Post by joeycrash on Aug 10, 2022 10:51:09 GMT -5
A recap for the reader
Joey Crash is a British wrestler from London, England. He joined Level Up Wrestling in September 2021 after eight years away from the business. In his last run before Level Up, he was managed by an old Northern Irish tough guy called Mick Smyth. Joey’s decision to leave the business was partially down to old injuries and a lack of faith from his manager. So when Joey returned to the states and found Mick dying in a hospital bed, eight years of frustration and anger came out. It was the last time the two would speak and Mick would die shortly after.
Since then he’s been struggling with the loss of his manager, who he spent the majority of his adult life travelling the road with. Enter Sophie Smyth, Mick’s estranged daughter. She found Joey to inform him of Mick’s death but she also wanted to learn more about her father who was absent for most of her life.
Sophie and Joey never truly became friends but not for a lack of trying. Before his Final Boss Championship defence against Duncan Shepard, Sophie warned Joey to never contact her again if he lost the title. She said having the championship made him a better person but chasing the gold turned him into someone else. The night before DOOM, Crash showed up drunk at Sophie’s hotel room and she invited him in.
An old postcard from Joey’s late former manager, Mick Smyth to their mutual friend and former wrestler, Jimmy ‘The Pin’, June 2007
July 6th, 2022
One day after Super Adventure Island
London hadn’t seen temperatures like these for a long time. A solid week of highs up in the late 30’s - that’s celsius - had sparked wild fires and fried eggs on car bonnets on both sides of the Thames. It was hot in the shade and the air was as thick as blankets. The newspapers, usually so quick and proud to declare that Great Britain was hotter than Spain, France, Italy and even some places in the US, had also succumbed to the reality: The UK wasn’t built for hot weather like this. Even at midnight, there was no breeze of relief to help cool down. You kept your curtains closed, opened the windows, turned on the fan and tried to sleep through it.
After three days of this, Joey lost all patience. He’d managed to find an air conditioned diner just a few backstreets from Waterloo Station. It looked like a fifties’ American diner out of a classic movie. Large comfy booths on one side, small tables for two on another and a line of seats at the bar. An oasis in the desert. This sort of establishment usually came with an enormous markup and would only be found in Shoreditch, or some other painfully gentrified part of town. But this place was glorious - sometimes places try to look like a relic of their time and fall flat on their face but this cafe felt like the real deal. Crash was soaking in the stiff, cool breeze on one end of the bar, keeping a clear distance from anyone else, though the place was all to himself. He clocked the time as 11:47pm - strange for any establishment to not have a couple drunks in it at least.
“Refill?” A sun burnt woman approached him with a friendliness and charm that you’d never see from wait staff anywhere in London. But in this place, it felt perfect. She wiggled a jug of coffee he didn't have a mug.
“You got anything stronger?”
“No beers here honey, the fridge is busted. But if you want some spirits, I can hook you up!”
“Irish whiskey, if you have it. And a coke.”
“Coming right up!”
He slumped back into his padded bar stool that was cemented to the floor. The bell chimed as another weary gentleman entered the shop. He looked to be in his late sixties, wearing a full suit in brown with a matching hat. He’s insane, Joey thought to himself. The man sat himself at the bar, only leaving two seats between him and Crash. This was surprisingly close, given they were the only two patrons in the place. He put his hat on the bar and exhaled with great relief.
“Air conditioning? Am I in heaven right now?” He couldn’t stop beaming. He looked like he’d been walking for miles.
“Heaven or hell, either way I’m dying from the heat.” Crash scoffed, and the man laughed with gusto and warmth that also felt very out of place for London.
The man scanned the menu on the bar, underlining every word with his index finger and saying the name of each item under his breath as he went. Crash’s whiskey and coke arrived courtesy of the sun burnt waitress where a single ice cube was already half melted. Nice to know the freezer was working even if the fridge wasn’t.
“I think I’m going to get the Full English. Have you had it here, son? Is it any good?” The man prompted Joey to respond with hesitated hand motions. Joey sipped his drink.
“Anything about this place look English to you? You’re better off ordering the pancakes or anything that sounds like it’d cause a heart attack.”
The man laughed again and picked up his hat to fan himself.
