Post by Deleted on Oct 16, 2012 17:54:02 GMT -5
Wrestling is fake.
That sentiment had been around for years, usually shouted from the mountaintops by individuals that had no idea what the sport of professional wrestling was truly about. Naturally there was a certain amount of theater involved. That was blatantly evident by some of the more flamboyant personalities that competed inside the squared circle. Hopefully the fans didn’t really believe that wrestlers like the Undertaker remained in character twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. After all It would have looked pretty ridiculous if he strolled into Taco Bell in full in-ring gear with Paul Bearer in tow just to order some nachos.
While some of the characters were exaggerated, the action inside the ring was real. There weren’t any stuntmen to take the dangerous falls or directors to yell “Cut!” when something didn’t go the way it was planned. The fights weren’t choreographed and the violence was not faked; pro wrestling was as real as it could possibly get.
James “The Hammer” Harlow could attest to that fact.
He could vividly recall walking down the aisle toward the ring with Quiet Riot blasting over the PA system, the music nearly drowned out by the roar of the fans. The adrenaline rush hit his body like a jolt of lightning as he realized that millions of people around the world were watching his return to pay-per-view. As much as he hated to admit it, the chance to wrestle for the North American title wasn’t as thrilling as the chance to get his hands on Ryan Stiles.
He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Ryan had been the one to hurt Bobby. He didn’t care if the Reno Police Department could prove it or not, because he knew. The only thing that was keeping him from outright beating Ryan’s skull in with a baseball bat was the thought of prison. Otherwise, the man known as Rage would be nothing more than maggot food.
The last crystal clear memory of After Shock was the metallic clang of the bell from the timekeeper’s table. After that, everything was a blur. All of his well-thought out strategies for taking on Bliss and Rage were completely forgotten. He vaguely remembered being used as a crash test dummy by both of his opponents, but the bits and pieces he could recall didn’t make any sense. It was like watching a movie that had been edited sloppily. The long walk to the back had seemed like a dream, the sounds muffled and distorted. Every step had taken almost superhuman effort, because it felt like his feet had been encased in concrete. Luckily the camera or the fans had been able to witness him puking and then collapsing just as he had stepped past the curtains and into the go position.
Almost eight hours later, he had awakened in a hospital bed with a pounding headache and an IV catheter jammed into his left arm. The doctor’s diagnosis was a concussion. Somehow he had gotten his brain rattled in the opening minutes of the match. He honestly didn’t remember enough of the match to take an educated guess at who was responsible, but it didn’t really matter because the damage had already been done. Getting injured was just a fact of life when you were a wrestler, but concussions were nothing to screw around with. Concussions could do more than just end a career; they could kill you.
Against the doctor’s recommendations, Harlow had checked himself out of the hospital. However, with Bobby hospitalized in Reno, there was only one person that he could think to call.
James Harlow sat in the passenger seat of the Lexus, his half-lidded eyes focused on the cracked, aging asphalt in front of him. The highway from Las Vegas to Reno had seen better days. Even in his weakened condition, the irony wasn’t completely lost of him. He sighed, wincing as the car hit another pothole, this one deep enough that it produced an abrupt lurch that bounced the side of Harlow’s head off the window.
“Sorry,” Carrie-Anne said, shooting him an apologetic look. “I’m honestly not trying to hit every single bump in the road.”
He gave a wordless groan in response and leaned back against the soft leather, closing his eyes. The pair of cheap sunglasses that had snagged at Rite Aid were woefully inadequate for blocking out the early morning sun’s piercing rays.
The second he heard his ex-wife’s voice on the telephone he had regretted dialing the number. They had been divorced for years – and she had even remarried – but he had never fallen out of love with her. The knowledge that she had moved on with her life was like a rusty knife in his gut, but he couldn’t exactly blame her. He had been a horrible husband. It was funny that before he had decided to come out of retirement that their relationship had consisted of occasional phone calls or e-mails, usually concerning his alimony payments. Now they talked nearly everyday. It was almost like old times except she was married to someone else and he . . . well, he was old.
“A couple of Bobby’s employees are staying at the hospital to look after him. One of them wanted me to let you know that she hoped you were okay.”
“Who?” He risked a glance at her expression and wished he hadn’t. The sunlight was bright enough without him opening his eyes. He groaned again and scooted down in the seat, letting the sun visor do its job. Well, partially. He didn’t know what hurt worse: the light or the hurt expression on Carrie-Anne’s face.
