Post by theravenmattknox on Dec 12, 2020 1:00:31 GMT -5
The El Dorado Casino was not the most glamorous arena he’d ever fought in. Not even within the state. And yet, here he was. In the parking lot. Staring at the building with a flock of butterflies going wild in a stomach that had been doing flips long before they flew in. He took one last puff off the camel non-filter, before dropping it and grinding it under the heel of his boot.
Matt Knox and Brad Jackson. A completely irrelevant rivalry to the history of the business. Hell, it was hardly a rivalry. They were tied all-time, but Jackson’s win mattered more. It was one on one with gold on the line. Knox was just on a winning team in War Games. He shook his head at the youthful nostalgia as he walked into the casino, instantly assaulted by the noise and the smell. He felt a special pang and pity for non-smokers who walked through these doors.
After cycling through a few workers on the floor, he was eventually directed to an elevator that would take him to the basement of the establishment, where administrative offices and security were tucked far away from the eyes and minds of all the people with expendable cash, and dreams of glamour and life altering riches. Just one hand, one pull away.
Fuck, seemed a safer bet than pro wrestling.
After the short ride down in the ancient elevator, reeking of old cigar and dust, Knox stepped out into the hallway and moved like a long, dark spectre down it. He drew no special glances from those he passed. Suppose, they’d gotten used to extremely large men striding through lately, with the launch of uprising.
He came across the door he was looking for and stood silent before it, suddenly feeling much smaller than he would admit to. He cleared his throat, raised a pale fist and knocked. The gruff voice that answered from the other side of the door was familiar, maybe a bit hoarser than he remembered, as though that lifetime of damage had to manifest somewhere. Four words, but they were full of a sort of frustration that he knew all too well.
“Jesus Christ… it’s open.”
A smile cracked the features, and dissolved the butterflies as he pushed the door open, and stepped inside. He looked at the man before him. Older now, wiser to his eyes. That regal, dangerous air about him remained but what once was a raging fire looking to annihilate all in it’s path now was calmer, warm instead of an intense heat.
Maybe just waiting for the right accelerant?
“Jackson. You’re looking well.” came his own voice, still the velvety monotone it always was with perhaps a little more edge and gruffness brought on by the decade or so of time and all the smokes therein.
“Knox.” The way he said it was warm, almost the tone you’d expect to be used for a dear old friend. The smirk that followed it was pure, classic Jackson -- crooked and predatory. “Wondered when you were gonna show up.” He pushed up to his feet from behind his desk, closing the lid of his laptop before walking over to the filing cabinet in the corner. “Want a drink? Feel like this is the sort of reunion that deserves a toast.”
“Of course,” He replied, walking forward and taking a seat in front of Jackson’s desk, the smile plastered across his pale lips as he watched the legend pouring them both a drink, he shakes his head. “Gotta say, brother. Hearing about you opening up your own shop? About blew my mind. Knew you were brainy in the ring, didn’t take you for a businessman back in...shit was it 08? 09?” he shrugged at his own question, adjusting in the seat.
“Congratulations either way, though.”
“April 2007,” Jax chuckled as he turned back with a pair of heavy crystal tumblers in his hand and a bottle of aged Glenlivet. “Two days after my 36th birthday.” He set the glasses down on the desk and cracked open the bottle, filling both of them halfway before nudging one a little closer to where Knox sat. “It was an otherwise unremarkable year… so I remember that. Taking away your championship, I mean. Petty, I know. But I enjoyed making enemies then. Made me feel like I had some kind of purpose, collecting all that hatred.”
At this, Knox chuckled and picked up the offered drink. He inhaled the scent of it a moment, considering his response for a beat.
“Different times. Can’t say it was too detrimental for you. All I ever saw and heard after you left the FWF and it shut down, you remained a success. Hell, as soon as I had signed with Carnage and started looking through their archives...there you were. More title reigns than anyone else.” He trails off before clearing his throat, “Not to get sappy on you before we even start drinking, but that loss was a catalyst for me. Killed off that ‘i’m hot shit’ phase all us youngsters go through. Helped me go up the ladder and take all their belts except the World Title,” a pause, and a dry chuckle.
“So, Thanks for kicking the shit out of me is what I'm taking the long way of getting at, Brad.”
