I sat at my table in a corner of the room, tired and restless. All this travel for SCW has started to wear on me, and I had become grouchy and irritable. At least it ain't Ireland, I reminded myself. Honestly, I just wasn't sure what the appeal is to some people. I had never been before, and if I had my way I would never go back again. But that's neither here nor there. The point is, I was grumpy, and I just wanted to get back to my room.
Unfortunately, I had agreed to host this bullshit autograph signing and Q&A at some local comic book store. A part of me was surprised that comics were even a thing here in Great Britain. After all, these people worship such lame heroes as James Bond and Doctor Who. I guess it's understandable, then, that these fine people in Cardiff, Wales would jump at the opportunity to meet any half-famous man who walked into their lame-ass store. I mean, I'm fairly well known in my industry, but outside of that, I ain't exactly George Clooney.
"JT? Hey, JT!"
I look up, snapping myself out of my sleepy daze. Dozens of fans had gathered already, all lined up with various pictures and props waiting to be signed. The chubby teenaged boy at the front of my line beamed at me, holding a promotional photograph of Caleb and me out at arm's length in front of him.
"Hey, kid." I take the photo from him gently, placing it on the table as I reach for my marker.
"Don't you wanna know my name?" His voice sounded congested, almost like he was trying to swallow a giant wad of snot, and he spoke with a thick British accent.
"Nah, not really."
I sign the photo, handing it back to the boy. He flashes a toothy grin in return.
"I get to ask you a question, right?
"Technically, you just asked me two of them," I sigh. "But sure, go for it, kid."
"What was life like for you, as a teenager?"
"The fuck? I had pimples and shit, what else do you wanna know? Realizing that my answer was probably not quite what he was looking for, I decided to delve just a bit further. "I don't know, kid. I grew up with my father, mom wasn't around. I watched a lot of wrestling. Remember watching that dinosaur Bruce Evans back in the day. Shit was tough, but I got through it. Ain't nothing much else to say."
My silence indicates that I've got nothing more to add, even though I knew what I had said wasn't entirely true. Not just the part about watching Bruce Evans - no one really watches him, anyway - but downplaying just how difficult it was for me, growing up. Of course, I would never spill my personal life to the public like this, and shit with my dad...well, that's a mess best left alone. The boy leaves, and another young man approaches me, this one looking a bit older than the last kid. He chuckles, as he narrows his eyes.
"Where's Caleb?"
"Asleep in my bathtub," I respond, impatiently. "Let's just say he drank too much tea last night. Got anything for me to sign?"
"Nah, bro," he scoffs. "I really don't even like you, to be honest. I really was just hoping Caleb would be around."
"Why? You wanna suck his dick?" I lean back in my chair, arms folded. This kid ain't getting over at my expense, I thought to myself, irritated. "Come on, kid, you gonna ask a question or...? You're holding up the line."
The boy crosses his arms as well, a smug grin on his face.
"You know, there was a lot of talk following your match with Roxi and Caleb a couple weeks ago. Some people are saying you're just as guilty as Mercedes, by letting her get away with faking an injury like that. I just wanna know if Caleb has brought it up, and if you knew that what Mercedes did was wrong, then why didn't you stop it?"
"Really? I gotta go through this bullshit again?" Call it sleep deprivation, or my overabundance of being sober, but this time, I'm really pissed. "Look kid, what happens with Caleb and me ain't anyone else's business. Caleb and I talked about it and everything's cool. We ain't sweatin' the small stuff, because we already the SCW Tag Team Champions. We proved we're the best. As for Mercedes, you must not watch our fucking show very closely, but I had a nice little chat with her last week, and I made sure she knows to play it straight from now on, so don't trip. Team Misty Twatts gonna get a clean brawl this week. That answer your question or nah?"
"Asshole," he mumbled as he walked away.
"Punk bitch."