“Denise. Brunette. Nice rack. Ass that you could bounce a quarter off of.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.” Under the circumstances, he thought it was impossible for him to feel worse, but he did. He and Carrie-Anne weren’t together, but there wasn’t any denying the stab of guilt that tore through him.
Carrie-Anne cleared her throat. “Really? That’s strange. She made it very clear that you two were friends. REALLY good friends.”
He sighed. “Christ, Carrie-Anne. It was only a couple of dates. It’s not like we were going steady.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
The tone of her voice set Harlow’s nerves on edge. He just wasn’t prepared to deal with a bunch of emotional bullshit at the moment. Besides what right did she have to be upset? Yeah, he had fooled around with Denise, but beyond her passion for pro wrestling, they didn’t really have anything in common. Of course, neither of them had hooked up with any preconceived notion about it being a lasting relationship; their nights together had simply been some no-strings-attached fun.
“What did you tell your husband?” It was a cruel card to play, but he wasn’t feeling very polite. His skull felt like it was about to explode at any second. The throbbing pain had gotten so bad that he could feel it in his teeth. His stomach churned uncomfortably, making him regret the six ounces of orange juice that he had drank at the hospital. He would hate to top the morning off by decorating his ex-wife’s Lexus with puke.
“I didn’t tell Charles anything.” Her voice was tight, her words clipped. “I don’t have to ask his permission. I come and go as I please.”
He felt in his jacket pocket for his bottle of Hydrocodone. Luckily, the Rite Aid in Vegas had been able to refill his prescription. He had avoided taking them so far, but he didn’t know how much longer he could hold out; the agony was getting unbearable.
After a long, awkward silence, he sighed. “That was a low blow. I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s all right,” she said. “I started it. It’s none of my business what you do or who you do it with anymore.”
Harlow didn’t know whether it was her words or the bump she hit, but his stomach rolled. He snapped forward, slapping the dashboard with his hand. “Pull over!” he snapped, unbuckling the seat belt as fast as he could. She was barely on the shoulder before he flung the door open and leaned out.
Even after he had emptied his stomach of the ill-conceived orange juice, he continued to dry heave until his jaw muscles ached and his throat felt raw. Both of those, however, were minor annoyances compared to the excruciating pain in his head. He sat there, turned sideways in the car, his head hanging down between his knees. Gradually, he got himself under control. “Fuck me,” he said weakly.
“I don’t think you’re in any condition to make that offer,” Carrie-Anne said dryly.
He hadn’t even noticed that she had gotten out of the car, until she spoke. He glanced up at her and managed a feeble smirk. “Was that supposed to be funny?”
She smiled softly and touched his sweaty forehead. “Maybe.”
He covered her hand with his as she cupped the side of his face. As much as he wanted to say something, he didn’t speak. Honestly, he didn’t know what to say. That and he was half afraid of throwing up on her. He simply sat there, enjoying the moment.
Finally, she cleared his throat. “I need to get you back to the hotel. You need to take your pain meds and get some rest.” He gently entwined a few loose strands of his hair around her index finger, an old habit of hers.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He grinned. “It just wouldn’t do to have one of pro wrestling’s living legends kick the bucket on the shoulder of Highway 50.”
She laughed. “You are so full of shit.”
Four days after Millennium Pro Wrestling’s After Shock pay-per-view, James “The Hammer” Harlow found himself eager to get back into the ring. He had been forced to miss the weekend house shows due to the concussion that he had suffered, but he just couldn’t stay in bed any longer. He needed to do something or else he was going to drive himself crazy.
He had crashed in Reno for a couple of days, spending most of his time at the hospital, watching over Bobby. He still hadn’t regained consciousness, but the doctors were all hopeful. If it hadn’t been for Carrie-Anne he wouldn’t have returned to Vegas, but his ex had done something completely evil and sneaky; she had used logic on him. Carrie-Anne had pointed out that he had to get mentally prepared for his upcoming match on Thursday Night Takedown, and that he couldn’t do that in Reno. Reluctantly, he had returned, because he knew that she was right.
An early morning workout had been just the thing to get both his blood and his creative juices flowing. Normally, he was a spontaneous promo guy, but this time he mentally rehearsed what he was going to say while he was on the treadmill. Even before leaving for the gym, he had put a call into MPW corporate headquarters to schedule some camera time. Like a lot of veterans, “The Hammer” was used to feeding off of an interviewer, but this time around he had chosen to go a different route. He knew that Jay Wyatt was usually busy and there was no way he could tolerate Tim Bowers or his sarcastic questions.