“That’s what I missed out on,” Jackson quipped, tilting his glass towards Knox as a sort of toast before tossing the liquor back in one shot. “The ‘hot shit’ phase. Never really cultivated that undeserved ego that so many of these snot-nosed kids have these days. By the time we met, I’d already earned the reputation.” He set his empty glass down and stared at it while he spoke, sounding almost nostalgic. “If the secret of your success was kicking your ass back then… you’re welcome, kid. Can’t say I remember much else about the place, other than our little scrape and that clusterfuck of that War Games match -- shit, that thing never did get aired did it?” The question was rhetorical. He knew it hadn’t. “Maybe I should add ‘motivational speaker’ to my growing list of accomplishments, hmm?”
“Motivational puncher, more.” He returned the quip, before knocking his own drink back. The initial burn giving way to a full, familiar warmth as he exhaled through clenched teeth. He set the glass down and stared across the desk at Jackson a moment before chuckling, “Shit. You called me kid. That’s weird as hell...everywhere i’ve gone lately, I’ve been the old guy. Not that you’re old, even if you are.” A shit eating grin cracks his features then as he slaps a hand on his knee, before declaring.
“Alright, let’s write on some paper and make this official. Ready to fight for you, since I couldn’t fight with you again,” a pause and he shakes his head, the grin fading “One regret at least, never getting that second one-on-one. Maybe that’s just some of those wild oats left over but, I can’t lie. As soon as I picked up your scent in Carnage, everything I did was to try and get that title around my waist to lure you back.”
“But, like all best laid plans, didn’t shake out.”
“If there was anyone I’d be willing to risk it for,” Jackson replied, “it’d be you. But I can’t. Made a promise to my wife… to my kid. One more might be the nail in the coffin. Unlike Thor, I’m not suicidal. I don’t want to go out like that.”
He pulled out a folder, turning it around and flipping it open so that Knox could see the papers inside before he set it down on the desk. “It’s already been sent through the lawyers. Pretty straightforward. All merchandising shit belongs to you. I’m not skimming off the top of that. If you don’t already have decent health insurance, we’ve got a plan. I’ll get you the details if you need it.” He tapped his finger on the page, “left the end date open. Wasn’t sure if you wanted to stick around indefinitely, or if this was just a temporary gig.”
Knox thumbs through the papers himself, skimming it over and listening to the older man speak, nodding occasionally. He rather brazenly reaches over and plucks a pen from Jackson’s side of the desk, setting to initialing and signing where appropriate. He comes to the end date, and stops, brows furrowing before he speaks up.
“I’ve left Carnage, if you haven’t figured it out from all the passive aggressive heat i’ve gotten on Twitter. I’m signed part time to UGWC and full time to Project Honor. If you’ll have me, I think I'd like to carve out a spot here. Try and be ‘the guy’ for Uprising. I’ve got plenty of rep, even before your social media team called me a “Superstar”. Thanks for that, by the way. Give that person a raise.” And with that, he filled in ‘TBD’ for the end date and gave one last, big, looping “Matthew Knox” to finalize the document.
“Far as us tangling, I get it. Didn’t get it until recently but promises to your wife, your kids? Can’t break those for anyone, not even God. And besides, I’m not trying to retire you, Jack Michaels, and almost killing Thor all in the same year,” he sets the pen down “Maybe someone else, but not you.” His mind wanders to that mouthy prick Matt Stone for a moment, before returning his focus back to Jackson.
“Aww, I’m touched. Truly.” Even though the words ooze that characteristic acid, the smile on Jackson’s face is anything but. “Bishop does his research. You’ve got a hell of a pedigree, Knox. We’re lucky to have you. Shit, it’s like we’ve gone and collected the best of the best from around the globe all up in here. Next thing I know, Christopher Lambert’s gonna show up with that triangle hat and pj’s and we’ll be ripping off Mortal Kombat, fighting for the sake of the universe or somesuchshit.” He laughs, shaking his head. “Appreciate you comin’ here, man. I really do.”
“Happy to be here, Jackson,” He reached across the table then, offering his hand to shake, and seal this whole thing like the old school pair of assholes they were. Jax took his hand immediately, shaking firmly. Matthew pulled his hand back, standing from the desk and nodding. He heads to the door, before stopping and looking over his shoulder.
“You won’t regret this one, Jackson,” a pause, a cheeky smirk “Still ain’t calling you sir.”
And with that last bit of low-dollar wit, Knox let himself out and headed back toward the elevator. The weight of the world gone now, the dread he felt over his exit lifted. And those butterflies? Went the way of the dinosaurs.
