Post by Steve Matthews on Oct 17, 2020 10:47:43 GMT -5
PROMISES AND WARNINGS
“Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured.” ― Mark Twain
November 17th 2014 Unknown Location In England A few weeks after Krystian Pearce has made Steve Matthews scream “I Quit”
'When faced with the judgment of sanity against insanity, everyone tries to be impressive. At least that's what the doctor told me. He held up an ink blot and asked what I saw. Rorschach Test. The correct answer was the butterfly. So I said “butterfly.” I had barely glanced at the slide; I was still slouched back in the chair.
He said, “you're lying.” I asked, “What makes you so sure of that; unless you've already decided I'm crazy.” He smiled and removed his glasses in that condescending manner that only a man with too many diplomas hanging on his wall can. He said, “Because you're trying too hard to pretend you don't care what I think.” “Well maybe you've just run across someone who truly just doesn't care what you think, regardless of how many letters come after your name.”
That's when he said: “You may not care that I think, but you care about my assessment. When faced with the judgment of sanity against insanity, everyone tries to be impressive... either one way or the other.”
Condescending prick. I leaned forward and quoted Friedrich Nietzsche, “Whoever battles with monsters had best see that it does not turn them into a monster. If you stare too long into the abyss... the abyss stares back.” I said it just to screw with him. Then I left. I'm probably a case study in some psychoanalytical journal somewhere.
But me? I'm a normal guy; or whatever passes for normal these days. I haven't killed anyone that I know of... yet... so I got that going for me, I guess. That sort of thing does stuff to your mind, to your balance.
Crazy stuff. I might be the closest thing to a zombie you ever come across outside of Hollywood. When that insomnia hits, man, it's like the lights are on but no one's home. The engine's running, but no one's behind the wheel. See me wrestle, though, you wouldn't know the difference. For simple people it's just that easy: like breathing. Some people it's in their blood; fighting is not for most people. Most people bitch and moan about the government or this and that that's holding them back and scream for change. They want to run their own lives, they say. But mention the word “Anarchy” and all those angry people cower away like scowled dogs: tails between their legs, covering their genitals. People want to run their lives, but they don't want to be responsible for their own survival or protection. If the system burns up they're just charred fleshy collateral damage. They might as well be kindling.
But guys like myself - Steve Matthews - crazy guys – guys with that imbalance, we're fire-proof. We're not afraid of survival, of protection. Douse the world in kerosene and I'd watch it go up in flames.
All a guy like me needs... is a match.'
October 13th 2020 Dayton, Ohio Steve Matthews is in town for a meet and greet.
In the endless stream of mediocre hotel accommodations, this particular room makes no attempts to be extraordinary. The walls are a non-offensive yellowish off-white with little blue flowers in diagonal rows. The carpet is your standard, industrial strength go-ahead-and-spill-on-it-no-one-will-notice gray-blue. Everything else in the room is in order: chairs, table, bureaus, entertainment centre made of composite wood but stained to look like the real deal, and two full-size beds, immaculately made with tucked soft yellow sheets and snow white pillows. Yes, everything is in proper order... except the occupants.
Thinning streaks of black mascara run down soft, rounded features of the young woman. Her black hair hangs down like a tousled veil around her head. It's a little more than is to be expected, but she's young, after all. Kylie Ford buries her face into the sleeves of a black, hooded sweatshirt that is several sizes too large for her. It is a man's sweatshirt, and that man now sits beside her on the bed, and makes an attempt to be something he's not usually: comforting.
Steve Matthews unsteadily reaches out and places a comforting pat on the back of her shoulder. Her reaction is to turn and bury her face into his shoulder. There, there. Matthews wraps an arm around her shoulder and tries to calm her down. She'd been fine through the car ride from the airport; quiet, especially for her and maybe a little distant, but she had been fine... or so he thought. They checked into the small hotel room in the shadow of the Ervin J. Nutter Centre in Dayton, and almost as soon as the bags had hit the ground the crying had started. That was almost three minutes ago now.
