Threaded Mode | Linear Mode

Chris Chaos · (09-19-2017)

The lights are on, but they are always on. They are on, and the stage is set. The curtain is down, and the crowd is filing in. You can hear them shuffling. Your sweat is growing increasingly colder. Shivers down your spine and legs, goosebumps forming on your arms---but it is warm in the building. The AC hasn't worked for weeks.

This is your last shot. Your final opportunity. You have nothing else to fall back on, because you made your name off one thing you did well. Nobody can be successful doing only one thing right, but you have coasted off your success and now you want to give it one more go. You need the money, anyway. As the lights began to dim, your thoughts began to wander. It was almost go time. Show time. Your time.

All that time ago, many, many moons before, you were spry and energetic. Your approach was fresh, it was electric. It was never before seen. Unique. The next big thing, so to speak. You were so proud of it. It made you feel alive, it made you feel whole. Your act, which made no sense but was loosely themed on nature's practical joke, the Panda, was a fan favorite. You blew up from it. Your name was etched forever in stone from it. You were a *champion* from it. It defined you.

Panda.

Your desperation. Your "if it ain't broke, don't fix it" mantra. Not just a Panda, but an angry one. It killed. The crowds ate it like fat men at McDonalds.

You ate up their attention, but why? Because it was your first taste of it. First taste of the crowd cheers, first taste of the headlines. Before your new act, your new face, your new self, you had dabbled in the fame before, but you had failed. You gave it your all, you fell flat on your face, and gave up in a huffing fit. Walked out. Quit.

Done.

But you couldn't leave it alone, could you? You sat home, watching on television all of your peers do what you do on television. But do it so much better. It pained you. Your rival, a man so much better at your own game, was at the top of the world. He was the bar, the summit, the entire universe.

Universe, yes, you could use that. You could change everything up, you could assume you were the top and tell everyone just how great you were, but nobody believed it because you didn't believe it. You had to show it, but you needed to change something else. Become an "enigma", be spontaneous. Less serious, more witty. More goofy. More sarcastic.

More transparent.

You came up with a routine, and you stuck to it. Killing at smaller clubs with smaller crowds, your confidence to perform on the grand stage grew. You had pissed off a lot of people--not just because you quit when you didn't get your way but because you were such a douchebag to those only trying to help better you--and your road back was going to be steeper than Everest.

Kudos for trying. Kudos for not keeping your stuff packed in those boxes and those shutters on the house closed. Kudos for putting away the Ramen noodles and making plans for filet mignon and champagne. No more balling on a budget for this guy.

Kudos.

Performance after performance, success after success. You were living the life. You felt untouchable. Your competition had written you off long before, but now they were beginning to take notice. You were climbing up the ranks of the performance world at a steady pace, and it wasn't long before you were booked on the same type of cards of the man you hated.

The man you wanted to partner with but he turned you down.

The man who caused you to slave over the white board for days to come up with a name. An icon, who lasted. ICONOLAST. It made perfect sense. You pitched it to him, but he brushed you off. You were below him. He had been in the game for longer, successful for longer, better for longer.

You made it your goal to beat him. To be what he was and more. You looked up to him behind closed doors but when those lights came on you trashed him every chance you got. You idolized him when the lights went off.

He meant so much to you that when he killed it, and you actually killed it, you couldn't take it. You had a nervous breakdown because you truly thought your act was better, but when the chips fell as he came out the victor, you decided to walk away.

To the victor goes the spoiles.

The world would be a lot better without you in it, wouldn't it? You can't keep it real, because you can't even keep it realistic.

Looking at the back of that curtain you knew what lie behind it.

What LIES lay behind it.

You knew you had just one more shot before they gave up on you for good.

You swallowed hard as the PA began to chirp. It was about to open, but deep down inside the bowels of your soul, you wished it would just stay closed.

Memories slamming through you like a wrecking ball, your brain a whirlwind. You had come back. Your act wasn't better, but different. Cool lights, shiny production. All the colors of the rainbow. It was visually stimulating. It was all a mask to hide inadequacies you felt within yourself.

Bringing your thoughts back to Panda, you smile with an empty grin. It worked before, so it will work again, right? They loved it before, why won't they love it now?

Your fingers thumb through the old magazine and newspaper clippings. "Act of the Month! Panda was amazing!" You weren't having second thoughts, you rushed into this. Promotion is half the battle. Your voice was the first that was heard. Come back out and see me do Panda, yet again, a little different, but really still the same.

Yes. Still at the core it was really the same.

Black and white. No grey area. Your creative and artistic flame extinguished, you reach for old tricks to add to a new show. It was a flash in the pan, and now your trying to keep the burner going with a gasoline shortage. Your trying to fill the tank when there is nothing left but ethanol.....the other ingidiants are gone.

