Courage does not always roar. Sometimes it is the quiet voice at the end of the day, saying, “I will try again tomorrow”. I can’t remember where I heard that. Chances are it was either a fortune cookie or one of those annoying chain e-mails that thankfully have become a rarer and rarer occurrence when I look in my inbox nowadays. Perhaps that’s just a sign that my friends have actually matured past the age of six and no longer need to send those silly fucking things along in order to get that call in nine minutes from their one true love. Or maybe I’ve just become such an anti-social, intimidating bastard that those same friends actually fear for their lives if they send me any form of correspondence. More than likely, it’s a combination of things, but that one little line, as cheesy as it is, somehow surfaces in my mind right now. Thinking about it, courage is such an iffy notion. Sure you can define it, but to actually label somebody as truly courageous is impossible as far as I’m concerned. Life is broken down into these little moments, and in any one moment you can be courageous, neutral, cowardly, or anywhere along the bravery continuum. But people slide along the line in different situations. There will be people that have a limited range, for example, an individual may be particular frantic if presented with a tarantula, but while standing atop a thirty foot platform in very windy conditions, that same individual may remain remarkably calm. However, if a situation were to present itself where doom was near inevitable, that very same person would be the first to curl up in the foetal position and start bawling out their eyes. I guess what my muddled mind has come to realize, is that a person can be called brave, or a coward, or whatever, but in certain situations, they can absolutely prove that wrong. People… like me. My biggest problem however, is not that the people around me have labelled me with a certain characteristic – in this ‘case study’, bravery or cowardice would be the appropriate characteristics. Instead, the flaw with me is that any label I’ve been given has come straight from my own fucking mind. I think things through on an obsessive level. I try to determine every personality trait about everyone and anyone, myself included. Thus, I labelled myself as brave, after having no evidence to support my theory, and also after having no reason to even attempt to label myself as anything. It’s my mind. God damn it, it’s always my fucking mind. I can’t think straight. I never have been able to, but lately it’s been getting worse. I feel like there’s a medieval army inside of my noggin catapulting giant flaming boulders at the interior walls of my skull. It’s stress. I’ll get through it – I hope. I have to. I didn’t come back for nothing. I’ve just got to acclimatise myself to the new surroundings. I think… Fuck. I don’t even know what’s running through my mind anymore. I just changed the subject of my own thoughts. I’ve confused myself in a fucking monologue. Who does that? Well, I guess I do. The fact of the matter is, I haven’t gone and started throwing random titbits of information in that have no significance in relation to what I’ve been discussion. It’s all fucking relevant. This bravery, or lack thereof as the case would apparently indicate is more fitting, is the entire bloody reason my mind can’t stop wandering. I’m tired of it. I just want to relax. I don’t want to be this fucking Superman anymore. I want to be me. I want to be flawed. I want to be Leroy Bruce Stone, aged two, residing in Gisborne, New Zealand with his brother and parents who haven’t shown any signs of the break-up that would occur only two weeks later. I want to be innocent again. I don’t want to be afraid. But I have to be perfect.
