Post by Meatball-kun on Aug 2, 2014 22:45:07 GMT -6
"Mr. Matthews, do you know what hell is?"
"....No."
"It begins in your final days...when the man you became meets the man you could have become."
A Motel
Phoenix, Arizona
3:33 AM
Chuck sits upright in his bed. He breathes heavily, shaken by...something. He feels cold, despite the warmth of the room. He blindly reaches for his phone on the nightstand next to the bed, and glances at the time.
Chuck Matthews: "Jesus..."
He drops the phone lazily on his chest, resting his head against the wall. Again, he reaches to the nightstand. The sound of glass clinking against glass, sliding across the wood of the table...a dull thud as a bottle falls to the floor. Chuck shines the light of his phone onto the stand. All of them, empty. Chuck groans. His head pulses. He knows it won't help...but it seems that's all he's been doing for the last week. Slowly, he pulls himself out of bed.
The room is small. There's two beds placed behind a sofa which faces a small TV propped up on a cheap stand. A dirty window looks out over the parking lot. In the back, there's a tiny bathroom with a rusty metal sink and a toilet...Chuck's not sure what color this originally was. Chuck rubs his face. It's been a while since he's last shaved. Or showered, for that matter. Part of it was because he had no intention of using the public shower across the lot...but even if he did, he had no desire to move. For the last week, he'd been here...rotting away in a cheap motel in Phoenix. He'd left after the-....after the funeral. He hadn't been back since.
His phone was his only lifeline anymore, though he hadn't really used it for anything. He'd called his mother at some point, and explained to her what happened...but he had never disclosed where he had gone. He spoke to Jessica once, just because he felt some strange compulsion to do so. Besides that, though...an occasional drunken tweet here and there, but he'd had no contact with the world outside his tiny motel room. This had been his world for a week, aside from the lonely trek down the block to the 7-11, where he could buy cheap booze to keep him numb for the next night. Maybe he would drink himself to death. That wouldn't be so bad.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Sunday, July 20
Matthews Residence
Chicago, Illinois
Sofia Sinclair: "Don't you have a match tomorrow?"
Chuck shrugs. He did. He knew he did. But with the news of Blake's death the night before, Chuck couldn't really bring himself to do anything. He hadn't so much as packed his stuff yet. On the one hand, it was habitual. He kept to a fairly strict schedule most of the time. He'd leave for the show on Friday, spend the weekend resting up and getting ready, then compete on Monday. Then Tuesday morning, it was back to Chicago, where he'd wait for his next match. Sofia had offered to move to California with him, if it would make it easier for travel. Chuck shot the idea down immediately. He was used to the travel; there was once a point in his career where he was flying somewhere new every week. Truth be told, a trip to California every two weeks was a godsend. But he refused to live there. California was an entirely different breed of people, and not one Chuck particularly enjoyed.
Sofia Sinclair: "Do you want to talk?"
Chuck stares at her for a moment. Her eyes are already beginning to turn red, and tears are welling up. Eventually, Chuck would need to face this. In two days, they would be burying their first child...and it still hadn't quite sunk in yet that this was something he needed to do.
Chuck Matthews: "No."
Sofia Sinclair: "You can't just-"
Chuck Matthews: "Yes, I can."
Sofia lets out a sob, and shakes her head before retreating from the room. Chuck sits in silence for a moment, listening to her hushed cries heading up the stairs. The tears hadn't quite hit him yet. Sofia didn't understand it. She couldn't. Truthfully, Chuck wasn't quite sure of it himself. Maybe because it hadn't quite hit him. He was still trying to let it process. It wasn't that it didn't hurt. No...it hurt like hell. But for some reason that Chuck couldn't explain, he just couldn't show it. And it bothered Sofia. And, maybe, in some way...it bothered Chuck, too.
A faint buzzing snaps Chuck back to his living room. Fucking cell phone. He glances at the number. There's a moment of hesitation where Chuck seriously considers hurling the phone across the room. He decides against it, and answers.
