fight just to fight and survive. People don't know that road...what we've endured, what we've seen, what we've done. That's our one-up. Sure, we can be labeled the underdogs.
We can be labeled 'expendable'.
What we can't be labeled is 'down and out'.
* * *
Hello.
My name's Johnny Holliday.
The ORIGINAL 'Mr. Showtime'.
…
What? You've never heard of me?
Oh, well, that's a f*cking shame...I've not heard of the lot of you either. I guess that balances that portion out.
…
No? What? Oh...you being nCw longer puts you higher on the totem pole. I see.
Hm...
Well, let's see...
I can take silver polish to a turd...still makes it a turd, no matter how much I try to shine it up.
…
Oh, I get it. It's the very fact that I was popping faces while you were still popping acne that makes me 'old blood'.
It makes me...useless?
But wait...hold on. The lot of you in this pissant pawnshop of a company have said there have been many 'imitators'.
How could you POSSIBLY label me as a potential imitator if you've not already heard of “Mr. Showtime” Johnny Holliday?
Sorry, your logic is more retarded than Sarah Palin's kid. Yes, this applies to YOU.
I was standing behind a white backdrop ready to film a shoot/promo for the upcoming Pay-Per-View. Finally, the nCw had gotten their respective heads out of their asses and placed us where we belong...well, where should have belonged since day 1 of stepping foot into place: at a shot for gold.
Apparently though, to some, it seemed like a ridiculously one-sided match with the two 'veterans' of the business set to lose in a squash match. Apparently, Blood Ties expects to walk in, piss, walk out, and keep the belts.
Not f*cking likely.
While I was told that I was to expect to be 'watched' full-time, primarily to avoid performance-enhancing drugs, I couldn't help but think I was stuck in some chamber like Big Brother, and the nCw brass were trying to keep tabs on what everyone was doing so they could quell any possible uprising before it started.
They wouldn't want the talent they invested in to be shown in up a match, now would they?
No. Of course not. That'd be downright outrageous.
“What is an Angel? A messenger of God. Sure, they can be labeled protectors...guides...all-in-all, they're still carrying out GOD's tasks. They're nothing more than God's hired help.”
No.
No more of this.
I sighed, and I shook my head.
“Stop the tape,” I motioned to Jon, “I'm not doing this bit anymore.”
Jon put the camera down on the table next to him. I couldn't tell if I heard the beep of a stop or not, but he looked at me, perplexed.
Jon Salazar
“Stop what? You had a good line going there, mate.”
No.
Once again, I shook my head, lowering it this time, with a little bit of disdain.
“This whole 'God' gimmick was some dumb sh*t to begin with. I did it to grab attention towards Caine's final match. That was it. This shouldn't be sticking. It's blasphemous in the first place, I hate it...and I'm not doing it anymore. It's idiotic.”
Jon Salazar
“Right, you go on and call yourself a King...a Legend...all that other stuff all the time and yet...”
“I WORKED to earn that status. King? How many times have I climbed the mountain and stayed there for so long. A legend? Ten plus years in the business, dropping some of the biggest names of each year. The fact that no matter where I go, attention is drawn right to me. That proves I'm doing something right. But...Jon, really...God? Even I think that's in bad taste.”
Jon Salazar
“And with what are you going to have to go against Blood Ties this weekend then, if you're going to completely re-invent yourself 5 days before you go for tag gold?”
I slowly shook my head and walked around.
“It's not re-inventing myself. It's trimming the fat.”
I spun around and smiled.
“You've heard what they said. It's going to be a prison rape. Ander and I are condemned to walk that last mile to our execution. That one steel mile of entrance ramp...to the ring. Our bodies our expected to be beaten up, battered, broken, and left for dead as those two doughy babies parade around like Siegfried and Roy. Doesn't this whole situation sound familiar...like...oh, say...the first eight years of my career?”
Jon stared blankly for a moment. He caught on partially, but didn't quite grasp where I was coming from. I could see that in his head, the wheels were turning to try and put things together and understand, but he needed some help. I walked up to him with a smile and shook him.
“Eight years...the underdog. Solid underdog. Every odd went against me. Every odd was against Carvetti. That put the chip on our shoulder to make us fight. It's a brand new beginning for the both of us. They don't want to lay claim to knowing us because they don't want to know the past. They think we'd be a bunch of grandpas rambling on about 'our day', despite it still being 'our day' at this very moment in time.”
I walked off again in a circle before turning back around and laughing.
