Mac Bane Vs. Jenova

A loud crash and the crackling of thunder. Shards of condensed vapor slam into the shingles above and explode like firecrackers. Their remnants, willed on by gravity, trickle and seep through the many cracks of the antique painted boards.

The old farmhouse stood just as it had for over a hundred and fifty years, minus the degradation that came with age. Without the touch of a loving hand to tend to her needs, she has done what most things that have fallen into neglect do. She was, in time, becoming a part of the very nature that surrounded her. The missing patches of tar paper above could no longer keep her shiplap from swelling; old single pane windows rattled and shook with the storm's every breath. Her lack of fresh coating and sealant couldn't even stop the daily dust and dirt tracked in by her visitors from slowly transforming her into a crumbling shell of her former-self; set to reaffirm with the ground and become one with western Maryland's boundless rolling hills.

The effect this had during the rolling thunder of a summer squall made one feel like they were out in it, bathed in the moonbeams that snuck past the cloud breaks and spray, through the foliage on the grounds of the Wylde family residence.

And that's how Jenova... the woman once known as Magdalena Lockheart felt as she stood upon the second-floor balcony, her dainty fingers gripped to the cracked and distressed pine railing. It used to startle her to stand in a spray like this and watch as the night sky lit-up like the flashbulbs in a photoshoot. But now she stood in the mist, gently swayed with the breeze, and hoped to God that one of those bolts wouldn't catch her...

Yet wondered what it would feel like if it did.

Downstairs, the last remaining remnant of the Wylde legacy was probably lying asleep in the bed in his study, far from the elements that could plague his condition. Since his paralysis, and perhaps even sometime before, the home that he had worked so hard to preserve began to physically crumble around him. Maggie liked to think that CJ was 'blissful' in the things that he was otherwise unaware of, but she knew that wasn't the case. CJ was never the type to be willfully ignorant.

Behind her, she heard the wrought-iron knob of the rotted French-door unlatch and the door creak as it swung. She turned her head to the side to catch a glimpse of Amber Caldwell's approach in a nightgown and slippers, dark enough that she appeared as not much more than a wisp on the unlit terrace.

Maggie faced the rain.

Amber was soft in her approach, the leftover pieces of a yawn escaping, too tired to do so quietly. She perched herself behind Maggie and placed her hands on Maggie's shoulders, rested her head on the back of Maggie's neck.

"Couldn't sleep again?"

More crackling in the distance.

"Do I... seem like myself?" Maggie asked.

"Right now?"

"Yeah."

"I can... tell that you're feeling a bit off. But other than that, you seem fine. Why?"

Maggie recalled the match, the injury, the close-call, and therapy. It was such a long road to get here, to get back to this point. So much sweat-equity. So much sheer fucking will.

She shook her head.

"I dunno. It just doesn't feel right sometimes."

"What doesn't?"

"Anything."

Amber sighed.

"It could still take more time-"

"-what if it doesn't though? What if... I don't ever really, fully come back?"

"I think... you're closer to being yourself than you realize, baby."

"But I don't feel like myself Amb... or the way I think I'm supposed to feel."

'How would you know how you're supposed to feel?'

Maggie shook her head again. Her grip tightened on the rail. She felt as though she was losing her balance in these short bursts of vertigo.

"...excuse me? I... didn't catch that."

"I said: 'you just need to be more patient'. Everything will work itself out in time."

"I am being patient."

"...not with yourself, you're not."

Maggie squeezed the cylinder of splinters that had swelled in her hands. Amber lowered her arms and wrapped them around Maggie's waist. The atmosphere brightened for a split second and burned all the same. The sheer power of the burst was a tad-bit frightening because Amber could now feel, like Maggie did, the static charge that seemed to linger a bit longer in this place; the battery that gave these old walls their voice.

She noticed that the front of Maggie's nightgown was drenched, as was her hair, her face, and her arms.

"Do you trust me?" Amber whispered through the thick grey matted strands, tugging if-ever-so-gently on her waistline. "Comeon, let's go inside."

Amber gripped Maggie even tighter when the crash came rushing through. She really didn't want to stay out where it wasn't safe.

"Let's get some more rest, hmm?"