He wasn’t sure if this was home, yet. He wasn’t sure he wanted a home anymore.
What he was sure of?
This Uprising just got a whole lot cooler.
Matt Knox and Brad Jackson. A completely irrelevant rivalry to the history of the business. Hell, it was hardly a rivalry. They were tied all-time, but Jackson’s win mattered more. It was one on one with gold on the line. Knox was just on a winning team in War Games. He shook his head at the youthful nostalgia as he walked into the casino, instantly assaulted by the noise and the smell. He felt a special pang and pity for non-smokers who walked through these doors.
After cycling through a few workers on the floor, he was eventually directed to an elevator that would take him to the basement of the establishment, where administrative offices and security were tucked far away from the eyes and minds of all the people with expendable cash, and dreams of glamour and life altering riches. Just one hand, one pull away.
Fuck, seemed a safer bet than pro wrestling.
After the short ride down in the ancient elevator, reeking of old cigar and dust, Knox stepped out into the hallway and moved like a long, dark spectre down it. He drew no special glances from those he passed. Suppose, they’d gotten used to extremely large men striding through lately, with the launch of uprising.
He came across the door he was looking for and stood silent before it, suddenly feeling much smaller than he would admit to. He cleared his throat, raised a pale fist and knocked. The gruff voice that answered from the other side of the door was familiar, maybe a bit hoarser than he remembered, as though that lifetime of damage had to manifest somewhere. Four words, but they were full of a sort of frustration that he knew all too well.
“Jesus Christ… it’s open.”
A smile cracked the features, and dissolved the butterflies as he pushed the door open, and stepped inside. He looked at the man before him. Older now, wiser to his eyes. That regal, dangerous air about him remained but what once was a raging fire looking to annihilate all in it’s path now was calmer, warm instead of an intense heat.
Maybe just waiting for the right accelerant?
“Jackson. You’re looking well.” came his own voice, still the velvety monotone it always was with perhaps a little more edge and gruffness brought on by the decade or so of time and all the smokes therein.
“Knox.” The way he said it was warm, almost the tone you’d expect to be used for a dear old friend. The smirk that followed it was pure, classic Jackson -- crooked and predatory. “Wondered when you were gonna show up.” He pushed up to his feet from behind his desk, closing the lid of his laptop before walking over to the filing cabinet in the corner. “Want a drink? Feel like this is the sort of reunion that deserves a toast.”
“Of course,” He replied, walking forward and taking a seat in front of Jackson’s desk, the smile plastered across his pale lips as he watched the legend pouring them both a drink, he shakes his head. “Gotta say, brother. Hearing about you opening up your own shop? About blew my mind. Knew you were brainy in the ring, didn’t take you for a businessman back in...shit was it 08? 09?” he shrugged at his own question, adjusting in the seat.
“Congratulations either way, though.”
“April 2007,” Jax chuckled as he turned back with a pair of heavy crystal tumblers in his hand and a bottle of aged Glenlivet. “Two days after my 36th birthday.” He set the glasses down on the desk and cracked open the bottle, filling both of them halfway before nudging one a little closer to where Knox sat. “It was an otherwise unremarkable year… so I remember that. Taking away your championship, I mean. Petty, I know. But I enjoyed making enemies then. Made me feel like I had some kind of purpose, collecting all that hatred.”
At this, Knox chuckled and picked up the offered drink. He inhaled the scent of it a moment, considering his response for a beat.
“Different times. Can’t say it was too detrimental for you. All I ever saw and heard after you left the FWF and it shut down, you remained a success. Hell, as soon as I had signed with Carnage and started looking through their archives...there you were. More title reigns than anyone else.” He trails off before clearing his throat, “Not to get sappy on you before we even start drinking, but that loss was a catalyst for me. Killed off that ‘i’m hot shit’ phase all us youngsters go through. Helped me go up the ladder and take all their belts except the World Title,” a pause, and a dry chuckle.
“So, Thanks for kicking the shit out of me is what I'm taking the long way of getting at, Brad.”
