Post by Zack Fantana on Aug 22, 2019 8:04:38 GMT -5
Forty-years of history had never felt so hollow.
That’s all Zack could think about as the movers packed up the last remaining items in Bobby Franchise’s once illustrious trophy room. A room that once told Bobby’s entire life's work was reduced to a few anecdotes now.
“Where’s this stuff headed?,” Zack asked the foreman on the job.
“Oh, this? This'll go straight to the auction house,” the foreman answered with the assist from his clipboard.
“All of it?”
"It's our annual red tag event,” the foreman quipped with a smile before noticing Zack wasn’t in the mood. “No, but seriously I think the old man took a turn for the worse. Gee, you didn’t know the guy, didja?,” he fumbled with his words. "Gah, not again. Learn to read the room, Pat."
Zack’s stomach dropped. He knew that Bobby’s daughter had been granted the power of attorney over his estate once Franchise had been admitted to hospice care, and it appeared as though she'd finally decided to exercise that power.
“You can’t just take it all.”
"Don’t know what you tell you, sir.” The foreman authoritatively tapped his clipboard. “Make sure you get a number at the auction."
‘Am I being selfish?’, Zack wondered quietly to himself as Brad Stokes took to lighting the bonfire in his honor with an acolyte torch.
Was he taking advantage of Brad? Possibly. Even Fantana wasn’t deluded enough to call himself a god but he hadn’t exactly shied away from the allusion either. Not for his own sake, he rationalized in his head, but for Brad’s. In the days since VPW’s anniversary show, it had become abundantly clear that Brad Stokes desperately needed that kind of structure in his life.
Once the fire began to spread, and Brad turned around and shrugged his shoulders with aplomb.
“I think I felt it,” Brad claimed as he returned to Fantana’s side. “The Holy Fantasm.”
“How did it feel?,” Zack was genuinely curious. He’d felt nothing.
“Warm. Very warm,” Brad stared into the fire, sweating buckets.
"Zack bud, can we talk?"
"Sure, Brad."
Zack could see the wheels turning as Brad searched for the right words. It seemed like something had been on his mind all day.
"Zack, I'm sorry… I'm not going to be able to make the fight on Sunday."
Zack furrowed his brow. Brad was supposed to be in his corner for the Chimera Championship match at Honor Bound. It was written in the match preview and everything.
“Brad-”
Stokes quickly cut him off.
"The doctors won't clear me."
“I know, Brad,” Zack paused, placing his hand on Brad’s shoulder. “You’ve been horrifically injured at nearly every VPW event you’ve ever attended.”
“And I wanted to be horrifically injured alongside you, Zack buddy.” It was Brad’s turn to comfort Zack now. “But I can’t.”
"Brad, it’s okay. I have a partner lined up already."
"You do?"
Zack nodded, prompting a sigh of relief.
"Yes, Brad. You were there. You met him in Brazil."
"You’re kidding,” Brad laughed. “I thought you were just working up the courage to ask me.”
"No, Brad, it's sorted."
"Oh boy," Brad laughed aloud. “That's a load off my mind, buddy. A big load off my mind. Can I still be there?"
"Of course, bud."
He needed to be, in fact.
As Brad’s sponsor, Zack had assumed the duty of keeping Brad’s nose clean until he could figure out a way to get his job back. Whether that meant setting Brad up on the couch at the apartment for a week or two, chauffeuring him around in the back of his Buick LeSabre with the child safety locks engaged, or inviting Brad to be ringside at the largest venue he’d ever competed at, that’s what would be done.
After Brad’s (latest) firing, things seemed pretty bleak. Stokes slipped into a debilitating bout with depression that carried through the weekend. By Wednesday, Brad stopped leaving the apartment. By Friday, he stopped leaving the bedroom. By Monday, Zack had to convince Brad that he needed to be baptised into the faith, solely as a means to get him to bathe. When Brad asked if Suave’s aloe and waterlily shampoo and conditioner were essential to the christening, Zack had to quickly change the subject.
It was at that point Zack knew he still had him, however. Brad still wanted to believe in Fantanasy, even if Zack had lost the faith months ago.
“Soon you’ll be ready for your second sacrament, Brad,” Zack suggested, watching the sweat bead up on Brad’s forehead.
“I believe you mean Zackcrament, buddy,” Bradley suggested with a sort of freewheeling, unchecked confidence that really drew Zack’s ire.
“Okay, well, there’s a little more to it all than lazy punmanship,” Zack explained with an uneasy laugh and then casually folded his arms, partially obscuring the Fantanasy branding on his t-shirt. Seeing Brad sober and happy was great and all that, but at what cost?
As Brad scurried off, Zack began to address the camera.