Chuck Matthews: "What."
It wasn't a question.
Thomas Byrne: "Mr. Matthews, we've got something here we think you need to see."
Chuck Matthews: "Not now, Byrne."
Thomas Byrne: "I'm afraid it can't wait."
Chuck clenches his teeth.
Chuck Matthews: "What's this about?"
Thomas Byrne: "We have reason to believe that this Rebecca Dalton you dealt with a few weeks ago isn't exactly who she says."
Chuck thinks back. The name rang a bell. The MMA woman from Japan. Right.
Chuck Matthews: "What about her?"
Thomas Byrne: "We contacted a few officials in the company she claimed to work for. The company doesn't exist."
Chuck Matthews: "Sure it does. I went to their corporate offices. I met one of their fighters."
Thomas Byrne: "With all due respect, Mr. Matthews, I don't know where she took you, but it wasn't a corporate office of any existing company. I don't want to jump to conclusions...but I think you may have just lost your company a half million dollars-"
Byrne's voice is silenced as the phone sails through the air, and smashes against the wall.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Chuck Matthews: "I've got your number.
I won't get cocky. That's not really my style. Never has been. There's no threat that I don't take seriously. No single person that I don't see for their every strength and their every exploitable weakness. It's part of the reason I've garnered so much momentum during my EXODUS tenure.
And let's talk about that, shall we? Let's talk about that momentum. Always building...always gathering more force. Always moving a little faster, getting a little stronger. Week by week, month by month, match by match, I've been crawling my way up. Slowly, granted. My trek skyward has been slow, maybe far slower than most people. But the question you need to ask yourselves is-...well, I suppose you know by now what my favorite question is, don't you?
Why?
Why is it that Chuck Matthews is taking his time, when he's never done so before? I mean...I don't think I'm tooting my own horn when I say I'm a respected competitor. I don't think there are a whole lot of people who will disagree that I've done some pretty cool things in this business. I believe a few of you are even aware I've been inducted into some sort of hall of fame or something...a feat that, you'll notice, I never mention, and one that I'm not particularly proud of.
But the respect is there. Maybe not as a person, good heavens, no. But as a professional wrestler. As a star who can bring something new to the table. As someone with all the talent to do great things in this business. Who has something to teach the newcomers to the industry. THAT is what they respect me for. Now, the kicker?
I'm only twenty-six.
What's the point? The point is that my career has been one long story of "fast and hard." I hit the ground running in this business, and it didn't take me long before I was fighting some of the best in the world, and beating them at their own game. But here...in EXODUS...I'm not really doing that, am I? I'm not chasing the world title...or any title, for that matter. No, instead, I've been biding my time. Waiting. Keeping my cards close to my chest.
And that's by design. I mean...how could you argue otherwise? I mean, sure, you can argue that there are powers that be that won't let me anywhere near the top...but at the end of the day, who are they really hurting? The bottom line is this: I have proven my ability against everyone and everything that EXODUS has thrown at me. I've beaten damn near everyone they've sent my way...and those rare instances where I've lost? I don't think there's a soul in the building who didn't think I put on a bad match. I don't have bad matches. I don't make mistakes. That's just one of those things that makes me so dangerous.
But, of course, it's a never ending puzzle. It's all a big game now...for me, at least. For EXODUS, for the powers that be, it's a riddle they can't solve. It's a puzzle they can't crack: How do you stop Chuck Matthews?
I mean...they know they can BEAT me. Shit, it's not terribly difficult to beat me, especially when I sit here every other week and tell you in the plainest terms how to do it. But to stop me...to beat me to the point that I can't get up...to halt my plans in their tracks, stop my momentum, put everything on hold? THAT is a little more complicated.
And it is exactly that which has been tasked to each and every person who has stepped up to face me. Find the crack in the armor. Find the blind spot. The break in the wall. Figure out what it is that Chuck Matthews falls to. Figure out what it is that he can't plan for...that he can't see coming. Figure out the weakness.