Friday, 13 July 2007 – Springfield, Ohio It’s been two weeks. Two whole fucking weeks. For a moment I can’t believe that it’s taken me this long to take any action. Then I remember who I am: Leroy Bruce Stone, aged twenty-nine, living on his own in Cambridge, New Zealand; Matangi, New Zealand; Mt. Maunganui, New Zealand; Los Angeles, California; Miami, Florida; Springfield, Ohio or whatever city the Xtreme Wrestling Federation’s Massacre brand is going to be putting on a show in that week. I’m an asshole, a villain… I’m evil. She represents everything wrong with me. Some would argue that it would be an intelligent move for me to continue to distance myself from Her. I’m better without Her. Well it ain’t like I’m trying to marry the girl, so I don’t see why people would argue that, but I have heard it before. I’ve heard it all before. But I can’t just turn my back and walk away again. Every time I do that I start to turn more and more into the exact thing that I hate about myself. That darkness, that anger, that hate… it takes over more and more of my heart and soul, or whatever spiritual jargon would be relevant to this particular thought. I ain’t talking about that hate that the likes of T Money so often talk about either. That ain’t hate. All that is, is macho-bravado bullshit, covering up deeply rooted insecurities of inferiority. I should know, I’m another expert on that particular brand of hate. This however, is something completely different. This is real hate. This is the kind that keeps you up at night, tossing and turning because it’s all you can fucking think about. I like my sleep, so you can imagine the kind of mood that not sleeping enough would put me in. I want to sleep. I don’t want to hate. Most of all, it’s me who I hate. Not the athlete Lee Stone, but the man. The athlete’s a fucking legend, unanimously respected for what he’s done in his field, even by those who supposedly “hate” him. But that’s not me. That’s who I play on TV. I’m the kind of guy you can’t respect. Or at least I can’t. But the way I figure it, is that if I can’t respect myself, how in the fuck can I expect anybody else to? I am… a coward. But there’s a small part of me, hidden away in the dark recesses of the House of Mirrors that would be the most suitable metaphor for my mind, which hates Her. Somewhat selfishly, I crave to retrieve that feeling. To remove this fucking self-loathing and be able to place the blame on somebody else’s shoulders, even if just for long enough for me to breathe weightlessly just once, would be the greatest gift I could ever be given. Of course I could think that thought, that’s who I am. But it’s not who I’m going to be. Here I go with some sort of inspirational pep-talk for myself. I’m gonna save my neurons some energy though, and not even fucking bother. I’m sick of being inside my head. I haven’t been able to concentrate on a damn thing this week. The pressure just keeps building and building. Last week, Steve Jason would have beaten me if he hadn’t have been attacked. I’m sure of that, but due to the events that unfolded on Massacre, it is but an unproven theory. And thus I haven’t been given any reason to solve this problem until now. I’ve had it ordered of me from all sides. Both Doctor Connolly and Doctor Cameron, even Cranberry Juice himself have told me to sort this shit out. So here I am, standing on the doorstep of what is technically my own house and getting ready to knock. That doesn’t make sense though, does it? Why should I have to knock to enter my own place? Politeness and manners have never been strong points of who I am, and while it’s pretty fucking clear that change is necessary to ease my mind, I need to approach this in my own way. The two doctors and the man of Juice have given me the push, but if I don’t do this in my own way, then I won’t want to do it at all, and if I don’t want to do it, it just ain’t gonna get done. So fuck it. I grab the doorknob at turn it, pushing the door open as I go. To be honest, I’m pretty thankful that it isn’t locked. I don’t even know if I’d be able to find the right key to this house as I haven’t used it in so long. I step inside and am immediately stunned. Everything that I see is so familiar. Hell, “familiar” isn’t even the right word to use. Every piece of furniture, every painting on the walls, the carpet, the wallpaper… all of it is exactly the same as I remember it being when I originally left the house over two years ago now. My jaw damn near drops right off when I spy the sofa in the middle of the lounge that this front door has led to. It’s ridiculously large, incredibly bright red in colour, and stands out like a pimple. This sofa, or “loveseat” as I so affectionately dubbed it in the past, was the very first piece of furniture I ever purchased on my own, that once acted as a bed for me, and has been kept in pristine condition ever since. Talk about memories… this shit is creepy. I wonder where She is. I’d think that She would have taken over my old master bedroom. After two years, it would make sense for Her to no longer be crashing in one of the lacklustre spare bedrooms. I shut the door behind me, causing a loud creak as the hinges close, and a hefty bang as the weight of the door adds momentum and impact to the closing. The sounds bounce off the walls and must transport themselves down into the long passageway, as I then hear movement of somebody coming down the hall towards the room in which I stand. “That you home, Shelly?” A man’s voice. What the fuck? How dare he utter Her name? It sounds coarse coming out of his smoke-attacked throat. It’s a fucking desecration of Her name. This “man” if you’d be willing to call him that, enters through the doorway on the other side of the room and freezes in his tracks when he sees me. We eye each other up. He wears an oversized white, t-shirt and black track pants. No shoes. His long, greasy brown hair falls across the edges of his face, but his eyes just stare right through it as he sums me up exactly in the same manner as I do him. He sure looks like he’s made himself at home. Two piercings shine out of his right eyebrow at me, and one out of his nose and either ear. What I see of his forearms are heavily tattooed, and the hint of another tattoo peeks out at the neckline. To put it blatantly, he looks like a scumbag. But to his credit, he is the one who eventually breaks the silence. “Uh… who are you?” “My name is Lee Stone,” I say, barely audible. “I own this house. So now I’d very much appreciate it if you told me just who in the blue hell you are.”
