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X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » "Savage Saturday Night" RP Board
And Scars, Healed or Otherwise
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Steven Cooper Offline
Registered but either hasn't added self to a roster yet or doesn't RP



XWF FanBase:
Traditionalists

(has an old school wrestling mentality; no nonsense; less appealing to some younger fans)


#1
08-13-2021, 08:03 PM

OOC: Fully coding either later tonight or in the morning.

And I'm up high
Trying to say goodbye
The only way I know how
Crude and graceless



Steven stood at the entrance to the graveyard, some tiny place in the middle of Texas he had to search for a good couple of hours online to find. He was somewhat accustomed to the imagery of tombstones and flowers having lived the life that chose him. But where there was a solemnity on past visits, this occasion felt far different. A torrent of rain poured from the heavens upon the overcast scene, only a bit of light illuminating the clouds above that made navigating the place remotely possible. The downpour itself made even looking a few feet ahead of yourself an arduous task. To Cooper’s weary eyes, it complicated the journey further inward to an almost insurmountable degree. Almost. He took a few steps forward, taking great care to not step on any graves. Despite wearing a trenchcoat and carrying an umbrella, the rain managed to pelt him from all directions, soaking his clothes and causing the damp cloth to stick to his skin. Only one thing he carried was protected from the heavy rain, a plastic bag carrying something very precious that he kept close to his body with his forearm underneath the trenchcoat. The cooling effect of the rain on his skin brought a memory of a familiar sensation.



Two days earlier
Avalanche HQ

As he lay upon the tile of the closest bathroom to his room, Coop exhaled. It seemed like these feelings of nausea were getting less frequent, but each time they reemerged was a shock to Coop’s system. Like a freight train colliding with the side of his skull in a violent rejection of what little would stay in his stomach. But the tile, for its rigid structure, managed to be pleasantly cold on this night. As the warm feeling of his escaping breaths travelling over his shoulder relaxed him further, the reverberating steps of a modern giant caught his attention. Looking somewhat up, but not moving much, Cooper was met by the inquisitive gaze of Thias Watts.

“Now what the fuck is up wit’ you, old man?”

Thias was a fellow Avalanche member, albeit one Steven hadn’t had much interaction with. He always kind of regretted that, hearing through the grapevine that Thias had a few skeletons in his closet. Sure, Steve was an old school dude, but not to the degree that other “old-school” guys were back when he was up and coming. Back then, if an older guy saw you being the next big thing and he couldn’t hitch his cart to you, he’d do anything possible to make sure you barely got to ride. Coop had lost count at how many of his contemporaries had missed out on opportunities just so they wouldn’t take the limelight away from someone new. Maybe that’s why he was so compelled to join Avalanche. Making sure kids like Eobard, Thias, Ned… shit, even Dean Rose got a fair shake was important to him. It was something he could leave behind, in the ring and out.

“Uh, Coop? You good?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cooper finally let out, “just thought my body heat might help the spackling process. You know how it is.”

Thias snorted, clearly caught off guard slightly by The Trooper’s words.

“Well, I don’t know ‘bout you, but I don’t exactly use this room to lounge in. Unless you wanna start smellin’ lunch again, you should prob’bly get on out.”

Steven nodded, struggling to bring himself to his feet. The energy expended the past few days had started to become a problem. Sure, chemo was no fun and all, but it was an entirely different challenge juggling that and getting into match shape. And where his opponent Centurion had a large bed to lay in and a million chances to get a back massage or go to a sauna in a day, Steven had the refreshing tile of the bathroom floor, his own two hands, and the support of his friends in Avalanche. Not as extravagant, but triply rewarding, at least.

During his struggle to stand, Thias took it upon himself to lift Cooper up and lug him over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold. “I got ya,” He said as he transported Cooper to the living room. Steven was anything but a small man, however Watts redefined what huge meant. Still, regardless of the size of the man carrying him, it wasn’t particularly empowering to be lifted up by someone else, even in this state.

“Thanks,” Cooper said, swallowing his pride a bit.

“It ain’t nothin,’” Thias responded.

“I know it isn’t my business, but you sure you should be wrestlin’ that match on Saturday? Seems to me like you’re riskin’ your life.”

“Please,” replied Coop, “if I can survive the humiliation of this, I can survive Centurion.”

Thias chuckled a bit, finally placing Steven down on the couch in the living room before beginning to turn to head back to the restroom. Stopping a bit short, Watts turned around and called out towards Steve.

“‘Ey!”

Steven looked up, twisting to see Watts smile as the next words left his lips.

“Make sure there ain’t nothin’ left of ‘im by the end of Savage.”

“Will do, big man” Coop shot back, smirking as he gave a thumbs up. And with a few short steps of the giant, Thias was gone and Cooper was alone.

