Post by Will Prydor on Oct 9, 2020 20:08:53 GMT -5
What’s that metronome I hear? Perhaps the end is drawing near. You never hear the shot that takes you down.
Residence of William Prydor Bel Air, Maryland September 15, 2020, 10:23 a.m.
“I still can’t believe you’re even seriously considering this,” Tori said over her shoulder as she worked in the kitchen to prepare a late breakfast for her and the youngest member of the Prydor clan.
“Why? Even if I can’t teach classes right now, I still need to keep up my physical training, Tori. Plus good teachers are always learning, always improving.”
A grunt is all that answered Will as Tori focused on the frying pan in front of her. Will pressed on. “I know you’re not a fan of the idea. I get it, hon. We both know I don’t need the money from it. We might have taken a hit with the pandemic and having to close the school but we have enough to make do in the meantime. So it’s not a financial thing. What, then, is the problem hon? Talk to me.”
There was silence, save for the sound of an egg sizzling on the pan, for close to a minute. Will knew better than to push Tori into answering too quickly—this was a conversation where rash thoughts were not welcomed. The beep of the stove, as Tori powered down the heating element, broke his reverie. Turning behind him, Will walked over to the playpen on the far side of the living room and reached in to pull his namesake into his arms. Will II babbled as his father held him, a smile crossing the big man’s face as it always seemed to do when his children were around.
In short order, the three of them were sitting at the dining room table, Will holding his son as Tori fed both the baby and herself. A few minutes passed where Will tried to help Tori feed their son—and got about as much of the pureed carrots on his arm as in the boy’s mouth—before Will II started to yawn and fuss, as is the wont for kids fighting to avoid the best part of being an adult: naps.
He had just started to think that Tori had forgotten their earlier conversation when she came back into the living room and sat on the arm of his recliner, legs crossing over his lap. “Now that I have a few minutes to think before Elyssa comes calling for something…”
Will chuckled at this. That sounded like their daughter, all right. “I’ve got two issues with this. Well, three, really. The first one, of course, is going to be the whole pandemic thing. By and large, we’ve done well keeping isolated and masked and all that. That’s not going to do us any good if you’re going to wrestle in Baltimore. So naturally I’m worried about that.
“Second is the fact that…this is JC we’re talking about. A guy who’s wrestled you when you were at your most vulnerable, when he could manipulate the rules, or even manipulate you into getting a match. Plus he’s been an active competitor while you haven’t been. And let’s not get into his personal life. I saw what he did to Lucy after all.”
Will couldn’t help an involuntary flinch at that one. “The last one is more a minor thing for me. Do you really want to wrestle on your son’s first birthday?”
He paused, giving Tori a few more moments to add anything else. When she did not, he replied. “I think the first and third issue can be sorted out in one fell swoop, Tori. So let me focus on your second issue.
“I’ve known JC for a long time. Yes, the man has had his share of demons to stare down—and will always be doing so. It’s the nature of the beast. Thing is, now he knows the battlefield, the stakes involved. He’s been working to get that under control. So I’m not overly concerned with that.”
He took a deep breath before continuing. “The thing with Lucy…honestly, I don’t know the details and I haven’t asked. I’ve felt like I’d be butting in unwelcomed there, so I’ve kept my distance. But I’m not sure if that would affect anything regarding this potentially. So in my head, I’ve ruled that out. That leaves the one big factor: the fact that he’s been active, and I’ve been a family man.”
“You make it sound like a bad thing.”
“It’s far from it. Remember, after Jack Michaels…I chose this. That one thing with Lucas Silva aside—which I still regret falling for to this day—I’ve been happy staying at home. I’ve been happy raising Elyssa and then Will. I’ve been happy being a cat dad again. I’ve been happy just living with you. That’s not an issue at all.”
“So what is it?”
He paused for a moment, trying to find the right words. “It’s the teacher in me, hon. I saw the subtle things when he approached me at Chaos. There was a look in his eyes—I don’t want to say ‘pleading’ but I could see it unwritten there—not to toss this aside lightly and to actually give it some thought. He feels he has something to prove. And I guess I’m the one he has the biggest question mark about in his career that can still even be considered remotely accessible.”
Tori could sense that Will was going into analytical mode, something he normally did when teaching classes to ensure that all of his students got the best training he could give them. When he got in this state, she knew better than to interrupt or prompt him.