But that is fine. Cut corners, right? It is what you always do, and how you became successful before.

You were up on stage, with the lights, doing your Panda act when it all collapsed. You were losing, the crowd was booing and the kitchen had closed--otherwise, you would have been covered with tomatoes.

The owner, seeing your tanking like the Afghani's saw the Soviets, knew he needed to protect his investment. Your rival had an act as well, and your Panda routine was so successful the first go-round that it just might be better than he........

.......just maybe.

One of the two of you was going to be his claim to fame. One of the two of you was going to put cash in the grocery store registers for a long time to come. It was going to fuel his addiction to cocaine and strip clubs. He didn't want to give up his life, so he entered the stage like the Sandman at the Apollo. This time, however, he didn't bring the hook to pull a body off. He interacted, brought the crowd back, and made a split second decision. He wasn't thinking, but you were. You were always thinking. You always were quick on your feet; it was one of th reasons your bullshit lasted so long. You always has a new idea and a new outlook. Seat of your pants was your favorite type of flying.

He had made his decision, and he chose your rival. Your Panda act was good, but it was getting stale. Only problem was, he wasn't an entertainer. He wasn't a performer anymore. He was rusty. He made a decision, and your rival began to tank. The champion of the grandest stage fell in one split second decision and you basked in it like a lobster in hot butter. You knew you were a pubic hair length away from your career ending again---because lets face it a loss there would have prompted another hair pulling rage quit---but now you had a reason to live again. You told everyone how great you were. You put the Universe title in your name, wrote it creatively beause that is your strong suit, creativity. You were on top of the world while a man who had done nothing but be in the wrong place at the wrong time flounded like a beached whale in sudden and soul crushing mediocrity.

It killed him, but it propelled you. The only difference with your rival and yourself, he is built for the long term. He is built to last. You are built for a quickie. A one minute man, if you will. You know it. Everyone has always told you they loved what you do but they want to see more.

Feel more.

Experience more.

So as you sit here now, ready to dance like a marianet in front of these people yet again, you give them 'Panda'. Just a Panda Remix. Your cockiness hasn't allowed you to come up with anything else. Any subsequent act you come up with from here on out will just be different versions of Panda--for better or worse.

You didn't last long as top Panda. A bearded poacher ambushed you in your natural habitat, and showed the world just how basic Panda was. You quit again because what did you have without your beloved Panda.

But after sitting around jerking off into tubesocks and eating the same damn TV dinners for months on end, you decided to give it one more go. You decided you love what you do and it has been long enough for them to forget your original Panda, and to show them a new one.

A panda is a panda is a panda.

Problem with Panda's, they all look the same.

But you are an optimist. Like a DJ midway through the night, playing the same song for the 5th time. 'These people either weren't here when I played it before, or they are drunk and won't remember. Either way they will dance.' The sad truth is, they weren't that drunk. They remember, they all remember. They dance because they enjoy the product, but who doesn't like old classics every once and a while? But after the 4th or 5th time, they begin to lose respect and you begin to lose credibility. You had a hot mix, you had the club hopping, but now the dance floor is more barren than a morticians pussy.

Dead.

Gone.

Empty.

Because you can't let go.

The crowd is roaring behind the curtain. They want to see something new. They expect quality, you want to give them quantity. New and fresh, old and tired.

What is the differnce?

Surely there is none.

You refuse to believe that anyone doesn't like you, and that is exactly the reason that nobody does. As your thumb flipping comes to an end and the lights go out, your strobe show begins. Your fancy, cool looking, awe-inspiring show is born again. You stare at the back of the curtain. They begin to chant your name.

You are like an artist, popular back in the 90's, who has come to town yet again. They want to sing along but hope they can tell their friends that you are still relevant in the game with something new.

Your not.

The chanting gets louder. The screams begin. You smile as you stand up and walk towards the curtain. Picking up your Panda head, you put it on. The red velvet rolls up and there is a collective sigh.

Here we go again.

C U R T A I N S C L O S E D

Yes, Gabe Reno, I am still alive.

I'll be damned!

Still dancing in my Panda suit and soaking in all my Panda glory.

I wanted to thank you, but I never got the chance. You were gone before I got a chance. Jim Caedus had replaced you faster than cells split, and Panda had died off. I didn't bother to write, seemed pointless. I was left in limbo while you sat home alternating between hopeful excitement and suicidal pessimism. Hopeful that they would remember the smiling face of Gabe Reno. Pessimistic that they forgot so fast.