“Honestly. Prison rape? When have I EVER been beaten that badly? If this guy is as good as he wants to lay claim to be...hell, I'll bring a bucket of KY Jelly and tell him to get the party started. Nobody here wants to know what we've seen, done, or the road we traveled. Carvetti and I went in with our heads lowered for battle, enduring it all. They don't want to hear it. We're the 'new guys'. We're supposed to have paid our dues. Apparently, we don't belong in this match. There's already doubters amongst the roster if we're the real deal or not...as if the past f*cking month was some sort of Jersey Shore audition. I mean, sure...let's look at the list of people we fought. Mike Honcho? Honor champion. Douche. Maniac? Beat me in a singles match, but a giant wad of nothing. Wouldn't repeat the performance to save his life. Jason Blair? Next. Freakke? Current X-Title champion. Beaten down. Okay, so Blair and Freakke didn't get along. We've beaten two people who've held gold, and Carvetti's beaten down three. We're a fluke? We're about as much of a fluke as Angel claims to be as popular on the Internet.”
Jon shrugs.
Jon Salazar
“Well, he did say one of you two would try to Google him...”
I walked over to the computer, tinkering on it for a second. The big 'Google' logo was visible from the still-running camera. I laughed out loud a couple of times as I pushed the print print button a few times. The printer spurred, shot out a few pages, and I got up to walk around again.
“This is the opportunity that I've wanted for such a long while. I've wanted to dump all this excess CRAP since 2006. Ridley? Rayder? Xavier Magnus? “RAW” Randy Altzer? Seriously, I was rising back up and going against idiots. It was the politics that went with the territory. I was being stuck in different companies with the sames faces and the same management with the same cards with different company names. That was it. It was like sitting, listening to Freakke, then he realizes nobody's listening, so he goes out, puts a wig on, and expects a different outcome. No. Carvetti went and found this place for a whole new beginning.”
I shrugged for a moment, thinking about winning...what it takes to be a success. I thought about all these guys who actually are holding titles in this company at the moment. It honestly looked like someone threw all the names into a hat, picked out some random people for each title like it was a raffle, and expected them to act like high profile talent. I laughed.
“It's a funny thing...success. People bust their ass and try to get it...what happens when the very few obtain it? They burn out. These guys holding titles in this place...how much of them do we actually see? Little to none, other than their matches. They stay hidden. They think that being quiet is going to bring them some sort solace and take the big target they have on their nuts off. It's not. They just can't handle the pressure. They're going crack. Me? Carvetti? We don't crack...otherwise we would have back at Imperial Games II during that whole screwjob. I vowed not to crack. So did he. If we ever were going to crack, we'd hang it up. We'd lose the fans support, and instead of being cheered for who we were, we'd be cheered out of sympathy. I'd hate it, but it'd be a field day for everyone who ever wanted to me see me fail.”
They're calling me worn out. Washed up...
...Yet I'm one of the 'new guys'.
“Anomaly. A deviation from the common rule, type, arrangement, or form. In short, something that’s not supposed to happen. That’s what I am. An anomaly. I'm not this worn-out, washed-up...yada yada yada that everyone's rambling on and on about. I talk about my career because that's what has gotten me to this point. What's a present without a past? I talk about my past because I'm proud about it. Here, in this place, everybody brings up what titles they've held...HELD, not holding...and all of that. Look at Angel. A forty-time hardcore champion, three-time nCw X-Division Champion, two-time nCw World Champion, and a two-time...and current, nCw tag-team champion. Now, thinking back, I do believe he boasts a bit about his win/loss record. Thirty-something losses. Let's analyze this, yes? Forty-time hardcore champion. Assuming that it's a standard match, he'd have lost at least forty times for that alone. Not the current world champ, so let's tack on two more. Not the current X-Division champ, either...tack on three more losses. I won't go and count tag-matches towards his singles record since I'm that kind of guy. By math...he'd have, at the very least, forty-five losses. I think someone's attempting to paint himself a bit better than he actually is. I mean, sure, I bring up my history...but I'm actually ACCURATE about it. We're undefeated as a tag-team...but wait a minute...he HELD the gold...that he means he lost it, right? Well...he's only hum-....no, wait, he doesn't wanna be that either. He's claims to be a Savior. An Angel. Whoopity-sh*t. We're the saviors here, pal...saving this company from itself and its lackluster champions and roster. Everyone seems to have beaten everyone. Where's the level of elite? There doesn't seem to be one. So, we're here to draw the line and establish it.”