“That’s what I missed out on,” Jackson quipped, tilting his glass towards Knox as a sort of toast before tossing the liquor back in one shot. “The ‘hot shit’ phase. Never really cultivated that undeserved ego that so many of these snot-nosed kids have these days. By the time we met, I’d already earned the reputation.” He set his empty glass down and stared at it while he spoke, sounding almost nostalgic. “If the secret of your success was kicking your ass back then… you’re welcome, kid. Can’t say I remember much else about the place, other than our little scrape and that clusterfuck of that War Games match -- shit, that thing never did get aired did it?” The question was rhetorical. He knew it hadn’t. “Maybe I should add ‘motivational speaker’ to my growing list of accomplishments, hmm?”
“Motivational puncher, more.” He returned the quip, before knocking his own drink back. The initial burn giving way to a full, familiar warmth as he exhaled through clenched teeth. He set the glass down and stared across the desk at Jackson a moment before chuckling, “Shit. You called me kid. That’s weird as hell...everywhere i’ve gone lately, I’ve been the old guy. Not that you’re old, even if you are.” A shit eating grin cracks his features then as he slaps a hand on his knee, before declaring.
“Alright, let’s write on some paper and make this official. Ready to fight for you, since I couldn’t fight with you again,” a pause and he shakes his head, the grin fading “One regret at least, never getting that second one-on-one. Maybe that’s just some of those wild oats left over but, I can’t lie. As soon as I picked up your scent in Carnage, everything I did was to try and get that title around my waist to lure you back.”
“But, like all best laid plans, didn’t shake out.”
“If there was anyone I’d be willing to risk it for,” Jackson replied, “it’d be you. But I can’t. Made a promise to my wife… to my kid. One more might be the nail in the coffin. Unlike Thor, I’m not suicidal. I don’t want to go out like that.”
He pulled out a folder, turning it around and flipping it open so that Knox could see the papers inside before he set it down on the desk. “It’s already been sent through the lawyers. Pretty straightforward. All merchandising shit belongs to you. I’m not skimming off the top of that. If you don’t already have decent health insurance, we’ve got a plan. I’ll get you the details if you need it.” He tapped his finger on the page, “left the end date open. Wasn’t sure if you wanted to stick around indefinitely, or if this was just a temporary gig.”
Knox thumbs through the papers himself, skimming it over and listening to the older man speak, nodding occasionally. He rather brazenly reaches over and plucks a pen from Jackson’s side of the desk, setting to initialing and signing where appropriate. He comes to the end date, and stops, brows furrowing before he speaks up.
“I’ve left Carnage, if you haven’t figured it out from all the passive aggressive heat i’ve gotten on Twitter. I’m signed part time to UGWC and full time to Project Honor. If you’ll have me, I think I'd like to carve out a spot here. Try and be ‘the guy’ for Uprising. I’ve got plenty of rep, even before your social media team called me a “Superstar”. Thanks for that, by the way. Give that person a raise.” And with that, he filled in ‘TBD’ for the end date and gave one last, big, looping “Matthew Knox” to finalize the document.
“Far as us tangling, I get it. Didn’t get it until recently but promises to your wife, your kids? Can’t break those for anyone, not even God. And besides, I’m not trying to retire you, Jack Michaels, and almost killing Thor all in the same year,” he sets the pen down “Maybe someone else, but not you.” His mind wanders to that mouthy prick Matt Stone for a moment, before returning his focus back to Jackson.
“Aww, I’m touched. Truly.” Even though the words ooze that characteristic acid, the smile on Jackson’s face is anything but. “Bishop does his research. You’ve got a hell of a pedigree, Knox. We’re lucky to have you. Shit, it’s like we’ve gone and collected the best of the best from around the globe all up in here. Next thing I know, Christopher Lambert’s gonna show up with that triangle hat and pj’s and we’ll be ripping off Mortal Kombat, fighting for the sake of the universe or somesuchshit.” He laughs, shaking his head. “Appreciate you comin’ here, man. I really do.”
“Happy to be here, Jackson,” He reached across the table then, offering his hand to shake, and seal this whole thing like the old school pair of assholes they were. Jax took his hand immediately, shaking firmly. Matthew pulled his hand back, standing from the desk and nodding. He heads to the door, before stopping and looking over his shoulder.
“You won’t regret this one, Jackson,” a pause, a cheeky smirk “Still ain’t calling you sir.”
And with that last bit of low-dollar wit, Knox let himself out and headed back toward the elevator. The weight of the world gone now, the dread he felt over his exit lifted. And those butterflies? Went the way of the dinosaurs.
He wasn’t sure if this was home, yet. He wasn’t sure he wanted a home anymore.
What he was sure of?
This Uprising just got a whole lot cooler.