“He’s not going to face Trent again—there isn’t enough bad blood between the two to do that, and Trent’s got his own hands full at the moment. He doesn’t need Joe picking at him to cause anymore trouble. Lucy’s…well, we all know. Magdalena, or Jenova, or whomever, left the business as best I can tell. He put a definitive end to his chapter against Jesse Williams. Michaels has retired, but has a grudge against Davidson and JC isn’t on his radar right now except on Twitter. By process of elimination, that leaves me and the questionable finishes our matches have had. A roll-up victory for me when suffering from a broken beck. Him using Trent’s manager to win a tag match and get out of defending his title against me straight up. He claims the Pure Rules match ended badly for him though I agreed to the rules, and simply lost count of the breaks.
“In every match we have had, he feels like there is an asterisk beside the results of every one. That’s why he wanted this. To make it clear and uncontroversial. He knows now that I have that monkey off my back. I don’t solely associate submission matches with nearly dying.” Act of Defiance 2018 saw fit to that. “Plus, it fits both our strengths. It’s a calculated gamble by Joe, and a damn good one at that.”
“So that leaves one thing left. You. You’ve got to have ring rust like crazy, Will.”
“You let me worry about that, hon. But that still leaves your first and third issues, which as mentioned, I think I can knock out at once.”
“I’m listening.”
“We have a building going unused, about four or five months now. It’ll hold two wrestlers, a ref, and a cameraman or two. Plus this means we can have the match before the day of the event, and it leaves me free to celebrate Will’s first birthday.”
“How long have you been planning all of this?”
“Since about five minutes into the drive back from Baltimore after Chaos 98. I called my one student from the parking garage there, let her know that I’d advise against going to Carnage with the current management, and I’d keep some feelers out for her. Mind went into this mode immediately afterward.”
“So, one last question. Why haven’t you started your training yet? JC isn’t going to beat himself.”
Will felt himself smile. “I love you, hon. Thank you.”
“Thank me by doing your best.”
That much, at least, he could do.
\___(^)___/
Residence of William Prydor Bel Air, Maryland September 30, 2020, 11:26 a.m.
He found himself standing near the edge of the slight cliff at the western edge of his property, earbuds going from his ears to his phone as he waited for the call to connect. On the fourth ring, just before the phone would kick over to voicemail, a raspy voice answered.
“Lad? That really you calling?”
“Yes, Mr. Donleavey. It’s me. I called as soon as I heard.”
“I shoulda followed yer actions, lad. Shoulda kept Bonebreakers closed. Now look. School’s closed, and I’m not gonna make it ta Halloween. This damned virus got me.”
No matter how often he heard it, whether from the news, from articles or tweets online, or the rare instance of overhearing it in person, the implication of those words always acted like a sucker punch to the gut. To hear it from his former teacher, Mark Donleavey, hurt even more. “But, the recovery rate—”
“Lad, don’ bullshit me. I’m old, high risk. I know better.”
Will said nothing, closing his eyes for a moment as the news settled in. “I’m glad ya called, though. Wanted to get somethin’ off ma chest before it’s too late.”
“All right. I’ll try not to interrupt.”
A coughing fit followed for a few seconds before the voice on the other end continued. “I knew ye were special within a month of showin’ up the first day, lad. Everyone else, they wanted the flashy stuff. Ye were the only one who wanted ta learn the basics, ta master them. ‘Tis why I taught ye meself, lad. I didn’t want anyone else messin’ it up.”
Another quick coughing fit interrupted him, and a few more seconds passed before he could continue. “Ye managed to take what I taught ye, put yer own mark on it, and travel the world. Ye brought an old fool the joy I never got on my own in a ring. And ye proved that ye actually belong with the top names. ‘Tis more than I had e’er hoped ta see from the school. Of all the kids ta come into Bonebreakers, lad, ye’re the biggest success. And e’en now, with this thing ye got comin’ up. I knew ye’d be callin’ fer advice.”
A couple of wheezing breaths followed this. Will was about to ask if Mark was all right, but the raspy voice picked back up before he could. “Lad, ye’ve already taken e’erythin’ I taught ye and made it better. I’ve given ye all I can tell ye. The student has become the teacher, and I ‘spect ye’ll do better at that, too. Jus’ remember, lad. Ye have to teach the kids, but ne’er stop learning yerself.”
When he paused, Will felt like he could finally ask a question. “And this match with JC?”
“Lad…ye don’ need advice from me ‘bout the match. E’erything ya need ta do ta win, ye already know. And if ye don’ win, is it really that bad? I thought ye were done chasing wins.”
It was at that moment that Will felt the switch flip in his mind. “Sir, this is why I wanted to talk to you. Thank you. That’s what I needed to hear.”