Over the past couple of weeks, Harlow had reached a decision: he was either going to have to evolve or he was going to end up extinct. Bliss and Rage and the others kept comparing him to a fossil, and in some ways, that’s exactly what he was. He was a holdover from a much different era of professional wrestling. He had tried to change with the times, even altering his look and his in-ring moves, but he finally realized that he had kept the same mentality. Back in his day, men didn’t wrestle women. In a lot of ways, that mindset had hampered him in his matches against Bliss.
That was all about to change. To quote Alice Cooper, no more Mr. Nice Guy.
The scene opened up on an incredible rooftop view of Las Vegas. While the Vegas skyline at night was a sight to behold, the daytime cityscape was still impressive. From the top of the Four Seasons, the sounds of the traffic from the streets below were subdued.
“Bliss. Rage. Sin.”
The camera panned to reveal James “The Hammer” Harlow standing near the edge of the rooftop, looking downward. His ash-blond hair had been pulled back into a ponytail in a vain effort to keep it from blowing around wildly in the wind. He was dressed in faded jeans and a plain black tee underneath a dark blue MPW hooded sweatshirt.
“Bliss. Rage. Sin,” he repeated, before turning to face the camera. “All of these things can be found in Las Vegas. In fact, you don’t have to look too hard to find sin in Vegas.” He chuckled. “Hell, one of this city’s nicknames is Sin City. That’s what I call truth in advertising.”
Harlow shoved his hands into his pockets and sighed, shaking his head. “After Shock! Boy, I know I’m still feeling the after shock of that triple threat match.” His smile faded. “Bliss, I’ve got to give you credit. You took one hell of a beating from me and Rage and still managed to squeak by with your face and championship reign intact. Kudos.” He mimicked a snobbish golf clap.
“Somewhere down the line, it’s inevitable that you and I are going to face off again. I just hope that you still have that North American title around your waist, because I think it’d be an honor if I was the one that took it away from you,” he said, stressing the word honor sarcastically. “You aren’t any different from any other pampered rich kid that decided to do something to get daddy’s attention.” He ticked them off on his fingers as he said, “Erik Watts, Dustin Rhodes, David Flair, Mike Von Erich.” He smirked. “You’re just like them, Bliss. You may be sitting pretty right now, but sooner or later you’re going to fall. I just hope I’m there when you do. The next time we step into the ring against each other, I’m going to beat some damn respect into your cute, little ass.”
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Ryan, Ryan, Ryan . . . this thing between you and I sure as hell isn’t finished. Counting After Shock, that’s twice that you’ve put me in the hospital. There isn’t going to be a third time.” His eyes narrowed as he stared into the lens. “Paybacks are a bitch, Ryan. More than a decade ago, I took a risk and helped this wet-behind-the-ears jerk-off break into the business. He had the look, he had the passion, but he knew absolutely nothing about the sport of pro wrestling. He ran the roads with me, paying his dues, and earning his spot. I taught him the ropes of this business and tried to steer him away from all of the egotistical, manipulative assholes. But somewhere down the line, he must have taken one chair-shot to the head too many. He started suffering from delusions of grandeur. Us old-timers –“ Once again his tone oozed sarcasm. “ – used to call that getting too big for your britches. And that’s exactly what Ryan did.”
He stepped to the edge of the roof again and looked out at the city. The palm trees swayed gently in the breeze. Harlow visibly tried to calm himself, but it was obvious from the set of his clenched jaw that wasn’t able to. Finally, he cut his eyes to the camera. “Ryan Stiles. Rage. Or whatever nifty little nickname you want to hang on yourself . . . this power trip that you’re on it going to come to an abrupt end. ‘The Only One’ my ass. You’re just like a thousand other muscle bound pricks. You walk out to that ring snarling like a wolf, trying to make everyone believe that you’re a bad ass.” He chuckled. “I know who and what you really are, Ryan. And it doesn’t fall into the category of bad ass. You stabbed me in the back and left me laying in a pool of my own blood.” He held up two fingers. “Twice. That I can forgive, because I should have known better than to trust you. Whatever happens inside that ring I chalk up to occupational hazards -- shit happens. But when you attack someone that I care about outside the confines of this business, then you’re stepping over a line. You know what I’m talking about, Ryan, so I want you know that you made the mistake of your life. There’s one major difference between an old man and a young man when it comes to a fight. A young man wants to win, so he can boast and brag about how good he is.” He sneered and cocked his head, eyes narrowed into slits. “An old man doesn’t care about winning. He just wants to hurt his opponent bad enough that there won’t be any re-matches. You should remember that.”
