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Felix Braddock · (08-29-2016)

The American Nightmare: How the Dream Was Lost (& How We Can Find it Once More)

By: Felix Braddock

Though I'm sure this will come as a surprise to readers familiar with me, I love America. Well, I guess I should qualify that statement a bit: I love the idea of America. The concept of the American Dream in particular - the idea that a man can pull himself up by his bootstraps and carve out a life better than the one they were born into through hard work and self-determination. The thought that there existed a place just across the pond where dreams can and will come true for those who work to accomplish them got me through more than a few rough nights early on in my life.

Needless to say, I did not come from wealth. Quite the opposite, really. Very early in my life I noticed something very damning of the community I was raised in: a toxic sense of defeatism. Reluctantly-accepted existential malaise. The idea that this was the best life was ever going to get, and even then it was still almost unbearable. That poison bled through the adults, right into their children. School didn't matter - their lives were already predetermined. Thus, like any self-fulfilling prophecy, it came true. I've lost a lot of friends and acquaintances to normalized mediocrity. Friends and acquaintances who grew up to be the same vaguely-dissatisfied adults who unknowingly force their children down the same path like one giant cultural Ouroboros.

Not me. I ran from that destiny. I defied fate. And my reward for breaking free of the chains that bound me? A one-way ticket right to London's underworld.

I was seventeen, the first time I fought. Not that age was much of a deterrent - normally young guys would take one beating and never show their face again. I wasn't fighting in any arena yet. There were no crowds, apart from the other men who planned to fight that night. In hindsight, the whole affair was quite Pahlaniukian; though the inclusion of capitalism in the form of gambling undermined the whole point from a philosophical perspective.

There was something primal about it. The dingy, dirty basements we'd meet in; the brutality; fighting for fun and profits; the fact that after every night each man could go their separate ways, back to their established life. It was a release, screaming into the void, fighting destiny once more, if only for a night.

I still remember (some parts) of my first fight. I got the shit kicked out of me. After all, I was still a beginner - fighting for enough money to get something to eat.

I owe everything to that one night. That one ass-kicking.

Because somewhere in the middle of getting my ribs kicked into dust by a roided-out ex-convict, I felt a spark inside of me.

I remembered the American Dream.

I realized that it was all I ever wanted.

And so I kept my nose to the grind. Pushed myself harder and harder, never stopping. Never hesitating. I threw myself into the lion's den so many times that I started to get good. I always took good care to not get hit in the face, even in my early bouts. Earned me the nickname 'Pretty Boy'. 'Baby Face' was another, due to my age.

As I kept on pushing myself, I started to see my own American Dream come true.

It was through those fighting circuits that I met my wonderful wife Meredith - that's a story for another day. It was through those fighting circuits that my career as a boxer started. My current trajectory is all thanks to that one ass-kicking. My spark.

Then, one by one - the rest of the world tried to take it from me.

First, the allegations. Vicious, slanderous rumours that I intentionally lost the final fight of my professional boxing career. That I had a gambling addiction, All to discredit my very existence, to downplay the successes, the accomplishments I racked up in my career all because my path to the big-time wasn't the nice, paved road that they want all their stars to have traveled. Because I didn't fit their mold. Because of my wife's maiden name. And everyone ate it up. I was stripped of my boxing license. I had criminal charges pressed against me as a whole lineup of supposed 'witnesses' came forward with 'proof' of my actions. No wonder that they've since rescinded their statements: because it was all untrue. Not that it mattered: the damage was already done.

And so, at the urging of my close friend Tush, I signed a contract with the always controversial X-Treme Wrestling Federation. He sold me on a great pitch about how the XWF was biased against English-born wrestlers. How American-born wrestlers with half the talent were given twice the opportunities. I thought he was exaggerating.

I was wrong.

But, I've ranted enough about that before, haven't I? Let's get to something a little fresher: the meat of this article.

It was through the XWF that I first set foot in America. Imagine it for a moment, put yourself in my shoes. I had just recently turned thirty, coming to the country whose philosophy literally saved my life for the first time. This would become a watershed moment in my life, and I expected that. However, not for the reason it ultimately did.

I set foot on American soil for the first time and what I saw made me sick to my stomach.

I saw a country that turned its back on those principals. A country that abandoned that life-saving philosophy. A country that threw any sense of greatness down the drain to appease the lowest common denominator of society.

This is all very appropriate, dear readers, because I think if there is any man who embodies everything wrong with this once great nation: it's the man known as (((Ghost Tank))).

See for those of you who aren't familiar with (((Ghost Tank))) (which wouldn't surprise me, to be honest), allow me to give you something of a crash course in what this goofy bastard is supposed to be.

Simply put, (((Ghost Tank))) is supposed to be this unstoppable beast of a man. Man in the loosest possible terms really. He's supposed to be this destroyer. This brutalizer. How could he not be? He's a giant! Six feet, eight inches tall. Damn-near four hundred pounds. And in spite of all that, he's a quick bastard too. Supremely agile. He has so many tools at his disposal - there's no way this man is anything less than an absolute monster.