I rubbed the back of my neck for a minute, considering some options, but the reference to 'prison rape' popped back in my head.
Prison-rape?
Honestly...that's the BEST analogy you could use?
Get in the car, we're going home.
“What's the first thing someone does if they end up in prison? They go up to the biggest, meanest, toughest guy they see...jack him in the face, and pick a fight to attempt to establish dominance and send a message: do...not...f*ck with me. In this case, when Carvetti and I came here, we flat out stated what we were going to do, and here we are. Now, people can sit in their locker rooms and cry because the new guys are running around and they're 'rapin errrbody' here, or they can try and stop us. We're not playing hide and seek. Unlike most of the people on the roster, we're actually painting targets on ourselves to look for a fight. We're not wasting time for 'proof'. We said what we're going to do, and look where we are in just a month's time...qualified for the tag-team gold against a guy who can't keep an accurate record of his history, and another one who would have done better to have kept his mouth shut.”
I had thought Alex Jones would have been the bigger threat in this match because I didn't know how to approach him. He was quiet, he didn't say a damn word, and I wasn't positive what I could butt heads against. Unfortunately for him, he opened his mouth, and I saw exactly what came out of it: garbage. He really was a second-tier wrestler latched on to a former first-tier guy. Angel was carrying the team, and that didn't say much.
“Yeah, Jones. I know somewhere you'll end up hearing this while the roster plays 'he said/she said'. I'll start the chain. You're garbage. Out and out. Have you never heard the cliché that it's better to be considered an idiot and remain quiet rather than open your mouth and prove it? You proved it, buddy. There's no going back now. You're still a failed singles wrestler. Two-time X-Division champ? You're not holding it, are you? Sit down, and shut up so the adults can speak. I'm going to give you a task after I knock your damned dick into the dirt and send you home with your balls in a sling. While you're sitting at home recovering and considering crawling back into the mid-card status to maintain some sort of dignity, think about how fast Carvetti and I blew up and rushed and got right into the faces of both Angel AND you. Less than a month. Do you honestly think I'm going to quiver the slightest in my shoes or boots when you mention nCw 'legends'? Contemplate what it's going to be like for you...after listing off all these people you've beaten...DDK...Doc...and whoever else comprised that pool, and wonder: is it really because we're that good...or are the entire batch of you guys simply below average meeting above average talent for the first time? I know Adam Knite. I know Trent Helms. The two of them have history with Carvetti and I. Those names mean something to us as well. We know Mike Honcho. Well, more accurately, we know what it's like to hold a win over Mike Honcho's head. ”
I was about to pace again for a second, but I stopped myself right in my tracks and almost fell over.
“WAIT. Here, I got it. Rally up your troops you mentioned. Rally up eleven out of those fourteen nCw world champs you've beaten...rally up Ricky Johnson, Philip Burns, Xavier Cross, Joe Everyman...get all of them in one large group, and then come at us. Then, we can kick their heads in, and we'll be on the same playing field. We'll have beaten the same people. It doesn't matter if it's Carvetti and I or if it's just me. I don't care if it's two or twenty guys I'm fighting off. I'll do it. You know why? I'm a bit dumb like that. If there's a group, and they're calling me out, I'll walk right into the ring of the group and start swinging haymakers, mule kicks, and everything I've got to clear the path. I'll walk right up to the biggest, strongest, toughest guy you have. He'll punch me, and I'll fall down. I'll burst out laughing instead of writhing in pain. I'll get up, lip busted open, and I'll smile with my white teeth stained red. I'll get hit again and fall. Slowly, I'll get up. I'll keep taking it and I'll keep asking for more. What do you do against a guy who does that? You keep beating the guy down...he keeps getting up asking for more...what do you do? Reactions vary from walking away to trying to keep doing it, tiring out, then getting choked out. What will you try to do if you're in the ring, Jones? What will run through your head when you see me...and I'm laughing? You're going to hit me. It's going to hurt, but I'm going to laugh. I feel alive. More alive than I've been in years. YEARS. I'm out of a rut. I'm out of Hell, I'm out of a place that utilized its own politics to further their buddies. I'm at a place where talent reigns supreme..but there's a lack of talent until we joined.”
Then, it dawned on me. My eyes lit up, and my jaw dropped as I gasped just slightly before nodding.