“Ye can thank me, lad, by teaching yer students right. Ye’ve already made me proud to say I taught ye. Now go do the same for the future.” With that, Mark Donleavey hung up before Will could respond back. Will didn’t need to say anything else, though. A silent contemplation was all that he needed as he turned to walk back towards his house, and his family.
Come what may, he’d make damn certain he’d be ready for Chaos 100.
\___(^)___/
Transcript of YouTube video Posted October 8, 2020, visible to the public
FADE IN to a darkened room. A single overhead light shines down onto a metal table, polished and reflective even in the dim radiance. Sitting atop it is an old-style metronome, already in motion, the ticking sound echoing in the chamber. A polished metal tip in the end of the metronome’s arm flashes as it passes under the light, back and forth. The camera slowly zooms in on the metronome, and when it’s filled up about half the screen, a hand reaches out from behind the device, stopping the arm. The silence is deafening for a few moments before a voice speaks out.
“Time marches on. No one can stop it. No matter what we do, the hands of time cannot be held back.”
The hand releases the arm of the metronome, which immediately resumes its movement back and forth.
“The most we can do is learn to adapt to the changing times and not get swept away in nostalgia.”
The same hand now picks up the metronome off the table and removes if from the light. The tick of the metronome’s arm turns into the sound of footsteps, and a moment later the visage of Will Prydor is seen sitting down behind the table, hands clasped in front of him on the polished surface.
“Adapt, or perish. This is the way of life, in nature as well as in competition. I realize, coming from a man who was forcibly retired almost two years ago, and then reminded a few months later that he had no place in the Carnage of 2019, that I am the last person who should be speaking about adaptation. I failed to adapt enough, and my career perished for it.” There is a pause, as Prydor considers his next words carefully.
“But, the reality you see on the television screen, or the computer monitor or the iPad screen, only shows part of the story. I knew my time was up; I could feel myself not being able to move as quickly, as forcefully as I once did. So, I adapted. I evolved into something I thought I would be terrible at, given my upbringing.”
Quiet, rapid footsteps can be heard at this point, before a young girl hops up onto his lap.
“I became a father. And suddenly, I had every reason to leave the glory chasing to the next generation. My legacy may live on, or it may not. That’s not for me to say. But I have a chance to change my family’s history, to undo a vicious cycle of abuse dating back at least three generations. That, folks, is far more important than any legacy I will ever carve out in the ring.”
More footsteps, and now Prydor is joined by a blonde woman, who is holding a young boy. She comes to a stop behind and to the left of Will, and places her free hand on his shoulder.
“Everything I’ve ever done in the ring, for good or for ill…all of it pales to these three people. My wife, as much of a fighter as I am if not more, who faced cancer on the field of battle and routed it handily. My little girl, my ‘miracle baby,’ who at the age of three has also stared down leukemia and is thriving. My son, not even a year old but already showing signs of the person he will become.
“They are my rock, my foundation. They have brought a stability I needed for years, when it was truly just me against the world. They are the ones who convinced me that my worth can’t entirely be my actions inside a twenty-by-twenty ring. At least, not entirely by competing in it.”
There are some more footsteps at this point, and lights on either side of Prydor begin to shine, revealing a collection of at least two dozen, if not more, teenagers and young adults of varying builds, races, and appearances, all of whom are wearing facemasks in accordance with the conditions in the world today. They stand in a sort of loose semi-circle, with Prydor and his family at the apex of it. Behind Will, on the other side from his wife, a raven-haired young woman walks up, placing a hand on Will’s other shoulder.
“It was my family, and someone I’ve come to call a very dear friend, who convinced me that I do not have to be the last of a dying breed of wrestler. That there is still room in professional wrestling’s ever-changing landscape for the technically-minded grappler, whether a pure submission artist or even those who want to add a technical acumen to their in-ring skills. These men and women are testament to that.
“They are the first to graduate from The Aerie, global pandemic be damned. They’ve put in the work, and they’ve earned the recognition. Where they go from here, I cannot say. But they go forth with my blessing, and a promise that my door will always be open for them should they need a person to talk to for advice, in-ring or otherwise.”
There is a moment’s pause, to let the camera absorb the scene in front of it, before people start to step back into the shadows. The little girl gives her daddy a kiss before hopping off his lap and walking into the darkness with her mother and brother. A moment later, it is once again just Prydor and the table he sits at visible in the camera shot.
