01-16-2021, 11:19 AM
01-21-2021, 08:53 AM
01-23-2021, 06:51 AM
01-23-2021, 09:22 PM
Send in the Clown
Chapter 3: The Jester Unwanted – The Entertainer Needed
How is it that every single time I open my mouth and think, “Oh! it'll be different this time! It won't be as long!”, reality comes along and then knocks it clean out the park and I'm the one eating crow? Why is that? It’s something I can’t quite figure out despite my best efforts.
What did I say last time we spoke ? That it would all be different this time ? That the spread of the hiatus would not exceed the weeks gone by from one tale of the story to another? Well… once again I must flat out say that I was wrong.
I have to admit, it’s getting a little annoying to be wrong like that… Especially when it's not my fault. Allow me to make you aware of something listeners: My absence was not something created by my decision- Oh! Don't get me wrong! There was a time after my last match, that classic Under the Big Top Match with Aaron Blackborne, where time off was necessary… but I'll get to that. No, what I refer to is the weeks that followed after said match, during my recovery, where I was told not to bother coming to Breakdown.
Not to bother attending the house shows.
Not to bother showing up with the papers.
They had launched this insane tournament – a battle of functioning teams strewed together. Teams that were not even meant to team up, and here I was being told they had nothing for me. You had people, masses of individuals, that were “oh so eager to be part of this tournament of champions of opportunity” … that they quit or gave up or turned on all the other participants and became ‘party-poopers’.
Funny, isn’t it? The man who wanted to work was being replaced by those who didn’t. I can't really tell you how much that sat in my brain day after day as the weeks passed. As I said before, I took a lot of damage after that match with Aaron Blackburn, despite coming away with a win. Give the boy credit, it didn’t matter what I put in his way. He rampaged through full tilt every single time. Had it not been for a momentary lapse in his defences, I may not have beaten him and I would have walked through that big top match the loser. Still, and this is purely my ego, I won't deny that it felt good to feel that sense of victory again. To be able to say to an opponent in promos, “I am better than you. I am more entertaining than you.” and then prove it on such a grand scale.
It was an opportunity that was owed to me, and on some level, Blackbourne, after that whole fiasco/slap in the face that happened at Rise to Greatness. To have the magic that was Shilo Valiant vs Aaron Blackbourne be unceremoniously swept under the rug in favour for the ‘Hall of Farmer's’ of that year. The notion that I had not even exited the ring before they are being brought out. I have to admit, there was little more humbling than that. There was very little that could hurt me as much as that in terms of my career. I knew, on some level, I was seen as a ‘nostalgia act’. That SCW was filled to the brim with people, roster and critic alike, who doubted that I could still be the ‘Shilo Valiant’ that I had been the past – the man that had run roughshod through SCW, entertaining the masses like no one else could. I expected detractors.
But to say Rise to Greatness – the night I, and I alone, made history that no one in the history of SCW has ever duplicated – to say that Shilo Valiant, on HIS night, is not worth a few extra minutes to leave the ring with his head held high after giving everything to entertain the masses on the grandest stage...
But I digress – following Rise to Greatness is where this story goes. The first week was the hardest in terms of physical stuff. Let me tell you, I thought I was in pain post-match after my first match with Aaron? Try waking up the very next morning at the hotel unable to move more than a few feet between the bed and the bathroom – and even then, you contemplate how much trouble you’ll be in if you just shit on the bed and leave it for the housecleaning staff. The kind of pain where even the hair on your head hurts! Again, this is credit to Aaron Blackbourne, but let’s move on.
It took me a few hours to be able to pick myself up and drag my carcass out of the hotel room, down the stairs to check out, out of the building, and towards my flight back to Guelph. Everything still hurt every step of the way as I made my way back home:
As I walked up those small steps after parking the car in the driveway.
As I opened the door and saw the woman looking sternly at me her arms crossed. Her face a mixture of concern and frustration.
I felt guilty at this point. Guilty that I was a person who could never learn by simple advisement. I wish I was. Then maybe I’d be able to learn shit the easy rather than the hard, more painful way. But, as it stood, I was always, and would always be, a student of learning from mistakes. From pain, from loss, from experience.
Marina didn't say anything to me that day. I think that was actually worse, now that I look back at it. But she didn’t. No yelling or even an “I told you so” which I more than deserves. She simply took my bag from me, set it down in one of the rooms, returned to me and helped me into the shower and then into bed. I spent two days in there, bedridden as I tried to regain some semblance of my functions.