“Man, you are a hoot! You’re just the thing I needed today. I got a funeral to go to. I’m not too good at these functions, you know. You just end up saying the same old condolences to everybody. Thing is, once you reach my age you end up going to a lot more of these than you’d like. I hope that’s not a feeling you become accustomed to - Oh! Miss!” The man waved down the waitress with as much enthusiasm as his arthritis could muster. “I think I’ll have the chicken and waffles… And an Irish whiskey neat if you don’t mind.”
“Coming up!” The waitress chirped musically. Crash smiled, he used to hear that particular drink order often.
"Neat? At this time of day?" Crash said dripping with sarcasm.
"In this economy?" The man chuckled at his own joke and Crash couldn’t help but laugh as well. Both men basked in the shared gentle atmosphere and cool, robotically pumped breeze as the waitress returned to the back.
“I’ve never actually gone to a funeral.” Crash pondered aloud.
“That’s a gift. Cherish it. There’s too much sadness and death in the world these days.” The sweaty man swivelled around on his chair to face Crash directly.
“There was a funeral I wanted to go to… But I couldn’t. Complicated, family shit.” Crash glugged his drink and silently motioned for another as he caught the waitress's eye. The sweaty man continued to observe Crash for a moment or two.
“I’ve been to more funerals than I would care to remember. And I mean, goddamn. What’s the point in loving people if all they’re going to do is die on you? The world begins to feel very lonely, one light at a time. Gone. Forever.” He made a ‘poof’ noise and mimicked an explosion with his hands.
“Yup, sounds like life alright.” Crash necked the end of his drink just as his new one arrived. She scurried away before Crash could tip her.
The man snorted in sympathy. He was drenched in sweat.
“That’s dark,” The sweaty man warned, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, “there’s bad times ahead if you keep this regret close to your heart. It ain’t something to dwell on. You can’t just lock it away and take it out to gaze on every now and then, like some sort of trinket or precious diamond. You need to be able to process it and let it go. It begins to weigh you down and it blurs your vision. I’ve been down that road son… It ain’t pretty.” His whiskey neat finally arrived and his face lit up. Crash wondered why it took so long.
“Look, these are nice metaphors and all. But this isn’t something I can just pep talk myself out of. I appreciate the chat. What I don’t appreciate you making assumptions about me or my life. But since you’ve been polite I’m also going to assume that you didn’t mean any harm by it. So how about we finish the conversation here and you go enjoy your chicken and waffles in a booth over there?” Crash pointed to a booth whose view was partially blocked by a divider wall with frosted glass. Time seemed to stand still as Crash maintained his compromise and the man sized him up without moving a muscle.
“Okay! Chicken and waffles, right here. There you go!” The skin peeling, sun burnt waitress cheerily delivered the plate in front of the man in the drenched suit at the bar, and took a couple seconds to recognize she might be intruding. She mouthed something that Crash couldn’t catch and walked carefully back to the kitchen. Crash could tell she was trying to act natural, but that’s the thing. It’s when you try to act natural that you really don’t look natural at all.
“Hey, no harm no foul!” The old man spread his arms open innocently, “Don’t get too hung up on our little chit chat, Joey. You’ve got nothing to be worried about. I’ll eat my meal right here and we won’t need to talk anymore.” The sweat was almost pouring through his suit.
“How do you know my name?” Crash stopped pointing at the booth and placed his near hand on the edge of the bar as if to steady himself. He could hear the blood rumbling in his ears.
The sweaty old man in a drenched suit then stretched and his arms and golden bangles started poking through the cuffs. Chunky gold jewellery appeared on his fingers making gentle clicking noises as they brushed past each other.
“Great fortune or a fate worse than death… Not exactly your everyday gamble is it?”
In a split second, Crash saw the replay in his mind of the mystic who foretold his visit, the game of Death's Gambit he played on Mick’s grave the night before The Last of Us Part 2, and now the words of his manager’s ghost coming right out of this sweaty man’s mouth. The breeze had gone. He could hear cicadas buzzing against the windows. Crash slowed his breathing and fought to maintain eye contact even though his gut was telling him to run.
"You don't scare me." Crash lied.
"I’m not here to frighten you. I’m a messenger."
"Give me one good reason to not break your nose right now."
