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Raion Kido · (02-21-2022)

“I look back at how I got my start in this sport, and I can’t fathom how far I went despite such a ridiculous start *laughs* I mean, we were literally bored soldiers who fucked around in the boxing ring, had mock matches and were playing pretend and all that, and next thing you know, we’re putting on shows for money. And I’m thinking to myself “you know, this might not be such a bad way to make some money. So, when my tour was over, I went home to Atlanta, tool some lessons (they were cheap; I didn’t need a high end trainer, just somebody to instill fundamentals and let my military training do the rest.) And a decade later, here I am now”

“Yeah, I kind of got into this by accident. Sometimes people get into that sport that way, not wanting it their whole lives, just when the opportunity presents itself. And I’m glad that accident happened. If I hadn’t shown up to that gym with my boys fucked up and looking for something to do, who knows how my life would have turned out.”

-Tony Savage, Wrestler Observer News. January 2022.

Chelsea, London UK.

Welcome to the billion-pound baby neighbourhood, ladies and gentlemen. Cromwell Road in Kennsington is where today’s adventure in wrestling promotion is about to jump off. This is the neighbourhood here all the big muckers in London sleep and pick their mail up. The area boasts addresses of movie and television stars, politicians, and tech billionaires. You know, one of those upscale places where people look at you funny for driving a Ford or Peugeot instead of a Jag or Beemer.

Chelsea is a monument to the days when the sun never set on the Empire. The manors and brownstones are curio from the Victorian era, survivors of Nazi bombings, political upheavals, and changing society. One thing that remains a constant; if you live here, you made it. You’re a monarch. And one of the nobles of wrestling calls the block home.

Ah, here we are. 6 bedroom multi-story estate with a Union Jack flying next to the Stars and Stripes of the States above the front door. Past the iron gate, the doorbell is rung, and when the oak double doors open…

“And how are WE doing today ladies, gentlemen, and none of the above. C’mon in; tea’s almost ready.” The blonde with the rugged facial features and distinct Georgian drawl pops his head out the door, smiling, giving off a Mr. Rodgers vibe with his outfit.

From the warm greeting to the wool sweater, tie, and glasses combo, you’d be hard-pressed on looks alone to recognize this man as one of the best wrestlers on the planet, especially in the hardcore/death-match genre. Too well-groomed and mannered to have a fetish for C4 and light tubes like an occasional cigar. But he would be the first to tell you I paid for a lot of this in blood. Slaughterhouses, barbed wire, or whatever lunacy the powers that be at UGWC decide to book for the PPV; he’s turned trash into cash. The mortgage on this lovely estate is paid party by pieces of himself and others left on the mat once the bell rings.

“Favorite part of my day since moving to this country, sit my ass down and have a cuppa with a guest. Way my schedule’s packed up, barely have time to relax.”

The host wastes no time going to the kitchen, where everything for service is set for him at the table. He claps his hands, eagerly looking at the meat tray they set up next to the kettle. He sits down, pours himself a cup, and adds a few splashes of lemon.

“Oh, well, shit. How rude of me; taking a bit of the scenic route to start this. You see, many in my profession when they sign up for these one-off multi-company gigs, they almost always jump on stage like everybody’s supposed to know who they are and what the Hell they’re talking about. Here’s a fun fact: Not everybody watches wrestling, especially ALL the wrestling. Some people might not know who you are, and all of a sudden, here’s a face-full of happenings, and the viewer is like…”

“Who are they? Why should I care? I’m confused; she was fucking him, then, hit him with the chair and is now fucking that guy…what’s going on? Do I pay the subscription fee for the service that carries this fed to get context, or just go back to binging Yellowjackets on Showtime?”

“So…” The man says, pausing to sip. “Right now is a good time to make a proper intro…”

“My name is Tony Savage. I’m a man that wears many hats, apparently because my ranking in Denzel’s fucking “Best Hair List” wasn’t so hot.” A bit of bitterness is detected in his voice, Tony LOVES his hair!