The truth is, Caleb and I haven't really talked about what happened. I'm pretty good at getting inside Caleb's head most of the time, and I knew that he just wasn't happy with the way things were going in SCW. He has felt misused and under-appreciated by company. Even though he and I are the champions, that just wasn't enough. He wanted more, and he felt he deserved that. By right, we both have earned that much. SCW just don't see it that way. Ever since day one, they've seen Andrew Watts as the next big thing in their company. I heard Mark even bet his house that Watts would go on to win this whole tournament. That's why I needed to keep Mercedes in line, because this was a match that I knew I would have to win decisively. I would leave no doubt in anybody's mind that I am the better man, and that Andrew Watts just is not the guy the company wants him to be. That's how it has to happen.
"Hi, JT..."
Distracted again. I look back up, noticing a gorgeous young lady standing before me. My best guess would be that she's 18 or 19, but hell if I know or even care. All that matters is that she is here to see me, and I would not disappoint.
"Greetings, mon cherie!" My words are soft and precise, spoken in my subtle Cajun accent. "Got something you'd like to ask me?
"Yes," she smiled. "I wanna know when the Players Club was first born!"
I laugh, and smile to myself. It was a difficult question to answer, really, because there really was no correct response.
"Caleb and I met back in 2008, in the EWA promotion. It was our rookie year, both of us, but he had been around in the company for a couple months, and he rose through the ranks pretty swiftly. The night I debuted, he went on to become number one contender for the EWA Elite World Championship. There was an altercation backstage though, and I was the only one around, so I stepped in and had my bro's back. That earned his respect, and, over time, his trust. Ever since that night, we've been partying it up all around the world. That's the best answer I can give you."
"Thanks, JT!" She took a step toward me, biting on her lip a bit. "I have a couple things I'd like you to sign, too."
She grabbed at her shirt, ready to pull it off. Suddenly, I was much more awake than I had been, as I reached for my marker. I would have written a novel on this woman, had I been allowed the opportunity. Of course, Captain Fun-Sucker had to get involved.
"I'm sorry miss, but my client won't be autographing your bosom."
Dave Tremonti, my public image consultant, swoops in to save the day. He steps in between the girl and me, a forced smile under his thick mustache, and the lady walks away. So much for the only interesting thing to happen all day. Dave turns to me, now frowning.
"JT, what's going on?" His voice was stern, but somewhat labored, like he was choking on his own neck fat. "I've been watching you all afternoon. Aside from appearing completely restless and uninterested, you've cussed at your fans, and almost autographed a young lady's breasts. We talked about this, remember?"
"Yeah, bro, I remember." My head nods off, as I pretend I had been dozing off. I look back up at Dave, who is unamused. "That nice guy shit is boring as fuck though. SCW fans are starting to get behind me because of who I am, Dave. They don't want that nice guy bullshit. They want partying, drinking beer, fucking bitches!"
"You can't call them bitches, JT!" His voice got high in his irritated excitement, and I started to notice his left eyebrow twitch just a tiny bit.
"Since when is calling them 'bitches' not okay?"
"Excuse me," a female voice interrupted, pushing forward in the line, "but I think it's my turn now. Hi, JT."
Thank God that one is over, I say to myself, as I look at the woman approaching from the line. My heart sinks immediately, as I realize that I recognize her. She was slender and above average in height, standing about 5'8", and she had long, straight, brown hair.
"I'm sorry, miss," Dave turns to face the woman, that fake, goofy grin plastered once again on his face. "I need just a moment to speak to my client.
"Oh, I get that," she snaps back, with a severe case of resting bitch face. "I just think our conversation is much more important than yours, little man."
"JT," Dave asks, impatient and with a sense of urgency, "do you know this woman?"
A heavy sigh escapes me, as I realize there is no way out of this situation, short of making a run for the door.
"Yeah," I respond, slowly and begrudgingly, "she's my wife."
===========
"Look, here's the deal."
My words were sharp and clear. The camera was rolling, as I sat on the foot of my bed. It was late, but I just couldn't sleep. What better time to cut one of those bullshit promos SCW seemed to love so much. Admittedly, I had never been very good at these, but I had sat through enough of the boring ones to have an idea of what needed to be done. Namely, I sat through a few Andrew Watts masterpieces.
