Post by jamesedwards on Sept 6, 2016 3:16:44 GMT -5
Discarded boxes lay casually strewn along the carpeted floor. The majority of them had never been opened and never would be, at least for the next few months while they were packed away in storage. The ones that had been sliced open contained a handsome collection of much-loved, dog-eared paperback books.
Across the empty expanse, away from the jumble of cardboard, was a decent sized walk in closet. It was a selling point for many people looking to rent an otherwise economically sized loft. A few polo shirts hung from the metal rod running along the length of the wall. Most of the clothes that called this closet home remained either in plastic tubs or trash bags.
Not far from the entrance to the closet was a bare mattress. Mounted on the wall above it was a few framed photographs depicting fights of recent vintage. The photos were tasteful black and white stills depicting a small, otherwise ordinary young man in the throes of ferocity that fit him like a suit many sizes too large.
A long shadow slithered its way along the carpet and up the wall until it shrouded an image of the youngster kicking an opponent in the head. The shadow remained parked there for a long time while its owner stood and stared at the wall, lost in the spiderwebs of his habitual, almost obsessive recollections.
What was his name?, the shadow’s owner pondered. He wasn’t quite sure anymore. The fight was in January. It was his first in North Atlantic Wrestling. An untelevised match that he needed to win impressively just to get his foot in the door in the small Pennsylvania promotion. The kick, the one he called the Violent Gospel, had knocked his forgotten opponent stupid. NAW management smelled potential. He saw a contract and guaranteed wage. With the feelings of them being mutual, James Edwards and NAW agreed on a contract.
He leased the apartment the next day and began moving in before flying to Louisiana for a show. The task remained unfinished, and he swore to himself he would finish the moment he returned.
A weekend became a week. A week trickled into a month. That month became a dominant temporal torrent that washed away any inclination he had to make this space his own.
James didn’t anticipate abandoning the apartment and making it an overpriced storage area. Life moved at lightspeed after April. His return to Fight One opened up opportunities in the Vintage Wrestling Society, Strike Wrestling, Championship Wrestling from Texas and so on.
The good intent was there and always would be on his part. That didn’t matter in the world of larger consequences, though, where it was his word versus the worlds. His gaze moved back to camcorder mounted on a stand a few feet away. It was recording, and he couldn’t waste any more time.
“The first time I walked through the doors in North Atlantic Wrestling I didn’t have much to my name: a few hundred books, a shitty old car, and a bad reputation. I had my pride, though. It was enough to sustain me in the darkest damn nights of that point in my career.
Five months after I walked out the door, I come back to NAW without a whole helluva lot to my name. Despite everything, I’ve accomplished in between. Championships, legendary fights and a growing reputation as a man to not take lightly in the ring. I guess the difference between then and now, is that I’m leavin’ all that at the gates by choice. This time, I’m only bringing my pride with me because it is on the line when I face Noah Hanson at Meltdown.
Listen, I ain’t gonna sit here and rehash any of the shit I’m sure that Noah has already told the world. His story is always changing too, man. It is hard to keep up with, y’all already know that, though. My story has stayed the same during this entire ordeal. If Noah wants to run his mouth, then I’m more than happy to show up wherever for the chance to shut him up.
The man has insulted my former home promotion, called me a whore because I like to compete in more than one place and acted like I’m easy pickins’ just because he pinned me once in tag team fight so many months ago. I wonder why too. Noah doesn’t seem like a stupid man and as such you’d think that he would take the time to learn some history because all of this I’m talkin’ about has happened before.
Here is the standard chain of events. Some asshole doesn’t like it when I call them out for being full of it. The asshole has two choices: run me down verbally or jump me from behind like a coward. I’ve taken both so many times by now I’m numb to it all. I take the abuse because of my pride. Despite everything said and done to me the only way I’m ever leavin’ the ring or this sport is on my damn terms. So I buckle down, do the necessary work and I get the win.
It sounds simple because it is. I’m not a complicated guy at my core. The perks of being a fighter are great, but I like the satisfaction of getting my hands dirty and settlin’ a grudge the old fashioned way.
So when I fight Noah Hanson, it is gonna be old hat for me. Steady old me versus an arrogant ass chameleon. Hanson can give me all he wants in or out the ring. I know how to finish him and I will. There isn’t any room for error. My pride won’t allow it.”
James took one last, long look into the red eye indicating that camera was still recording. The steely glare was always necessary for intimidation purposes, he thought.
He walked over to cut it off and in the process got an eyeful of the barren space. At least it was clean, thank God for Molly Maids.
Everything felt like a waste. All the rent he paid. The lack of time spent there. Somewhere, he figured, a person who deserved this place had missed the joy of such a nice place. He wished it had been him. Oh well.
