Post by JT Midas on May 5, 2014 15:01:54 GMT -5
= Sept. 17, 2010 =
"This isn't your house."
I laughed; Caleb's voice rose in confusion as we pulled into the drive way.
Midas: "I know, I know. It's not as big as my last place. But, uh...you'll learn to love it."
It was true. Compared to my previous home, this place looked like the boiler room Freddy Krueger used to stalk his victims in A Nightmare on Elm Street. You'd never find Robert Englund in this dump, though.
We unbuckled our safety belts as the vehicle slowed to a stop, the stuffy desert air pressing down on us as the chauffeur opened the rear driver's side door to let us out. Caleb followed me out of the limousine, stretching his arms out over his head.
Caleb: "What happened to your old place?"
I hadn't told him yet. It had been so long since we had last seen each other, and the idea that he may not have heard had not yet crossed my mind.
Midas: "It, uh...there were some problems involving mortgage and land taxes." I could sense that he was skeptic. "Trust me, man, I'm in a much better place now."
In all actuality, this place wasn't so bad. A nice, clean-looking condo with a comfy second-floor landing, I had managed to land myself what was likely one of the nicer homes this side of Las Vegas. Believe it or not, however, this new home was a substantial downsizing of my last house.
Midas: "How'd your interview go?"
Caleb: "What do you think?" He laughed, a sad, mocking laugh. "It was more of the same shit, you know? 'How was rehab?' 'How long are you going to be clean?' 'How long before you fuck shit up again?'" Caleb smiled. "It was a walk in the park."
I couldn't help but feel sorry for him. Even after his latest extensive stay in rehabilitation, Caleb Houston still didn't have that glow he once held back in 2008, when he was at the top of his game as the world champion of the Elite Wrestling Academy. Ever since then, things have just been on a steep, downward spiral.
Midas: "Hold that thought," I responded quickly, as a small vibration rumbled my right pocket. "Go on inside, man. I gotta take this call." I ushered Caleb inside. "Make yourself at home."
Caleb turned the doorknob, nodding in response as I reached into my pocket for my sleek, black iPhone. I glance at the caller I.D., waiting to be sure that Caleb had made it inside before I dare answer the call.
Midas: "I was just about to call you, I just made it back home."
"Home?" The voice on the other side of the call was deep, and gruff, and very irritated. "You don't have a home, boy. Not until you get me what I asked for."
Midas: "Yeah, well, you know, it's kind of hard to get anything around here without money."
"You don't got money?" He bellowed into his phone. "That ain't my fucking problem! Now, you do your fucking job, and then you'll get your fucking house! Until then, keep your fucking mouth shut, and stop making excuses!"
Click.
= February 19, 2012 =
"This shit isn't real."
The words caught him off guard. Obviously, he had been expecting something much weaker for my opening statement. This, however, would definitely give him the piece he was looking for.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Midas," he stammered, unsure of what he was even apologizing for. "Could you please repeat that?"
Midas: "I didn't stutter," I rebut, underlined by annoyance and impatience. "This professional wrestling shit, this 'sports entertainment' you reporters like to call it, is all a bunch of bullshit. It's not real."
This was great. The story of the century, they would call it. Spoken from the devil, himself; these words would pull the curtain back so far, this business would never be looked at the same again. I, J.T. Midas, a world renowned professional wrestler, came out to a journalist and admitted the sport of professional wrestling was fake, a fraud, a huge scam. He would get rich off this story. Surely, he would receive the raise and the promotion of a lifetime.
This, unfortunately for the idiot asking the questions, wouldn't be the case.
Midas: "I'm not talking about what we do out in the ring, either. If you think we pull our punches, stomp our feet on the ground, I dare you to get your ass out in the ring and let me pretend to slam you around for ten minutes, and tell if you don't feel like you just took the worst fucking beating of your life. No, what we do out in that ring is real. It's damn real."
"It's all the bullshit that we do in between that is faker than that stupid grin on your face. Pandering to our bosses, our colleagues, our audience. These people don't give a damn who you are, or what you do. They see dollar signs. They see celebrities on the television, men and women who sign their names on an eight-by-ten for little Jimmy or Johnny, just to turn around and see that same God-damned picture up for bid on eBay. Pretending to care what these idiots think is complete and total bullshit. Kicking some nobody's ass every week, that is as real as it gets."