“I’ve never been much of a leader,” Zack confided to the camera as Brad hurled more furniture into the flames. This time it was an end table that he’d drug out of his apartment to clear some room for Bobby’s memorabilia. “But for the first time in my life, I think I’m doing okay,” he continued, ignoring the cry of Brad in the distance, as embers flew toward him.
“Allow me to drop the pretense.”
He turned, drawing the camera away from the bonfire.
“This is not the story of the prodigal son. At least not in the way you’re expecting. This isn’t my moment. I didn’t come back to chase championships, nor did I return for the sake of tag. team. wrestling.”
Zack's labored cadence was used to emphasize how exhausted he’d become with the phrase.
“Far be it from me to borrow NSFW’s only calling card in this business.”
“I didn’t come back to game the system. I came back to get that man’s job back. I came back to help my close personal friend Brad Stokes out of a bind. The fact that it coincided Vanessa Byrne’s dismissal and the subsequent hiring of Francis Ford Cuppola is really just that, a coincidence, but somehow it’s been made into something it’s not, because the reigning Chimera Champions, NSFW, insist on finding inequity where there is none. Bishop Church, for instance, could not physically wait to put out a passive aggressive tweet, insinuating that this championship match at Honor Bound is little more than a party favor from Francis Ford Cuppola’s housewarming.
Worse still, you wave the phrase ‘fruits of a petty power struggle’ in front of my face as if I haven’t experienced the corruption myself. I know all about it. And this match? It isn’t that.”
Zack’s eyes wandered briefly into the flame before returning to the red light on the camera.
“I watched Cross Recoba buy a championship reign with my very own eyes, and you’re getting heated over opportunities,” Zack shook his head with a sneer on his face.
“Opportunity ought to be something the Chimera division can pride itself in, but you just couldn’t help yourself but deride it, could you, Church? Because as much as you and Mike love to claim that you want tag team wrestling to grow and thrive, you’re not going to allow that to preclude you from playing gatekeeper, are you?
I get it. You’re the champions and you’re protective, but you’re asking us to adhere to a precedent that simply doesn’t exist within the confines of this division.
Let’s face it, the tag team field isn’t a large one. Not yet. So while my partner and I could placate the gatekeepers of tag team wrestling by ‘paying dues’ on the pre-show for whatever arbitrary amount of time you two deem fit, I think that would be a colossal waste of everybody’s time.
We all know where this is headed. You don’t need to see my demo reel. What you needed was a legitimate challenge for the show at the O2 and that’s what you’ve got.
It doesn’t need to be more complicated than that, does it?
Perhaps you still have your doubts. Perhaps every suspicion you’ve had about my partner and me comes true. Afterall, we’re not an established tag team. We’re not close friends. In fact, we didn’t speak to one another for over two years. And yet I know him like the back of my hand and I can trust him completely because he’s got a terrible poker face.”
Zack collected a G.I. Joe bedsheet from behind him.
“Just horrid. You might have noticed.”
Laying the bedspread on the ground, Zack look a seat and watched as Brad Stokes danced around the fire.
“There’s little nuance to his game, but that’s because he’s passionate,” Zack paused as he watched Brad stoke the flames. “It’s actually what I like most about the kid.”
“In truth, it never mattered to me whether he spoiled the big surprise or not. Ours is not a strategy based on surprise. You act as if we planned it this way,” Zack laughed. “Trust me me. That’s not the case. We didn’t campaign for this match or ask for this stage. We were offered it because management knows that we’ll deliver on the fight you desperately crave.”
Zack took a moment to brush some embers off of his Fantanasy T-shirt.
“Admittedly, I’ve been away for a while. Maybe I just don’t get the idiosyncrasies of the new locker room, but, if I may ask, who anointed NSFW as the standard bearers of tag team wrestling? My makeshift team with Andrew Vilar has competed in about as many tag team matches in Valor Pro as NSFW, and Andrew spontaneously combusted during a press loop over five months ago.”
Zack crossed his heart in memoriam of the dearly departed while Brad tossed a sofa cushion into the flames.
“My partner and I promise to be around much longer. It’s time to open the gate, NSFW.”
“Call from... [unintelligible],” the phone’s automated voice caller ID chimed in.
The sudden and obnoxious ringtone that followed sent a shiver down Zack’s spine. He figured that phone line would’ve been disconnected months ago.
Fantana wandered down the hallway, his eyes darting left to right in search of the phone.
“Call from... [unintelligible],” the phone continued to ring, almost mockingly.
Zack turned the corner into an office. He was getting warmer.
“Call from… [unintelligible].”
And there it was, trapped underneath a pile of tax returns from years prior. Zack uncovered it, smiling. It was one of those high visibility phones for the elderly, a gift which Bobby’s final pupil had bought and programmed for him after accusing the old man of intentionally dodging his calls.