I didn't know Andrew Watts before he joined up with SCW, although he may try and convince his friends otherwise. I recall an earlier moment where we brushed shoulders backstage at the start of the summer in 2014. He seemed smug, and self-entitled, but he knew then that he just wasn't the same fierce competitor he was before. Watts had a legacy, sure, but at that point he had spent a lot of time away from the ring. He knew even then, as we crossed paths for the first time in our careers, that he just couldn't make those same claims as he had before. Now, we find ourselves blocking each other's path once, and this time I will be exposing Andrew Watts for the phony he really is.
"I hear the rumblings every day, all around me. Y'all must think you're cute or some shit, the way y'all throw these knives at my back. I hear it all the time... 'JT ain't got what it takes to win,' 'Everything JT's done here has been a fluke!' Everybody talks, but talk is cheap. It's stepping into the ring and handling your business that makes a man valuable. I mean, y'all can say what you want about me, about my attitude, but the fact of the matter is this...I am a champion! Caleb and I, we did exactly what we said we were going to do, when we won the SCW Tag Team Championships at Inception. Y'all can question why we were even in that match in the first place, but ain't the answer clear as day? SCW put us there because they need us there."
I smiled into the camera, full of confidence and eagerness. I was finally going to spell it out for everybody, the one thing nobody but the SCW office was able to grasp. I would have the honors of revealing the secret to the world. Victory had never tasted as sweet.
"That's right, folks. I said it. SCW needs the Players Club right where we are. They realize our value. They see how entertaining we are, how charismatic we can be, and just all-around how great we are at what we do. Y'all wonder why we were given shots at the titles? It's because we are the best wrestlers in the business today, and that's likely what confuses you people. See, y'all got this predisposition that a good wrestler is somebody who wins all the time. I mean, yeah, a good wrestler should win, but that ain't all it takes. Let's look at Andrew Watts, for example. This guy has been on a hot streak since joining SCW. He's won all of his matches so far,, I can dig that. Really, though, who has he beaten? My friend Hydro, the rookie, who Watts still brags about beating to this day. Say, Andy, how long are you planning on riding that one? Yeah, I'll admit, the pressure got to my boy and he just couldn't hang. Still, you beat Hydro, the Rookie Sensation. You big stud, you. You beat a couple of cowboys...can't seem to remember their names. You beat Gabriel Asar, the homeboy who got cold feet just before he was supposed to face me about a month ago. Last week, you beat Adam Stone...”
I pause for a moment. Adam Stone is a man I have a long, storied history with. Subtlety ain't ever been his strong suit, and with him and Joey Harris apparently on the same page...something ain't right. That ain't no thing, though. Whatever business Joey and Adam have in SCW ain’t none of my own. I regain my focus, and continue.
"Eight months ago, I faced Adam Stone one on one. He was my former mentor, but more than that, he was the man who ruined my life. He robbed me millions of dollars, had my friend Johnny's bar, my home, burnt to the ground, sent his goons to try and kill Johnny, and then had the balls to challenge me to get in the ring with him. Do you remember what happened that night, Andy? Probably not. You finished your match against that talentless twit, Mikey Impact, and ran off to chase tail with the boss' daughter. I'll fill you in, though. I beat Adam Stone, and then I beat him some more. I took a steel chair, and I smashed him over the head with it. He tried to take away everything I loved, so I took away all he had left...his career. Go ahead and brag about beating Adam Stone, but that creep you beat at Climax Control last Sunday doesn't even come close to the monster I destroyed so long ago. Truth is, Watts...I beat you to the punch."
"You're a former multi-time champion, and a legend in your own mind. More than that, Watts...you're a mark for yourself. You're not the only one, though. There are rumors floating around that the SCW brass don't just see gold in the Players Club. They see it in you, as well, and I know why. It's because you're a blowfish, Andy. You've taken your own legacy and spent the last couple of months inflating it, building yourself up to be the next big thing in Sin City Wrestling, but the fact remains that you're doing nothing more than blowing smoke up SCW's ass. Week in and week out, you get in the ring and you cut some long-winded, rambling promo about how you're the greatest superstar in the world. You create all these cute little puns and pet names that get Mark Ward and Christian Underwood all soupy in their britches, you beat the next no-namer of the week, and then you go home and bask in the stench that is your own shitty, smelly ego. It's all very routine with you, Andrew Watts. Very good, but very boring."