Maggie hung her head, and looked down upon the engagement ring on her left ring finger. She toyed with it knowing that it didn't belong to her... that the ring was actually a size too big and would frequently want to fall off at the first moment of not paying attention to it. She then glanced out over the land.

"If it's all the same, I think I'd rather stay."

Maggie was more afraid of going back to sleep, than she was of any storm.

---

Let's be completely honest here.

I can count the number of friends I have on no hands.

But I know why I don't have any friends. I know it's my fault. I know it's my responsibility. I can count the number of reasons why I don't have any friends on two fingers. One, I have a scant capacity for forgiveness. It's just something I rarely, if ever, do.

And the second reason is one that I've just learned about recently. Perhaps it was an assumption on my part, but the second reason is that I'm just not as malleable as you people. I've been that asshole CJ Wylde from the moment I was conceived and I'll be cremated as that very same prick. I don't change with the weather or the tide. I don't change who I am even if it would suit me.

Because knowing who I am is more important to me than... happiness, I suppose.

And that brings me to you, Mac Bane. The Carnage Wrestling Baltimore City Champion.

You are respected by your peers in the locker room and your opponents between the bells. I was initially thrilled to hear that Jenova would be taking you on at Chaos 95. Title or no title, really didn't think that it mattered. No offense to Jenova's challengers before you, but I thought that this was the matchup that could go beyond the standard litmus test of where she stands in comparison to today's roster. I thought this was Jenova's opportunity to really shine.

...and it still is. Despite what you say about her. Your resume speaks for itself and your reputation will always proceed you. Contrary to what you might think, I'm not happy that Jenova is fighting you this Chaos because I think it will be easy for her. No, I know that the task at hand is one of her most difficult accomplishments that's being asked of her to date. That's the respect I have for you, Bane.

But respect doesn't work if it only goes one way.

Instead of showing Jenova that same courtesy you've instead decided to question her authenticity - calling her everything from a pawn, to a copy, to unimaginative. You say that Jenova is unoriginal and imply that her willingness to take on Lucy's old mantle makes her less than, say, someone who chooses to be themselves. I suppose that means that you're saying that you're all original... Mac Bane... the Destroyer... the Bane of Existence.

Heh.

Now this is why I don't have any friends, Bane. You're entitled to believe what you want, even if it is bullshit. And just to be clear Jenova is listening to what I have to say just the same as you are. So in the interest of transparency I'm not going to be pulling any punches for her sake or yours. You want to subtweet your little quote pics at her without calling her out by name like a coward? That's your business. But don't you dare act like you're better than her because you're 'original'. You're not original. You're the furthest thing from.

So allow me to tell you who you are. You're a poor man's Gary Altus. I roll into any biker bar right now and I'll find ten Mac Banes sitting there clutching their beer steins as tightly as their love for the second amendment. I'd see twenty on a good weekend. Fifty if it's happy hour.

Yeah, I'm fucking saying it.

Cowboy boots. Harley Davidson. Wrangler jeans. You're a North Texas wet dream. Everything "creative" about you I could buy from the retail stores advertised during NASCAR events. You're the quintessential tough guy who holds high moral standards, old enough to carry the scars and pain from years of wear and tear in this business, but can still somehow magically flip that switch whenever you need to be God's gift to badasses? Seen that movie, watched that tv show, faced that wrestler a hundred times before I ever even heard of a 'Mac Bane'.

But please, stop me when I get something wrong.

What are you? Sons of Anarchy meets Call of Duty? Hells Angels meets headlocks? Let's face facts. You're the wrestler that any twelve year old from the midwest would create on his/her playstation with all the basic embellishments. White wife beater. Maxed out stats. Playing card tattoos. The only original thing about you is that you've gone for decades as this walking stereotype and still somehow believe that you're special. You're standing in a glass house, Bane. You need to put down the stones.

Not taking anything away from your ability inside the ring, because that's about half of your two redeeming qualities. I still think that you do your best to be a good man. But that's only when it suits you.

You stake your claim to not being a saint, and perhaps you're right. You forget your past is just as documented as mine. You went out of your way to help Zephyr Quinn. You fell head over heels while helping Amber Ryan. So could you even explain to me what 'Maggie' did to offend you? Or anyone for that matter? Before Jenova, there was a real time where Magdalena Lockheart needed a friend, but an entire locker room of people just like you stood by and watched as her skull was bashed in by a lunatic with a ring bell. Did you care? No. Of course you didn't. You couldn't even pretend to care now. ZQ's dropped off on your doorstep bleeding? Quick, grab the band-aids and gauze.