“I get it now. You lot are scared. Decorated veterans...of the INDUSTRY...not this company, have come to play. Talk about what you've done in the company all you want. We're talking about what we've done in the INDUSTRY. Think about it. nCw is just a part of the INDUSTRY. They're not THE industry. They're a piece of the industry. Now, you've got two guys who've dominated the business. They've teamed up, and now everybody's scrambling to try and seek some cover with a tag-team. The biggest guns are trying to ignore it, but it's eating them up inside. We're calling absolutely everyone out, and nobody can do a thing to stop it. Leonard Fox can't help it. If it takes us standing in the middle of the ring and literally declaring war on you all, so be it. It's not a question of if we win the titles, it's a matter of when we win the titles ON SUNDAY...AT Road to the Gold...when will we officially make our declaration of war. It's also a question of how long we choose to hold those tag-team straps, and whether or not we also feel like going for singles gold while holding those tag belts. Are you going to stop us? DDK? Hell, if Trent Helms showed up TOMORROW, he'd laugh, shake both our hands, and reminisce with us. We'd go out for drinks, and Project Mayhem would be reborn. Then, Adam Knite...the only guy who was supposed to be in it but Imperia shut down just before it happened would join aboard. The Rat Pack becomes Project Mayhem, and there you have it. You have nobody who would shut us down. As it stands, Carvetti and I are the remnants of one of the most greatest groups of people in this industry. Still alive, still fighting, still unbroken. So, as Carvetti and I walk down that proverbial 'Steel Mile'...supposedly condemned to our final match of our careers...understand this: we're not the ones going down. Rats can live in a prison. We're going to chew through the knot of Blood Ties.”
I walked off from the camera, laughing. I wasn't done, however. Jon stood in awe, staring at the pages that I printed out at the computer.
“Oh yeah...show that camera what I printed. I know you left it on, you idiot. Let's show them exactly how popular they claim to be. Let's show them how popular...how prestigious this company's supposed to be.”
Ah, well...maybe need to be a bit more specific...
Not enough search volume? Aw, damn. Must not be that popular. NCW legalizing homosexuality? Well, this is hilarious. What about if I take out Savior X, add Angel, and then add Alex Jones and Blood Ties...?
Nothing on Alex Jones, nothing on Blood Ties...nothing on a wrestler named Angel either. Aw, damn...well, maybe if I throw in his entire alias...
Well, look at that. Nothing. Not so high up on the pedestal, are we, gentlemen?
“Well, to hell with it...to prove I'm such a nice guy and didn't focus entirely on them, show them the one I put at the bottom of pile.”
Hahahaha.
Jon stopped the camera as we were laughing at the last one.
Prison rape?
Well, gentlemen...prepare to drop the soap.
Daddy's home.
It's been the same way in this business for the past ten years for me.
My Dad had been friends with various people through connections with his Dad. My Dad knew Rocky Marciano. He died before I was born, but my Dad learned so much from him. He learned how to pick up on the slightest twitch when one was to go for a punch. How to properly take a punch and have your body absorb much of the blow and deal one out with more power. I had the privilege of knowing Jack Dempsey as a teen through my Dad, who taught me how to be that aggressive. He was an old man by then, but he knew so much about punches, it was unbelievable. He taught my Dad at a local gym when my Dad was growing up, and my Dad learned from him to be aggressive not only in defense, but in life. If you wanted something, you had to step up and take it...nothing was going to be handed to you.
It was from the knowledge of these two men...Dempsey and my father...three if you count everything Marciano taught my father, who then taught me, that I learned how to brawl. I learned how to punch and punch hard. Punch unusually hard. Throughout high school, I had a frame fit for football, but I didn't have the muscle build. I never got into weights until Junior year. Then, every day...it was weights, sparring, and more weights. I was never heavy on my feet – that came naturally from doing Judo since I was a kid. I never practiced it in fights because you were taught only to defend, not to fight back. I lived by that code for so long. I avoided being beaten up too badly, but I never fought back. I was agile, and sometimes I goaded my Dad on in sparring, like he had done so many times.
Then I fought back.
That's how that all began. Then there was the trip to Japan a month after achieving Rokudan...meeting Yoshihara Kano, a submissions expert. Learning from him, competing against him, training eight hours a day. My body would be black and blue, the lactic acid on my joints built up so much I couldn't lift my arm to block a punch sometimes.
I kept working at it. Learning pressure points. Chokes. How to manipulate a limb and cause enough pain. How to counter locks. How to keep a lock as tight as possible so to give myself time to breathe and heal and they had to tire themselves out if they had to find any way of getting out of it.