“You’re Lee Stone?” He asks in disbelief.
“That’s what I said,” again my tone remains flat. “So we’ll try this again, who the fuck are you?”
“I’m Carlos,” he says, seemingly relaxing and now approaching me. I don’t share the same enthusiasm, and remain sceptical of this strange guy. “I’m Shelly’s boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend?” Okay, he got me a little bit there. Admittedly, I wasn’t expecting that. Partially because I hadn’t even considered the possibility, and also because this guy didn’t seem at all like Her type. I mean, I was Her type. Token, God rest his soul, was Her type. Not this fucking douchebag.
“I really want to say thank you for finding Shelly a couple of weeks ago,” he seems genuine here. That works in his favour. But there’s something still not quite right about him. “I know she’d love to say thank you as well.”
“Where is She?” I ask, allowing just the smallest amount of variation in tone to creep into my voice.
“She’s actually at the hospital right now at a mandatory recovery session. It’s checking up on her rehab and whatever.” I nod. It’s pleasing to here that She is sorting Herself out now. Somewhere inside me, it’s soothing to know that I may have played a small role in that. For as much as I hate Her, I love Her tenfold. I always will. “You can wait around if you’d like. Do you want something to drink?”
“Got a glass of juice? Preferably cranberry, but I’m not fussy,” I request. A nice cold beer would have really hit the spot. There’s nothing better at the end of the day. Or at least, there used to be nothing better. I’ve got to remember to keep my own rehab in mind. I need to be Her support crutch. This guy might be able to help out, but I’m the real pillar for Her, just as She is for me.
“Sure thing, take a seat.” He disappears into the kitchen as I walk over to my “loveseat” and flop down into it, sinking into the cushion and back. This sofa is the most comfortable thing I have ever, and will ever sit on. I am one hundred and ten percent confident in that statement. It doesn’t take long for Carlos to bring back a nice tall glass of purple juice for me, and a beer for himself. Figures. He hands the juice over to me, and I clutch at the cold glass. The sleeve of his shirt rises a little to reveal the inside of his elbow and a small section of his bicep. Just enough is shown that I manage to catch a glimpse of small wounds on the skin. My head races for a moment. Wounds… needle wounds. Just like the fucking heroin needle I found in Her body. “I’ve heard a lot about you, ya know.”
“I could imagine…” My ego swoops in like a hawk, and wipes out that army in my head in one motion. The sky is hoisted up off my shoulders.
I can breathe.
I feel no pressure at all now. No blame. It’s not my fucking fault that She overdosed. It’s this crapmonkey’s fault! Fuck this fucker! I sip from my juice, my eyes burning a hole through the carpet directly in front of me.
“Shelly shouldn’t be long.” There’s Her name again. Fuck this.
“You have to leave.” I look up at him, unblinking. I’m using every bit of restraint that I could possibly muster to avoid smacking him right in his fucking jaw right now and beating the damn life out of him.
“What?” he says, a disgusting grin on his face. “Come on man, she won’t be long.”
“I don’t care how long she’ll be, I don’t want you to be here.” I don’t think he quite understands the gravity of the situation he’s going to find himself in if he doesn’t heed my words of advice. But with the way this seems to be going, I have no doubt that he’ll understand it completely in due time.
“Why? What’d I do?” He’s confused. I’m confused as to why She would be with this loser. I thought She had better taste than this.
“Lift up your fucking sleeve,” I demand. He stares blankly at me. Doesn’t he understand English? “Lift up your fucking sleeve!”