Magdalena Lockheart had a skull fracture? She could die from the injury?

Not even a get well soon card.

Now you resort to teasing her? Not the smartest move considering you're not the destroyer you still claim yourself to be. All you have left is your skewed sense of morality, and that didn't save you from that deep pulse of anxiety you felt when you learned you'd be stepping into the ring with a legitimate threat. Jenova is the new Goddess, She's Heavens Dark Harbinger, and you're all but washed up. Everybody knows you're putting in the work on your family and your happiness now... things that rest outside the ring. That's respectable, Bane. Every cowboy wants to ride off on their own terms. But do so quietly. Don't you think your opinions are worth the air you waste saying them. You've had an entire career of speaking your mind without the consequences that should've followed.

Not anymore you don't.

You're at the age now where you know in the back of your mind that the sun is beginning to set on that career of yours. We all face it, Bane. That part isn't personal. Despite your lack of respect I wish neither you nor Amber Ryan any ill-will towards your relationship. But you're just not the man you once were. You're not carrying the red-hot branding iron down to the ring with you. It just isn't you. If anything, the only red hot thing you have left in your life is now carrying you.

Ironic.

As a man, I understand how hard it must be... to open up to an outstanding woman and to say those three difficult, yet significant words. But man to man, how dare you assume that my support of Jenova is me trying to manipulate or control her. Man to man, the support that I offer Jenova is similar to the support that you'd show your son, Jimmy, if he was worth a damn. I never thought that you'd be the type of person that would be insecure about it, but your insecurities have flared up like a bad case of gout. Unlike your son, I don't have to pretend that she can get the job done in the ring. Jenova is going to kick your haggard Texas ass regardless of your opinion of copies not being as good as the original. Because I know that a Lucy Wylde clone can and will bend an original Mac Bane over her knee anyday... even if it's not the easiest thing in the world to do.

But that's just half of the picture. Jenova is not so much trying to copy Lucy as she is trying to protect her. She's also trying to carry on the Wylde legacy, the same legacy that Lucy abandoned the same way that she abandoned her friendship with Maggie the moment she didn't want or need it anymore. You wouldn't understand, and how could you? Jimmy didn't get his competitive genes from his father, clearly. So of course you would assume that I'm trying to turn 'Maggie' into something that she's not... and maybe I am. 'Maggie' would have simply accepted that she didn't do enough to earn your respect... to be treated with the basic decency of a normal human being.

Jenova's gonna help you find it, though.

Jenova's gonna beat it out of you.

And while I could have gone on to say that you have gone a long way in legitimizing the Baltimore City championship, I don't think that I will. Because you don't deserve my respect Bane, and you sure as hell don't deserve Jenova's. In the end, you're simply a good fit as the Baltimore City champion because you're just as good of a fit for that piece of shit city I was born in and couldn't wait to get out of. On the surface, there are some redeeming qualities. But in reality, you're both well past the point of getting that ass-kicking that's been coming to you.

And the powers that be must agree. The reason why this match is non-title, is you.

Jenova didn't arrive in Carnage Wrestling to make friends. Jenova's not here to fall in love. Jenova's not here to play nice. Jenova's not here to pick sides. Jenova's not here to tweet memes. Jenova's not here to judge who's right and who's wrong. Jenova does not give one single solitary shit about how you, or anyone, feels about her. But Jenova commands respect. Jenova has purpose. Jenova has the will, and the drive, and the desire, and the toughness... the skill, the ambition, the athleticism and most importantly she has the sheer intellect to achieve all her goals. If there's one thing that this wretched federation and this miserable roster will concede to her, is that she is and will always be the epitome of 'effectiveness'.

With Jenova, it's not about trying to do what she can. It's about achieving what she must.

...and this time, it's your fault if she takes this personally. It's your fault if she feels like she needs to make an example out of you.

It was your call.

Your little catchphrases are about as lame and as uninspiring as you are, so I'll let you borrow mine.

Changes come, Bane.

It'll always be true.

I predict, by the end of Chaos 95, you'll be changing your tune.