Has anybody been able to find it? Kerry Windsor, maybe. He beat me. Steve Lenton, possibly. He's beat me, too. You know who hasn't managed to figure it out? The new faces like Nathaniel Dixon. Demento. The old faces. Kliff Ulysses. Zack Lifer. Angela Jameson.
...and then there's you, Abby.
Now, you and I are no strangers to each other, are we? You are, in fact, the second person, after Mr. Windsor, who has fought me on more than one occasion. And, of course, we've all heard the hype. We all know what they're pushing this match as. We know what match they're going to bring up:
The Crucible.
Christ, that seems like almost a lifetime ago now, doesn't it? Do you remember that, Abby? You entered it at number one. I walked in at number two...the move that surprised everyone. That was when people first began to see my plan for what it was. The moment I decided to enter at number two was the moment people started realizing: Chuck Matthews is not like everybody else. Chuck Matthews is not interested in personal glory, or championships, or success...no, Chuck Matthews has his sights set a little bit higher.
That freight train of momentum I mentioned? Always building, with each successive win, with each match that goes by...but what's it building towards? What am I after? I've spent months adding on more pressure, more power, tacking on more wins. And when that train hits the end of the line and bulldozes straight through...what do I have waiting for me on the other side?
I'm sure you'll try and convince me how much has changed since we last met, Abby. I'm sure you'll tell me about how angry you are, how you're going to channel your frustration into the energy you need to beat me. But I wonder if you realize it isn't going to help you.
I want you to think back to that match, Abby. The Crucible. You and I fought with everything we had. We fought through to the final six. You damn well had energy then, didn't you? You showed tenacity that I don't think anyone quite expected from you. But do you remember what took it all away?
One well-placed, opportunistic spear.
But let's go back a little bit. Let's go one match further. San Diego, two weeks before the Crucible. Dan Stein, Abby Park, Angela Jameson, and Chuck Matthews, main eventing the show, vying for the chance to choose their spot in the big match. Winner chose his entry...loser entered at number one.
I think a lot of people have forgotten about that, Abby. I won't take away what you did in that match. You put on a show-stealing performance that night. But let's not forget who it was that put you there. Let's not forget the reason you HAD to enter in at number one in the first place. Do you remember?
One...well-placed...opportunistic...spear.
The pattern is starting to show, isn't it darlin'? You've got energy. You have intensity. I've seen it. I've fought it. I've beat it. You intend to break me by just..adding more? Like that's going to magically solve all your problems? I don't think you yet realize: All the intensity, all the tenacity? It's just not getting the job done. For every hit you take, I'm taking one just as hard. For every impressive match you've had lately, I've put on one just a bit better. And that's supposed to be different now? Suddenly you're going to dig down deep and find what it takes to beat me?
The trick, my dearest Park, is not to add to your own strength. The trick is to take away mine. That's the problem you face. Your solution to beating me is to dig deep. You're counting on you having the night of your life, but is that really your wisest decision? You intend to take out your frustrations with Mr. Cannon on me in order to beat me...and I laugh at that, and do you know why?
Because an angry mind is a mind that makes mistakes.
And if you need any further evidence of why it's dangerous to make mistakes against me, look at my last match. Look at Kliff Ulysses having the upper hand. Look at Kliff controlling the pace. Look at the way it seemed like he had finally figured out the secret to beating Chuck Matthews...and then look at where it all went downhill.
One........well-placed........opportunistic.........spear.
That's what I'd like you to think about. That's what all of your focus needs to be on. One more spear, Abby, and it's all over. That's all I need. Just that one tiniest window of opportunity. That one moment that you don't see coming. That one split second when you take your eyes off me. Can you afford to be distracted? Can you guarantee that your head is completely and totally in this match? Because I don't think I need to reiterate what will happen if you let it wander for even a moment. If your head isn't in the game from the opening bell to the finish.
But like you said...you're frustrated. You're angry. You've got Johnny boy on your mind...not me. So ask yourself, Abby:
Who are you really helping?"