I struggle a bit, as I try to remind myself of some of Andrew Watts' "classic" puns and one-liners. "Gay-T Midas," "Gay-leb Houston," "Dick Lick Clique." Here's a man who is as homophobic as they come, or at the very least he pretends to be. I guess it's okay to make tasteless jokes as long as they get a good chuckle out of the SCW brass. You would think Underwood would have shut down the act a long time ago, but I guess that's the kind of double-standards I have worked against my entire career. It's what has made being an asshole so easy for me, because I would never care when the crowd would boo me. Now that they're cheering for me, I'm not quite sure how to react. I guess I kind of like it, but the truth is I ain't ever going to change. I don't need to make gay jokes to get a reaction. That's where my value comes in to play.
"Since late October, there has been one name on everybody's mind here in SCW, two words that have been spoken more than anything else. It ain't "Dick Lick," and it sure as hell ain't Andrew Watts. Nah, bro, I'm talking about the real big thing here in SCW...I'm talking about the Players Club. See, we started off in SCW kinda like you did. We made an impact from day one, by casting the first stone in a war against the Seven Deadly Sins that ain't quite over yet, and won't be over until I win that pretty little belt Gabriel wears around his skinny jeans-wearing waist. I took charge, I orchestrated that attack on Chris Shipman, I got into the heads and under the skins of the Sins. I didn't hide behind a camera or talk tough with a big stick in my hand. No, I did the only thing I could think of, Andy. I fought. And yeah, I've gotten my ass kicked a few times, but I have never laid down, and I have never taken the easy way out. I fight opponents that you and your little Rejects ain't got the balls to face in that ring. Y'all are a bunch of little puppy dogs, traveling in your little pack, barking at the bigger animals around you, and scattering when that one big dog comes chasing after you. You ain't got Gabriel Asar this week, Andy. You ain't facing Clint Outlaw, or Wallace Jordan. You're not going up against the Rookie Sensation, Hydro. You're facing me, JT Midas. You may call yourself an outlaw, Andrew Watts, but I'm the original Outlaw Star. They started calling me that when they realized just how bad this boy can be, once they knew I am the guy who ain't afraid to speak his mind. I do what I want to do, and I say what I want to say, and I do it all because ain't no man on this earth who can stop me from doing it. That's who I am, Andy. That's the man you're facing this Sunday, and that's the mean who is going to beat you, and shut your mouth once and for all."
"What's gonna happen when I beat you, Watts? What are you going to do when I expose you for the lying twat that you are? Are you going to tuck tail and run, the way I've always heard you do? You ain't the only guy who likes to run his mouth, Andy. See, you may think you are on a higher level than me, but I've always respected your natural ability in the ring, and I've asked around. I've done my research. Winning matches and earning championships ain't the only thing you're famous for. Apparently, Andrew Watts also has a legendary track record of flaking out on the companies that hire him, as soon as things stop going his way. That's exactly what I think is going to happen on Sunday, when Mercedes and I beat you and Misty in the Blast from the Past tournament. When the smoke clears, my partner and I will be one step closer to becoming champions, and you..."
The term "partner" comes very loosely, where Mercedes Vargas is concerned. I choke just a bit on the words, but regain my composure quickly.
"You're going to be nothing more than you've ever been. You'll be the embarrassing twat you've tried so desperately to hide from Sin City Wrestling. Nobody likes you, Andy. The rest of the SCW locker room hates your guts, because they all smell your shit. Don't feel special, though. I had my fair share of haters here, for a while. I think I need new ones though, because the old ones...well, they're starting to like me. Something about my charm, and my humor. Speaking of humor, you ain't the only one who's got jokes, Andy. Soon, everybody will be calling you what I've called you since we met backstage in Combat eight months ago. What was it, again? Oh yeah. "Andrew Twatts." That's all you are though, Twatts. Those jokes, those puns...you know, deep down, that's all you have anymore. But don't worry, bro, I ain't gonna' take that away, because after I beat you at Climax Control this Sunday night, the biggest joke in all of SCW...is you."
