Stepping away from the security check that has come to be the bane of the existence of every traveller flying into and within New Zealand these days, MC Steel with the black hair and his, what has been called “emo” look, drags his suitcase-on-wheels through the semi-crowded airport terminal.
The last time Steel graced an LPW ring, it was a pretty sight through his eyes. He crushed the hapless souls of Daniel Pleasant and Michael Stone, known as “The Prophecy of Violence”, though the prophecy seemed to turn it’s back on the pair this time around. Although Steel himself was trying a new persona, putting forth some kind of passé tough guy act, while still trying to maintain a certain level of…”stability” is probably the right word there. Because, if you talk to anyone in the locker room of any promotion he’s worked for, they’ll probably tell you that he wasn’t very popular, because he wasn’t all that stable. At any rate, despite becoming a protégé of sorts for the Watchmen, and to that end, even gaining a shot at the LPW Hardcore Championship, Steel was unsuccessful in any of this. Once again, he himself would credit this to him essentially psychologlically lying to himself, and pretending he could’ve been “normal” like everybody else. Trying to be “normal” was getting on his nerves. And frankly, it was wearing on his patience. Just like where he is right now.
Steel is leaning against the counter at a local coffee shop outlet here in the airport, waiting on his latte with a hint, only a hint, cinnamon he ordered about five and a half minutes ago. Sure, it's not like he expects instant service from anyone working at an airport, which is filled to the brim with busy, cranky, impatient, or generally pissed-off travelers of all sorts, but still. Is a latte too much to ask after he's spent who knows how long on a plane? Seriously. Never screw with this man’s latte after he’s been in a squash match. He deserves more than to face two butt ugly guys. Finally, the scrawny young man with the curly black hair gets Steel his latte with cinnamon that he ordered, but he stops, those ice-blue eyes scanning the bagel before turning up towards the kid behind the counter.
Steel: Excuse me, I asked for a hint of cinnamon, not a whole teaspoon.
Shorty: Dude, that's, like, not my problem, brah.
Oh great. Another genius with half-witted slang. Really, what's it take to work here? Seriously, Steel's completely not in the mood for this shit right now. Putting on an obviously-insincere smirk, Steel suddenly grabs Shorty's collar, dragging him in close and speaking in a low, venomous tone.
Steel: Listen to me, kid. Maybe the hair or the eyes or the "I'm SO gonna fucking kill you right now" tone of voice isn't giving it away, "dude", but I'm MC fucking Steel. I'm more famous than you've ever had wet dreams about, and from the stains on the front of your pants, I'm assuming that's a lot. So let me make this clear to you. If I don't see a latte with a HINT of cinnamon in front me in one minute, they're gonna find your body in a trash bag out back with about a dozen muffins crammed down your throat. Think it's still not your problem, "Shortland"?
Obviously, from the frightened look on Shortland's, I mean, “Shorty’s” face, he doesn't seem to be confused about the matter anymore. Taking the latte back, Shorty immediately reaches for another cup.
Shorty: Uh, yeah, sure, sure, another latte, comin' right up, dude.
Damn right it's coming right up, bitch. Matthew taps his fingers impatiently against the cool tile of the counter, as Shorty frantically rushes around in a attempt to beat the clock, trying to hide his fear with a smile as he hands it to Steel. He with the cold blue eyes takes the latte, nodding in approval. Good enough cinnamon. Steel turns to go, taking a sip of his latte before Shorty speaks out again.
Shorty: Hey are you… are you gonna, like, pay for that?
Really? Steel lets out an aggravated sigh and turns back around, once again leaning in real close and speaking low so that only the two of them hear the conversation.
Steel: Dude...you didn't fill the order right the first time. The customer's always right, so I don't have to pay 'cause of your little fuck-up.
Shorty: Yeah, but still. If I don't turn a profit, my boss is gonna KILL me, bro!
Steel: Thank your god that I have a heart. Here’s the damn money. But believe me, Shorty. You keep pressing your luck, and you're gonna WISH your boss was the one killing you. Capiche?
The guy simply nods his head frantically, not saying anything else. Frankly, with the sound of trickling now becoming apparent to the ears of Steel, there isn't any need. Steel looks down as Shorty quickly sorts the money. The kid nearly pissed himself. Still laughing a little bit to himself, Steel takes another sip of his latte, the spoils of his battle of the wits with yet another of the witless, as he walks away, still dragging the briefcase-on-wheels behind him.
But that’s how life seems to be now for Steel. No matter how much he proves he's the best wrestler walking the face of the earth, no matter how great he proves that he is in all aspects of his career, no matter how far he goes, and still plans to go, in this industry, he still gets no respect. No respect at all.
Sure, this was all over a latte, but it’s the principle of the thing. The customer is always right, even with the douchebag behind the counter can’t crash from his weed soon enough to do his fucking job right.
At any rate, his match at Honor Roll, against 7 men, including his new buddy in the form of Dick Dynamo, should help significantly to prove the opposite. Dammit, if this doesn't shut the marks up, if this doesn't truly cement Steel's place as the best damn wrestler in the world, nothing will. And believe us, it will. Because nothing, and no one, is ever going to stop him from getting to the top around here, not even himself. Not this time. And not ever again. [/i]
Steel takes another sip of his latte while reading the newspaper. But to Steel, there seems to be no point. A man being murdered isn’t news. Thousand of murders happen every day. Oprah arriving at Uluru isn’t news. Celebrities are in rare places every day. A politician being caught watching porn… OK, that doesn’t happen everyday, but you see the point. News here is garbage. Pure garbage.