"....No."
"It begins in your final days...when the man you became meets the man you could have become."
A Motel
Phoenix, Arizona
3:33 AM
Chuck sits upright in his bed. He breathes heavily, shaken by...something. He feels cold, despite the warmth of the room. He blindly reaches for his phone on the nightstand next to the bed, and glances at the time.
Chuck Matthews: "Jesus..."
He drops the phone lazily on his chest, resting his head against the wall. Again, he reaches to the nightstand. The sound of glass clinking against glass, sliding across the wood of the table...a dull thud as a bottle falls to the floor. Chuck shines the light of his phone onto the stand. All of them, empty. Chuck groans. His head pulses. He knows it won't help...but it seems that's all he's been doing for the last week. Slowly, he pulls himself out of bed.
The room is small. There's two beds placed behind a sofa which faces a small TV propped up on a cheap stand. A dirty window looks out over the parking lot. In the back, there's a tiny bathroom with a rusty metal sink and a toilet...Chuck's not sure what color this originally was. Chuck rubs his face. It's been a while since he's last shaved. Or showered, for that matter. Part of it was because he had no intention of using the public shower across the lot...but even if he did, he had no desire to move. For the last week, he'd been here...rotting away in a cheap motel in Phoenix. He'd left after the-....after the funeral. He hadn't been back since.
His phone was his only lifeline anymore, though he hadn't really used it for anything. He'd called his mother at some point, and explained to her what happened...but he had never disclosed where he had gone. He spoke to Jessica once, just because he felt some strange compulsion to do so. Besides that, though...an occasional drunken tweet here and there, but he'd had no contact with the world outside his tiny motel room. This had been his world for a week, aside from the lonely trek down the block to the 7-11, where he could buy cheap booze to keep him numb for the next night. Maybe he would drink himself to death. That wouldn't be so bad.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Sunday, July 20
Matthews Residence
Chicago, Illinois
Sofia Sinclair: "Don't you have a match tomorrow?"
Chuck shrugs. He did. He knew he did. But with the news of Blake's death the night before, Chuck couldn't really bring himself to do anything. He hadn't so much as packed his stuff yet. On the one hand, it was habitual. He kept to a fairly strict schedule most of the time. He'd leave for the show on Friday, spend the weekend resting up and getting ready, then compete on Monday. Then Tuesday morning, it was back to Chicago, where he'd wait for his next match. Sofia had offered to move to California with him, if it would make it easier for travel. Chuck shot the idea down immediately. He was used to the travel; there was once a point in his career where he was flying somewhere new every week. Truth be told, a trip to California every two weeks was a godsend. But he refused to live there. California was an entirely different breed of people, and not one Chuck particularly enjoyed.
Sofia Sinclair: "Do you want to talk?"
Chuck stares at her for a moment. Her eyes are already beginning to turn red, and tears are welling up. Eventually, Chuck would need to face this. In two days, they would be burying their first child...and it still hadn't quite sunk in yet that this was something he needed to do.
Chuck Matthews: "No."
Sofia Sinclair: "You can't just-"
Chuck Matthews: "Yes, I can."
Sofia lets out a sob, and shakes her head before retreating from the room. Chuck sits in silence for a moment, listening to her hushed cries heading up the stairs. The tears hadn't quite hit him yet. Sofia didn't understand it. She couldn't. Truthfully, Chuck wasn't quite sure of it himself. Maybe because it hadn't quite hit him. He was still trying to let it process. It wasn't that it didn't hurt. No...it hurt like hell. But for some reason that Chuck couldn't explain, he just couldn't show it. And it bothered Sofia. And, maybe, in some way...it bothered Chuck, too.
A faint buzzing snaps Chuck back to his living room. Fucking cell phone. He glances at the number. There's a moment of hesitation where Chuck seriously considers hurling the phone across the room. He decides against it, and answers.
Chuck Matthews: "What."