Some pain gets worse before it gets better. Just the facts of life. This was the case for me. I had banged up my knee from my match with Aaron, first and foremost, and as for my back, I will simply say that even lying flat on the mattress could sometimes cause a series of firecrackers to go off in the depths of my spine.
On the third day of my return home, that was when Marina and I had our talk, with me being able to sit in bed against the bed frame head to listen to her simply say ‘I told you so’. I didn't argue with her. How could I? She was right. My ego had, indeed, put me back on the path of dangerous matches and we both knew that I wasn't going to stop. We both knew that I didn’t want to stop, regardless of the issues and the facts staring at me right in the face.
So, with all of that said: it was around the fifth or sixth morning into my recovery that I was awakened in the morning by a strange change. Now, usually, my alarm will go off around a certain time, at which point, I would usually get myself up to get breakfast made for myself, Marina, and Memphis so they could get ready for work/school. With my injuries, however, Marina had to take care of some of that as I ‘muddled’ through best I could.
Today, this particular morning, however, the alarm went off as per usual, but in the one second between the first note of the song that was on the radio and the second, I was suddenly tackled by a small form flying through the air and landing on my bed with a loud shout of “Mom! Dad!”. Immediately, every muscle in my body seized! Every ache in my bones ignited! Every single joint, tear, scar tissue, stiffness radiated through me as if I had been blasted with a grenade! On instinct, my teeth slammed down on my lower lip, working the tender flesh to try and suppress any loud groans or yells of pain that threatened to escape my throat. At the back of my mind, I could hear the voice of my son, Memphis, the eight-year old jubilantly screaming two words over and over again.
“It's today! It’s today!”
He was bouncing up and down in the small space of the bed between Marina’s and my form. What could I do? I couldn't tell him to stop. What kind of father would do that, punish his son through yelling for simply an act of affection? Fortunately, Marina was able to react faster, scooping up the little boy in her arms and holding him tight, as he continued to declare those two words.
With a groan, the only sound I could allow myself to release to hopefully ease some of the aches and pains running within my body, I pulled myself up to a seated position against the headrest wooden board of the bed, the sturdy wood acting, at least, as some support to ease the pain. “Memphis, my boy.” I groaned. “Eventually, you're going to get too big to be able to do that. You don’t want to break your poor mom and dad’s bones, do you?”
I was met with a strong stare from Marina. “Not for a long time.” she declared sharply before kissing her son on the forehead. Now, I’ll be the first to admit, I don't know much about mothers. Hell, I didn’t meet mine until I was in my 20s, but I think I know a little bit about ‘empty nest syndrome’ building within one. But rather than get myself smacked by my wife by bringing it up, and if I had, her hitting me would have been rightfully so, I kept my mouth shut and concentrated my energy to try and remember what today even was…
And for the life of me, I couldn't figure it out.
It wasn’t Memphis’ birthday. Wasn't mine. Wasn't Marina’s. Wasn't an anniversary – no way would I forget that. And I was pretty sure nothing big had happened the last few weeks in terms of school or the neighbourhood. But still, no matter how hard I tried, nothing came to me – though at my current state, I wasn’t even sure WHAT day it was. Even so, there he was cheering and hollering with the utmost joy. “It's today! It’s today!”
“That's right.” Marina agreed with him happily. “You've been waiting a long time for today, haven't you?” She asked, earning an eager nod from the young boy. “We have too.” she added before turning her brown eyes over to me. “Haven't we, Shilo?”
Oh sure! Put the focus on me. Leave me no room to weasel out of this! Thanks, honey! Leave me with only three possibilities for a an explanation or an answer: I had to either lie and say something like ‘Of course I know what you're talking about!’, guess and pray to whatever God exists out there that I was right, or tell the truth and admit that I had no clue – a confession that, I am sure, would probably lead to a glare from both my wife and my son which would then result in me being in the doghouse for the equivalent of probably the next time I'm able to write a chapter for you guys! Decisions, decisions…
Thinking as quickly as my brain would allow, I held my hand up a little too shush the two other occupants on the bed. “Please…” I groaned. “I don't do quizzes or tests until after I'd had my morning coffee.” I added, moving my hand to cover my eyes although I spied their reaction through the cracks of my fingers. Marina simply gave a roll of her eyes before rolling out of bed with her son in her arms, her maroon nightgown flowing down and following her as she walked. I could barely make out a few of the words she spoke to Memphis as she exited the bedroom, probably to begin making breakfast for all of us. Dodged that bullet, huh?