Steel throws the paper down on the table and sits back, admiring the noises around him. But one noise, one voice stands out. The voice of Dick Dynamo. His voice can brake a glass, his voice could force you to jump out of a building. An air-conditioned building. In the middle east. But Steel had learnt to deal with it. But sometimes, it just gets to him.
Dynamo: What’s up, brother?
Steel: I’m not your brother.
Dynamo: I know, I know. It seems to be the hip thing, ya know what I’m sayin’?
Steel: You need to stop listening to DJC.
Dynamo: Fine, fine. Anyway, we need a plan for our match.
Steel: Plan? What plan? It’s every man for himself.
Dynamo: We need to study our opponents. Here, have a look at these.
Dynamo tosses three brown manilla folders Steel’s way, all paperclipped together. He opens up the one on top.
Steel: Dick, you need to keep away from DeSean… I can’t even say his name.
Dynamo: Just have a look at it. We have the…”dirt” on our opponents.
Well, DeSean… DJC was, for lack of a more detailed summary, a thug. The look said it all. The glasses, the bandana, they only word you could label him as was thug.
Steel: He’ll play dirty, but we can take him out. Easily.
Dynamo: I thought you’d say that, home bro.
Steel: Stop that.
Dynamo: Sorry. Just grab the next folder.
Steel picks up the next folder, with a brown-haired man, wearing black wrestling trunks and a cocky grin spread across his face. Atlas Adams. David finished reading and closed the folder, and thought about his association with the legendary Styxx.
Steel: Beatable. Very beatable.
Dynamo: Very very beatable. Next up is…Cripsy.
Steel puts his hand to face, trying to cover the shame. Not his shame, the shame for poor Cripsy. Cripsy is one of those guys… one of those guys who as a kid thought he was unstoppable. Untouchable. And then he gets his face beat in.
Steel: Do you have any dirt on anyone who’s actually good?
Dynamo smiles, and tosses another folder to Steel. Steel looks at the name, and smiles. Bobino. His photo makes him smile. His resume makes him smile. Bobino hasn’t had the best time since winning the Owner’s Cup. Yes, he did beat Wevv Mang. But to Steel, Wevv is…compared to someone like cYnical, he’s Cripsy.
Steel: He’s off his game. He’s way off his game.
Dynamo: I like his name though. Rolls off the tounge. Bobino. Booobbbiinnoo. Booobbbeeeenooo.
Steel: Pass me the next folder.
Dynamo passes him the second last folder. He looks inside. Killswitch. The fugitive. He had no chance against Steel in the Prison Yard Brawl. But Haemoglobin, I mean, Tromboner Man took advantage of Steel’s losing streak and eliminated before he could get a hand on him.
Steel: I can beat him,
Dynamo: AYY. See that, that’s my impression of a Canadian.
Steel stare at Dynamo for a moment, then grabs the last folder. His biggest challenge by far. Sean Jensen. California’s Finest. He closed the folder, set it with the others on the bench next to him, and leaned back, closing his eyes. 6 names, 6 pictures, all committed to memory. At Honor Roll, he would enter the ring with those 6 men as the one of the lesser men. Coming out of the match? Now that’s a different story.
Steel was abruptly snapped out of his reverie, his train of thought derailed, as Dynamo gets up from the table and heads towards the terminal with some other LPW superstars.
Dynamo: I meet you at the hotel. I’ll get you a drink at 6 sharp.
Steel: Can’t wait.
I have done many things in the past that I might not be proud of. I have fought many battles, often times with my opponent not even knowing they were engaged in war. I pity some of those people, blindsided by my unwritten code of honor. To be honest, I spent a lot of time waging war on myself, but… that is another issue.
Which is why it pains me so to sit there and embellish my short comings over, and over, and over, and over. Reliving my life’s greatest pitfalls like some sort of sick cinema in my mind. My body demolished, my family targeted, and losing her, well… things haven’t been beautiful to say the least.
This is why I find myself here, now. I seem to be lost in my thoughts, and I have brought you in here with me. You know as well as I do the outcome of my demons, you know as well as anybody. You’ve seen me overcome adversity, opposition, and heartbreak to become the man that I am now, the leader that I am now, and you want to take me down that pathway back to what I once was. You want to see me destroyed. You want to see me ravaged. You want the very meaning of my existence tore away from me like the filth that you are. You want me to be in fear, you want me to live in darkness, but you see, I will not.
The good light of the [b]Lord[/b]has shined through the clouds to show me the path I must take. His warm embrace caresses my face and his love fills my heart. With him I can walk again down the path of righteousness, for I have seen him. I have talked to him. I have heard his miraculous voice and he has told me what to do to show me the way past my nemesis. Past you.
In order to find and defeat that which seeks to defeat me, I must become that which seeks to defeat me.
You attempt in trying my faith. You succeed only in trying my patience.
At Honor Roll, I will show you all that I can use the Lord to my advantage.
At Honor Roll, I will show you all that I can use the Lord to defeat all of you.
At Honor Roll, I will show you that I can use the Lord to get to the top.
And I can use the Lord to convince you that I will.