Then, let's fast forward to finally meeting Ander Carvetti in 2003. A guy who had the same history I did. Being beaten up...growing up, finally not taking it anymore, and then learning to fight back. Putting in so many hours to train, to fight...to survive. Here, I met this guy, who had the same chip on his shoulder. He was smaller, lighter, less powerful...but what he lacked in punching power, the guy made up for in kicks. Flying around, doing kicks...kicks, kicks, kicks. I taught him punching power and what I learned in submissions, he taught me kicks and what he's learned in submissions. We studied pressure points on each other.
We literally..and willingly, kicked each other's asses for hours at the gym just to learn more.
What to expect.
How to block out pain and continue to focus.
Carvetti and I now know what each other is going to do seemingly before we do it. It's why people are always so hyped to see a rematch when we go head to head. It's like fighting a clone of yourself. You never see the same things twice. Spinning kick? Countered into an armbar that gets rolled into a triangle chok that gets picked up and powerbombed down that leads to the choke being locked in tighter that leads to a giant swing that could knock the head against the turnbuckle.
Truly, our matches were insane.
That's how I came to be one of the best...physically. As far as the eyes being on me...that's been happening all my life. I was always the charismatic one. I was always the one who wanted the spotlight, the people watching...to be an entertainer. I was a fast talker, I had great wit, and I was a natural for the theatre.
One incident changed the course of my life and sent me down that road that I'm on. One that made me who I am. All that learning about the body. Fighting. Aggressiveness. Respect. The ability to endure pain with patience. To learn how to develop strategies on the spot.
This was actually a blessing in disguise for Ander and I. We were able to look behind us as the road that took us to where we are today. We were able to 'trim the fat' of our laziness and get back that will to want to fight just to fight and survive. People don't know that road...what we've endured, what we've seen, what we've done. That's our one-up. Sure, we can be labeled the underdogs.
We can be labeled 'expendable'.
What we can't be labeled is 'down and out'.
* * *
Hello.
My name's Johnny Holliday.
The ORIGINAL 'Mr. Showtime'.
…
What? You've never heard of me?
Oh, well, that's a f*cking shame...I've not heard of the lot of you either. I guess that balances that portion out.
…
No? What? Oh...you being nCw longer puts you higher on the totem pole. I see.
Hm...
Well, let's see...
I can take silver polish to a turd...still makes it a turd, no matter how much I try to shine it up.
…
Oh, I get it. It's the very fact that I was popping faces while you were still popping acne that makes me 'old blood'.
It makes me...useless?
But wait...hold on. The lot of you in this pissant pawnshop of a company have said there have been many 'imitators'.
How could you POSSIBLY label me as a potential imitator if you've not already heard of “Mr. Showtime” Johnny Holliday?
Sorry, your logic is more retarded than Sarah Palin's kid. Yes, this applies to YOU.
I was standing behind a white backdrop ready to film a shoot/promo for the upcoming Pay-Per-View. Finally, the nCw had gotten their respective heads out of their asses and placed us where we belong...well, where should have belonged since day 1 of stepping foot into place: at a shot for gold.
Apparently though, to some, it seemed like a ridiculously one-sided match with the two 'veterans' of the business set to lose in a squash match. Apparently, Blood Ties expects to walk in, piss, walk out, and keep the belts.
Not f*cking likely.
While I was told that I was to expect to be 'watched' full-time, primarily to avoid performance-enhancing drugs, I couldn't help but think I was stuck in some chamber like Big Brother, and the nCw brass were trying to keep tabs on what everyone was doing so they could quell any possible uprising before it started.
They wouldn't want the talent they invested in to be shown in up a match, now would they?
No. Of course not. That'd be downright outrageous.
“What is an Angel? A messenger of God. Sure, they can be labeled protectors...guides...all-in-all, they're still carrying out GOD's tasks. They're nothing more than God's hired help.”
No.
No more of this.
I sighed, and I shook my head.
“Stop the tape,” I motioned to Jon, “I'm not doing this bit anymore.”
Jon put the camera down on the table next to him. I couldn't tell if I heard the beep of a stop or not, but he looked at me, perplexed.
Jon Salazar
“Stop what? You had a good line going there, mate.”
No.
Once again, I shook my head, lowering it this time, with a little bit of disdain.