He brought a hand up to his forehead and closed his eyes, a bit of frustration caught in his mostly empty stomach. He wasn’t some geriactric fool in need of a cane and a room in some nursing home, yet he couldn’t help but see that whenever he peered into the mirror lately. There was a comfort that he had taken in feeling strong even in the face of death that was stripped away from him as soon as he started treatment. Was he so averse to doing the right thing that it was killing him? He couldn’t be certain, but the thought lingered over him regardless. Everyone had been saying that Steve should stay home or give the match to someone else. But it wasn’t that easy for him. There was a personal meaning to going forward with this match. Not simply in proving he had the same gusto as any other big name in the XWF, but because of what Cent stood for. Sure, he was a pleasant guy that Coop could probably even share a drink with, but he represented a culture that had buried so many of his friends in shallow graves. Sure, Ned has his vendettas and both Stone and Watts deserved a shot at the guy as well, but not one of them understood just what Cent profited off of like Cooper. Not one of them could bring that vengeance into that match like Steven would.

The clacking of a closing door interrupted his focus. With a few small steps, his protege, Eobard Stone, stepped into view. He held with him a large, brown paper sack and seemed to be headed towards Cooper’s room before he spoke up.

“Doin’ some shopping, kid?”

Eobard swung his head over to see Steven, taken aback by his presence in the living room.

“Steve!” Stone called out while making his way to the couch and taking a seat next to Coop, “I didn’t expect to see you out here!”

“Well, I had some help. But that’s beside the point. What did ya’ get? Some dork shit from your store?”

“Oh, no! It’s something else.”

Steven had expected to draw Stone into displaying some of that passion he had for his game store. Sure, Steve thought all that stuff was lame as lame got, but Eobard held a passion for it that always made him smile. It was that drive that made Eobard an unmissable student. Yet here he seemed subdued. As much as Eobard had pushed for Coop to get treatment, it bothered him more than anyone else the state that his coach and teammate was in.

“There was just something I wanted to talk about with you real quick.”

Steve rolled his eyes, a little impatient with how infantile he felt treated by his own stablemates.

“Look, kid, I know I’m not in Sports Illustrated shape or nothin’, but I’m not givin’ up this match. It’s too damn important to me and I don’t appreciate everybody deciding all of a sudden I can’t go without even consulting me! I’m doing this and I’m not gonna be asked not to!”

Eobard shook his head, taking a deep breath.

“I wasn’t going to.”

Steve sat back, a little shocked to not hear another person begging him to go on the sidelines.

“I’m not going to pretend I enjoy seeing you like this or that I even like you going out there for the match. But you didn’t stop me when I demanded to fight and it’s only fair I do the same to you.”

Cooper nodded, some of his frustration dying down.

“Well… thank you.”

“I also wanted to get you a gift because I know this match means so much to you.”

Eobard began opening the brown bag.

“You were talking about an old friend of yours the other day. How you didn’t have any pictures of him.”

“Yeah, Adam Alberts! Don’t tell me you found a photo of The Duke in a pawn shop or something!”

“I didn’t! I found something better!”

Eobard pulled two emerald green wrestling boots out of the bag and placed them on the table in front of them. A sudden surge of silence overcame Steven, words unable to find a comfortable place on his tongue.

“You mentioned that he wasn’t able to leave his boots behind when he retired, so I did a bit of digging and found out the current owner and managed to pick them up! I figured you’d be the best person to have them.”

A few tears began to fill Cooper’s eyes, the heavy emotion of being reunited with any small aspect of his friend overcoming him.

“Are you… crying?” Stone asked, not used to seeing this kind of emotion from his mentor.

“No, no!” Steve denied, “It’s just the fuckin’ chemo.”

The two shared a laugh and spoke for a while longer before Steven returned to his room with his newly gained memorabilia. He placed the boots on his shelf, having something to remember Alberts by after all these years and laid down, ready to get some rest.



But rest did not arrive for Steven Cooper.

The more time he stirred in that bed, the more his mind drifted to those boots. Sure, they were nice to have, but what had changed? Adam still gave them away and, knowingly or not, waved goodbye to those crowds years ago without them. Sure, they looked nice on the shelf, but they didn’t belong there. And that knowledge loomed over Cooper like a storm.