You defined me. You made me what I am. Losing to you, weirdly enough, helped me. It helped me with the fans, it helped me with the locker room, and most importantly it helped me with myself. I rose to become a legend, you became a one hit wonder. I rose to levels hardly seen before in this business. You were sitting on your couch. I was called Panda for about a month. You were Universal Champion for less than that.

You brought your A game, possibly even your A+. I'll give you that. I didn't expect it after I beat you the first time with relative ease, and I was pleasently surprised to see you had a pulse in there somewhere.

When you left, I'll admit, I had a sigh of relief I could not hide. You left me with Jim Caedus, a thorn in my side sharper than you ever were or could be, but at least Jim is a man. Jim isn't a sniveling little rat who runs and hides at the first sign of adversity. He isn't a tool who cries when daddy says he can't have the new toy. Jim Caedus is twice the man you are, if not more.

Jim Caedus is also the toughest competitor I have ever been in the ring with. He is a man who some may say, "has my number." You, Gabe, you simply got lucky. Once. So go ahead, refer to me as Panda for the umpteenth time and I will show you my teeth. Your not a panda poacher, your a panda petter. You use this animal to validate yourself. You use it to stroke your ego while stroking its fur. You use it to feel better.

You prove that every time you open your mouth.

I was excited to see what you would have for me this week. I was excited to see what creative ideas you would have conjured up in your self-inflicted time off. What did you come up with? Panda Part 2.

I'd slow clap if there was something worth clapping for.

Why do you make this so easy?

My defining moment was holding that title high in the air after defeating 5 other men who will no doubt go on to be hall-of-famers in this business. Your defining moment was a promo called Panda. I was the new guy who was taking the company by storm, you were the new guy who was begging me to team with you.

Don't remember that?

The phone calls, the voicemail's, the texts, the emails. Your ideas for what we could be. Over and over and over. You had a name for us before I could even process that you wanted to team with me. If you can't beat them, join them. What do I mean? Well, you had your chance to be me. What do I mean?

You had a chance to take my opportunity. My chance to slay the dragon, to squash the monster, to stop the chaos.

To throw a wrench into the train and lock the brakes on the runaway train, to kill it while it was still in its infant stages. You could have aborted the chaos.

But you didn't, because you couldn't. You don't remember when we first danced the tango? Chris Chaos, the young upstart vs. Gabe Reno, the younger upstart. Two men who could and would define the future of this company. I saw you as just another warm body. You saw me as the gateway.

You were winning matches, I had been for some time. I don't know whose anal beads you used as an abacus to get the match you got when you did, but you had a one on one with me with a chance to make something of yourself. A name. A legacy. An ICON. You got to take my spot in the chamber. If you won, you could have been the Universal Champion in a shorter amount of time being here than I did. THAT would have been something special.

But that didn't happen did it?

No. You lost. You got taken to school. You looked foolish. You looked out of your league.

I was the Panda, you were the bamboo.

So you knew that riding with me, you could get better. You could leach off me, and learn from me simultaneously. YOU could be something if you joined with ME.

But I spurned you. I shunned you. I cast you out like a pregnant teen in an old Christian community. I wanted nothing to do with someone I considered a victim. Especially one as annoying as you.

That upset you, that pissed you off, but it made you better. You weren't ready. It didn't make sense for me at the time, and I didn't feel like I needed to lower myself to your level. That drove you.

We then had our subsequent battles. I was the Universal Champion and you were rising through the ranks. You were the cheated on wife, wanting to get revenge. I rubbed it in your face by joining AX3. I flaunted that while you rode solo and built your resume. We were at each others throats, attacking each other more and more as shows waned on........

.........then you had another chance. You put out Panda and won the XWF world over. I did what I do, and came into that match as confident as possible.

We all know what happened from there.

You beat me as far as the record books are concerned. You beat me as far as the backstage pages are concerned. But we both know you never beat me. We had beaten the hell out of each other. Neither of us had the advantage. That match had draw written all over it.

The rest is history.

You had some choice words for the man directly responsible for your success here. You had quite the vocbulary pertaining to Vinnie Lane when you were throwing your little bitch fit.

But that is all it was. A bitch fit. Like you told me....

Your fury bitching was a lot cuter when you were Champion.

Key word.

WERE.

We start at square one. Neither of us are champion and both of us are feuled by hate. We have the reasoning, the motivation, all that is left is closing that cage door.

Then its time for me to finally come for me to close the curtain on the Gabe Reno chapter. Because when I do.....all of your fury bitching will be just that.......

Fury and bitching.

No substance.

No reason.

Nothing to show for it.

Nothing but excuses.

Curtain Closed.

C U R T A I N S C L O S E D

Chapter 1

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode CURTAINS CLOSED Part1
Author	Message