"What you do and what I think don’t matter, remember? Even a child can understand the–"
Crash launched the sweaty man's head directly onto the bar and slammed a fist in his temple. The sweaty man cried out in pain and fell off his chair as the waitress came running.
"Stop! Stop it!” The waitress shrieked. “I'll call the police! Stop it now!"
Crash looked back at the sweaty man. His food was spilling onto the floor and his shaking hands were splattered with maple syrup. The air con was back on and all he could hear was the gentle background music from an old radio. The sweaty man whimpered and pleaded for Joey to not hit him again. Crash looked around at the diner, now oppressive and sterile.
"You listen to me!" Crash hissed, "Mick is dead. I'm glad he's dead! You heard me? I'm glad he's fucking dead. I promise, I swear to God I’ll kill you if I ever see you again!"
"P-p-please don't hu-hurt me…" The old man begged. He slowly moved one shaking hand above his head to protect himself as he cried on the floor. The rings and bangles were gone.
The waitress shouted again for Crash to get out and he acquiesced quickly. The dead, muggy air greeted him as he exited the diner and the door clanged shut behind him. He walked half way down the road and turned back. He thought to himself, he’d never seen that diner there before.
___________
August 13, 2022
3 days before EXP 30
The screen is black and we hear someone take a deep breath and exhale slowly. The screen fades in slowly as the breathing continues and we make out Joey Crash standing in the middle of an old boxing ring under a single spotlight. He’s masked - the same mask he was wearing when he attacked both Bert and Duncan across EXP 28 and 29. He grabs it at the back and pulls it over the front of his face to reveal a shit eating grin.
“You like it? It’s weird, isn’t it. They say you give a man a mask, he’ll show you his true face. Well, I don’t think it took anyone that long to figure out it was me. It was more for me than anyone else. Still… that’s my Halloween costume sorted.”
He carelessly threw the mask behind him like he was a highschool jock tossing away an empty soda can. Like a dick.
“Gotta hand it to The Developer. Or… Trent. However he goes by these days. He’s got a good sense for these things. Bert versus Crash, part three! And I could get a Final Boss shot if I win? That’s a main event if I ever heard one. We could have main evented every time we’ve faced off. And one thing’s for sure - You’re not going to ‘subject to change’ me out of the main event like last time.”
Crash spits on the floor.
“You cost me the main event at The Last of Us where I won the Final Boss Championship! And look what you got for it. A broken neck and six months of your life you’ll never get back. Some people might call that even. Not me. I still can’t believe you did that, Bert. Instead of my crowning glory for my first ever world championship, we got to see spaceman Duncan get all the spotlight. You moved your own Final Boss Championship match against me to the fucking opener because you thought that’s all I was worth. That’s low - even for you. But I’m not going to break your neck again if I can help it. At this point, a fly swatter should do the trick. Pairing us together in singles competition is like watching a guy bring a tank to a gun fight. You know it’s only going to end one way.”
Crash lifts his head back to his shoulders and rotates his neck around and around, stretching and showing off the full range of motion. He grabs his jaw and crown, cracking his neck.
“The question on everyone’s lips here, old Berty, my old chum, is how is Joey Crash gonna do it this time? Will he bust out the backslide for old time’s sake? Maybe he’ll still target your neck and go for the submission? Or maybe Bert won’t be able to handle the distance and gets counted out - you know that one might be my favourite! You have to accept that the outcome of this match isn’t going to be any different than the last, so you may as well let me have some fun with it.”
Crash walks to the ropes and steps out as the camera is awkwardly unmounted off the tripod to follow him. We hear the double doors swing open and closed again as the operator pants and struggles to keep up. The camera finally gets outside to see Crash taking in the air outside, where the sun is slowly setting in the distance behind him.
“But in spite of how happy I am to have this match I am gonna complain. I’m pissed that I can’t just replace you and get my one-on-one rematch with Duncan. The rematch I am owed as the former Final Boss Champion! Instead, I have to share MY opportunity with YOU. Bert McAlroy, a small dog with a harsh bark and a small bite. Anything I’ve ever wanted from you, I’ve gone and taken it because I can. No matter how hard you try, I’m always that little bit better. At this point, it’s a fact of life. A law of nature. You can’t argue with it, it just is.”
Crash begins to laugh but reins it in to continue his point and stares daggers down the barrel of the camera.
