Out of Control!
Spike Staggs was livid following the taping of Climax Control in Bogota, Columbia. Every ounce of his being wanted to be excited for Vixen winning the NWA Cruiserweight Championship, making them SCW’s and NWA’s only Golden Couple. He wanted to hold her hand up in victory, leading her to the back with a glass of champagne in every New X-Tremes member’s hand and toast to her incredible feat. Perhaps the fact that he couldn’t control his temper enough to do these things for Vixen was fueling his anger into something dangerous. The walls were closing in around Spike as he felt like he was going into Hulk mode. Each breath becomes harder to take than the last one, and he is seething. He stops and smashes into a wall out of frustration, growling as he tries to get a grip on himself. He strains to take in a deep breath, but it has absolutely no effect on him. He works his way down the hallway until he reaches a door marked “Erik Staggs”. As much as he tries to refrain from it, he throws the door open, finding Erik sitting in the chair, enjoying a moment of silence after his eventful evening. He is surprised to see Spike, but that quickly changes to a look of panic when Spike lunges over the desk, grabbing onto his jacket and lifting him up out of the chair. He pulls Erik in as they stand there, nose to nose.
Spike: YOU! You piece of SHIT! How dare you pull that shit on me of all people!
Spike doesn’t expect his uncle to shove him back into the door, cracking his spine against the edge of it. Erik straightens out his jacket while taking in a deep breath to calm himself down. Spike looks as if he is about to attack against when Erik spears him into the door once more. Spike fights his way back to his feet, and Erik stands at the ready, waiting for Spike to make another move.
Erik: How dare you come in here and attack me, Spike? How fucking dare you? After all I have done for you? When nobody else wanted to deal with your bullshit, who took you and your brothers in? Who raised you?
Spike: ME! I raised myself and my brothers. Just because you put a roof over my head after my parents died, that doesn’t give you any right to claim raising me, Jamie, or Tommy! So why don’t you cut the concerned uncle routine and admit that you are nothing but a dirty, bottom feeding rat who rode on the coattails of my father, and then me…
Erik’s eyes widen and he lifts a hand up in the air. Spike gets a masochistic grin on his face while laughing. He leans forward, putting his cheek out for Erik to smack.
Spike: If that’s what you gotta do to make you feel like you matter, then go ahead and do it. Bruise up my face like you did when you *air quotes* raised me. Find what makes your life mean something and quit chasing after what two people created, trying to claim it as your own. Stop trying to run this company, and me, into the ground!
Erik: You always were, and always will be, a spoiled little brat who likes to play the pity game. Was I perfect guardian? Admittedly I was not. Was I better than a good old fashioned St. Louis foster home? You bet your ass I was!
Erik lowers his hand to his side, but his menacing demeanor remains the same. He and Spike stare each other down very carefully and silently for quite a while. Spike leans back, popping his spine, and then his neck.
Spike: This all boils down to one thing, uncle… You have never been the best. You haven’t ever been a well known champion. No one ever talked about you in your entire career because you were overshadowed by my father and…
Erik: Your father was the Tiger Woods of the Indy feds way back when. Your precious father was a cheating, lying, neglectful piece of garbage who was lucky to have married such a gullible woman as your mother who only found out a decade after it all started. He stole the spots from the person who carried him on their back until the day he died, and that’s the honest truth, Spike. If I didn’t feel like I had to clean up his messes, I would have been where you are right now.
Spike: Make another excuse, because I was the one who raised my brothers in every way other than financially. Whether you admit it or not, you have no real excuse for pulling all of this shit. You are just lashing out at everyone because your wrestling career was shit, your looks have gone to shit, and your personality is shit. Basically, you are shit and I’m tired of you punishing me because I have been able to make something of myself.
Spike turns toward the door, but something inside of him beckons him to stay for a response. Most of what Spike is saying is rooted in truth, but a part of him wants Erik to assault him so that he comes in violation of his contract, thanks to “Hot Stuff” Mark Ward’s advice. Erik quickly catches on, as both men are no stranger to mind games. Instead, he meets Spike with a smile. He walks up, gently patting Spike on the shoulder.