Harlow stretched his neck from side to side, letting the vertebra pop as he loosened them. A little of the fire in his eyes died down, but the expression on his face was no less intense. He was tired of being bitch-slapped with insults about his age. As far as he was concerned, MPW was about to see a side of “The Hammer” that no one had ever seen before.
“Tyler Rose.” He shook his head again. “My first match here in MPW was against the North American champion, Bliss. Despite her bad attitude, it was still an honor to be put into the ring against one of the promotion’s best right out of the chute. As much as that was an honor being scheduled to wrestle you is like a slap in the face. Pro wrestling as a hobby? What the hell is wrong with you?! There obviously has to be some brain damage if you think you can just step into MY world and act like you’ve earned the right to wrestle me.”
“Playboy,” he said, rolling his eyes. “In this sport there’s only been one man that has earned the right to call himself by that nickname and it’s not you. Buddy Rose.” He paused for a second, looking thoughtful. “Buddy Rose. Tyler Rose. Hmm. Is that your daddy, Tyler? Are you a second generation grappler trying to carry on his father’s legacy?”
His playful expression vanished in a heartbeat. He moved closer to the camera like a striking snake, filling the entire view. “No, Tyler, you’re not! You’re a damn joke! Porn star, NBA power forward, late night talk show host – it doesn’t matter! THIS is professional wrestling, Tyler. This isn’t a hobby; it’s a way of life. You’re a disrespectful prick – apparently one of many in this company – that needs to be taught some respect. It doesn’t matter what you’ve accomplished outside of Millennium Pro Wrestling. You keep bragging about your ability to get it up and keep it up. You’re constantly running your mouth, but have you ever really stopped to consider that no one gives a crap? You’re a porn star, Tyler. You’re not a doctor. You haven’t won a Noble Prize. You have sex for money. Plain and simple. Where I come from that means you’re a whore.”
He sucked at his teeth, something he did when he started to get really wound up. “A real man doesn’t have to brag about what he can do in the bedroom. I guess that says a lot right there, because you may be a male, Tyler, but you’re NOT a real man. I saw your pointless, rambling little promos for your match against Ryu. You kept hinting that he couldn’t make it in your world of fake orgasms and real assholes. Here’s a little newsflash for you – he is a pro wrestler because that’s his life!” He smiled and sighed. “That’s my life, Tyler. I’m not in this sport so I can use it as a catapult to other things. I don’t have any interest in becoming a movie star – x-rated or otherwise. I’m a wrestler because that’s who I am and what I was meant to be. You’ve got a big cock? You can perform in front of the camera with big-breasted, bleach blond bimbos? Congrats, man. That’s quite an accomplishment, but like I said – it doesn’t matter.”
He straightened up and squared his shoulders. The camera pulled back to show him silhouetted against the bright Vegas skyline. After a few seconds, he glanced back into the lens. “Thursday Night Takedown – TNT. That’s an appropriate name for the show, because there is going to be one hell of an explosion. I’m not here to film skits with a dwarf dressed like a leprechaun or have a rap battle with Snoop Dogg or anything like that. I’m here to wrestle. That has always been MY passion. Tyler Rose, you have a choice to make before you walk down that aisle and climb into MY ring. You can either take this sport seriously and stop treating it like a weekend hobby or you can go back to your little porno pals and give up on your dreams of ever being a pro wrestler. I’m not guaranteeing a win, Tyler, but I can guarantee that you’re going to remember October 18th 2012 for as long as you live, because that’s the night that you are going to have to show more than your cock and balls – you’re going to have to show guts.”
He slicked his hair back and readjusted the ponytail. “Thursday Night isn’t going to be a typical night for you, Tyler. There’s not going to be any re-shoots or any stuntmen ready to fill in if you suddenly can’t seal the deal. The only grunts and groans you’re going to hear are your own as I’m beating your ass from pillar to post. Listen very carefully . . . you are NOT going to pull the same shit with me that you did with Ryu at the pay-per-view and get away with it. You pull out that little can of silly string with me, and I’m going to shove it straight up your ass . . . no lube, no warm-up kiss, no candlelight dinner. Like Bliss, like Rage . . . like a LOT of people in this company, you don’t know the meaning of the word respect.” He leaned toward the camera, nostrils flaring. “But that is about to change. Win or lose on Takedown, I’m taking you to school, Tyler.” He smirked. “The OLD school you might say. You might not have done anything to me personally, but your blatant disrespect for this business makes me sick to my god damn stomach. When that bell rings, class is in session and the teacher for Respect 101 is James ‘The Hammer’ Harlow!”