“But there’s one thing I feel like I have to say even though I don’t want to. I’ve been biting my lip but I know that if I don’t say it out loud and in plain English, you’re not going to figure it out on your own. If you’re out for blood and you try to destroy me at all costs then you may as well give Duncan a firm pat on the back and congratulate him on retaining the championship. I know that with nothing to stop us we’ll both to the ends of the earth to kill each other. I guess that’s our curse, like moths to the flame. But if you can’t practice any self restraint, and you decide it’s more important to beat me than it is to keep yourself as fresh as you can for the Final Boss Championship, then that’s on you. You won’t be walking out of here if you decide to push the envelope. And how are you going to regain the championship from a hospital bed? You need to admit to yourself that the best chance you have of winning that belt back is if you don’t even try against me. The best shot you have at becoming Final Boss Champion again is if I’m in the ring with you and Duncan. You can’t even beat me on your own. You NEED me to have a fighting chance against the spaceman.”
Crash grabs the camera and holds it steady to deliver his next lines right into the lens.
“So here’s our stage, Bert. The main event of EXP 30. I know you’re a man for the big occasion and you act like you know better than everyone else so if you want to ignore everything I’ve just said and do everything in your power to avenge that pathetic record against me, then do your worst. Just know your chances of winning that championship live and die… With me.”
Crash starts walking away and half turns to shout back at the camera.
“You might think the third time is a charm… But for Joey Crash? It’s a lock!”
Joey Crash is a British wrestler from London, England. He joined Level Up Wrestling in September 2021 after eight years away from the business. In his last run before Level Up, he was managed by an old Northern Irish tough guy called Mick Smyth. Joey’s decision to leave the business was partially down to old injuries and a lack of faith from his manager. So when Joey returned to the states and found Mick dying in a hospital bed, eight years of frustration and anger came out. It was the last time the two would speak and Mick would die shortly after.
Since then he’s been struggling with the loss of his manager, who he spent the majority of his adult life travelling the road with. Enter Sophie Smyth, Mick’s estranged daughter. She found Joey to inform him of Mick’s death but she also wanted to learn more about her father who was absent for most of her life.
Sophie and Joey never truly became friends but not for a lack of trying. Before his Final Boss Championship defence against Duncan Shepard, Sophie warned Joey to never contact her again if he lost the title. She said having the championship made him a better person but chasing the gold turned him into someone else. The night before DOOM, Crash showed up drunk at Sophie’s hotel room and she invited him in.
Crash suffered a shoulder injury during his loss to Duncan Shepard at DOOM and has been sidelined since then.
Jimmy,
Hope you’re still up to your old tricks. Joey has got some big matches coming up. I’m going to bump on my shoulder - you know, the fucked up one. He hates it but boy if I don’t get a good pop outta him every time I do it. He’s got a fire in him. He’s eyeing up every belt and trophy from here to Alaska. Maybe one day he won’t fuck it up for himself and actually earn something. He needs to walk before he can run. He’s not ready to be a World Champion.
He’s just a boy.
Say hi to your sister for me.
Mick
Hope you’re still up to your old tricks. Joey has got some big matches coming up. I’m going to bump on my shoulder - you know, the fucked up one. He hates it but boy if I don’t get a good pop outta him every time I do it. He’s got a fire in him. He’s eyeing up every belt and trophy from here to Alaska. Maybe one day he won’t fuck it up for himself and actually earn something. He needs to walk before he can run. He’s not ready to be a World Champion.
He’s just a boy.
Say hi to your sister for me.
Mick
An old postcard from Joey’s late former manager, Mick Smyth to their mutual friend and former wrestler, Jimmy ‘The Pin’, June 2007
July 6th, 2022
One day after Super Adventure Island
London hadn’t seen temperatures like these for a long time. A solid week of highs up in the late 30’s - that’s celsius - had sparked wild fires and fried eggs on car bonnets on both sides of the Thames. It was hot in the shade and the air was as thick as blankets. The newspapers, usually so quick and proud to declare that Great Britain was hotter than Spain, France, Italy and even some places in the US, had also succumbed to the reality: The UK wasn’t built for hot weather like this. Even at midnight, there was no breeze of relief to help cool down. You kept your curtains closed, opened the windows, turned on the fan and tried to sleep through it.