Alone in my room, I allowed myself to finally be able to recover from the tackling episode that was my son, taking slow breaths, trying to will the pain away into the mattress and wooden headboard that supported me – give to something else because I was beyond done having to deal with it. With a deep breath, I managed to push myself out of bed and onto my feet, standing with a groan and a crack at the spine, knees, arms, and shoulders that sounded more like a xylophone going off than anything else – my body’s natural ‘displeasure’ at my actions. Getting up to my full height, I managed to throw on a simple t-shirt that was folded next to the counter by the bed (one that matched my sleeping pants that I wore), my eyes spying the dragon tattoo on my left arm and the scorpion one on my right, both faded a little from the years passed since I had them, especially the dragon.
Slowly feeling the annoying pain in each step, I managed to pull myself out of the bedroom and into the main living room and kitchen area where Marina was already at work making breakfast. “And I'm gonna score 100 goals!” came the excited declaration of my son as he eagerly awaited his bowl of cereal - Fruit Loops, I believe.
“100?” Marina asked as she placed the bowl filled with cereal and milk, along with a spoon, in front of the boy. “That’s quite the number.”
“Just watch me.” I heard Memphis declare defiantly, as if daring us to question him on it.
Seeing me move into the room with the movement and speed of either a turtle or a very old man, an eyebrow quirked up from the long haired brunette that was my wife. “Did you hear that, Shilo?” Marina asked. “Our son is going to score 100 goals in his first hockey game today.” A slight stress was in her voice, her eyes locked on me.
Well… not exactly subtle, but I did appreciate the helpful tip from my soulmate, which, fortunately, went unnoticed by Memphis. “100?” I asked, feigning previous knowing – dad of the year, I know
. “I used to play hockey, too, you know.” I said, sitting down beside Memphis at the table. “You did?” Memphis asked, his eyes wide. “What did you play?”
It was a good question, though I wasn't quite sure I could answer it. See, allow me to explain. When you live underground, below the streets of Toronto, there's not really a lot of ice rinks in the area. So when the Kings of Shadows would emerge from under the earth of the PATH section of the crammed city, our quote “ice rink” would probably consist of breaking into older arenas or public ice rinks past closing time and using either really old hockey sticks or just sticks and rocks as our pucks . And with no real knowledge of the sport beyond whatever in passing the rules are… yeah, that was pretty much the Kings of Shadow’s hockey. You pick teams and you all go bat-shit crazy trying to get the rock or the puck past two points located using hats.
“I was the one...” I thought for a moment. “I did a whole ton of scoring.” That wasn't really a lie. I was usually the person who would take the rock and hit it as hard as I could and send it flying into somebody's head. Fortunately, most people ran away from me when they saw me with it, knowing what I would do with that kind of shot.
“Oh forward.” My eight-year-old son stated with a smile, making me feel… a little bit dumb? Was that right? I mean, I travelled around the world, right? I should know the basic concept of hockey. I mean, I do, honestly, but just not enough that I could recall, in that moment, at the top my head, with my body currently still in pain. “I play left wing.” Declared Memphis with a broad grin, splitting his attention between Marina and myself before turning his youthful face towards me. “Did you have a favorite wing, dad?” He asked.
“Yeah.” I replied without thinking. “Chicken.”
Now before you go off rolling your eyes at that, trust me I paid for that joke with Marina, behind me, coming up to smack me on the shoulder. Of course, I had a grown little bit because… well, Ouch.
“What's a chicken wing?” Memphis asked looking at Marina and I. “I have never heard of that spot.” “Trust me kid.” I laughed with a smile. “When you're single and living by yourself, you'll learn to love them”.
Another rolling of the eyes from my mate – I didn’t see it but I knew - as Marina shuffled to the other side of the table with two plates of toast, bacon, and scrambled eggs with hot sauce for herself and I, inserting herself into taking control of the conversation. “Your dad was, indeed, a forward just like you.” She simply replied. “And he's so excited to be seeing you play today.”
That seemed to be enough to placate the boy, as he set his eyes on devouring his breakfast, Marina's insistence of him having enough energy to play a full game today after school encouraging him as well. “How many goals did you score in a game dad?” He asked before adding, “What was the most amount?” in between mouthfuls of cereal.
“Memphis.” Maria chastised in a motherly tone that booked no room for argument. “What have we said about talking with your mouth full?”
Slowly, guiltily, Memphis swallowed his mouthful of cereal before taking a slow breath. “No talking with your mouth full.” His eyes downcast.
“That's right.” Marina reminded him, her stern tone fading just a bit.