“Call from... V.C.O.”
That’s all Zack could think about as the movers packed up the last remaining items in Bobby Franchise’s once illustrious trophy room. A room that once told Bobby’s entire life's work was reduced to a few anecdotes now.
“Where’s this stuff headed?,” Zack asked the foreman on the job.
“Oh, this? This'll go straight to the auction house,” the foreman answered with the assist from his clipboard.
“All of it?”
"It's our annual red tag event,” the foreman quipped with a smile before noticing Zack wasn’t in the mood. “No, but seriously I think the old man took a turn for the worse. Gee, you didn’t know the guy, didja?,” he fumbled with his words. "Gah, not again. Learn to read the room, Pat."
Zack’s stomach dropped. He knew that Bobby’s daughter had been granted the power of attorney over his estate once Franchise had been admitted to hospice care, and it appeared as though she'd finally decided to exercise that power.
“You can’t just take it all.”
"Don’t know what you tell you, sir.” The foreman authoritatively tapped his clipboard. “Make sure you get a number at the auction."
‘Am I being selfish?’, Zack wondered quietly to himself as Brad Stokes took to lighting the bonfire in his honor with an acolyte torch.
Was he taking advantage of Brad? Possibly. Even Fantana wasn’t deluded enough to call himself a god but he hadn’t exactly shied away from the allusion either. Not for his own sake, he rationalized in his head, but for Brad’s. In the days since VPW’s anniversary show, it had become abundantly clear that Brad Stokes desperately needed that kind of structure in his life.
Once the fire began to spread, and Brad turned around and shrugged his shoulders with aplomb.
“I think I felt it,” Brad claimed as he returned to Fantana’s side. “The Holy Fantasm.”
“How did it feel?,” Zack was genuinely curious. He’d felt nothing.
“Warm. Very warm,” Brad stared into the fire, sweating buckets.
"Zack bud, can we talk?"
"Sure, Brad."
Zack could see the wheels turning as Brad searched for the right words. It seemed like something had been on his mind all day.
"Zack, I'm sorry… I'm not going to be able to make the fight on Sunday."
Zack furrowed his brow. Brad was supposed to be in his corner for the Chimera Championship match at Honor Bound. It was written in the match preview and everything.
“Brad-”
Stokes quickly cut him off.
"The doctors won't clear me."
“I know, Brad,” Zack paused, placing his hand on Brad’s shoulder. “You’ve been horrifically injured at nearly every VPW event you’ve ever attended.”
“And I wanted to be horrifically injured alongside you, Zack buddy.” It was Brad’s turn to comfort Zack now. “But I can’t.”
"Brad, it’s okay. I have a partner lined up already."
"You do?"
Zack nodded, prompting a sigh of relief.
"Yes, Brad. You were there. You met him in Brazil."
"You’re kidding,” Brad laughed. “I thought you were just working up the courage to ask me.”
"No, Brad, it's sorted."
"Oh boy," Brad laughed aloud. “That's a load off my mind, buddy. A big load off my mind. Can I still be there?"
"Of course, bud."
He needed to be, in fact.
As Brad’s sponsor, Zack had assumed the duty of keeping Brad’s nose clean until he could figure out a way to get his job back. Whether that meant setting Brad up on the couch at the apartment for a week or two, chauffeuring him around in the back of his Buick LeSabre with the child safety locks engaged, or inviting Brad to be ringside at the largest venue he’d ever competed at, that’s what would be done.
After Brad’s (latest) firing, things seemed pretty bleak. Stokes slipped into a debilitating bout with depression that carried through the weekend. By Wednesday, Brad stopped leaving the apartment. By Friday, he stopped leaving the bedroom. By Monday, Zack had to convince Brad that he needed to be baptised into the faith, solely as a means to get him to bathe. When Brad asked if Suave’s aloe and waterlily shampoo and conditioner were essential to the christening, Zack had to quickly change the subject.
It was at that point Zack knew he still had him, however. Brad still wanted to believe in Fantanasy, even if Zack had lost the faith months ago.
“Soon you’ll be ready for your second sacrament, Brad,” Zack suggested, watching the sweat bead up on Brad’s forehead.
“I believe you mean Zackcrament, buddy,” Bradley suggested with a sort of freewheeling, unchecked confidence that really drew Zack’s ire.
“Okay, well, there’s a little more to it all than lazy punmanship,” Zack explained with an uneasy laugh and then casually folded his arms, partially obscuring the Fantanasy branding on his t-shirt. Seeing Brad sober and happy was great and all that, but at what cost?
As Brad scurried off, Zack began to address the camera.