Truthfully, Caleb Houston isn’t the only guy frustrated with SCW and their shitty booking. They seem to have their minds made up about a lot of things, one of them being card placement. They would never admit it, or maybe they just didn’t realize it, but Caleb and I bring the ratings. We are the ones plugging away on social media, hitting up the podcasts, making appearances, selling merchandise, etc. Players Club is the true superpower in SCW. Not the Seven Deadly Sins, not the Power Couple, not The Rejects, and certainly not Twatts. Caleb Houston and JT Midas are the faces that the people come to see. We bring viewers, and SCW knows it. That’s why they keep us around. That’s why I’ve been almost every week since my debut, when others have fallen from the card due to alleged time constraints. In spite of that, however, I think SCW believes they know how the future is going to play out. They see themselves riding Andrew Watts’ ass off into the sunset, their own personal knight in shining armor. That just ain’t how it’s going down.
This Sunday, at Climax Control, I’ma prove them wrong. I’ll prove everybody wrong. I know they doubt me. They say I ain’t capable of taking things seriously, that I’m just gonna coast along and have fun. They’re right about one thing – I will have my fun. I will take a personal pleasure in defeating Twatts and crushing his hopes of becoming SCW Champion. I’ll enjoy every minute of tearing down SCW’s false idol, this exaggerated myth that they have put so much faith into. I’ll beat Andrew Watts, and Misty, and show them that I can take things seriously. Winning matches ain’t just business for me, though – it’s fun.
I take my fun very seriously.
===========
DATE: 02/01/2015
Sometime after Climax Control
==========
I was lying in bed when I hear a knock at my door. Nobody but Caleb knew which hotel I was at, while SCW stopped in Ireland on their acclaimed international tour, so it threw me off a bit. Of course, I was sloppy drunk, so I really didn't think too much when I opened the door without question.
"Hi, JT."
It was Mercedes Vargas, smiling back at me with that same shitty Mean Girls' smirk that SCW fans had grown to loathe.
"The fuck? How'd you even find me here?" My tone is harsh, and my words are slugged. Mercedes chuckles, snarky and somewhat amused by my current situation. She places her hands on her hips.
"The doorman directed me to your room. I swear, some men are just so easy to sweet-talk. They'll do just about anything you ask them to." She peers around the room, maybe to make sure she wasn't interrupting any activities. "Are you going to invite me in?
"Oh," I grumble, pondering whether she might actually just be a blood-sucking vampire, awaiting her invitation to satisfy her thirst for blood. "Yeah, come in. Don't break a leg stepping through the doorway."
"Really, JT? Are we still on about that?" She scoffs. "I thought we just put that behind us earlier tonight.
"Well, I thought you were a raging bitch," I snap back, almost intelligibly, as my head was absolutely spinning by this point. "But I guess I was right about that, so..."
Mercedes folded her arms over her chest, a cross look on her face.
"Like it or not, JT, we are partners. We're in this together, and I intend to win the Blast from the Past tournament! Your bae hurt me two weeks ago. I almost had to withdraw from the tournament, but I didn't, because that would be unfair to you! So before you come at me with more wild accusations, you should think about showing me some damn respect." She narrows her eyes, as she notices that I have started to kneel beside my bed, on one knee, and then on two. "What are you doing?"
"Praying for my hangover to come early," I groan."Believe it or not, my head would hurt less than it does when I have to hear you talk."
I stand up, stumbling a little bit as I turn to face my partner. Mercedes notices, and her arm jerks just a tiny bit. It's true then, I think to myself, acknowledging the momentary look of concern on her face just as it fades away. She knows that my well-being is priority number one, because if I get hurt, then there's no way she can carry on by herself.
"You're here, so let's talk. What do you want?"
"Business. That's all."
"Business?" I raise an eyebrow. "I mean, paying for services ain't really my thing. Caleb might be into it, though."