“I just can't do this anymore,” Kylie says between streaking tears, “that Krystian guy, he's just too creepy! The whole thing with, like, him assaulting me and the tapes you’d already sho...”
The rest of her sentence trails off into unintelligible sobbing. Over the past week or two Steve had given Kylie an insight to what Krystian Pearce was like by sending her videos and legal statements he had somehow gained access to. In one of those videos Krystian had been arrested for his behaviour at a EWF autograph signing that Matthews was supposed to put on for charity. Matthews and his then wife Tori Matthews had shown up to find the event had been cancelled. Krystian had got there first, and apparently said, or worse: did something to a young girl, referring to her as “Tori” before he started throwing chairs at fans and was eventually hauled off. Steve’s worst fears were now confirmed: Krystian Pearce was back... and he is just as bad as he ever was before.
“It's okay,” Matthews says just above a whisper. When you have no idea what to say, “It's okay” just comes out naturally. Matthews was used to this business by now and the monsters in it, as sad, scary and unnerving as that might seem, but something in him boiled with rage. Kylie Ford was an Innocent. She had nothing to do with Matthews, Pearce or their hatred. Steve fumed that anyone, whether it be Christopher St.James, Alex Winter, or Krystian Pearce, would drag her into this. “He's winning. He's got inside my head.”
“Kylie... Kylie, I – stop crying. I promise... hey,” Matthews tilts her head up to look him in the eyes. She stares back through bloodshot red-eyes still welling up with tears. “I promise you, I promise that Krystian won't hurt you again. He won't get anywhere near you, okay? I promise. You have my word.”
Is it enough? Is someone's word ever enough? Well it’s all Steve Matthews has right now.
“You promise?” It was a silly question, but those are the kind that shake you up the most. Seconds of silence passed like an endless eternity as her tear-filled eyes stared into his vacant blue-gray pools.
“I promise.”
“Christ, I could use a smoke.”
Steve Matthews finds himself standing in the back lot behind the Days Inn hotel. Kylie is inside. She's washing up, trying to clean herself up after all the crying, after the car ride, after the plane ride. It has been a long day, and it doesn't fix to end itself anytime soon. Emotions swirl around the inside of Matthews head as the smoke from his cigarette wafts and swirls around the outside. Names, ideas, futures unforeseeable.
Christopher St.James. Alex Winter. Mac Bane. Jon Willis. Kylie Ford. Krystian Pearce and revenge. It's all a blur, it's all so confusing. Matthews crushes the cigarette under his heel and blows a large, exasperate cloud of smoke out of his mouth and the remnants through his nostrils.
“You want to know the truth? I mean, do you REALLY want to know the truth?” Matthews fumes. There is anger in his voice. His even-keeled, cool-headed temperament is buried, possibly crushed under his foot with the cigarette. His eyes are ablaze. It's not a normal look for Steve Matthews at all.
“The truth is pretty simple. I'm sick of this, this same old s**t. It starts with Alex Winter, I've had it with your bulls**t. I've had it with your “don't blame me, blame the rest” crap. Ever since you’ve been here you've been trying to pin the blame on someone else. First it was your parents, then it was society, then it was me, then it was the fans, then probably society again, then Dragon Lady, and now we're probably back to me. What have I done to you? You want to know what I've done to you? I've just smashed through all the damn doors you lumber through, Winter. I’m the man that stomped your head into the mat at chaos 100, I’m the main event and I’m the one competing for titles.”
“And what do you do, Alex? You dig into my past. You digged deep. You found the man that destroyed me physically and mentally all those years ago in England. Krystian Pearce ruined my life, and now you bring him here to carnage so he can traumatize me and Kylie Ford. A simple fight would have sufficed, you sick, stupid f**k.”
“You had quite the ride on my coat-tails, but the ride ends here. You stay away from me, you keep Krystian away from Kylie or I swear on all that is holy that what I do to you and Krystian will rock your beings to the very core. You'll be the ones praying, Alex, Krystian, praying for the sweet release of death. This is your only f**king warning.”
Matthews is pacing back and forth, moving between the parked cars along the hot asphalt of the parking lot trying to chill somewhat before returning to Kylie Ford.