{Scheduled Match: James Harlow vs. Tyler Rose – October 18th, 2012 – Thursday Night Takedown}
That sentiment had been around for years, usually shouted from the mountaintops by individuals that had no idea what the sport of professional wrestling was truly about. Naturally there was a certain amount of theater involved. That was blatantly evident by some of the more flamboyant personalities that competed inside the squared circle. Hopefully the fans didn’t really believe that wrestlers like the Undertaker remained in character twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. After all It would have looked pretty ridiculous if he strolled into Taco Bell in full in-ring gear with Paul Bearer in tow just to order some nachos.
While some of the characters were exaggerated, the action inside the ring was real. There weren’t any stuntmen to take the dangerous falls or directors to yell “Cut!” when something didn’t go the way it was planned. The fights weren’t choreographed and the violence was not faked; pro wrestling was as real as it could possibly get.
James “The Hammer” Harlow could attest to that fact.
He could vividly recall walking down the aisle toward the ring with Quiet Riot blasting over the PA system, the music nearly drowned out by the roar of the fans. The adrenaline rush hit his body like a jolt of lightning as he realized that millions of people around the world were watching his return to pay-per-view. As much as he hated to admit it, the chance to wrestle for the North American title wasn’t as thrilling as the chance to get his hands on Ryan Stiles.
He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Ryan had been the one to hurt Bobby. He didn’t care if the Reno Police Department could prove it or not, because he knew. The only thing that was keeping him from outright beating Ryan’s skull in with a baseball bat was the thought of prison. Otherwise, the man known as Rage would be nothing more than maggot food.
The last crystal clear memory of After Shock was the metallic clang of the bell from the timekeeper’s table. After that, everything was a blur. All of his well-thought out strategies for taking on Bliss and Rage were completely forgotten. He vaguely remembered being used as a crash test dummy by both of his opponents, but the bits and pieces he could recall didn’t make any sense. It was like watching a movie that had been edited sloppily. The long walk to the back had seemed like a dream, the sounds muffled and distorted. Every step had taken almost superhuman effort, because it felt like his feet had been encased in concrete. Luckily the camera or the fans had been able to witness him puking and then collapsing just as he had stepped past the curtains and into the go position.
Almost eight hours later, he had awakened in a hospital bed with a pounding headache and an IV catheter jammed into his left arm. The doctor’s diagnosis was a concussion. Somehow he had gotten his brain rattled in the opening minutes of the match. He honestly didn’t remember enough of the match to take an educated guess at who was responsible, but it didn’t really matter because the damage had already been done. Getting injured was just a fact of life when you were a wrestler, but concussions were nothing to screw around with. Concussions could do more than just end a career; they could kill you.
Against the doctor’s recommendations, Harlow had checked himself out of the hospital. However, with Bobby hospitalized in Reno, there was only one person that he could think to call.
James Harlow sat in the passenger seat of the Lexus, his half-lidded eyes focused on the cracked, aging asphalt in front of him. The highway from Las Vegas to Reno had seen better days. Even in his weakened condition, the irony wasn’t completely lost of him. He sighed, wincing as the car hit another pothole, this one deep enough that it produced an abrupt lurch that bounced the side of Harlow’s head off the window.
“Sorry,” Carrie-Anne said, shooting him an apologetic look. “I’m honestly not trying to hit every single bump in the road.”
He gave a wordless groan in response and leaned back against the soft leather, closing his eyes. The pair of cheap sunglasses that had snagged at Rite Aid were woefully inadequate for blocking out the early morning sun’s piercing rays.
The second he heard his ex-wife’s voice on the telephone he had regretted dialing the number. They had been divorced for years – and she had even remarried – but he had never fallen out of love with her. The knowledge that she had moved on with her life was like a rusty knife in his gut, but he couldn’t exactly blame her. He had been a horrible husband. It was funny that before he had decided to come out of retirement that their relationship had consisted of occasional phone calls or e-mails, usually concerning his alimony payments. Now they talked nearly everyday. It was almost like old times except she was married to someone else and he . . . well, he was old.
“A couple of Bobby’s employees are staying at the hospital to look after him. One of them wanted me to let you know that she hoped you were okay.”
“Who?” He risked a glance at her expression and wished he hadn’t. The sunlight was bright enough without him opening his eyes. He groaned again and scooted down in the seat, letting the sun visor do its job. Well, partially. He didn’t know what hurt worse: the light or the hurt expression on Carrie-Anne’s face.
“Denise. Brunette. Nice rack. Ass that you could bounce a quarter off of.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.” Under the circumstances, he thought it was impossible for him to feel worse, but he did. He and Carrie-Anne weren’t together, but there wasn’t any denying the stab of guilt that tore through him.