For a brief moment, I think I see her eyebrow twitch, as her face turns red in frustration.
"Look, dumbass. You need to start taking this seriously! Believe it or not, I was actually happy to have you as a partner. You are obviously the more reliable member of your silly little club, but that doesn't mean anything if you can't get over yourself and focus on our match next week. We're facing Misty, and Andrew Watts."
Andrew Watts. The horse that all of SCW is betting on. It's sad, how they seem to think he is the guy. I scoff, and then I smile.
"Ain't no thing," I reply with a smug grin. Twatts ain't even on my level. I might as well celebrate right now. Oh, wait..."
I pause, reaching for the half-empty bottle of Jack (or half-full, depending on how your night's going).
"Already have,"
"Enough!" Mercedes snatches the bottle from me, tossing it to the ground. My hearts sinks for only a second, before I realize the bottle was okay. After that, I felt the tension rising, and I started to get angry. "We need to talk strategy, now! How are we going to approach this? What do you-..."
"God damn, will you shut the fuck up?!" Her eyes grow wide, and her body twitches just a bit. She obviously wasn't expecting such a stern reaction, as I raise my voice at her. "I'm so fucking sick and tired of hearing about Andrew Watts, like he's some god-damned superhero. Andrew Watts is nothing. He's another douchebag with an over-inflated sense of self-worth, and apparently he has Misty wrapped around his dick now, too. If you're so worried about them, go break your neck and blame it on Twatts, get him disqualified, as long as it gets you to stop fucking talking!"
I take a step toward Mercedes, and another, slowly backing her up closer to the wall. She looks apprehensive, and something else, but not afraid. What is the look in her eyes? I can't quite tell, and I don't quite care enough to think about it.
"You wanna know what our strategy is? You wanna know what I'm gonna do? It's pretty fucking simple, Mercedes. I'm gonna get in the ring, and do what I do best, what I do better than anybody else in Sin City Wrestling. There's a reason Andrew Watts and I ain't ever faced each other before, and it ain't because we ain't had the opportunity. He's known of me for a while now, and I've heard his name as well. We've been a part of several different promotions together, dating back to PWO in 2010. The problem is, Andrew Watts is a pathetic, insecure, jealous little man. He talks a tough game, but he is so fearful for his spot at the top that he avoids any real competition, just to pick up a few easy wins and secure himself as some false idol to his non-existent fans. See, I know the real Andrew Watts, and I ain't afraid of him. My strategy is to beat the fuck out of him, and knock him and Misty back down the ladder so that Twatts can go back to being the bottom-feeding parasite he's always been."
I narrow my eyes at Mercedes, watching her carefully. She is gripping at the wall, her back pressed loosely against it, but she doesn't seem fearful. Is it an act? Was she trying to feign another cheap injury, replace me as her partner?
"As for you, Mercedes, I meant what I said to you earlier. I don't you even thinking about pulling any bullshit in this match. I've seen you in the ring. I know you can handle Misty, the same way you know that what I say about Andrew Watts is the truth. Don't take the easy way outta' this one, because this match ain't just about winning - it's about sending a message. We're gonna show SCW that their Reject and their original Bombshell ain't anything more than a footnote in history. Now, if you excuse me..."
I lean down, towards the bottle of whiskey that Mercedes had thrown aside. I grab it, slowly standing upright. Just as I reach my hand to unscrew the cap, I feel a sharp, stinging pain across my face. Mercedes had slapped me, hard. My face glows red and burns hot, as I quickly glare at the infamous SCW Mean Girl. Fuming, I lunge toward her, grabbing her by the sides of her head, not quite pulling at her hair. Our eyes meet, and...
I kiss her.
We kiss, passionately and aggressively, my hands rummaging through her hair, and hers through mine. She jumps, wrapping her legs around my waist as I pin her to the wall, our tongues engaged in the most technical wrestling match there would ever be. I turn around, carrying her to my bed, where I slam her down. She gasps, as I climb on top of her, kissing her neck as she hustles to undo my belt.
Needless to say, I did not see this one coming.