“I’ve never been much of a leader,” Zack confided to the camera as Brad hurled more furniture into the flames. This time it was an end table that he’d drug out of his apartment to clear some room for Bobby’s memorabilia. “But for the first time in my life, I think I’m doing okay,” he continued, ignoring the cry of Brad in the distance, as embers flew toward him.
“Allow me to drop the pretense.”
He turned, drawing the camera away from the bonfire.
“This is not the story of the prodigal son. At least not in the way you’re expecting. This isn’t my moment. I didn’t come back to chase championships, nor did I return for the sake of tag. team. wrestling.”
Zack's labored cadence was used to emphasize how exhausted he’d become with the phrase.
“Far be it from me to borrow NSFW’s only calling card in this business.”
“I didn’t come back to game the system. I came back to get that man’s job back. I came back to help my close personal friend Brad Stokes out of a bind. The fact that it coincided Vanessa Byrne’s dismissal and the subsequent hiring of Francis Ford Cuppola is really just that, a coincidence, but somehow it’s been made into something it’s not, because the reigning Chimera Champions, NSFW, insist on finding inequity where there is none. Bishop Church, for instance, could not physically wait to put out a passive aggressive tweet, insinuating that this championship match at Honor Bound is little more than a party favor from Francis Ford Cuppola’s housewarming.
Worse still, you wave the phrase ‘fruits of a petty power struggle’ in front of my face as if I haven’t experienced the corruption myself. I know all about it. And this match? It isn’t that.”
Zack’s eyes wandered briefly into the flame before returning to the red light on the camera.
“I watched Cross Recoba buy a championship reign with my very own eyes, and you’re getting heated over opportunities,” Zack shook his head with a sneer on his face.
“Opportunity ought to be something the Chimera division can pride itself in, but you just couldn’t help yourself but deride it, could you, Church? Because as much as you and Mike love to claim that you want tag team wrestling to grow and thrive, you’re not going to allow that to preclude you from playing gatekeeper, are you?
I get it. You’re the champions and you’re protective, but you’re asking us to adhere to a precedent that simply doesn’t exist within the confines of this division.
Let’s face it, the tag team field isn’t a large one. Not yet. So while my partner and I could placate the gatekeepers of tag team wrestling by ‘paying dues’ on the pre-show for whatever arbitrary amount of time you two deem fit, I think that would be a colossal waste of everybody’s time.
We all know where this is headed. You don’t need to see my demo reel. What you needed was a legitimate challenge for the show at the O2 and that’s what you’ve got.
It doesn’t need to be more complicated than that, does it?
Perhaps you still have your doubts. Perhaps every suspicion you’ve had about my partner and me comes true. Afterall, we’re not an established tag team. We’re not close friends. In fact, we didn’t speak to one another for over two years. And yet I know him like the back of my hand and I can trust him completely because he’s got a terrible poker face.”
Zack collected a G.I. Joe bedsheet from behind him.
“Just horrid. You might have noticed.”
Laying the bedspread on the ground, Zack look a seat and watched as Brad Stokes danced around the fire.
“There’s little nuance to his game, but that’s because he’s passionate,” Zack paused as he watched Brad stoke the flames. “It’s actually what I like most about the kid.”
“In truth, it never mattered to me whether he spoiled the big surprise or not. Ours is not a strategy based on surprise. You act as if we planned it this way,” Zack laughed. “Trust me me. That’s not the case. We didn’t campaign for this match or ask for this stage. We were offered it because management knows that we’ll deliver on the fight you desperately crave.”
Zack took a moment to brush some embers off of his Fantanasy T-shirt.
“Admittedly, I’ve been away for a while. Maybe I just don’t get the idiosyncrasies of the new locker room, but, if I may ask, who anointed NSFW as the standard bearers of tag team wrestling? My makeshift team with Andrew Vilar has competed in about as many tag team matches in Valor Pro as NSFW, and Andrew spontaneously combusted during a press loop over five months ago.”
Zack crossed his heart in memoriam of the dearly departed while Brad tossed a sofa cushion into the flames.
“My partner and I promise to be around much longer. It’s time to open the gate, NSFW.”
“Call from... [unintelligible],” the phone’s automated voice caller ID chimed in.
The sudden and obnoxious ringtone that followed sent a shiver down Zack’s spine. He figured that phone line would’ve been disconnected months ago.
Fantana wandered down the hallway, his eyes darting left to right in search of the phone.
“Call from... [unintelligible],” the phone continued to ring, almost mockingly.
Zack turned the corner into an office. He was getting warmer.
“Call from… [unintelligible].”
And there it was, trapped underneath a pile of tax returns from years prior. Zack uncovered it, smiling. It was one of those high visibility phones for the elderly, a gift which Bobby’s final pupil had bought and programmed for him after accusing the old man of intentionally dodging his calls.
“Call from... V.C.O.”