Carrie-Anne cleared her throat. “Really? That’s strange. She made it very clear that you two were friends. REALLY good friends.”
He sighed. “Christ, Carrie-Anne. It was only a couple of dates. It’s not like we were going steady.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
The tone of her voice set Harlow’s nerves on edge. He just wasn’t prepared to deal with a bunch of emotional bullshit at the moment. Besides what right did she have to be upset? Yeah, he had fooled around with Denise, but beyond her passion for pro wrestling, they didn’t really have anything in common. Of course, neither of them had hooked up with any preconceived notion about it being a lasting relationship; their nights together had simply been some no-strings-attached fun.
“What did you tell your husband?” It was a cruel card to play, but he wasn’t feeling very polite. His skull felt like it was about to explode at any second. The throbbing pain had gotten so bad that he could feel it in his teeth. His stomach churned uncomfortably, making him regret the six ounces of orange juice that he had drank at the hospital. He would hate to top the morning off by decorating his ex-wife’s Lexus with puke.
“I didn’t tell Charles anything.” Her voice was tight, her words clipped. “I don’t have to ask his permission. I come and go as I please.”
He felt in his jacket pocket for his bottle of Hydrocodone. Luckily, the Rite Aid in Vegas had been able to refill his prescription. He had avoided taking them so far, but he didn’t know how much longer he could hold out; the agony was getting unbearable.
After a long, awkward silence, he sighed. “That was a low blow. I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s all right,” she said. “I started it. It’s none of my business what you do or who you do it with anymore.”
Harlow didn’t know whether it was her words or the bump she hit, but his stomach rolled. He snapped forward, slapping the dashboard with his hand. “Pull over!” he snapped, unbuckling the seat belt as fast as he could. She was barely on the shoulder before he flung the door open and leaned out.
Even after he had emptied his stomach of the ill-conceived orange juice, he continued to dry heave until his jaw muscles ached and his throat felt raw. Both of those, however, were minor annoyances compared to the excruciating pain in his head. He sat there, turned sideways in the car, his head hanging down between his knees. Gradually, he got himself under control. “Fuck me,” he said weakly.
“I don’t think you’re in any condition to make that offer,” Carrie-Anne said dryly.
He hadn’t even noticed that she had gotten out of the car, until she spoke. He glanced up at her and managed a feeble smirk. “Was that supposed to be funny?”
She smiled softly and touched his sweaty forehead. “Maybe.”
He covered her hand with his as she cupped the side of his face. As much as he wanted to say something, he didn’t speak. Honestly, he didn’t know what to say. That and he was half afraid of throwing up on her. He simply sat there, enjoying the moment.
Finally, she cleared his throat. “I need to get you back to the hotel. You need to take your pain meds and get some rest.” He gently entwined a few loose strands of his hair around her index finger, an old habit of hers.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He grinned. “It just wouldn’t do to have one of pro wrestling’s living legends kick the bucket on the shoulder of Highway 50.”
She laughed. “You are so full of shit.”
Four days after Millennium Pro Wrestling’s After Shock pay-per-view, James “The Hammer” Harlow found himself eager to get back into the ring. He had been forced to miss the weekend house shows due to the concussion that he had suffered, but he just couldn’t stay in bed any longer. He needed to do something or else he was going to drive himself crazy.
He had crashed in Reno for a couple of days, spending most of his time at the hospital, watching over Bobby. He still hadn’t regained consciousness, but the doctors were all hopeful. If it hadn’t been for Carrie-Anne he wouldn’t have returned to Vegas, but his ex had done something completely evil and sneaky; she had used logic on him. Carrie-Anne had pointed out that he had to get mentally prepared for his upcoming match on Thursday Night Takedown, and that he couldn’t do that in Reno. Reluctantly, he had returned, because he knew that she was right.
An early morning workout had been just the thing to get both his blood and his creative juices flowing. Normally, he was a spontaneous promo guy, but this time he mentally rehearsed what he was going to say while he was on the treadmill. Even before leaving for the gym, he had put a call into MPW corporate headquarters to schedule some camera time. Like a lot of veterans, “The Hammer” was used to feeding off of an interviewer, but this time around he had chosen to go a different route. He knew that Jay Wyatt was usually busy and there was no way he could tolerate Tim Bowers or his sarcastic questions.