“Father, husband, fighter, entrepreneur, recovering addict, Afghan war vet. Oh, and the guy who carries THIS proudly wherever he fights.” On the seat next to him, the UGWC Chaos championship he’s held for several months now. “I don’t wear face paint, blow up buildings, or fake my death for clout. My marriage is a stable one to a civilian of the industry, so don’t expect any juicy soap opera affair nonsense 90% of these tight-wearing dipshits revel in. I don’t drink or do drugs anymore, so I’m no fun at parties. And I always show pictures of my yard and the fish I caught that weekend off. I’m, for all intents and purposes, the world’s toughest glorified suburban dad.”

“Don’t believe me; fuck around and touch that god-damn thermostat, I dare you!”

Tony sticks his tongue out and takes a drink that clears half the cup.. “And that is the Crib Notes version of me. You want the full story and the weekly newsletter with handy recipes and do-it-yourself home repair tips, go watch UGWC. Now that we have that out of the way, let’s talk about this Porter Invitational thingy I signed up for.”

“One moment; this could use some milk.” He pauses, gets up, and walks to the fridge…

That’s when the scenery changes up from his comfy manor in Chelsea, to a loud, bustling, reeking of sweat and hunger boxing gym in London’s North Tottenham neighborhood. Tony grumbles because he can’t find his milk, and grabs water instead.

“Which one of you assholes drank my moo juice? I had that shit marked.” Tony yells across the gym. Nobody says a word, he gripes to himself and cracks the bottle open. He’s drenched and reddened from his workout session, wiping himself off.

“Oh, like that segue? Yeah, somebody was a fan of Ferris Bueller as a kid.”

“Another thing about me is, sometimes I like to say some shit that doesn’t exactly run in line with populist opinion in this sport. Let’s face it; the D.P.I., it’s a vanity show. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, it’s just running along the lines of the modern wrestling trend of “Hey, I wanna play booker for a week. Let’s find some folks to sponsor a one-off.” Hell, even I’ve considered running my own program a few times. Everybody it seems at one point or other attempts it.”

“These things are basically All-Star weekend shows; get a bunch of grapplers from across the spectrum for some “dream matches” or what-not; go out, do a hyped-up exhibition match, and sell it like it’s the biggest thing to happen to wrestling since a television camera until it’s over, then forget it happened until if and when said event comes back around. That’s the way it is with these things, you show up, do your job, secure the bag and go home. No belts involved don’t affect your ranking or your place in your home company. It’s just another match.”

“Frankly,” Tony sits down on a folding chair after throwing his towel in the laundry bin. “I like it like that. Wrestling’s already got a problem with too much melodrama and dumb shit. I mean, every week it’s a stable trying to take over, or a war between companies that could affect the lives of everybody involved, or a building blowing up. Each and every week, the play’s storyline gets stranger and wilder, until it gets so crazy, it actually becomes basic. Anymore, with the crazy get-ups, gimmickry, and ultra-violent dinner theater infesting the industry, sometimes it’s just boring old straight-up badass fighters that end up being the focal point of a company, an industry.”

Tony drains half the bottle and sets it down so he can cut the tape wrapped around his fists. “Everybody likes to brag about their accomplishments, what they did, who they beat, what shiny trinkets they scooped up at their main gig…they never discuss HOW they got to where they are. What route they went, what tactics they used, who they aligned with…”

“What dirty work they did.”

“I’m not the cleanest soul in the game, not the most accomplished. But being a 14-time champion and one of the most known, most consistent in the game without doing all that stupid shit, able to go in night after night and win consistently without the chicanery: THAT’S something talk about.”

“Don’t get me wrong; I’ve punched a groin or 2, bent a rule, and acted a fool here and there.” He removes the last of the tape. “But what makes me one of the premier wrestlers in the sport, I can do it without any…”

“Bullshit!”

Another shift in scenery. This time, Tony’s outside, watching his Aston Martin Db8 being towed because some jackass couldn’t parallel park and smashed the front end in. All he can do is sit back and smoke a cigar, grumbling.

“That was the wife’s ride, too. Cassandra is gonna be pissed!”

With nothing else to do but wait for his Uber, Tony marches on with his diatribe.

“I honestly wonder if Tact can say the same. Be that consistent without tricks or schemes. A lot of people consider him my counterpart over at Level Up. The Power Champion, the guy after years of hiatus and falling short to people like Duncan Shepard, Mags Lockheart, Ahyma at the big shows, finally got him a nice shiny belt and a clique full of eager boot boys along for the ride as long as their stomachs are full and the wins are racking up. Of course, when shit starts going sideways, people start getting cut. Damn, Lawrence; just HAD to take James Wilcox’s wand after you stabbed ol’ dude in the back. That’s cold shit. Gotta respect the ruthlessness, then shake my head at how petty and potentially problematic your little stunt might be down the road.”