With a great sigh, he lurched back towards the mountain range of boxes waiting to be taken to his waiting SUV.
Across the empty expanse, away from the jumble of cardboard, was a decent sized walk in closet. It was a selling point for many people looking to rent an otherwise economically sized loft. A few polo shirts hung from the metal rod running along the length of the wall. Most of the clothes that called this closet home remained either in plastic tubs or trash bags.
Not far from the entrance to the closet was a bare mattress. Mounted on the wall above it was a few framed photographs depicting fights of recent vintage. The photos were tasteful black and white stills depicting a small, otherwise ordinary young man in the throes of ferocity that fit him like a suit many sizes too large.
A long shadow slithered its way along the carpet and up the wall until it shrouded an image of the youngster kicking an opponent in the head. The shadow remained parked there for a long time while its owner stood and stared at the wall, lost in the spiderwebs of his habitual, almost obsessive recollections.
What was his name?, the shadow’s owner pondered. He wasn’t quite sure anymore. The fight was in January. It was his first in North Atlantic Wrestling. An untelevised match that he needed to win impressively just to get his foot in the door in the small Pennsylvania promotion. The kick, the one he called the Violent Gospel, had knocked his forgotten opponent stupid. NAW management smelled potential. He saw a contract and guaranteed wage. With the feelings of them being mutual, James Edwards and NAW agreed on a contract.
He leased the apartment the next day and began moving in before flying to Louisiana for a show. The task remained unfinished, and he swore to himself he would finish the moment he returned.
A weekend became a week. A week trickled into a month. That month became a dominant temporal torrent that washed away any inclination he had to make this space his own.
James didn’t anticipate abandoning the apartment and making it an overpriced storage area. Life moved at lightspeed after April. His return to Fight One opened up opportunities in the Vintage Wrestling Society, Strike Wrestling, Championship Wrestling from Texas and so on.
The good intent was there and always would be on his part. That didn’t matter in the world of larger consequences, though, where it was his word versus the worlds. His gaze moved back to camcorder mounted on a stand a few feet away. It was recording, and he couldn’t waste any more time.
“The first time I walked through the doors in North Atlantic Wrestling I didn’t have much to my name: a few hundred books, a shitty old car, and a bad reputation. I had my pride, though. It was enough to sustain me in the darkest damn nights of that point in my career.
Five months after I walked out the door, I come back to NAW without a whole helluva lot to my name. Despite everything, I’ve accomplished in between. Championships, legendary fights and a growing reputation as a man to not take lightly in the ring. I guess the difference between then and now, is that I’m leavin’ all that at the gates by choice. This time, I’m only bringing my pride with me because it is on the line when I face Noah Hanson at Meltdown.
Listen, I ain’t gonna sit here and rehash any of the shit I’m sure that Noah has already told the world. His story is always changing too, man. It is hard to keep up with, y’all already know that, though. My story has stayed the same during this entire ordeal. If Noah wants to run his mouth, then I’m more than happy to show up wherever for the chance to shut him up.
The man has insulted my former home promotion, called me a whore because I like to compete in more than one place and acted like I’m easy pickins’ just because he pinned me once in tag team fight so many months ago. I wonder why too. Noah doesn’t seem like a stupid man and as such you’d think that he would take the time to learn some history because all of this I’m talkin’ about has happened before.
Here is the standard chain of events. Some asshole doesn’t like it when I call them out for being full of it. The asshole has two choices: run me down verbally or jump me from behind like a coward. I’ve taken both so many times by now I’m numb to it all. I take the abuse because of my pride. Despite everything said and done to me the only way I’m ever leavin’ the ring or this sport is on my damn terms. So I buckle down, do the necessary work and I get the win.
It sounds simple because it is. I’m not a complicated guy at my core. The perks of being a fighter are great, but I like the satisfaction of getting my hands dirty and settlin’ a grudge the old fashioned way.
So when I fight Noah Hanson, it is gonna be old hat for me. Steady old me versus an arrogant ass chameleon. Hanson can give me all he wants in or out the ring. I know how to finish him and I will. There isn’t any room for error. My pride won’t allow it.”
James took one last, long look into the red eye indicating that camera was still recording. The steely glare was always necessary for intimidation purposes, he thought.
He walked over to cut it off and in the process got an eyeful of the barren space. At least it was clean, thank God for Molly Maids.
Everything felt like a waste. All the rent he paid. The lack of time spent there. Somewhere, he figured, a person who deserved this place had missed the joy of such a nice place. He wished it had been him. Oh well.
With a great sigh, he lurched back towards the mountain range of boxes waiting to be taken to his waiting SUV.