“Well…” I slowly answered, attempting to dissolve the tension as best I could. “The games I played were more like for fun. We didn’t really keep track of everyone’s goals. Just how much each team scored.” I quickly remembered as I held up a finger in sudden realization. “I remembered one time that I scored three, though! That's a hat trick, right?” I asked him and Marina, Earning a slow nod from my adoring soul mate.
The answer seemed to douse a bit of the enthusiasm my son had been harboring. I saw his shoulders drop just a little . “Do you think I can really score 100 goals in a game then?” He asked. “If you couldn't.”
Now, I know, in a case like this, Marina would be the one to immediately answer with the perfect response. But you have to understand, I didn’t want to be the kind of person who relied on my wife to do all of the parenting jobs. I didn’t want my wife to have to come up with all the answers and then have to be the one to give them. My father, Spider, may not have been the most affectionate, loving, ‘let's go out to the park and play catch’ father, but I never doubted that he loved me. I never doubted that he taught me so much. And for all his faults, I found myself wanting to be a father just like him when my son was born…
So it was an instant that I answered quickly, effectively preventing Marina from doing so. “Kid, it doesn't matter how many goals you score in a game. Your mother and I will be proud of you even if you score 0. As long as you have fun, do your best, and keep working on it.”
…
What? How many times do I have to say it? I'm not a heartless bastard. I just play one on TV. And, as I said, I wanted to be a good father for my son. I tried with my daughter, Gwynplaine, and yes, I know you're wondering about that…
Still my answer was enough to give Memphis a bit of his joy back, allowing him to finish his breakfast and then scamper off upstairs get ready for school. This left Marina and I sitting at the table, eating our breakfast in comfortable silence. Quietly, I felt her hand reach out and take mine, our other hands being used to work our forks for our breakfast. She gave my hand a gentle squeeze, though it seemed to be less than what she could have - perhaps she was still, very much aware, of my nagging injuries.
“Are you feeling better today?” She asked in a low whisper. “Should we take you to the doctor to get checked.”
Slowly I shook my head. “I'm worried about sitting in a really stiff table bench for an hour and a half.” I answered honestly with a shrug. “Remind me to pack some kind of Advil or something for the road”.
She nodded her head and I saw her open your mouth to say something else but suddenly stopped herself. With my hand holding the fork filled with bit of eggs, I looked at her and shook my head.
“No.” I simply said knowing what she was going to say. “I can't.”
Understand something. After a decade of marriage or the equivalent of that within the Kings of Shadow society, I know my wife. Through the good the bad, the ups and the downs, we know each other very well. You probably couldn't find a couple in SCW that has withstood the test of time that our marriage has. Believe me when I say that I know quite often what she is thinking. And in that moment when she opened her mouth to speak, I knew that her words – the ones she was about to say - were out of concern and love for me, causing her to consider that damning offer she could have given me:
You don't have to go if you don't want to.
I know, right?! Sounds like a damning declaration. Or something as horrible as ‘it's not you it's me’ for the teenage romantic. But I'm willing to guarantee that most people paying attention to this story with know how I’d react against such a statement. Of course I had to go! Of course I would have to put myself through it. Two reasons: First and foremost, this was my son! A moment in his life that meant so much to him. His first hockey game. He was finally old enough to play on an actual age league. Guelph was full of community teams, at least three or four as far as I could recall (one league was strictly in-town and one was a ‘travel team’), and there were several others, from what Marina had told me, in the surrounding towns and cities. And all of them were divided into age groups. Last year, Memphis had only been part of an initiation program, teaching him the basics of how to skate and score and that sort of thing. And yes, telling you this now, I do feel stupid for not recalling all that information when he was asking about previously. But anyway, now he was old enough that he could enter into the first actual age division of the minor league. He was going to be a novice player. Play with other kids his age. The city of Guelph had been rather excited about that, Marina and I having heard from our neighbors and other people we knew within the city talking about it as we met them and ran into them in our day-to-day lives. We lived in a neighborhood filled with parents and kids in the same age-range as Memphis. We had looked for a neighborhood close to our age range for that reason. So to say that our neighborhood and a few other strong pockets of Guelph were up in excitement over the beginning of the new hockey season was a bit of an understatement.
And it made my choice all the more obvious and impossible to change.
Because for all the good things I could say about my father, I have to admit that he do not succeed in the ‘reliable’ department. He wasn't there when in my first wrestling match. He wasn't there when I sold my first batch of Necro on the Toronto streets. He wasn't there when I won the SCW world title for the first time against Greg Cherry. He wasn't there when my son was born. He wasn't there when my daughter got married. He was there when it absolutely mattered, but not always when he was wanted. And that may have been okay for him, but I wanted to be more than that for my son.