October 16th 2020 Journal Entry Unknown Author
I've followed Matthews to Detroit for another scheduled meet and greet. His anger is in rare form. I haven't seen him like this in years. Perhaps he's slipping. Slipping back. We all know what that means. Regardless, it's been easier for me to hang around without Steve noticing. His rage gives him tunnel-vision. Everything is straight ahead. It's funny. The woman sitting next to him asked to be moved. Matthews hadn't said a word to her. He just sat there staring out the window. Seething. She'd tell the kindly old-fellow she ended up setting next to that “that disturbed young man looked like his head was going to explode.” Steve didn't even notice she'd been moved. He didn't notice when the stewardess came by asking if he'd like a drink. He noticed nothing until rubber hit pavement on the airfields of Detroit, Michigan.
For the record, he has sent Kylie home to Boston to be away from the business and with his friend Jessica Green.
When in this condition, following him is easy. He does his best not to bump into people as he makes his way through the airport, but it's less that he cares and more that he wants no obstacles, no hindrances between Point A and Point B. He's become predictable after all this time. Unless I miss my guess the anger will fester, but give way to quiet self-loathing and melancholy. It'd be almost pathetic if it didn't give him focus, when he comes out the other side he'll be in rare form. By driving Matthews to such ire, Krystian Pearce could have unleashed a better Steve Matthews for Carnage Wrestling. Of course, he did it by accident. I'd be amazed if he or Alex Winter ever did anything on purpose.
He checked into his hotel around 18:30 this afternoon/evening. It was a Days Inn. He's never been one for amenities. I never fully understood that myself. The road is long and hard; why not take a short stop somewhere soft? That's never been his 'modus operandi' despite his wealth. I guess four walls and a ceiling is enough for him. By choice, though. He's made his living now. He's still an enigma to me sometimes...
He stopped by a liquor store on the way to that hotel. Naturally. They didn't have anything really special. Few places do. He settled for Jameson's. Haggard and dishevelled from his journey, he looked like a homeless man clutching the brown paper bag by the neck of the bottle it concealed. But the bottle remained unopened on top of the standard-issue bureau.
It was dark outside now. Matthews time. Time to leave. Time to live. Time to die.
He's always seemed out of place in the daytime hours to me. Maybe it's the pale skin or the general aura of darkness that seems to surround and permeate his being. Like he's always looking for a shadow. It's a pity, really. I thought he was getting better over the last few months since entering Carnage. He was cracking jokes, and making friends, a rarity, and even shared a few passing glances with Kylie Ford the way kids are known to do. Until Kylie got hurt by Pearce. I was ready to head home, but this relapse let's me know that Matthews needs me more than ever before. He’s sworn he'll protect her, and that is eating him from the inside out because he doesn’t know if he can.
Also October 16th 2020 Journal Entry Unknown Author
I follow him out into the night. It is never totally dark in Detroit; more like scenes from film noir or a Frank Miller sketch. There are splashes of vibrant color set against the rotating backdrop of dark black shadows and the bright whites of headlights and street lamps that last halos piercing into the darkness. Neon sculptures, their art twisted through commercialism to hawk the wares of alcohol and 'Live Nudes.' 'Girls, Girls, Girls.' In a generation raised by women, it seems that all can be found is girls. No women here. Only shattered innocence and the fleeting stains of youth.
It has rained here recently. Puddles refract the light and reflect the lies and grunge of the city. A homeless man holds out a grimy paw as I walk past him. Hands extended from the dregs, from the bowels of hell itself. It certainly is hot enough. Even the buildings appear to sweat; covered in perspiration from lives of pains witnessed and hidden within. Innocent bystanders. Of course, that is if anything can still be considered innocent.