I watched for a moment as the reporter squirmed, uneasy in his comfy little chair.
Midas: "Speaking of nobodies, I hear my opponent this week is a real winner. I caught his little pseudo-promo while drinking himself stupid. Is that what we've come to these days? Idiots with no name, getting themselves pissed-drunk and running their mouths? I watched him shoot his mouth off on me, going on about how all I've done here is talk shit. It's the pot, and he's placing a collect call to Mr. Kettle. This idiot, this Nobody, can't have any idea who the hell I am, when he doesn't even know himself." I lean forward; a bead of sweat drips down the brow of the journalist as he hangs on every word. "This guy doesn't give a damn about winning. This Nobody is the biggest hypocrite I've seen so far in this damn Sin City Wrestling company. He's not out there to entertain anybody, to become a 'big name' in this business. He's going out there, knowing he's going to have his ass kicked, just like it was in his very first match last week, with the disillusion that somebody will see his ugly mug on T.V. and tell him his life story. He thinks there has to be somebody, just one person, who cares enough to help him fulfill his lifelong journey of rediscovering himself, but the reality is nobody gives half a damn about this guy. Nobody cares about any of us. We put asses in seats, and we glue eyes to televisions. That is all we do, all we're worth, and that is all we will ever be."
"On the other hand, I started my SCW journey with a big bang. With one short, sweet appearance in front of those hyenas, I fired the shot heard around the damn world, and made a bigger impact in one hot minute than Mr. Nobody could ever dream of. If he wants to fire off blanks in a drunken stupor, let it be. I would much rather let my actions speak louder than my words. I would rather go out there on Wildcard this Wednesday night, and show the world why I am the greatest professional wrestler in the world, and show everybody here in SCW why the house never wins."
I push myself out of my chair, ignoring the reporters pleas to sit back down and finish his interview. Unbeknownst to him, there is nothing more for me to say. What more can he ask me? What else can a man need to know? 'What are your plans here in SCW?' 'Who exactly is J.T. Midas?'
My plans are simple. I plan taking over Sin City Wrestling, with my partner, Caleb Houston. I hear the tag team championships will soon be reinstated, at the Cancun Clash, and we will make our presence known when the time is right. As for the 'Who am I?' That answer is simple.
I am nobody.
"This isn't your house."
I laughed; Caleb's voice rose in confusion as we pulled into the drive way.
Midas: "I know, I know. It's not as big as my last place. But, uh...you'll learn to love it."
It was true. Compared to my previous home, this place looked like the boiler room Freddy Krueger used to stalk his victims in A Nightmare on Elm Street. You'd never find Robert Englund in this dump, though.
We unbuckled our safety belts as the vehicle slowed to a stop, the stuffy desert air pressing down on us as the chauffeur opened the rear driver's side door to let us out. Caleb followed me out of the limousine, stretching his arms out over his head.
Caleb: "What happened to your old place?"
I hadn't told him yet. It had been so long since we had last seen each other, and the idea that he may not have heard had not yet crossed my mind.
Midas: "It, uh...there were some problems involving mortgage and land taxes." I could sense that he was skeptic. "Trust me, man, I'm in a much better place now."
In all actuality, this place wasn't so bad. A nice, clean-looking condo with a comfy second-floor landing, I had managed to land myself what was likely one of the nicer homes this side of Las Vegas. Believe it or not, however, this new home was a substantial downsizing of my last house.
Midas: "How'd your interview go?"
Caleb: "What do you think?" He laughed, a sad, mocking laugh. "It was more of the same shit, you know? 'How was rehab?' 'How long are you going to be clean?' 'How long before you fuck shit up again?'" Caleb smiled. "It was a walk in the park."
I couldn't help but feel sorry for him. Even after his latest extensive stay in rehabilitation, Caleb Houston still didn't have that glow he once held back in 2008, when he was at the top of his game as the world champion of the Elite Wrestling Academy. Ever since then, things have just been on a steep, downward spiral.
Midas: "Hold that thought," I responded quickly, as a small vibration rumbled my right pocket. "Go on inside, man. I gotta take this call." I ushered Caleb inside. "Make yourself at home."
Caleb turned the doorknob, nodding in response as I reached into my pocket for my sleek, black iPhone. I glance at the caller I.D., waiting to be sure that Caleb had made it inside before I dare answer the call.
Midas: "I was just about to call you, I just made it back home."