“Have you heard anything from SCW?” Marina’s question caught me off guard, but it also filled me with a sense of frustration.
“Not yet.” I replied simply. “I'll check in the coming weeks if I don't hear anything.”
Finishing our plates around same time, I slowly pushed myself out of my chair, back to a standing position, again suppressing as much of the aches and pains that I could, and took the plates from Marina, opting to clean them myself while she got ready for work. She gave me a gentle kiss on the cheek before reminding me to see a doctor if there were any flare ups. About an hour later, they were both gone, leaving me to my thoughts and my next course of action…
Now, I could tell you that this is where my chapter ends. That the revelation with my family and relating it to my father, Spider, would be enough of a development to give you an idea of where I'm headed going into the upcoming pay-per-view. ‘Wanting to be more than what my predecessor was.’ I mean it would be a touching story wouldn't it? Enough of reason to come back guns blazing: “I am not finished! I have not been defeated! I'm not simply going to fade away into the night!”… typical Shilo, right?
But I'm afraid it doesn't work that way. Life doesn't work that way…
It was a stark lesson that I realized around noon time, while replying to emails and answering a few messages. I was sitting on the couch and watching some Netflix as well when there was a phone call coming from a landline, the sharp ringing filling the room. And being only person at home, the responsibility came to me to answer it.
Or try to. But as I tried to push myself up… my knee, my bad one, refused to obey. Refused to move. It was locked. It wouldn’t stand. It wouldn't move. It was like… it was like it had been shut off entirely! Like someone had pulled the batteries out of the controller and no matter how much I demanded or pressed, it would not respond!
*sigh*
I cannot tell you the absolute panic that came into my brain at that moment. It was one thing for my knee to give out - I was used to that! There's nothing scary, to me, if it collapsed under an attack or hurt from a blow or be a little bit sensitive the day after a big match – whatever! But to seize and lock in place and not listen to my orders… my commands… to work.
Deny it! I thought for a moment. It was just being stubborn! Some lingering issue – come on! You’re Shilo Valiant! You survived over 60 minute wars in a royale! You survived the Big Top! The fear and anger laced themselves together into some kind of ugly hybrid emotion, and I pushed myself up onto my strong leg, actively trying to extend the bad one using gravity to lower it. When that failed, the leg remaining locked, I forced myself down until my foot touched the floor, trying my best not to give in to any of the panic. I stood on both feet and, after several minutes, finally, my bad leg slowly started to extend. I could feel the weight on both feet again, normalcy – or the closest thing to it – returning as I stood in the middle of the house… my mind spinning wildly.
In your life, when things like this happen to you, you question everything. You ask yourself: what do I do now?
In that room, listening to the phone ringing over and over again before kicking over to the answering machine, the first thing that came to my mind was my darling’s words from earlier – contact the doctor. Perhaps a specialist could offer me some kind of solution or some kind of opinion on the matter, or even just the family doctor.
But as I reached for the phone to call the number of said family doctor… my hand stopped as the second set of thoughts came to my head:
What if is this isn't simply consequences from fighting Blackbourne?
What if this is more than just a lingering knee injury?
What if he says I can't wrestle anymore?
The whole new set of thoughts took root and hold in me. You can’t imagine the dread I felt. It was one thing to end things on my terms, there was dignity in that. And, in terms of SCW, I still craved to do that. The desire to return had been compounded by that damned pay-per-view name I had heard about coming up. ‘The Last Laugh’. Oh, if they were not going to book me – I refused to be so ignored. I didn’t want to be seen as that. Someone that could be ignored. Someone that could be used as a ‘advertising trick’ to the audience – ‘It’s named after Shilo! So buy tickets! He MIGHT be booked!’.
But now? To see that there might not be any chance of any kind of ‘final curtain’ for me on my terms… Worse, a chance that...
Immediately, my brain flew to an image of me in a wheelchair, unable to walk. Unable to stand to show my pride for my son at his hockey games with him as an adult, trying to get into the Canadian leagues professionally. Of being unable to stand so I could dance with Marina as we had so many times in our past. I saw me watching from the stands of some wrestling arena, unable to get up and be the merchant again…
I'm not egotistical enough to say that I was unaffected by that. I cried. I can honestly say that I stood there in the middle that room, too scared to sit back down, less my knee lock up again, and I cried.