After three days of this, Joey lost all patience. He’d managed to find an air conditioned diner just a few backstreets from Waterloo Station. It looked like a fifties’ American diner out of a classic movie. Large comfy booths on one side, small tables for two on another and a line of seats at the bar. An oasis in the desert. This sort of establishment usually came with an enormous markup and would only be found in Shoreditch, or some other painfully gentrified part of town. But this place was glorious - sometimes places try to look like a relic of their time and fall flat on their face but this cafe felt like the real deal. Crash was soaking in the stiff, cool breeze on one end of the bar, keeping a clear distance from anyone else, though the place was all to himself. He clocked the time as 11:47pm - strange for any establishment to not have a couple drunks in it at least.
“Refill?” A sun burnt woman approached him with a friendliness and charm that you’d never see from wait staff anywhere in London. But in this place, it felt perfect. She wiggled a jug of coffee he didn't have a mug.
“You got anything stronger?”
“No beers here honey, the fridge is busted. But if you want some spirits, I can hook you up!”
“Irish whiskey, if you have it. And a coke.”
“Coming right up!”
He slumped back into his padded bar stool that was cemented to the floor. The bell chimed as another weary gentleman entered the shop. He looked to be in his late sixties, wearing a full suit in brown with a matching hat. He’s insane, Joey thought to himself. The man sat himself at the bar, only leaving two seats between him and Crash. This was surprisingly close, given they were the only two patrons in the place. He put his hat on the bar and exhaled with great relief.
“Air conditioning? Am I in heaven right now?” He couldn’t stop beaming. He looked like he’d been walking for miles.
“Heaven or hell, either way I’m dying from the heat.” Crash scoffed, and the man laughed with gusto and warmth that also felt very out of place for London.
The man scanned the menu on the bar, underlining every word with his index finger and saying the name of each item under his breath as he went. Crash’s whiskey and coke arrived courtesy of the sun burnt waitress where a single ice cube was already half melted. Nice to know the freezer was working even if the fridge wasn’t.
“I think I’m going to get the Full English. Have you had it here, son? Is it any good?” The man prompted Joey to respond with hesitated hand motions. Joey sipped his drink.
“Anything about this place look English to you? You’re better off ordering the pancakes or anything that sounds like it’d cause a heart attack.”
The man laughed again and picked up his hat to fan himself.
“Man, you are a hoot! You’re just the thing I needed today. I got a funeral to go to. I’m not too good at these functions, you know. You just end up saying the same old condolences to everybody. Thing is, once you reach my age you end up going to a lot more of these than you’d like. I hope that’s not a feeling you become accustomed to - Oh! Miss!” The man waved down the waitress with as much enthusiasm as his arthritis could muster. “I think I’ll have the chicken and waffles… And an Irish whiskey neat if you don’t mind.”
“Coming up!” The waitress chirped musically. Crash smiled, he used to hear that particular drink order often.
"Neat? At this time of day?" Crash said dripping with sarcasm.
"In this economy?" The man chuckled at his own joke and Crash couldn’t help but laugh as well. Both men basked in the shared gentle atmosphere and cool, robotically pumped breeze as the waitress returned to the back.
“I’ve never actually gone to a funeral.” Crash pondered aloud.
“That’s a gift. Cherish it. There’s too much sadness and death in the world these days.” The sweaty man swivelled around on his chair to face Crash directly.
“There was a funeral I wanted to go to… But I couldn’t. Complicated, family shit.” Crash glugged his drink and silently motioned for another as he caught the waitress's eye. The sweaty man continued to observe Crash for a moment or two.
“I’ve been to more funerals than I would care to remember. And I mean, goddamn. What’s the point in loving people if all they’re going to do is die on you? The world begins to feel very lonely, one light at a time. Gone. Forever.” He made a ‘poof’ noise and mimicked an explosion with his hands.
“Yup, sounds like life alright.” Crash necked the end of his drink just as his new one arrived. She scurried away before Crash could tip her.
The man snorted in sympathy. He was drenched in sweat.
“But if I could go back to anywhere,”, Crash started, “I’d figure out a way to make it happen. Even if it meant never going to any other funerals for the rest of my life.”