It wasn't a question.
Thomas Byrne: "Mr. Matthews, we've got something here we think you need to see."
Chuck Matthews: "Not now, Byrne."
Thomas Byrne: "I'm afraid it can't wait."
Chuck clenches his teeth.
Chuck Matthews: "What's this about?"
Thomas Byrne: "We have reason to believe that this Rebecca Dalton you dealt with a few weeks ago isn't exactly who she says."
Chuck thinks back. The name rang a bell. The MMA woman from Japan. Right.
Chuck Matthews: "What about her?"
Thomas Byrne: "We contacted a few officials in the company she claimed to work for. The company doesn't exist."
Chuck Matthews: "Sure it does. I went to their corporate offices. I met one of their fighters."
Thomas Byrne: "With all due respect, Mr. Matthews, I don't know where she took you, but it wasn't a corporate office of any existing company. I don't want to jump to conclusions...but I think you may have just lost your company a half million dollars-"
Byrne's voice is silenced as the phone sails through the air, and smashes against the wall.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Chuck Matthews: "I've got your number.
I won't get cocky. That's not really my style. Never has been. There's no threat that I don't take seriously. No single person that I don't see for their every strength and their every exploitable weakness. It's part of the reason I've garnered so much momentum during my EXODUS tenure.
And let's talk about that, shall we? Let's talk about that momentum. Always building...always gathering more force. Always moving a little faster, getting a little stronger. Week by week, month by month, match by match, I've been crawling my way up. Slowly, granted. My trek skyward has been slow, maybe far slower than most people. But the question you need to ask yourselves is-...well, I suppose you know by now what my favorite question is, don't you?
Why?
Why is it that Chuck Matthews is taking his time, when he's never done so before? I mean...I don't think I'm tooting my own horn when I say I'm a respected competitor. I don't think there are a whole lot of people who will disagree that I've done some pretty cool things in this business. I believe a few of you are even aware I've been inducted into some sort of hall of fame or something...a feat that, you'll notice, I never mention, and one that I'm not particularly proud of.
But the respect is there. Maybe not as a person, good heavens, no. But as a professional wrestler. As a star who can bring something new to the table. As someone with all the talent to do great things in this business. Who has something to teach the newcomers to the industry. THAT is what they respect me for. Now, the kicker?
I'm only twenty-six.
What's the point? The point is that my career has been one long story of "fast and hard." I hit the ground running in this business, and it didn't take me long before I was fighting some of the best in the world, and beating them at their own game. But here...in EXODUS...I'm not really doing that, am I? I'm not chasing the world title...or any title, for that matter. No, instead, I've been biding my time. Waiting. Keeping my cards close to my chest.
And that's by design. I mean...how could you argue otherwise? I mean, sure, you can argue that there are powers that be that won't let me anywhere near the top...but at the end of the day, who are they really hurting? The bottom line is this: I have proven my ability against everyone and everything that EXODUS has thrown at me. I've beaten damn near everyone they've sent my way...and those rare instances where I've lost? I don't think there's a soul in the building who didn't think I put on a bad match. I don't have bad matches. I don't make mistakes. That's just one of those things that makes me so dangerous.
But, of course, it's a never ending puzzle. It's all a big game now...for me, at least. For EXODUS, for the powers that be, it's a riddle they can't solve. It's a puzzle they can't crack: How do you stop Chuck Matthews?
I mean...they know they can BEAT me. Shit, it's not terribly difficult to beat me, especially when I sit here every other week and tell you in the plainest terms how to do it. But to stop me...to beat me to the point that I can't get up...to halt my plans in their tracks, stop my momentum, put everything on hold? THAT is a little more complicated.
And it is exactly that which has been tasked to each and every person who has stepped up to face me. Find the crack in the armor. Find the blind spot. The break in the wall. Figure out what it is that Chuck Matthews falls to. Figure out what it is that he can't plan for...that he can't see coming. Figure out the weakness.