Erik: Without my training, you would be shit, too. I did what your father could never do… I motivated you. I paid for your training. I put you up in Germany. I motivated you and your brothers, and you are the only one who has never thanked me for it. You are an ungrateful little prick who is so self-righteous that you can’t even see them spinning their webs of lies and deceit in all of your heads. You don’t deserve to be branded as a double champion. Do you know what you do deserve? You deserve a wake up call, and Kevin Carter will be the one to give it to you.
Spike grips onto the door handle, shaking with rage as he tries his best to control it. He shakes with rage as he tries to make himself leave. Every part of him wants to walk out of the office right then and there, but he manages to calm down just enough to not wrap his hands around his uncle’s throat.
Spike: You just can’t stand the fact that I would slaughter Kevin in the ring. This is all about your need for control. You want to punish me and cost me the SCW Heavyweight or the NWA World Heavyweight Championship because I didn’t side with you.
Erik: Before you even continue, that was strictly for your benefit. I was trying to be a god uncle once again… and once again you spat in my face. You will see a day where you regret that decision…. whether you know it or not.
Spike shakes his head, turning around as he walks out of the door, slamming it behind him. His uncle stands at attention for a few more moments before sighing and taking his seat at the desk as we fade.
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That last line stuck with me…
In case you don’t follow Sin City Wrestling, the management ruled that my title wouldn’t change hands via a count out. That is good news, isn’t it? I would say so. I will walk into Parade of Champions as a double champion. It is a sign that if you do what you feel is right in your heart everything will work out in the end. Well, most of the time.
My uncle tried to take something away from me, and he failed. He was right about one thing. As many problems as he and I have, this little Civil War of SCW has made me question why I side with Team SCW. It has turned into several attacks against me, with nobody to back me up in a gang attack setting. I spend every minute of every day looking over my shoulder. Not only do I have the SCW Heavyweight and NWA World Heavyweight Championships to look after, but I have to watch my own back twenty-four seven… It isn’t just against Team Erik members either. My latest challenger for the SCW title decided he wanted to make a statement last week. He and I took out some assholes who thought it would be a good idea to try ganging up on me. Do you know what happened next? He hit a cheap shot on me, dead center of the ring too. He laid me out, which is a position I have started to become acquainted with.
I can’t lie and say I am happy about that. Honor in wrestling is dead. Nobody respects a proper challenge anymore. It has become a game within a game. Your abilities are only a small part of the equation. The rest of it is getting inside the heads of your opponents, attacking them like a little p*ssy from behind when they aren’t looking. You have to give yourself an edge outside of the ring, or else somebody else will come along and tear you apart. I know because I have been there. If you are asking yourself if I just admitted that I used to be a p*ssy, then yeah, I was. It makes me sick to my stomach when I see people walking around, claiming they earned something when they haven’t done a fucking thing but kiss ass and lick the bosses nutsack. That is something I have never done, and will never do.
However, I have to admit that, if there is one thing I respect about my NWA challenger for this month, Sean Jackson, it is that he doesn’t do that. He and I have that little bit in common. We go against the grain and we stand up for what we believe in, regardless of what others think about us for doing so. The reason I refused to stay with the mind games and the backstabbing is because I refused to be like everyone else. I pride myself on sticking out in one way or another. However, I stuck with it because I believed very strongly in it. That all ended on April 14th, 2013 in Buenos Aires, Argentina in the final seconds of the show. I heard the fans cheering as I fell down to the ground. I heard their excitement as I, the man who has devoted the last nearly two years of his life to building up this company, fell down to the ground after a cheap shot by a geriatric idiot named Jordan Williams. In a way, it was like a wake up call. I have to look out for myself, and I will do just that when I head into Parade of Champions.
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Ah, the war of seasons, that very indistinct line between winter and spring. It is like a war within the Midwest… and winter was winning with frosty temperatures barely above freezing, and the rain just made this return that much gloomier. Spike Staggs stepped out of Lambert Airport in St. Louis, Missouri, looking for a bit of rest and relaxation after the craziness that has surrounded him over the last month. He expected to feel rejuvenated being back in his hometown, but the grey abyss of a sky simply makes him yawn. He zips up his black leather coat over his New X-Tremes graffiti t-shirt and picks up his duffel bag as he continues on. The chains dangling from the belt loops of his tattered black jeans cling together as he hails down a taxi. One of many sporadic downpours begins before he can spot an open taxi. He removes his sunglasses as the rain falls down on him, sliding the earpiece into the slight opened crease of his jacket. The rain pelts his spiked black hair as he squints as part of his journey to track down a taxi.