I cried at the unfairness of it! Some other people who hated their careers or hated people in their work and who took their careers for granted. Took their gifts for granted, years and years of risking everything on stupid impulses. Some like Xander - going through tables and chairs or whatever. Stupid ones like Selena Frost moonsaulting off cages and they were perfectly fine!
But a wrench to my knee by my former tag partner, Masquerade, and I was now a ticking time bomb, both professionally and personally… it wasn’t fair.
An hour passed and I was still standing in that spot, still trying to piece myself back together. Would I tell Marina? Tell my doctor? What if I hid it from her and she found out?
My stomach churned at the few choices I truly had: Lie, confess, ignore. And none of them seemed like a very good option.
“Fuck…”. I half-whispered, half-cried, swearing in this house for the first time in some time - There is a child living here, remember. My eyes skimmed up towards the ceiling, looking beyond them. “I really could use some help here, dad.” I muttered to no one.
Still, a small feeling began growing within me as I lingered on it. A sense of déjà vu, of a past time where my future as a person and a wrestler was left in the air…
Slowly not wanting to risk another knee lock up or collapse, I dragged myself to the bathroom, pulling myself in front of the large mirror above the sink to observe my own features. There was nothing out of place except for a few lingering scars that ran down the left side of my temple and mapped along my jawline - the facial reconstruction provided by SCW care had done wonders to reduce the scarring from my pyro incident… of course that was only superficial. The memories, I knew, would always linger in my mind.
However, in that moment of observing the scars, my hand tracing over them gently, I was reminded. Reminded of a time where I laid on a bed in a hospital suffering from flash blindness and 2nd degree burns and every conceivable notion of my future being up in the air far more than this. Forget being able to walk. Doctors weren't sure if I would be able to see, let alone wrestle. For the first while of recovery, my future was as uncertain as could be.
Imagine that for a moment, your very way of life threatened to collapse in the instant. Everything you knew – everything you thought would be in your future, wiped away in a second. Compared to that, being effectively ‘stripped’ of the SCW world title for a time sort of seemed like a unimportant element. But as I starred into the eyes of myself upon my reflection, I remembered that, back then, it wasn't the end.
With a deep breath and an angry huff, I slammed my fist into the sore knee, feeling the pain jolt through it as if trying to reawaken the muscles to function normally. I did it again and again for five more minutes, shouting “Come on!” as an order! I lost track of how many times I struck the joint . But with each strike came my refusal to surrender. My refusal to give in and let something as pitiful as a damned knee joint determine my future.
In that moment, I was sick of waiting on the sidelines, I was sick of waiting for life to catch back up to me and get me back to where I wanted to be. I was sick of waiting for SCW to contact me. I was sick of waiting for people to listen to me. I was sick of waiting for ‘Shilo Valiant’ to get his family back on track to where they were.
And out of the depths of that depression and fear, came my revelation.
If the world was not going to call on Shilo Valiant… If SCW wasn't going to call Shilo Valiant. Shilo Valiant was going to call on SCW…
************************************************
The scene opens up to a warped dressing room, the camera flashing to various shots/sights. A shattered mirror, a square outline of illuminated lightbulbs (some burnt out and some shattered), a line of masks sitting across mannequin heads, before the decrepit changeroom shots change to that of Shilo Valiant sitting in a chair in the middle of it all, a broad grin on his face.
Listen to her, Dylan! Do you not hear her cries? he cups his hand over his ear, as if hearing something. No, my friend, I am not talking about Addy. Not at this moment. She is a quiet one, isn’t she? You read her expressions more than her words – feel her emotions. I get you. The Entertaining One winks at the camera – at Dylan.
No, I am talking about the person that that has been hurting the Adrenaline Title – hurting Addy. The person I warned you about – who I showed you was hurting her. The woman that declares herself ‘champion” of Addy! Glory Braddock.
Have you heard her cries? again, Shilo tilts his head as if to listen.
Did I not tell you, Dylan? How she selfishly flaunts that title for her own benefit? How she pretends to be some vestige of a hero or some role-model to others?
Yet she would have you believe that I am ‘brain-washing’ you. Have I, Dylan? Have I been brain-washing? Or did I place you in a position where you could do what has been denied to you for so long. Have I truly manipulated you? Or have I reminded you of what you truly desired? Given you purpose once again? Purpose on a dream that you had, sadly, given up on?
Would a being that was only interested in his own ‘relevance in SCW’ do such a thing? Endanger his chance of winning a title by incorporating a third person? Shilo asks, a gloved hand stroking his chin.
Yes, you are welcome, Dylan, but I must confess, my actions are entirely selfish.