“This whole 'God' gimmick was some dumb sh*t to begin with. I did it to grab attention towards Caine's final match. That was it. This shouldn't be sticking. It's blasphemous in the first place, I hate it...and I'm not doing it anymore. It's idiotic.”
Jon Salazar
“Right, you go on and call yourself a King...a Legend...all that other stuff all the time and yet...”
“I WORKED to earn that status. King? How many times have I climbed the mountain and stayed there for so long. A legend? Ten plus years in the business, dropping some of the biggest names of each year. The fact that no matter where I go, attention is drawn right to me. That proves I'm doing something right. But...Jon, really...God? Even I think that's in bad taste.”
Jon Salazar
“And with what are you going to have to go against Blood Ties this weekend then, if you're going to completely re-invent yourself 5 days before you go for tag gold?”
I slowly shook my head and walked around.
“It's not re-inventing myself. It's trimming the fat.”
I spun around and smiled.
“You've heard what they said. It's going to be a prison rape. Ander and I are condemned to walk that last mile to our execution. That one steel mile of entrance ramp...to the ring. Our bodies our expected to be beaten up, battered, broken, and left for dead as those two doughy babies parade around like Siegfried and Roy. Doesn't this whole situation sound familiar...like...oh, say...the first eight years of my career?”
Jon stared blankly for a moment. He caught on partially, but didn't quite grasp where I was coming from. I could see that in his head, the wheels were turning to try and put things together and understand, but he needed some help. I walked up to him with a smile and shook him.
“Eight years...the underdog. Solid underdog. Every odd went against me. Every odd was against Carvetti. That put the chip on our shoulder to make us fight. It's a brand new beginning for the both of us. They don't want to lay claim to knowing us because they don't want to know the past. They think we'd be a bunch of grandpas rambling on about 'our day', despite it still being 'our day' at this very moment in time.”
I walked off again in a circle before turning back around and laughing.
“Honestly. Prison rape? When have I EVER been beaten that badly? If this guy is as good as he wants to lay claim to be...hell, I'll bring a bucket of KY Jelly and tell him to get the party started. Nobody here wants to know what we've seen, done, or the road we traveled. Carvetti and I went in with our heads lowered for battle, enduring it all. They don't want to hear it. We're the 'new guys'. We're supposed to have paid our dues. Apparently, we don't belong in this match. There's already doubters amongst the roster if we're the real deal or not...as if the past f*cking month was some sort of Jersey Shore audition. I mean, sure...let's look at the list of people we fought. Mike Honcho? Honor champion. Douche. Maniac? Beat me in a singles match, but a giant wad of nothing. Wouldn't repeat the performance to save his life. Jason Blair? Next. Freakke? Current X-Title champion. Beaten down. Okay, so Blair and Freakke didn't get along. We've beaten two people who've held gold, and Carvetti's beaten down three. We're a fluke? We're about as much of a fluke as Angel claims to be as popular on the Internet.”
Jon shrugs.
Jon Salazar
“Well, he did say one of you two would try to Google him...”
I walked over to the computer, tinkering on it for a second. The big 'Google' logo was visible from the still-running camera. I laughed out loud a couple of times as I pushed the print print button a few times. The printer spurred, shot out a few pages, and I got up to walk around again.
“This is the opportunity that I've wanted for such a long while. I've wanted to dump all this excess CRAP since 2006. Ridley? Rayder? Xavier Magnus? “RAW” Randy Altzer? Seriously, I was rising back up and going against idiots. It was the politics that went with the territory. I was being stuck in different companies with the sames faces and the same management with the same cards with different company names. That was it. It was like sitting, listening to Freakke, then he realizes nobody's listening, so he goes out, puts a wig on, and expects a different outcome. No. Carvetti went and found this place for a whole new beginning.”
I shrugged for a moment, thinking about winning...what it takes to be a success. I thought about all these guys who actually are holding titles in this company at the moment. It honestly looked like someone threw all the names into a hat, picked out some random people for each title like it was a raffle, and expected them to act like high profile talent. I laughed.
“It's a funny thing...success. People bust their ass and try to get it...what happens when the very few obtain it? They burn out. These guys holding titles in this place...how much of them do we actually see? Little to none, other than their matches. They stay hidden. They think that being quiet is going to bring them some sort solace and take the big target they have on their nuts off. It's not. They just can't handle the pressure. They're going crack. Me? Carvetti? We don't crack...otherwise we would have back at Imperial Games II during that whole screwjob. I vowed not to crack. So did he. If we ever were going to crack, we'd hang it up. We'd lose the fans support, and instead of being cheered for who we were, we'd be cheered out of sympathy. I'd hate it, but it'd be a field day for everyone who ever wanted to me see me fail.”