“What the hell for?” He gets defensive. That’s probably a smart move by him, because I’m about to get offensive. I spring up to my feet and snatch him by the shirt, driving him right back into a wall. I grab the sleeve of his shirt and yank it up, pointing at the needle marks.
“That’s what for you fucking assknuckle!” I scream at him, my face turning a shade of red and brown. “You fucking did this to Her! And I want you out of this fucking house, and out of Her life!”
“You’re not the boss of anybody!” He screams back pathetically. This is a mismatch if ever I saw one. He can’t match my strength, speed or intensity. He’s no Lee Stone. There ain’t no one like me.
“As of this fucking moment, I’m the boss of you. You got that fuckface?” Drops of saliva spray out from my mouth onto his cheeks. “I’m going to be kind to you. I’m going to leave, right now. But I will be back. And by the time I’m back, be it later today or even as late as a week, you will have packed your fucking shit and be out of here. And you will never see Her again? You got that punk?”
“Yes, yes, okay!” He trembles in front of me. He’s a fucking coward. Afraid of confrontation. Afraid of me. Just like I am. But in this situation, I’m the brave one. I’m doing what I have to do. I’m going to save a life here, even if I have to take this poor fucking excuse for a “life” in order to do it.
“Good.” I push him further up against the wall before letting him go. He slumps to the ground, his scrawny body curled up on the floor at my feet. Just where he fucking should be. “I hope I never see you again.”
I turn around, not paying attention to whatever it is that he mumbles under his breath. He doesn’t even have the fucking balls to speak to my face. He definitely doesn’t have the balls to spend another night in my house. He’ll be gone by this evening. Hell, if I’m lucky he’ll manage to leave before She gets home. He doesn’t deserve Her. He doesn’t deserve anything.
I take solace in my mercy on him. That’s not evil. That’s kindness. That’s goodwill. I’m not evil. I’m a good person. It turns out I didn’t even need to see Her face in order to figure myself out. I just needed to know that I was willing to protect Her from this world, just as she is willing to protect me from it.
You know what… maybe, just maybe, I’d even be able to protect the world from guys like him. Wouldn’t that be something?
Sunday, 15 July 2007 – Boston, Massachusetts
The following is a recorded promotion produced by The World’s Greatest Production Company in association with the X-Treme Wrestling Federation.
“Bitches and gentlefucks, I am quite perplexed. Here I am, expecting to be absolutely decimated on Massacre, but all I find is that I’m facing Dynamic Dynamite. You know, Hardcore Smitty and The Man Who Wishes He Was Stone, y’all are out of your god damn minds. You give me Dynamic fucking Dynamite? I thought I’d have to take on Blizzard and Drake Komodo on my won. I have to ask, do you realize that the more of these top guys I beat, then the more foolish you look for handing over my Universal Title shot to Raziel and Famine of the Vile? I think I may have to dwell on that for a moment, as it seems there’s some sort of confusion floating around the locker room.
Raziel deserves the title shot.
Oh my God! Did he just say what I think he did?
Yes idiots, I did. Raziel deserves the title shot because he’s been doing something that only a couple of names on the roster can say that they’ve been doing: consistently winning. Sure he’s been on Anarchy and winning against people who I wouldn’t even dare let hold my jockstrap cause I know it’d fall to the ground, which is the one place Lee Stone’s jockstrap should never be, but he’s still been winning. This, you dumbasses, is why I am angered though.
I hear you people flapping your fucking jaws. Even Eric god damn Anderson is throwing his opinion around. Let me ask you this Anderson, who the fuck are you? Who the fuck is Famine of the Vile? Who the fuck is anybody who has the audacity to tell me that Famine of the Vile deserves that title shot while Lee Stone doesn’t? Raziel deserves it, but Famine of the Vile? Hell no!