You see, my return was spurned on by a number of actions – and yes, I would by lying if I said I wasn’t affected by SCW blatantly stealing from me to name one of their last pay-per-views.
“Last Laugh”? Really, SCW?
Now… Glory would have you believe that I had no ‘right’ to be upset about that.
Pfft…no right.
Gloved hands tighten into fists. Shilo’s jaw clenches. No right. Perhaps that’s your frame of mind, Glory – a woman that has merely taken from SCW and sacrificed nothing for it. When have you put your body on the line, Glory? When have you risked everything, including your own career, in this place? Hmmm? When was your very future in doubt because of injuries suffered being ‘the best’? Has there even been a time? I don’t seem to recall.
But me? The injuries I have suffered. The pain I have endured – the scars on my body!
A flash is shown as, from one of the mirrors, a quick flashback is seen of Shilo Valiant getting burned by pyro back in 2012, showing him rolling around on the ground, clutching his face, his screams of the past echo within the space.
I have paid a price over and over again that you, in your polished little world, have no idea about, all for SCW. All for the entertainment. And THIS is how I am repaid? This is how I am thanked? To be the subject of blatant thievery?
You’re damn right I was angry at that. And I have every right to be!
Slowly, the Man Who Laughs pushes himself out of his chair, the camera following him. So I took my time…and I picked my targets. One I would help and the other I would expose.
He slyly grins. And you, Glory, are the one I am going to expose…
Reaching a gloved hand out, Shilo takes hold of a pale, pure white mask. Because it’s oh so amusing, isn’t it, Dylan? How she declares that WE are unworthy. You, a former Adrenaline Champion and me – well… all I need to say is simply… I’m Shilo Valiant. That, in itself should tell you exactly what I am.
But that is apparently not enough for the champion. Not enough to be ‘worthy’ of a title shot.
Isn’t that just disappointing? Carefully, Shilo places the mask back on the high shelf it was sitting on above several others.
A shame for the one who holds Addy to be so highly perched on a pedestal, isn’t it, Dylan? Do you not see how she hurts Addy, Dylan? How her hypocrisy hurts Addy? Would you not – would I not – believe that all could come to fight for Addy’s hand? Proving the champion’s worth and the worth of the world that is the division of Adrenaline? Perhaps I am being a bit too optimistic?
Still, you think I’m mad, Glory? That I speak lies and confounded jokes? That I am unworthy, having not ‘earned it’?
A strange thing coming from you, of all people, isn’t it? a twisted grin comes from Shilo’s lips.
Do you know why I sought out Dylan Howell upon my return? Why I spoke to him in the first place? It’s because, genuinely, he WANTS to be Adrenaline Champion, as I do. He WANTS to hold that title, as I do. I could have come back and gone after the world title. We both know I have the credentials to do so and I have no cares about either Bree Lancaster, the dual-champion ripoff of me and David Helms, who’s always been in my shadow, hence his nickname – but I didn’t. I sought the adrenaline title.
That is where I belong. THAT is what entertained me. But for Dylan… oh it was so much more! The belt you carry? It’s the damn World title to him! Scratch that! It’s the World Series mixed with the Stanley Cup and the Super Bowl with a bit of Olympic gold medal tossed in for good measure.
Think about it, Glory. A man who’s been here as long as he has and never ‘demanding’ the world title or any other title… just the Adrenaline. A man so twisted and driven, he tried to marry that title.
You know why I remember all that? Because it was entertainment in the purest form. Dylan Howell, as Adrenaline Champion, WAS entertaining. So how could I not include him when I have an inkling of what it feels to desire only one title. If I have an inkling of what that could do for the entertainment? For me?
The Showman laughs a little, running a hand through his medium-length hair. Yet we are ‘unworthy’?
Is that right, Glory? Or are you just trying to switch masks on us…
Me? I’ve worn many masks in my career – many faces. Still, no one has doubted who I am and what I am about. Entertainment. Always… Now and Forever. But you? Hmmm… a steady hand trails over the line of masks:
A white one with a simple smile: The Necro-Merchant.
A black one with blood-trails for tear streaks: The Blood Stained Joker
A white smiling face with no mouth: The Silent Showman
The half mask of a skull: The Man Who Laughs
With a half-saddened sigh, Shilo withdraws his hand.
You say that you are “The Best in the World”… are we truly back on that train so soon? I thought you said a few weeks ago that you had given up that ‘nickname’ in order to pursue a more humble path – having failed to win the World title once again.