Has anybody been able to find it? Kerry Windsor, maybe. He beat me. Steve Lenton, possibly. He's beat me, too. You know who hasn't managed to figure it out? The new faces like Nathaniel Dixon. Demento. The old faces. Kliff Ulysses. Zack Lifer. Angela Jameson.
...and then there's you, Abby.
Now, you and I are no strangers to each other, are we? You are, in fact, the second person, after Mr. Windsor, who has fought me on more than one occasion. And, of course, we've all heard the hype. We all know what they're pushing this match as. We know what match they're going to bring up:
The Crucible.
Christ, that seems like almost a lifetime ago now, doesn't it? Do you remember that, Abby? You entered it at number one. I walked in at number two...the move that surprised everyone. That was when people first began to see my plan for what it was. The moment I decided to enter at number two was the moment people started realizing: Chuck Matthews is not like everybody else. Chuck Matthews is not interested in personal glory, or championships, or success...no, Chuck Matthews has his sights set a little bit higher.
That freight train of momentum I mentioned? Always building, with each successive win, with each match that goes by...but what's it building towards? What am I after? I've spent months adding on more pressure, more power, tacking on more wins. And when that train hits the end of the line and bulldozes straight through...what do I have waiting for me on the other side?
I'm sure you'll try and convince me how much has changed since we last met, Abby. I'm sure you'll tell me about how angry you are, how you're going to channel your frustration into the energy you need to beat me. But I wonder if you realize it isn't going to help you.
I want you to think back to that match, Abby. The Crucible. You and I fought with everything we had. We fought through to the final six. You damn well had energy then, didn't you? You showed tenacity that I don't think anyone quite expected from you. But do you remember what took it all away?
One well-placed, opportunistic spear.
But let's go back a little bit. Let's go one match further. San Diego, two weeks before the Crucible. Dan Stein, Abby Park, Angela Jameson, and Chuck Matthews, main eventing the show, vying for the chance to choose their spot in the big match. Winner chose his entry...loser entered at number one.
I think a lot of people have forgotten about that, Abby. I won't take away what you did in that match. You put on a show-stealing performance that night. But let's not forget who it was that put you there. Let's not forget the reason you HAD to enter in at number one in the first place. Do you remember?
One...well-placed...opportunistic...spear.
The pattern is starting to show, isn't it darlin'? You've got energy. You have intensity. I've seen it. I've fought it. I've beat it. You intend to break me by just..adding more? Like that's going to magically solve all your problems? I don't think you yet realize: All the intensity, all the tenacity? It's just not getting the job done. For every hit you take, I'm taking one just as hard. For every impressive match you've had lately, I've put on one just a bit better. And that's supposed to be different now? Suddenly you're going to dig down deep and find what it takes to beat me?
The trick, my dearest Park, is not to add to your own strength. The trick is to take away mine. That's the problem you face. Your solution to beating me is to dig deep. You're counting on you having the night of your life, but is that really your wisest decision? You intend to take out your frustrations with Mr. Cannon on me in order to beat me...and I laugh at that, and do you know why?
Because an angry mind is a mind that makes mistakes.
And if you need any further evidence of why it's dangerous to make mistakes against me, look at my last match. Look at Kliff Ulysses having the upper hand. Look at Kliff controlling the pace. Look at the way it seemed like he had finally figured out the secret to beating Chuck Matthews...and then look at where it all went downhill.
One........well-placed........opportunistic.........spear.
That's what I'd like you to think about. That's what all of your focus needs to be on. One more spear, Abby, and it's all over. That's all I need. Just that one tiniest window of opportunity. That one moment that you don't see coming. That one split second when you take your eyes off me. Can you afford to be distracted? Can you guarantee that your head is completely and totally in this match? Because I don't think I need to reiterate what will happen if you let it wander for even a moment. If your head isn't in the game from the opening bell to the finish.
But like you said...you're frustrated. You're angry. You've got Johnny boy on your mind...not me. So ask yourself, Abby:
Who are you really helping?"