"Home?" The voice on the other side of the call was deep, and gruff, and very irritated. "You don't have a home, boy. Not until you get me what I asked for."
Midas: "Yeah, well, you know, it's kind of hard to get anything around here without money."
"You don't got money?" He bellowed into his phone. "That ain't my fucking problem! Now, you do your fucking job, and then you'll get your fucking house! Until then, keep your fucking mouth shut, and stop making excuses!"
Click.
= February 19, 2012 =
"This shit isn't real."
The words caught him off guard. Obviously, he had been expecting something much weaker for my opening statement. This, however, would definitely give him the piece he was looking for.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Midas," he stammered, unsure of what he was even apologizing for. "Could you please repeat that?"
Midas: "I didn't stutter," I rebut, underlined by annoyance and impatience. "This professional wrestling shit, this 'sports entertainment' you reporters like to call it, is all a bunch of bullshit. It's not real."
This was great. The story of the century, they would call it. Spoken from the devil, himself; these words would pull the curtain back so far, this business would never be looked at the same again. I, J.T. Midas, a world renowned professional wrestler, came out to a journalist and admitted the sport of professional wrestling was fake, a fraud, a huge scam. He would get rich off this story. Surely, he would receive the raise and the promotion of a lifetime.
This, unfortunately for the idiot asking the questions, wouldn't be the case.
Midas: "I'm not talking about what we do out in the ring, either. If you think we pull our punches, stomp our feet on the ground, I dare you to get your ass out in the ring and let me pretend to slam you around for ten minutes, and tell if you don't feel like you just took the worst fucking beating of your life. No, what we do out in that ring is real. It's damn real."
"It's all the bullshit that we do in between that is faker than that stupid grin on your face. Pandering to our bosses, our colleagues, our audience. These people don't give a damn who you are, or what you do. They see dollar signs. They see celebrities on the television, men and women who sign their names on an eight-by-ten for little Jimmy or Johnny, just to turn around and see that same God-damned picture up for bid on eBay. Pretending to care what these idiots think is complete and total bullshit. Kicking some nobody's ass every week, that is as real as it gets."
I watched for a moment as the reporter squirmed, uneasy in his comfy little chair.
Midas: "Speaking of nobodies, I hear my opponent this week is a real winner. I caught his little pseudo-promo while drinking himself stupid. Is that what we've come to these days? Idiots with no name, getting themselves pissed-drunk and running their mouths? I watched him shoot his mouth off on me, going on about how all I've done here is talk shit. It's the pot, and he's placing a collect call to Mr. Kettle. This idiot, this Nobody, can't have any idea who the hell I am, when he doesn't even know himself." I lean forward; a bead of sweat drips down the brow of the journalist as he hangs on every word. "This guy doesn't give a damn about winning. This Nobody is the biggest hypocrite I've seen so far in this damn Sin City Wrestling company. He's not out there to entertain anybody, to become a 'big name' in this business. He's going out there, knowing he's going to have his ass kicked, just like it was in his very first match last week, with the disillusion that somebody will see his ugly mug on T.V. and tell him his life story. He thinks there has to be somebody, just one person, who cares enough to help him fulfill his lifelong journey of rediscovering himself, but the reality is nobody gives half a damn about this guy. Nobody cares about any of us. We put asses in seats, and we glue eyes to televisions. That is all we do, all we're worth, and that is all we will ever be."
"On the other hand, I started my SCW journey with a big bang. With one short, sweet appearance in front of those hyenas, I fired the shot heard around the damn world, and made a bigger impact in one hot minute than Mr. Nobody could ever dream of. If he wants to fire off blanks in a drunken stupor, let it be. I would much rather let my actions speak louder than my words. I would rather go out there on Wildcard this Wednesday night, and show the world why I am the greatest professional wrestler in the world, and show everybody here in SCW why the house never wins."
I push myself out of my chair, ignoring the reporters pleas to sit back down and finish his interview. Unbeknownst to him, there is nothing more for me to say. What more can he ask me? What else can a man need to know? 'What are your plans here in SCW?' 'Who exactly is J.T. Midas?'
My plans are simple. I plan taking over Sin City Wrestling, with my partner, Caleb Houston. I hear the tag team championships will soon be reinstated, at the Cancun Clash, and we will make our presence known when the time is right. As for the 'Who am I?' That answer is simple.
I am nobody.