The rain continued to pour down on him as he looked over the various names inscribed on the tombstones. It was hard enough to read with water obscuring everything, but the lack of his glasses didn’t help in the slightest. Still, he was here with a purpose. A mission. With every step, more mud and muck stuck to his shoes until he ultimately found what he had been searching for: A small tombstone signifying the resting place of Adam “The Duke” Alberts. He double checked it just to be sure until kneeling down and pulling the plastic bag out from under his trenchcoat. Out of the bag came the two emerald boots young Eobard had gifted him. The boots that weren’t Cooper’s to keep. He placed them up against the tombstone, reuniting them with their rightful owner before pulling out a final item from the bag: a rose. Putting the rose into one of the boots, he stood, silently paying his respects along with a vow. The kinds of promises you make to “one of the boys.” The ones where you keep their memory with you. And as he spoke a prayer under his breath, Cooper made certain not to cry. He just allowed the rain to hit his cheeks. Nothing more.

With a sigh, he thought about how close he was to his old friend. Only a few feet away and yet miles further. And with his business here concluded, he made his way out of the cemetery. And he did it alone.



And by way of honoring
The things we once both held dear
I will reveal you


Steve Sayors stands backstage with Steven Cooper. Sayors is befuddled as all hell, having not been surprised by Cooper for once, but the nature of this surprise seems to fill him with some dread. That’s without mentioning Coop’s appearance which isn’t much better than the previous week.

“Uh… hello! Steve Sayors here! I’m back with another interview with Mr. Steven Cooper! Mr. Cooper is there anything you want to say?’

Cooper motions for the microphone, taking Steve back a bit as he reluctantly hands him the mic.

“I appreciate the energy, Sayors, but I think I’ll be flying mostly solo for this one. I got a lot to say and I don’t want no one interrupting.”

Sayors nods, gulping at the intensity of this less openly playful and energetic Steven Cooper, and walks out of frame to let him have his spotlight.

“Centurion.”

Cooper says the name with venom in his voice.

“You wanna say I’m a step away from death? Maybe. Maybe I am. Know who else is a step away from death? A lot of those fellow “legends” you ignore until it’s time to get a nice photo op. How many of us really make it to 60, Cent? FIfteen percent? Twenty? See, some people who watched my last promo might think I hate you. I don’t hate you. But you fool a lot of people, buddy. You make this whole “wrestling legend” life seem like fun and games. You dine on caviar and sniff the farts of other well off people, but for every Centurion, there’s a dozen people like a Charlie Nickles, a daddy Lacklan, or a Steven Cooper, or a buddy o’ mine named Adam Alberts. And you know what they do Cent? They go into the big rings and the small alike and they pour their hearts and souls and bodies into pure competition for the love of this sport! And none of them think they’ll end up like me! They all expect to be like you and even worse, they’re expected to be like you.”

“So when a wrestler from the 90s whose hand barely works to lift the pen to write their check for rent has to go out there and make dimes from promoters who make thousands off them, I get mad. When one of these men or women doesn’t get to see their children grow and when their offspring are out living lives of their own, they don’t even get to stick around long enough to see grandchildren, I get heartbroken. And when I see wrestlers convinced they need to take light tubes to the back at the age of 50, I get fucking vengeful! And what does Centurion do when all of his peers are fighting years of wear and tear on their bodies? He cracks jokes and enters War Games for fun! FOR FUN! Maybe he’ll donate to an online fundraiser in case one is well known enough, but he’ll never look them in the eyes and hand them that money. He doesn't have the stomach. And he’ll never create programs to help them because that doesn’t fill his bank accounts and cement his legacy!”

“That’s what this is about. See, everybody wants to be a legend until they have to face the music of what that means. And no one is more effective at camouflaging that truth than old Cent. How many friends have we lost because someone in your position wouldn’t reach out, Cent? How many eyes won’t get to see us battle it out Saturday that should be? How many dollars will wipe your sins away? Legends… tall tales, fables, that’s all they are. Stories of once great men and women that are etched in stone to onlookers and oh, so fragile to us.”

“And don’t think for a minute that I don’t blame these fans either. I do. You know how many will gladly pay to see these bruised, beaten stars get more stamps on their bump cards? You couldn’t count ‘em if you tried! They’ll be ringside with you, but you’ll be alone bedside and they won’t care a lick. And if you tell them that you know they don’t care one bit about you past being an attraction they can catch, like a shark in a tank, they turn on you and won’t let you hear the end of it! They’ll complain and say they paid for your house or your wine whether you have a pot to piss in or not! See, they love you when you’re dying, but they hate you when you’re living. So, here’s a little message for all of you fans whose mothers and fathers turned on me while you were still a dull twinkle in your mother’s eye!”

“WE DON’T DO THIS FOR YOU!”

“We don’t do it because it gives us long lives. We do it because we are wrestlers at heart. But Centurion? He is a rester at heart who just wants to get back to lying on his pile of money at home. I hope you have a nice doctor waiting backstage for you because you ain’t forgetting another one of these men who shared that ring with. You ain’t riding the train of legends any longer. You wanna see me die? Grim Reaper tried and I'm still standing! You wanna kill The Trooper? You better be prepared for war.”
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