”Great… this about sums up my luck over the last month, short of walking out of Grinder with my title still on my shoulder.”
He spots one and begins walking up to it when a man in a business suit jogs out of the doors with a briefcase over his head and a cell phone pressed against his ear. He flings the door open and slides inside before slamming it shut behind him. Spike looks annoyed, shaking his head from side to side as he tries to press himself against the concrete brick wall. The wind changes course and begins lashing at his face fifty times. He lets out a low tone growl as he watches the taxi that should rightfully be his taking off.
”Fucking prick… I guess I’m living up to my moniker of Mr. Nice Guy. How tiring and dull is that?”
Spike places his hand above his eyes to guard them from the rain so he might be able to see more clearly. He watches as the faint light of the taxi sign lights up once more. He sighs in relief and picks up his bag once again. He starts moving over to it as another businessman in a navy blue blazer, holding a black umbrella, bumps right into him, snarling at him as he messes around on his PDA. He shakes his head, mumbling something under his breath before walking over to the taxi. He puts his hand on the door handle, but is quickly spun around. He sees Spike standing there and he rolls his eyes, attempting to turn back to the door.
Spike: I saw this one first, buddy.
Man: Yeah, well you snooze, you lose punk. Go get a job so that you actually have somewhere to be.
Spike: Oh, I have a job, and it is kicking the shit out of people on Pay-Per-Views all around North America, and recently South America too. If you don’t want to find out first hand how I became a double champion, I suggest you back the fuck away from this cab.
The man stares at Spike, wide eyed. It is obvious he doesn’t believe Spike, but it doesn’t change the fact that he is nearly pissing himself because he thinks Spike is crazy. Regardless of the factors, the end result was that he steps aside for Spike. Spike nods his head in appreciation and opens up the door. As he is about to step inside of the cab, he turns back to the man. He rips the umbrella from his hand and closes it before getting inside of the cab, leaving the man standing there to get soaked. Spike slams the door behind himself and looks to the buffed up driver who glares back at him. With a Caribbean accent, the driver asks Spike…
Driver: Where are you going today, sir?
Spike thinks about it for a second. The droplets fall from his face as he tries to figure out where to go in the city that was his playground up until he moved to Vegas. The possibilities were nearly endless for a town that supposedly had nothing to do but ride buses and walk around the airport.
Spike: Please don’t call me “sir”… it makes me feel like a pompous asshole. You know, like the rest of your usual clientele you deal with daily? What’s your name?
Driver: My name’s Amani.
The driver is stunned yet delighted by Spike’s inquiry. He flashes his pearly white teeth through his dark ebony lips as he begins slowly merging into the traffic. Spike taps his chin, thinking curiously as the shimmering water droplets fall from his face and hair. He thinks over his choice of destination further. As he watches the rain let up just a bit in the distance against the buildings leading toward the highway, Spike gets his idea.
Spike: Take me to Historic Downtown St Charles, please Amani?
Amani: Ameristar Casino, or Main Street?
Spike: I just came from Las Vegas, so a casino is the last thing I want to see right now. Let’s go to Main Street, please?
Amani:Yes sir… I mean, Spike.
Spike looks curiously as the driver looks back at him in the rear view mirror. He didn’t recall giving Amani his name yet. Amani looks back to the road as he merges onto the busy highway. His grin is still on his face as they drive on in the rain. The windshield wipers slap time with a beat that causes the eccentric Spike to bop his head from side to side as if it were a musical beat.
Amani: You are probably wonderin’ how I know ya name? Dat’s cause I watch da Sin City Wrestlin’ sometimes. My frien’s back home tell me all about it so I watch on da internet. You are Spike Staggs, SCW Heavyweight Champion and NWA World Heavyweight Champion too, ya?
Spike stops dancing to the beat of the windshield wipers long enough to nod his head with a bit of a smirk as his ego gets stroked. He tries to tone down the dancing so it is less noticeable, but the bobbing is still there.
Spike: That would be me. I’m on break before the end of the South American tour, getting ready for an NWA title defense in New Orleans against Sean Jackson. I don’t really know what to expect… so I am just taking it easy this week.