Well, yes - there is a way.

Just look at him. He manages to find new and exciting ways to shit the bed with each breath he takes. You'd think that in almost two years, this absolute freak would be at the top. Well at the top, and not going anywhere soon. Yet, despite all of his advantages, he isn't.

(((Ghost Tank))) could never hack it at the top of the mountain - that's where the going gets tough. And the one thing you learn about (((Ghost Tank))) very early on if you decide you hate yourself enough to follow his XWF career from the start is that (((Ghost Tank))) has never met a challenge he wouldn't tuck his tail in between his legs and run from. How else could he stand on the molehill and proclaim himself king? After all, if he tries to step outside of his comfort zone even a little, he's liable to lose that precious championship of his. The one he 'worked' so hard to attain.

Like so many people in this current day and age, (((Ghost Tank))) doesn't know the definition of hard work. Here's a man with every genetic advantage in the book and he's content to languish in the doldrums, picking fights with people he knows he can beat because he's scared of being exposed as the fucking failure he is. He sits back and waits for opportunities to be handed to him on a silver platter. Hell, not even opportunities - the very title he holds was practically gift-wrapped and handed over to him to spite my good friend Chris Macbeth.

Chris pinned (((Ghost Tank))) in that match. Shoulders to the mat. One, two, three. Meanwhile, the 'stages of hell' that (((Ghost Tank))) won? Throwing Chris out of the ring, and 'knocking him out' for a 'ten count'. Anyone with a functioning sense of time knows that the referee did not give Chris ten seconds. Of course not - Chris Macbeth allied himself with The Union after all. So (((Ghost Tank))) won a championship literally by being in the right place at the right time when the XWF decided that it would 'destroy The Union' by any means necessary.

This is the America that exists today - a land of handouts and undeserved opportunities given out willy-nilly because 'we don't want anyone to feel left out' and any other bleeding heart justification for (((Ghost Tank))) having a career as anything other than 'human coat rack'. Meanwhile, the real innovators: the men and women who work their asses off to make it in each and every field are no longer looked at as the vital assets they are. The sensible ones are censored to prop up extremists and apologists.

And (((Ghost Tank))) benefits from all of it.

After all, he went and hired an actual

person to speak for him to score brownie points with the SJWs. What is there to say about (((Zeke the Freak)))? Absolutely nothing - I'm not a boneheaded thug like Gabriel Guerra. Circular debates don't appeal to me. It does, however, disgust me that (((Ghost Tank))) would stoop so low as to parade around an obviously mentally challenged man to add to his cavalcade of tokens. Like his tranny significant other. Like his gay dwarf on/off friend. Just another little badge of how tolerant he is. Disgraceful.

Though, as much as I condemn it, I do understand why (((Ghost Tank))) made that decision: to cover up for the fact that he has about as much personality as a block of wood. In this day and age, it isn't enough for elite athletes to simply be phenomenal at their sport of choice (which is a claim I'm hesitant to apply to the oaf in the first place). No, fans want a larger than life persona. Look at the UFC. That mick bastard Conor McGregor is the biggest name the company's seen in a long time - possibly ever. Because he combines high-level performance with a magnetic personality that makes him watchable both in and out of the cage.

Meanwhile, (((Ghost Tank))) stumbles through his promos like he's in a daze, reciting the same edgier-than-thou routine that every 'spooky' wrestler does. Talking about how he's death. How he's the most monstrous man to ever step between the ropes. How he'll break and destroy every one he comes in contact with.

Then he'll go and kill three-hundred, thirty-three innocent people to show us all what a 'badass' he is.

Then maybe he'll go and watch a bit of telly with his wife (apologies, my inner brit came out there).

It's ridiculous is what it is. The cognitive dissonance is unreal, though I guess that's to be expected of someone with absolutely no personality to speak of, beyond 'I'm spooky look at me'. So he bounces all over the place. Adopt any identity that'll have him.

Murderer.

Monster.

SJW-in-training.

Attack Helicopter.

Moral high-ground holder (AKA the highest up he'll ever be in any hierarchy).

Now, what do you do about a problem like the (((Ghost Tanks))) of this country? How do we restore it to its former glory?

Easy. We stop giving in. We stop letting these fucking extremists, these apologists, these scumbags get away with ruining this once great nation. No more appeasing them. No more bending over backwards to make sure everyone feels included. No more special provisions for these cry babies. No more 'safe spaces'. No more of anything.

We take this country back, one waste of skin at a time.

Soon enough, we'll reverse this backwards ass 'culture'.

Soon enough, there won't be an America where an innocent gorilla is shot and killed because some dipshit left their child unattended.

Soon enough, there won't be an America where entrepreneurs like Martin Shkreli and Heather Bresch will be crucified for running their business effectively.

Soon enough, there won't be an America of losers demanding compensation for existing.

It'll take some time, sure, but at the end of the day it is possible to make America great again.

You just have to break a few eggs.

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