Crash wondered to himself, why is he telling any of this to anyone? Let alone this old man who's slowly melting. They’ve said about two sentences to each other and now they’re already spilling their life stories. The sweaty man did have an oddly disarming charm to him. Maybe it was something in his voice. He just noticed they’d been making direct eye contact for the last ten seconds or so.
“That’s dark,” The sweaty man warned, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, “there’s bad times ahead if you keep this regret close to your heart. It ain’t something to dwell on. You can’t just lock it away and take it out to gaze on every now and then, like some sort of trinket or precious diamond. You need to be able to process it and let it go. It begins to weigh you down and it blurs your vision. I’ve been down that road son… It ain’t pretty.” His whiskey neat finally arrived and his face lit up. Crash wondered why it took so long.
“Look, these are nice metaphors and all. But this isn’t something I can just pep talk myself out of. I appreciate the chat. What I don’t appreciate you making assumptions about me or my life. But since you’ve been polite I’m also going to assume that you didn’t mean any harm by it. So how about we finish the conversation here and you go enjoy your chicken and waffles in a booth over there?” Crash pointed to a booth whose view was partially blocked by a divider wall with frosted glass. Time seemed to stand still as Crash maintained his compromise and the man sized him up without moving a muscle.
“Okay! Chicken and waffles, right here. There you go!” The skin peeling, sun burnt waitress cheerily delivered the plate in front of the man in the drenched suit at the bar, and took a couple seconds to recognize she might be intruding. She mouthed something that Crash couldn’t catch and walked carefully back to the kitchen. Crash could tell she was trying to act natural, but that’s the thing. It’s when you try to act natural that you really don’t look natural at all.
“Hey, no harm no foul!” The old man spread his arms open innocently, “Don’t get too hung up on our little chit chat, Joey. You’ve got nothing to be worried about. I’ll eat my meal right here and we won’t need to talk anymore.” The sweat was almost pouring through his suit.
“How do you know my name?” Crash stopped pointing at the booth and placed his near hand on the edge of the bar as if to steady himself. He could hear the blood rumbling in his ears.
The sweaty old man in a drenched suit then stretched and his arms and golden bangles started poking through the cuffs. Chunky gold jewellery appeared on his fingers making gentle clicking noises as they brushed past each other.
“Great fortune or a fate worse than death… Not exactly your everyday gamble is it?”
In a split second, Crash saw the replay in his mind of the mystic who foretold his visit, the game of Death's Gambit he played on Mick’s grave the night before The Last of Us Part 2, and now the words of his manager’s ghost coming right out of this sweaty man’s mouth. The breeze had gone. He could hear cicadas buzzing against the windows. Crash slowed his breathing and fought to maintain eye contact even though his gut was telling him to run.
"You don't scare me." Crash lied.
"I’m not here to frighten you. I’m a messenger."
"Give me one good reason to not break your nose right now."
"What you do and what I think don’t matter, remember? Even a child can understand the–"
Crash launched the sweaty man's head directly onto the bar and slammed a fist in his temple. The sweaty man cried out in pain and fell off his chair as the waitress came running.
"Stop! Stop it!” The waitress shrieked. “I'll call the police! Stop it now!"
Crash looked back at the sweaty man. His food was spilling onto the floor and his shaking hands were splattered with maple syrup. The air con was back on and all he could hear was the gentle background music from an old radio. The sweaty man whimpered and pleaded for Joey to not hit him again. Crash looked around at the diner, now oppressive and sterile.
"You listen to me!" Crash hissed, "Mick is dead. I'm glad he's dead! You heard me? I'm glad he's fucking dead. I promise, I swear to God I’ll kill you if I ever see you again!"
"P-p-please don't hu-hurt me…" The old man begged. He slowly moved one shaking hand above his head to protect himself as he cried on the floor. The rings and bangles were gone.
The waitress shouted again for Crash to get out and he acquiesced quickly. The dead, muggy air greeted him as he exited the diner and the door clanged shut behind him. He walked half way down the road and turned back. He thought to himself, he’d never seen that diner there before.
___________
August 13, 2022
3 days before EXP 30
The screen is black and we hear someone take a deep breath and exhale slowly. The screen fades in slowly as the breathing continues and we make out Joey Crash standing in the middle of an old boxing ring under a single spotlight. He’s masked - the same mask he was wearing when he attacked both Bert and Duncan across EXP 28 and 29. He grabs it at the back and pulls it over the front of his face to reveal a shit eating grin.