Amani: Gettin’ some much needed rest an’ relaxation?
Spike: Yes. I don’t know much about my opponent as is usual. I hear they call this guy “The Mental Rapist”, formally a “Nightmare”. One in a million, I imagine. I find it funny because nobody listens to what I say and do outside of the ring. They think I am some starfucker who kisses the fans asses to pull in money, and I just happen to get lucky and win my matches. Nobody realizes that I was a mindfuck and a half before I signed up for SCW almost two years ago. I played the mind games like nobody else, and I loved every minute of it. Since then, I realized I didn’t need to play those games anymore because I had the talent to win matches on my own.
Spike looks out of the window as they cross the Missouri River, coming up on Fifth Street as the signs reveal. He loses himself in his mind, telling his story once more so people *might* hear it and stop making assumptions about him.
Spike: I have proved that time and time again. Ever since I won the SCW title about five months ago, I have listened to people call me this, and call me that. They laugh at me and make claims of beating me and taking one or both belts off of me. They think they are better than me because they think of me as a joke. It was funny the first three months. I loved watching their stunned faces, looking up at the ceiling in disbelief as I stand over them with MY titles held up in the air after they got defeated, but frankly it’s gotten fucking old now. I am tired of the same old speeches. Every asshole with a Contendership thinks they are going to be the one to take me out. Five months later, here I am. Chris Extreme found out the hard way. So did Spectre, and now it will be Mr. Jackson’s turn.
Amani: I like seeing you as champion. It’s like watching a rock star. Good luck to you.
Spike watches as they arrive on Main Street. He snaps back to reality, reaching for his wallet from inside of his duffel bag. He reads the meter and hands a card to Amani. The driver swipes the card and hands it back as Spike tucks it away. He hands a small clipboard back. Spike signs it and reaches forward with a handshake.
Spike: It has been a pleasure sir…
Amani: Don’t be callin’ me sir. It makin’ me feel like a pompous asshole. Have a good day Spike.
He smiles at Spike who shakes his head and chuckles as he gets out of the cab. He grabs his bag and flings it over his shoulders and then shuts the door behind him. As the cab drives off, Spike admires the old buildings and the cobblestone streets. The rain barely drizzles as Spike begins walking by all of the old stores and cafes lining the street.
”Parade of Champions 2013 is just around the corner. It is a chance for one seasoned veteran to stand in the ring with another, trying to realize a dream. That dream rests just inside of my duffel bag, Sean. Will you be able to pull your head out of your ass long enough to give me a real challenge? Or do you think you know me the same way Nick Jones, Rage, ‘Primetime’ Matthew Kennedy, Casey Williams, Blade Alexander, Jack Kraven, Chris Xtreme, and Spectre? Do you think you will be the one to humiliate me by ending my reign when all of these others couldn’t?”
Spike walks along the street, feeling the eyes burning at him as people stare. He shakes it off with a smirk as he approaches a door to a small shop called Enchanted Attic. He walks through the door and the fragrant incense tempts him further inside. He is surrounded by energy stones, candles, pentagrams, and blessing oils, amongst may other decorative trinkets and books. Aside from the elderly lady standing at the counter, he is the only one inside. He walks slowly through the store as he curiously admires the many Wiccan, Buddhist, and alternative Christian items, feeling drawn to the back corner of the store as he is still deep in thought.
”Right now, I have achieved my dream for a second time. I am living mine, while you wander around in a world of shattered dreams, picking up the pieces to try assembling a newer, jaded version of what you once thought was the ultimate dream in this business. For all I know, you could come out of nowhere and prove me wrong. You are more than welcomed to try, so long as you can pull your head out of your ass long enough to take me seriously. That is the difference between us. I see you as a valid competitor while you think nothing more of me than just a minor hurdle. Reality check, Jackson… I’m Spike Fucking Staggs, and I just might be YOUR nightmare come Parade of Champions. Open your eyes and join us in the real world for a minute. Until then… I will be waiting.”
Spike’s fingers trace over a box on the mahogany shelf in front of him. He admires the yellow and blue box depicting an angel. He studies it carefully as his impulses drive him to pick it up. Prayer cards... interesting. He reads the back quickly, but doesn’t realize he is already walking up to the counter until he gets there. He sets them down on the counter as the scene fades… TO BLACK!