“I say this to make it perfectly clear to anyone who listens to this message. This match upcoming is not about legacy. It’s not about trying to prove a point, to stroke some fragile male ego over slights real or imagined. It certainly isn’t for titles or glory. I’ve reached a point in my life where none of that matters.
“No. This match is about the pure essence of professional wrestling. It’s about competition. It’s two people entering a ring, and competing until one simply gives up, unable to fight any longer. It’s something that I last felt against Jack Michaels, and before that, JC. So imagine how surprised I was when, in scouting out Carnage for one of my students, JC threw out the challenge he did.”
At this, Will leans forward slightly in his seat.
“Two men. One ring. No weapons. And a submission being the only way to win. Truly, the purest form of competition in pro wrestling. To him, a chance to prove himself still worthy of being in the ring, of wiping out the bad taste of months of so-called mediocrity. For JC, this is a chance at professional redemption, to prove that he can still go in the ring at his age, and best someone in their own skillset.
“So, you might ask. What’s in it for me? I don’t need the legacy. I don’t have a point to prove. I certainly don’t need more titles, and glory is best left for the younger generation to earn. By the standards of most people, I have no right to even be on this card, let alone in a high-profile match. So, why? Why subject myself to what’s bound to happen?”
He leans forward a little more, a slight smile crossing his face.
“Competition. It has been a long time since I’ve gotten to wrestle against someone just for the sake of competition. No ulterior motives, no management trying to prove a point by playing God with their roster, none of the usual lies and marketing that goes into the build-up for a match. This is just two men, with a storied past and asterisks dotting the narrative, looking for closure. For JC, it’s a closure on our past, of matches lost to a man with broken neck, of matches won despite a foot on the ropes, of a world title defended in a tag team match. This is the last chapter of a twelve-year saga, spanning three promotions, where he looks to walk away as the victorious protagonist.”
Prydor now leans back a little, sitting up straighter in the chair as he continues to face the camera.
“For me…it’s just the end. Full stop. My professional career, which I thought was done after the Lucas Silva fiasco, truly ends after this match. The health of my family, and my ability to teach when it becomes safe to do so again, is more important. So regardless of how this match goes, it will be the final time anyone sees Will Prydor wrestle on the big stage.” Another pause, as Will composes himself and allows the viewers to absorb what he just said.
“By all rights, I should be the one going out on my shield. I have nothing to prove, and one of the older tenets of the sport is that the person leaving the game loses their final match. Even to this day, in this new generation of the business of pro wrestling, that’s still something that promotions still hold true to.
“It’s kind of funny that it’s that one particular part of my old-school mentality that I want to go against. I want to earn this win, and if I can’t, I fully intend to make JC earn it. I’m coming into this match looking to show the next generation that yes, I can back up what I offer to teach. Technical wrestling still has a place in the wrestling world today. What better way to show that than to win a match that, by every right imaginable, I have to right to win at all?”
At this, Prydor gets to his feet, still looking at the camera as he steps behind the chair.
“Joe…as a friend, I hold no ill will towards you. You wanted competition, and you decided that for the good of Carnage, to remind those in charge of what the true heart and soul of Carnage really is, you needed someone who could push you to your limits and not take you into that dark corner in your mind. You wanted to prove a point at the biggest Chaos in Carnage history, and to know that you thought of asking me when there are many, many others in that locker room who would probably salivate at the chance means a lot to me. As a man, as a friend, I thank you for the opportunity for one final dance to close out the epilogue of a nearly two-decade career.
“JC, as a competitor, I’m not going to apologize for what happens next. Just know that I’m going to wrestle a clean bout…but of course, you probably already knew that was a given. If nothing over the last few years, I’ve been predictable in that aspect. I see no reason to change that now. If you’re aiming at me, looking to make a name for yourself even this late in your career at my expense, then you’d best not miss. You aren’t getting a second chance once that final bell rings. My professional story ends one way or another at Chaos 100. So if you want to prove yourself to the world, to the management at Carnage, and to me, your task is simple. It’s something you’ve heard many, many times over the last three years when my name has been mentioned in Carnage.”
A smirk crosses Will’s face.
“Rise. Get yourself together. Rise. Stand up, and live your life. Rise. And let’s see whose hand gets held up high when the dust settles.
“See you at The Aerie, Joe.”
As Will turns away from the camera, fading into the darkness behind him, Sixx:A.M.’s “Rise” begins to play over the video, putting music to the words he had just spoken. A few seconds later, the song fades to silence, and the video ends.
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Last Edit: Oct 9, 2020 20:09:17 GMT -5 by Will Prydor