They're calling me worn out. Washed up...
...Yet I'm one of the 'new guys'.
“Anomaly. A deviation from the common rule, type, arrangement, or form. In short, something that’s not supposed to happen. That’s what I am. An anomaly. I'm not this worn-out, washed-up...yada yada yada that everyone's rambling on and on about. I talk about my career because that's what has gotten me to this point. What's a present without a past? I talk about my past because I'm proud about it. Here, in this place, everybody brings up what titles they've held...HELD, not holding...and all of that. Look at Angel. A forty-time hardcore champion, three-time nCw X-Division Champion, two-time nCw World Champion, and a two-time...and current, nCw tag-team champion. Now, thinking back, I do believe he boasts a bit about his win/loss record. Thirty-something losses. Let's analyze this, yes? Forty-time hardcore champion. Assuming that it's a standard match, he'd have lost at least forty times for that alone. Not the current world champ, so let's tack on two more. Not the current X-Division champ, either...tack on three more losses. I won't go and count tag-matches towards his singles record since I'm that kind of guy. By math...he'd have, at the very least, forty-five losses. I think someone's attempting to paint himself a bit better than he actually is. I mean, sure, I bring up my history...but I'm actually ACCURATE about it. We're undefeated as a tag-team...but wait a minute...he HELD the gold...that he means he lost it, right? Well...he's only hum-....no, wait, he doesn't wanna be that either. He's claims to be a Savior. An Angel. Whoopity-sh*t. We're the saviors here, pal...saving this company from itself and its lackluster champions and roster. Everyone seems to have beaten everyone. Where's the level of elite? There doesn't seem to be one. So, we're here to draw the line and establish it.”
I rubbed the back of my neck for a minute, considering some options, but the reference to 'prison rape' popped back in my head.
Prison-rape?
Honestly...that's the BEST analogy you could use?
Get in the car, we're going home.
“What's the first thing someone does if they end up in prison? They go up to the biggest, meanest, toughest guy they see...jack him in the face, and pick a fight to attempt to establish dominance and send a message: do...not...f*ck with me. In this case, when Carvetti and I came here, we flat out stated what we were going to do, and here we are. Now, people can sit in their locker rooms and cry because the new guys are running around and they're 'rapin errrbody' here, or they can try and stop us. We're not playing hide and seek. Unlike most of the people on the roster, we're actually painting targets on ourselves to look for a fight. We're not wasting time for 'proof'. We said what we're going to do, and look where we are in just a month's time...qualified for the tag-team gold against a guy who can't keep an accurate record of his history, and another one who would have done better to have kept his mouth shut.”
I had thought Alex Jones would have been the bigger threat in this match because I didn't know how to approach him. He was quiet, he didn't say a damn word, and I wasn't positive what I could butt heads against. Unfortunately for him, he opened his mouth, and I saw exactly what came out of it: garbage. He really was a second-tier wrestler latched on to a former first-tier guy. Angel was carrying the team, and that didn't say much.
“Yeah, Jones. I know somewhere you'll end up hearing this while the roster plays 'he said/she said'. I'll start the chain. You're garbage. Out and out. Have you never heard the cliché that it's better to be considered an idiot and remain quiet rather than open your mouth and prove it? You proved it, buddy. There's no going back now. You're still a failed singles wrestler. Two-time X-Division champ? You're not holding it, are you? Sit down, and shut up so the adults can speak. I'm going to give you a task after I knock your damned dick into the dirt and send you home with your balls in a sling. While you're sitting at home recovering and considering crawling back into the mid-card status to maintain some sort of dignity, think about how fast Carvetti and I blew up and rushed and got right into the faces of both Angel AND you. Less than a month. Do you honestly think I'm going to quiver the slightest in my shoes or boots when you mention nCw 'legends'? Contemplate what it's going to be like for you...after listing off all these people you've beaten...DDK...Doc...and whoever else comprised that pool, and wonder: is it really because we're that good...or are the entire batch of you guys simply below average meeting above average talent for the first time? I know Adam Knite. I know Trent Helms. The two of them have history with Carvetti and I. Those names mean something to us as well. We know Mike Honcho. Well, more accurately, we know what it's like to hold a win over Mike Honcho's head. ”
I was about to pace again for a second, but I stopped myself right in my tracks and almost fell over.