Tony smirks until he hears the bumper fall off the ride and bounces off the asphalt.

“My mechanic’s gonna love me for this…”

“Yeah, sorry to say I’m not one of those types that promos without at least getting some info on what they’re facing. That’s one of those modern wrestling trends I don’t subscribe to. You’re not bad, Larry. Not the worst I’ve fought. You’re not the first of your kind, though. I mean, a decade is a long time, and one eventually deals with an aspiring mat-based Machiavelli a few times along the way. But, from what I’ve been seeing from you, those tactics of yours are a little…”

“Shaky. I don’t like these numbers.”

And now, a massive shift from damp London to the scorched and sandy Mohave desert. Las Vegas is a bit cool today, but Tony is getting a bit heated with this phone conversation at the casino. All the noise and people flocking around make a simple call hard enough to deal with. Eventually, he has to get up from his seat at the blackjack table and walks to the plaza outside to hear the conversation.

“Look, I’m sorry if this doesn’t fit your budget, but if I come down any lower in price, I’m going to lose money on this. The airfare back and forth alone would make working that territory not worth it in the long run. I’m sorry, besides, I’ve only got a couple, three years at the most left in the sport. I can’t be making commitments unless they’re worth…”

There’s a pause as his agent on the line presents a counterpoint. “Okay, I like that, but they still need to come up on the salary, especially if I have to eat travel expenses on my end. Alright, lemme know how it goes.”

Tony puts his phone in his jacket pocket and rubs his face. “I know, I’m going at it like a whirlwind aren’t I? You don’t know where the hell we’ll end up next. Where’d we leave off/ Yeah, Tact, tactics, bit sus they are…”

“Yeah, I really do have to question your acumen as a strategist, because these receipts are showing some funny numbers on your end. It took you the better part of a year and a goon squad to get your first belt in a company you were pretty much an original member of since day one? Really? One belt you’ve yet to establish a legacy with? I mean, shit…”

“In less time, I’ve gone into UGWC (A fed notorious for giving Level One stars fits), one of the most established and long-lived organizations in the industry, cold with no backup, no crew, and no bond with the place, and not only have I won 2 championships and special contests there, I still found time to help run another company, co-headline other shows like the Fenix Charity Cruise, PWValor, AND film a SPLAT show, while you have just started to truly get your footing in one spot correct.”

“Hey, better late than never, huh?”

“It’s still a bad bad look, though, knowing in roughly the same time frame, I’ve accomplished far more than you with zero re-enforcements, no butting in business that wasn’t my own, and no schemes that are going to end up exploding in my face.”

“You’re working too hard for what you have, then again, “geniuses” like you always make shit waaaaaay too complicated.”

The shoot’s interrupted when some tourist tries to get Tony’s attention. He doesn’t stop what he’s doing or yell at them, he’s on a schedule. He simply waves and moves it along.”

“Am I taking this matchup for granted? Not in the least bit. The thing about guys like you, Larry, is you are sharp. You are sneaky. You are the type that would piss on his legacy and reputation, pull the vilest shit to get a win even in a glorified exhibition. You would stoop to any level to beat me, and frankly…”

“You’ll fucking need to. Because you haven’t proved enough times yet since you returned you can do the job by yourself. That you can beat people when it counts with regularity. Centurion was a great start, but simply that, a start. That when all your options besides just your skills are exhausted, that’s all you need.”

“I like the simplicity of these shows. No politics, no prizes on the line, no plots or wars with companies and stables. Just who gets for the moment claim they were better that night just on ability alone. Considering I’ve been doing that this last year, might as well make it official come fight night.”

He’s about to walk away…

“Oh”*snaps his fingers* “Another thing, Larry. I’m not like most of these “heroes”, I don’t mind if you chose to be a shit. Hell, you’ll probably need to cheat. Just fair warning…”

“Just because I don’t usually play dirty, doesn’t mean I don’t know how to. Shit, it’d give me a chance to show you ANOTHER thing I’m simply better at!”

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