Over the past couple of weeks, Harlow had reached a decision: he was either going to have to evolve or he was going to end up extinct. Bliss and Rage and the others kept comparing him to a fossil, and in some ways, that’s exactly what he was. He was a holdover from a much different era of professional wrestling. He had tried to change with the times, even altering his look and his in-ring moves, but he finally realized that he had kept the same mentality. Back in his day, men didn’t wrestle women. In a lot of ways, that mindset had hampered him in his matches against Bliss.
That was all about to change. To quote Alice Cooper, no more Mr. Nice Guy.
The scene opened up on an incredible rooftop view of Las Vegas. While the Vegas skyline at night was a sight to behold, the daytime cityscape was still impressive. From the top of the Four Seasons, the sounds of the traffic from the streets below were subdued.
“Bliss. Rage. Sin.”
The camera panned to reveal James “The Hammer” Harlow standing near the edge of the rooftop, looking downward. His ash-blond hair had been pulled back into a ponytail in a vain effort to keep it from blowing around wildly in the wind. He was dressed in faded jeans and a plain black tee underneath a dark blue MPW hooded sweatshirt.
“Bliss. Rage. Sin,” he repeated, before turning to face the camera. “All of these things can be found in Las Vegas. In fact, you don’t have to look too hard to find sin in Vegas.” He chuckled. “Hell, one of this city’s nicknames is Sin City. That’s what I call truth in advertising.”
Harlow shoved his hands into his pockets and sighed, shaking his head. “After Shock! Boy, I know I’m still feeling the after shock of that triple threat match.” His smile faded. “Bliss, I’ve got to give you credit. You took one hell of a beating from me and Rage and still managed to squeak by with your face and championship reign intact. Kudos.” He mimicked a snobbish golf clap.
“Somewhere down the line, it’s inevitable that you and I are going to face off again. I just hope that you still have that North American title around your waist, because I think it’d be an honor if I was the one that took it away from you,” he said, stressing the word honor sarcastically. “You aren’t any different from any other pampered rich kid that decided to do something to get daddy’s attention.” He ticked them off on his fingers as he said, “Erik Watts, Dustin Rhodes, David Flair, Mike Von Erich.” He smirked. “You’re just like them, Bliss. You may be sitting pretty right now, but sooner or later you’re going to fall. I just hope I’m there when you do. The next time we step into the ring against each other, I’m going to beat some damn respect into your cute, little ass.”
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Ryan, Ryan, Ryan . . . this thing between you and I sure as hell isn’t finished. Counting After Shock, that’s twice that you’ve put me in the hospital. There isn’t going to be a third time.” His eyes narrowed as he stared into the lens. “Paybacks are a bitch, Ryan. More than a decade ago, I took a risk and helped this wet-behind-the-ears jerk-off break into the business. He had the look, he had the passion, but he knew absolutely nothing about the sport of pro wrestling. He ran the roads with me, paying his dues, and earning his spot. I taught him the ropes of this business and tried to steer him away from all of the egotistical, manipulative assholes. But somewhere down the line, he must have taken one chair-shot to the head too many. He started suffering from delusions of grandeur. Us old-timers –“ Once again his tone oozed sarcasm. “ – used to call that getting too big for your britches. And that’s exactly what Ryan did.”
He stepped to the edge of the roof again and looked out at the city. The palm trees swayed gently in the breeze. Harlow visibly tried to calm himself, but it was obvious from the set of his clenched jaw that wasn’t able to. Finally, he cut his eyes to the camera. “Ryan Stiles. Rage. Or whatever nifty little nickname you want to hang on yourself . . . this power trip that you’re on it going to come to an abrupt end. ‘The Only One’ my ass. You’re just like a thousand other muscle bound pricks. You walk out to that ring snarling like a wolf, trying to make everyone believe that you’re a bad ass.” He chuckled. “I know who and what you really are, Ryan. And it doesn’t fall into the category of bad ass. You stabbed me in the back and left me laying in a pool of my own blood.” He held up two fingers. “Twice. That I can forgive, because I should have known better than to trust you. Whatever happens inside that ring I chalk up to occupational hazards -- shit happens. But when you attack someone that I care about outside the confines of this business, then you’re stepping over a line. You know what I’m talking about, Ryan, so I want you know that you made the mistake of your life. There’s one major difference between an old man and a young man when it comes to a fight. A young man wants to win, so he can boast and brag about how good he is.” He sneered and cocked his head, eyes narrowed into slits. “An old man doesn’t care about winning. He just wants to hurt his opponent bad enough that there won’t be any re-matches. You should remember that.”