This ain’t no whining, bitching or crying. This ain’t a legend trying to throw his weight around in order to feed his massive ego. This is a legend, using the right that he has fucking earned during his career to question management calls. Let me open the floor a little to anybody who can give me a fucking answer. Since when was somebody able to get a rematch without cashing in any points? And if that’s always been the case, well that just brings me right on back to my original point. Where the fuck is my rematch? Famine of the Vile never even won the fucking title, and he gets a rematch? Yet I never lost it, and I get zilch? That is straight up, grade-A, bullshit.
Eric, buddy, since you decided to open your mouth this week, I’ma focus a little more on you, while dealing with the whole Famine issue. How is it that Famine of the Vagina earned that shot exactly? Was it by losing to Hardcore Smitty at Bad Medicine? Maybe it was losing to me two weeks ago? Wait, don’t tell me! He earned it when he lost to Psyko Stevo last week! Nigga, if you beat Famine of the Vile this week, you would deserve that title shot more than he does. Because I flat out don’t see any reason as to why he could possibly deserve it over me, over Jem Williams, hell… even your cockbuddy Daniel Malcolm deserves it more than Famine of the Vile, and that’s saying something!
Dawg, if you want to open your mouth at me, don’t fucking do it while talking to somebody else. I ain’t hard to find, and I’ll gladly be willing to sit and pretend to listen while I wait for the most appropriate opportunity to shove my foot in your fucking throat. You got some guts even mentioning my name kid, but until you can do it standing toe to toe with me, you ain’t shit.
And what the fuck is the deal with this whole New Dawn thing? Since when did you guys get screwed out of anything, ever? Daniel Malcolm got his ass handed to him by Psyko Stevo for the Canadian Title, and the again to get eliminated from the World Title Contenders Battle Royal, and all of a sudden he got screwed? And then there’s Brad Pierce, who is facing Dynamic Dynamite for the damn World Title at Leap of Faith? How in the fuck is that getting screwed? The man got a rematch without cashing in points, just like Famine! This whole system seems to change to fit the situation, its horseshit. We also have Amy Vixen, who just so happens to be the Cruiserweight Champion, and you, the supposed number one contender to that title. How is that getting screwed? When I look at the Universal Title contenders list, the only man who technically qualifies is Aidan Collins. Default is somehow on the World Title contenders list, despite being three points shy of the 100 needed to actually qualify. Lee Stone has those three points, twenty-three more times than he needs to in order to qualify, yet I ain’t a contender. I’m willing to bet that even after I make Dynamite my bitch this week, I still won’t be on that fucking list.
And you morons say that you are getting screwed? Hardcore Smitty has blatantly told me that I won’t be getting a Universal Title shot, and it’s YOU who is getting screwed? Fuck that!
And don’t think I’m letting you clowns off the hook after that whole Steve Jason deal. Even if, somehow, it is proven that neither of you four were the culprit of that beat down, it’s crystal fucking clear to everybody that you had at least something to do with it. Don’t get me wrong though, I never liked Steve Jason. We were never friends. We sure as hell never collaborated on how to “hold back” “talent” like you dicks. But with Stevie J getting attacked, I lost my shot at the final showdown with him that’s been four years in the making. I lost my shot to finally break the stalemate that the two of us have been locked in. And I don’t appreciate losing anything, ever.
So Daniel, Eric, heed my words here, I’m more forgiving that Jem Williams is. But if you somehow squirm out of his clutches just before he gives you the same treatment Stevie J got, know that the walls are closing in around you from every side now. You made a dumb mistake by letting my eyes fall upon you. You woke a sleeping giant. You made the equivalent of Pearl Harbour. I had my fight, you had yours, and for a moment there I thought the paths might not cross. I guess I’m a bit of an optimist. But I have two words for you:
Not anymore.
However, this week I do have one more pressing issue. A match. You see, as fun as it would be for me to continuously talk about how great I am. And as fun as it would be for me to continuously talk about how I should be in the main event, I am actually a firm believer in the old saying “actions speak louder than words”. So how will it look on my record to have a win against the Canadian Champion and the Universal Title Number One Contender, the World Champion, and what is technically a win against a man who many say is the greatest of all time. Obviously, I’m not one of those many, but it has been said.