“You like it? It’s weird, isn’t it. They say you give a man a mask, he’ll show you his true face. Well, I don’t think it took anyone that long to figure out it was me. It was more for me than anyone else. Still… that’s my Halloween costume sorted.”
He carelessly threw the mask behind him like he was a highschool jock tossing away an empty soda can. Like a dick.
“Gotta hand it to The Developer. Or… Trent. However he goes by these days. He’s got a good sense for these things. Bert versus Crash, part three! And I could get a Final Boss shot if I win? That’s a main event if I ever heard one. We could have main evented every time we’ve faced off. And one thing’s for sure - You’re not going to ‘subject to change’ me out of the main event like last time.”
Crash spits on the floor.
“You cost me the main event at The Last of Us where I won the Final Boss Championship! And look what you got for it. A broken neck and six months of your life you’ll never get back. Some people might call that even. Not me. I still can’t believe you did that, Bert. Instead of my crowning glory for my first ever world championship, we got to see spaceman Duncan get all the spotlight. You moved your own Final Boss Championship match against me to the fucking opener because you thought that’s all I was worth. That’s low - even for you. But I’m not going to break your neck again if I can help it. At this point, a fly swatter should do the trick. Pairing us together in singles competition is like watching a guy bring a tank to a gun fight. You know it’s only going to end one way.”
Crash lifts his head back to his shoulders and rotates his neck around and around, stretching and showing off the full range of motion. He grabs his jaw and crown, cracking his neck.
“The question on everyone’s lips here, old Berty, my old chum, is how is Joey Crash gonna do it this time? Will he bust out the backslide for old time’s sake? Maybe he’ll still target your neck and go for the submission? Or maybe Bert won’t be able to handle the distance and gets counted out - you know that one might be my favourite! You have to accept that the outcome of this match isn’t going to be any different than the last, so you may as well let me have some fun with it.”
Crash walks to the ropes and steps out as the camera is awkwardly unmounted off the tripod to follow him. We hear the double doors swing open and closed again as the operator pants and struggles to keep up. The camera finally gets outside to see Crash taking in the air outside, where the sun is slowly setting in the distance behind him.
“But in spite of how happy I am to have this match I am gonna complain. I’m pissed that I can’t just replace you and get my one-on-one rematch with Duncan. The rematch I am owed as the former Final Boss Champion! Instead, I have to share MY opportunity with YOU. Bert McAlroy, a small dog with a harsh bark and a small bite. Anything I’ve ever wanted from you, I’ve gone and taken it because I can. No matter how hard you try, I’m always that little bit better. At this point, it’s a fact of life. A law of nature. You can’t argue with it, it just is.”
Crash begins to laugh but reins it in to continue his point and stares daggers down the barrel of the camera.
“But there’s one thing I feel like I have to say even though I don’t want to. I’ve been biting my lip but I know that if I don’t say it out loud and in plain English, you’re not going to figure it out on your own. If you’re out for blood and you try to destroy me at all costs then you may as well give Duncan a firm pat on the back and congratulate him on retaining the championship. I know that with nothing to stop us we’ll both to the ends of the earth to kill each other. I guess that’s our curse, like moths to the flame. But if you can’t practice any self restraint, and you decide it’s more important to beat me than it is to keep yourself as fresh as you can for the Final Boss Championship, then that’s on you. You won’t be walking out of here if you decide to push the envelope. And how are you going to regain the championship from a hospital bed? You need to admit to yourself that the best chance you have of winning that belt back is if you don’t even try against me. The best shot you have at becoming Final Boss Champion again is if I’m in the ring with you and Duncan. You can’t even beat me on your own. You NEED me to have a fighting chance against the spaceman.”
Crash grabs the camera and holds it steady to deliver his next lines right into the lens.
“So here’s our stage, Bert. The main event of EXP 30. I know you’re a man for the big occasion and you act like you know better than everyone else so if you want to ignore everything I’ve just said and do everything in your power to avenge that pathetic record against me, then do your worst. Just know your chances of winning that championship live and die… With me.”
Crash starts walking away and half turns to shout back at the camera.
“You might think the third time is a charm… But for Joey Crash? It’s a lock!”