Steve walked slowly. His pace not dictated by the passage of seconds, minutes and hours but merely by the distance from himself to his destination. A destination that actually surprised me... “Christ: The Redeemer” Catholic Church. Not once did he check the street signs to see if he was heading in the right direction. Not once. It's like he knew or he was drawn here. And it is here in the shadow of the towering Gothic spires that Matthews finds an alcove in which to perch. With one denim-clad leg extended and the other bent at the knee he rests the brown bag against the inside of his thigh and leans his back against the cool stone wall of The Redeemer. Strands of dark brown hair hang over his forehead as his eyes find the bottle's cap. He undoes it and takes a small, pensive sip of the alcohol. No big gulps. There's no one to impress out here.
A car drives past. It's tires making the familiar sound of rubber against wet asphalt. The headlights run up the sides of the church and wash over the body of Steve Matthews, casting a monumental shadow. A megalith. Like Robert Plant once said, 'As we wind on down the road, our shadows taller than our soul.' The headlights fade off into the night along with the car.
“Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple.” ― Dr. Seuss
Matthews brushes the few dangling stray strands of hair off his face before taking another sip from the bottle.
“A bit clichéd, isn't it?” Matthews offers to the air, as if expecting a response. “Oh, but don't worry this isn't a gimmick... just a vice.” He smirks, the contours of his face barely visible in the sparse light from the street lamps. He takes another sip from the bottle before letting it rest against his thigh again.
“Well I'm here,” he says casting his arms out to their full wingspan and directing his gaze to the passing clouds that drift along the night sky. “...now what? Now what?” His eyes fall back to the ground beneath his body.
“I can't imagine that I'm the first person to sit here and ask that question, but that doesn't detract from its relevance, does it?”
After a visibly deep breath Steve lifts his head.
“Trent Steel, I guess that's the best answer I can give for what's next. Also Trent, before I say anything that may make you believe differently due to my current angry disposition, please be aware I genuinely do greatly respect you. What you and Tweeder did at 100 was stunning and deserves the response it was given, hence my immediate acknowledgement after the bell.”
“Before facing Tweeder, you made a comment about the Chaos title needing a workhorse. I seriously couldn’t agree with that more if I tried. Whatever happens between us at Chaos, one of us can hand that title belt to the other, shake their hand, and know it’s exactly what the championship has.”
Another sip.
“The reason I respect you is based on your history, but as I proved with Eli when I verbally ripped him a new one, history isn’t enough if you s**t on it. Thankfully you don’t do that. You carry yourself in a way that screams you helped build Carnage, you helped carry this company with the World Title, yes it wasn’t for a huge length of time, but Jack Michaels proved only this week how good he can be, so there is no shame in that. You carry that weight and have done for a long time but unlike others, you carry it well.”
“Despite all that, be very clear you can’t treat me like one of those, and I quote “f**king whiny ass children.” I’m older than you, I’ve been in this business every bit as long as you have, I’ve won as many championships as you have, I’ve carried companies and the weight of expectation many times, I’m not a new boy you can intimidate with either your words or your CV.”
“I’m made of the sterner stuff you talk about, we both know you can’t be in the business for over two decades if you’re not. Come Chaos I’ll be showing you so much more than just that though. I’ll walk away from this match with your respect, I’ll walk away as someone even the Carnage old guard will accept as belonging amongst Carnage Wrestling elite.”
“Despite being a straight shooter, I haven't made my career on the stick or in these little promos or vignettes. I haven't made it in clever merchandising, crazy gimmick matches, or any of the other sports entertainment nonsense. I’ve made my career on being a technically sound wrestler. So Trent, there will be no smoke and mirrors when we meet, no underhand tactics, no attempt to cheat you out of your well earned chaos title. My intention is extremely simple, I intend out wrestling you, I plan to be better than you better the ropes, I intend fairly walking away with that belt.”
Matthews looks at the bottle and chooses to place it down rather than take another sip, his expression makes it appear as if he’s disgusted by it.
“All you have to do Trent is be better than me, I’m not gonna say you can’t do it because on any given night, we can all beat each other on the Carnage roster… all I’m going to do is wish you luck, therefore Trent don’t cross me because that would be a stupid thing to do right now… be respectful… and here is that wish... good luck!!”
Steve sits staring at the bottle and appears completely unsure as to what he intends to do with it or himself right now for that matter.