Oh! Speaking of which! How did that go? Or better yet, let me ask Dylan…
Dylan, my boy! Turning back to the camera, Shilo clasps his hands together. Did you know what Glory – the supposed ‘worthy’ – went through to get that title? Well, let me tell you! First, she failed to become World Champion at Rise to Greatness, then she failed to become United States Champion last year in a tournament, then she failed AGAIN to become World Champion just a few months ago… and now… now she is Adrenaline Champion…
Slowly, Shilo lowers his hands, his expression becoming more and more serious.
Do you see the obvious truth, Dylan? Addy is your World title. Your everything. But to Glory -the woman who deemed you and I as unworthy of Addy – its shiny gold is nothing more than the bronze prize. The third choice after so many failures. The consolation prize for the supposed “Best of the Best”.
I ask you, Dylan… the same question I posed to you not too long ago. Doesn’t Addy deserve better? he tilts his head.
That is why it must be one of us that succeeds here tonight! Why it must be you or I that become the NEW Adrenaline champion. Because with you, Addy will be entertaining again! With you, I can watch your antics with a smile on my face! And with me… I promise you I would give Addy a much needed revamp! A new look for the spotlight I would have shine on her – my spotlight would be hers – my gift to her.
Think of that, Dylan! A bright future for the title you love and that I find oh so entertaining… all that stands in our way… is her. The hypocrite. The liar. The one who ‘settled’ for the Adrenaline title rather than choose it outright like you and I have!
Believe me, Glory. Your cheap words are simply that. There is nothing genuine about you. Not like Dylan and I. There is a reason we all noticed your little ‘jump back’ from “I’m not gonna call myself The Best in the World anymore” to “I’M THE BEST IN THE WORLD!” so fast, it almost gave the SCW Universe whiplash.
It’s so typical of Glory Braddock. Change when things are tough… Once more, Shilo walks around this distorted changeroom, a small facet of the Carnival of Rust.
Isn’t that right? You failed to win the World title at Rise to Greatness and you quickly switched – donning the mask of the villain to try and regain some foothold in this company. When that failed, you went back to your ‘old ways’ of humility. Now… you seem to have some sort of middle ground – hailing yourself as “The Best in the World” but wanting ‘worthy challengers’.
The shot switches suddenly to all the lined up masks on the shelf before returning just as quickly to Shilo, who shakes his head as a sinister smirk begins to grow across his features.
My masks don’t hide who I am, Glory. Yours do. Or they try to. ‘Hero’, ‘Villain’, it doesn’t matter what you call yourself, you’re still the same thing you’ve always been. A desperate little girl that was a big thing in the minor leagues, the pitiful independent wrestling federations, and 14-time world titles… and has failed over and over again in the big leagues. Who has grasped, desperately, to anything and everything and pretended it was worthy to her... just to continue her delusions.
And through all your masks, none can hide the self-loathing you have for yourself. The way the truth eats away inside you. That still, after all this time, you have still NEVER held the SCW World title. Not like I have. That still, for all your past world title accomplishments elsewhere… you can’t do it here.
The two masks of the Necro-Merchant and The Man Who Laughs are shown before Shilo is seen back in his chair, smirking at the camera.
That’s the real reason “The Best in the World” has come back, hasn’t it? Because, unlike Dylan and I, you can’t accept your flaws. You can’t accept your failings. You can’t learn from them, embrace them. So you’ve gone back to denying them, trying to deny them in pitiful self-promotion and using that title – Addy – as your selling point…
That will end tonight, Glory. Because your little charade? Your little delusion? It lost its humor – its entertainment – long ago. Your little act has become stagnant, repeating itself at nauseum and it’s time SCW threw you up and threw you out on your ass.
Something that I am more than happy to do. Shilo rests his head against a gloved hand.
Tonight, ‘unworthy’ as I may be, you will have Shilo Valiant bringing you not only his spotlight and his fame but also Dylan Howell to bring all eyes to that title – as it deserves to be. Tonight, you will share in my spotlight and, for a moment, understand what truly being ‘the best’ feels like.
And then… I’ll deliver the punchline… The smirk has grown into a sinister smile.
Here is your winner… and the new SCW Adrenaline Champion… Shilo quickly throws a finger against his lips, shushing himself. Oops… better not spoil it now… wouldn’t be very entertaining, would it?
Slowly, he lowers his hand, his eyes glaring right into the camera – to Glory Braddock.
This is the part where you… make me laugh…
A slow laugh forms in Shilo, building to an ominous one as the camera fades to black…
01-24-2021, 12:56 AM