“WAIT. Here, I got it. Rally up your troops you mentioned. Rally up eleven out of those fourteen nCw world champs you've beaten...rally up Ricky Johnson, Philip Burns, Xavier Cross, Joe Everyman...get all of them in one large group, and then come at us. Then, we can kick their heads in, and we'll be on the same playing field. We'll have beaten the same people. It doesn't matter if it's Carvetti and I or if it's just me. I don't care if it's two or twenty guys I'm fighting off. I'll do it. You know why? I'm a bit dumb like that. If there's a group, and they're calling me out, I'll walk right into the ring of the group and start swinging haymakers, mule kicks, and everything I've got to clear the path. I'll walk right up to the biggest, strongest, toughest guy you have. He'll punch me, and I'll fall down. I'll burst out laughing instead of writhing in pain. I'll get up, lip busted open, and I'll smile with my white teeth stained red. I'll get hit again and fall. Slowly, I'll get up. I'll keep taking it and I'll keep asking for more. What do you do against a guy who does that? You keep beating the guy down...he keeps getting up asking for more...what do you do? Reactions vary from walking away to trying to keep doing it, tiring out, then getting choked out. What will you try to do if you're in the ring, Jones? What will run through your head when you see me...and I'm laughing? You're going to hit me. It's going to hurt, but I'm going to laugh. I feel alive. More alive than I've been in years. YEARS. I'm out of a rut. I'm out of Hell, I'm out of a place that utilized its own politics to further their buddies. I'm at a place where talent reigns supreme..but there's a lack of talent until we joined.”
Then, it dawned on me. My eyes lit up, and my jaw dropped as I gasped just slightly before nodding.
“I get it now. You lot are scared. Decorated veterans...of the INDUSTRY...not this company, have come to play. Talk about what you've done in the company all you want. We're talking about what we've done in the INDUSTRY. Think about it. nCw is just a part of the INDUSTRY. They're not THE industry. They're a piece of the industry. Now, you've got two guys who've dominated the business. They've teamed up, and now everybody's scrambling to try and seek some cover with a tag-team. The biggest guns are trying to ignore it, but it's eating them up inside. We're calling absolutely everyone out, and nobody can do a thing to stop it. Leonard Fox can't help it. If it takes us standing in the middle of the ring and literally declaring war on you all, so be it. It's not a question of if we win the titles, it's a matter of when we win the titles ON SUNDAY...AT Road to the Gold...when will we officially make our declaration of war. It's also a question of how long we choose to hold those tag-team straps, and whether or not we also feel like going for singles gold while holding those tag belts. Are you going to stop us? DDK? Hell, if Trent Helms showed up TOMORROW, he'd laugh, shake both our hands, and reminisce with us. We'd go out for drinks, and Project Mayhem would be reborn. Then, Adam Knite...the only guy who was supposed to be in it but Imperia shut down just before it happened would join aboard. The Rat Pack becomes Project Mayhem, and there you have it. You have nobody who would shut us down. As it stands, Carvetti and I are the remnants of one of the most greatest groups of people in this industry. Still alive, still fighting, still unbroken. So, as Carvetti and I walk down that proverbial 'Steel Mile'...supposedly condemned to our final match of our careers...understand this: we're not the ones going down. Rats can live in a prison. We're going to chew through the knot of Blood Ties.”
I walked off from the camera, laughing. I wasn't done, however. Jon stood in awe, staring at the pages that I printed out at the computer.
“Oh yeah...show that camera what I printed. I know you left it on, you idiot. Let's show them exactly how popular they claim to be. Let's show them how popular...how prestigious this company's supposed to be.”
Ah, well...maybe need to be a bit more specific...
Not enough search volume? Aw, damn. Must not be that popular. NCW legalizing homosexuality? Well, this is hilarious. What about if I take out Savior X, add Angel, and then add Alex Jones and Blood Ties...?
Nothing on Alex Jones, nothing on Blood Ties...nothing on a wrestler named Angel either. Aw, damn...well, maybe if I throw in his entire alias...
Well, look at that. Nothing. Not so high up on the pedestal, are we, gentlemen?
“Well, to hell with it...to prove I'm such a nice guy and didn't focus entirely on them, show them the one I put at the bottom of pile.”
Hahahaha.
Jon stopped the camera as we were laughing at the last one.
Prison rape?
Well, gentlemen...prepare to drop the soap.
Daddy's home.