So Dynamite… Double D… Anthony… you want to talk about me being a roadblock? Well it seems we have the same thing in mind. Everybody that gets placed before me, be they big like you, or small as in Eric’s case, are roadblocks. And I’m sure I’ve used this analogy before, but I’ma bulldoze everyone and everything out of my path. You are just the next in line.
I’m a little frightened going into this match though. It’s not because of your vastly superior talent, because quite frankly, I don’t think you even believe you are vastly superior than I am. But I’m frightened Dynamite, because for literally the first time in history, we seem to be on the same page. We both seem to have the same exact thoughts about Hardcore Smitty. It would make sense for the idea behind this otherwise seemingly random match-up to be designed for the two of us to just beat the crap out of each other. Of course, I think he greatly underestimates just who in the hell we both are, more importantly, who I am.
I’ve never liked you. I won’t keep that a secret. I think you’re incredibly overrated, and any time you’ve ever amounted to anything here is due to a weakness in the championship at that time, or rather dubious methods. When it comes to straight-up wrestling, like what is needed in the two referee Canadian Rules situation, you don’t hold a damn candle to me. That’s why this match isn’t going to be as much of a slugfest as what Smitty would like to keep us – and again, more importantly, me – in line.
How many times have we been down this road Dynamite? How many times have we faced each other? I honestly can’t remember. As we both came up the ranks we’d fight over the Canadian Title. We even shared the biggest spotlight possible on that fateful night where Rick Lacey put me out for months. I’ve seen it all before, heard it all before, done it all before, just as you have, but the two of us, we’ve seen it all together, heard it all together and done it all together. You’re right homie, we both know each other well and I have no problem stepping into the ring with you. But I have a problem with some of your claims.
You my friend, are not the top of the mountain. You never have been. Your first Universal Title reign came with a little help from your Black Order buddies. I’m hardly in a position to call anybody out on being “opportunistic”, but I make a habit of fighting my battles on my own. If I’m going to cheat, I do it myself. Now if the rules don’t call it illegal for another man to get involved, sure, I might get whatever friends I have to help out, especially if I expect the same in return. But that first win of yours is strike one. Your second title reign came from beating Andrew Gibson or Trent Gein. Can’t remember who. Don’t care either. I’ve beat them both. And then there’s Christian Connolly, a man who has never beaten me in his four attempts at doing so. That doesn’t make you the best Dynamite. Because there is always Lee Stone.
Two years since our last one on one match is far too long to wait. That match left nothing answered, but this time it’s different. This ain’t no Last Man Standing. There isn’t any crazy Rick Lacey running around in the audience. This is me, versus you, with nothing at stake but pride. I ain’t willing to lose my pride. Are you?
Tell me this assclown, since when was being “just on the edge of greatness” something to be proud of? I tell you what dude, since I am the sovereign ruler in the land of greatness, I’ll walk right on up to you and push you back down into that pool of mediocrity from which you came from. You can fall all the way down that cliff. If you’re lucky you’ll survive the fall, but when it’s all said and done, the rest of the roster and world isn’t going to look at you as “great”, they’re going to look at you the same way they look at Fred L. Lucky.
I’m a little surprised at you Dynamite. You spoke with the faintest hint of sincerity in your voice. It doesn’t seem right when you’re the source of it. It wouldn’t seem right if I spoke to you like that either, so I won’t return the favour. I’m a legend Dynamite, and for somebody who supposedly doesn’t need that tag, you sure seem to like to label yourself as such. But man, a real legend doesn’t do that. A real legend asks himself at every possible moment, “why am I a legend?” A real legend does everything he can to not tarnish that reputation. If he loses, he loses honourably, just as I did to Jem Williams. You get a chance here Dynamite. You get a chance to lose honourably. But even after my hand is raised in victory, people will still question the validity of your statement.
Is Dynamic Dynamite a legend?
It’s all about respect Anthony. Self-respect, respect from others. It’s all relevant. So let me ask you this one final thing. When they announce my name as being victorious, will you have the balls to suck up your loss and take it like a man? If you can do that, maybe I can respect you.
Maybe.
Until then, have a bad day.”
 |