Harlow stretched his neck from side to side, letting the vertebra pop as he loosened them. A little of the fire in his eyes died down, but the expression on his face was no less intense. He was tired of being bitch-slapped with insults about his age. As far as he was concerned, MPW was about to see a side of “The Hammer” that no one had ever seen before.
“Tyler Rose.” He shook his head again. “My first match here in MPW was against the North American champion, Bliss. Despite her bad attitude, it was still an honor to be put into the ring against one of the promotion’s best right out of the chute. As much as that was an honor being scheduled to wrestle you is like a slap in the face. Pro wrestling as a hobby? What the hell is wrong with you?! There obviously has to be some brain damage if you think you can just step into MY world and act like you’ve earned the right to wrestle me.”
“Playboy,” he said, rolling his eyes. “In this sport there’s only been one man that has earned the right to call himself by that nickname and it’s not you. Buddy Rose.” He paused for a second, looking thoughtful. “Buddy Rose. Tyler Rose. Hmm. Is that your daddy, Tyler? Are you a second generation grappler trying to carry on his father’s legacy?”
His playful expression vanished in a heartbeat. He moved closer to the camera like a striking snake, filling the entire view. “No, Tyler, you’re not! You’re a damn joke! Porn star, NBA power forward, late night talk show host – it doesn’t matter! THIS is professional wrestling, Tyler. This isn’t a hobby; it’s a way of life. You’re a disrespectful prick – apparently one of many in this company – that needs to be taught some respect. It doesn’t matter what you’ve accomplished outside of Millennium Pro Wrestling. You keep bragging about your ability to get it up and keep it up. You’re constantly running your mouth, but have you ever really stopped to consider that no one gives a crap? You’re a porn star, Tyler. You’re not a doctor. You haven’t won a Noble Prize. You have sex for money. Plain and simple. Where I come from that means you’re a whore.”
He sucked at his teeth, something he did when he started to get really wound up. “A real man doesn’t have to brag about what he can do in the bedroom. I guess that says a lot right there, because you may be a male, Tyler, but you’re NOT a real man. I saw your pointless, rambling little promos for your match against Ryu. You kept hinting that he couldn’t make it in your world of fake orgasms and real assholes. Here’s a little newsflash for you – he is a pro wrestler because that’s his life!” He smiled and sighed. “That’s my life, Tyler. I’m not in this sport so I can use it as a catapult to other things. I don’t have any interest in becoming a movie star – x-rated or otherwise. I’m a wrestler because that’s who I am and what I was meant to be. You’ve got a big cock? You can perform in front of the camera with big-breasted, bleach blond bimbos? Congrats, man. That’s quite an accomplishment, but like I said – it doesn’t matter.”
He straightened up and squared his shoulders. The camera pulled back to show him silhouetted against the bright Vegas skyline. After a few seconds, he glanced back into the lens. “Thursday Night Takedown – TNT. That’s an appropriate name for the show, because there is going to be one hell of an explosion. I’m not here to film skits with a dwarf dressed like a leprechaun or have a rap battle with Snoop Dogg or anything like that. I’m here to wrestle. That has always been MY passion. Tyler Rose, you have a choice to make before you walk down that aisle and climb into MY ring. You can either take this sport seriously and stop treating it like a weekend hobby or you can go back to your little porno pals and give up on your dreams of ever being a pro wrestler. I’m not guaranteeing a win, Tyler, but I can guarantee that you’re going to remember October 18th 2012 for as long as you live, because that’s the night that you are going to have to show more than your cock and balls – you’re going to have to show guts.”
He slicked his hair back and readjusted the ponytail. “Thursday Night isn’t going to be a typical night for you, Tyler. There’s not going to be any re-shoots or any stuntmen ready to fill in if you suddenly can’t seal the deal. The only grunts and groans you’re going to hear are your own as I’m beating your ass from pillar to post. Listen very carefully . . . you are NOT going to pull the same shit with me that you did with Ryu at the pay-per-view and get away with it. You pull out that little can of silly string with me, and I’m going to shove it straight up your ass . . . no lube, no warm-up kiss, no candlelight dinner. Like Bliss, like Rage . . . like a LOT of people in this company, you don’t know the meaning of the word respect.” He leaned toward the camera, nostrils flaring. “But that is about to change. Win or lose on Takedown, I’m taking you to school, Tyler.” He smirked. “The OLD school you might say. You might not have done anything to me personally, but your blatant disrespect for this business makes me sick to my god damn stomach. When that bell rings, class is in session and the teacher for Respect 101 is James ‘The Hammer’ Harlow!”
{Scheduled Match: James Harlow vs. Tyler Rose – October 18th, 2012 – Thursday Night Takedown}