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Travis McCoy · (03-18-2016)

Travis has flown home, he'll be here all week. Detroit is close enough that he can spend his time this week training in his own gym. He stands in this gym now. Not the cheap shed behind his childhood home. His gym, his school. For a while it was only his in name, a tax write off run by some asshole, but as of late he's taken to training the new guys when he has a moment. Not out of a warm place in his heart. He enjoys beating them. If they learn something in the process so be it, but it doesn't effect Travis one way or another. Although deep in his brain creating a new generation of wrestling machines does excite him, but he'll never admit that to himself, much less to you. The students are leaving now, many limping and sore. Travis was especially full of venom tonight. At least one student won't be coming back for a while. He left in an ambulance with his arm in a sling. Should've tapped.

He did but Travis 'didn't feel it' and 'didn't 'hear him screaming he gives up'

That's why they sign the waivers.

The main gym room is large and state of the art even though it feels like a dungeon. Free weights, punching bags, wrestling mats and a decent sized ring in good condition. Travis himself lives out of a large office in the back. It'd be a massive office, but a small studio apartment. He's happy with it. It serves it's purpose. Sleep, eat, train. It's the only life he's ever known. He's let the camera's follow him here because he has an important announcement, and the XWF website wants to do a profile on the rising star after his impressive victory over a less than impressive opponent.

He's in workout clothes sitting on the wrestling mat were he recently ripped a young mans arm out of socket. He's stretching, and he speaks, for once, calmly. Fresh after a training session the angst and anger has dissipated momentarily.

“You know, 10 years ago I would of skipped this stretching shit completely, but I'm not a young man anymore. Fuck, I'm 34. The years of beatings and little injuries take a toll, and the big ones never really go away. Look at my fucking hands for christ sake.”

He holds up his hands, permanently swollen knuckles and crooked fingers.

“I stopped even going to the doctor for broken and dislocated fingers before I could legally drink. My left knee pops and slips a little out of socket occasionally. I tore my ACL a couple times in my twenties. My neck aches almost constantly. I took a fall off the top turnbuckle onto the ring barrier and broke it. Doc's said I was lucky to be able to walk and that I'd never wrestle again. They were wrong.

They often are.

Wanna know where the guy is that pushed me?

Home, broken and battered.
He's lucky he's not eating through a tube.

Telling you guys all my injuries is probably looked at as a bad idea eh? All the guys are probably taking notes. Let em. If they can take advantage of it I'd be surprised. Pick a fucking joint boys, I've ruined em all at some point. My entire body is an old injury to be taken advantage of. If you can pull it off without me breaking your nose I'd be sincerely surprised.

I've been doing this as an adult on my own for 15 fucking years. I started officially training when I was 15. That's nearly 20 god damned years of small and large injuries, 20 years of head trauma. No wonder I'm so angry. I probably won't remember my name when I'm 60, I'll probably walk with a cane before that.

You want to know what I was thinking as I was laying there with a broken neck, unable to move, struggling to breathe? My dad...you'd think right? Life time of being trained by a bitter ex wrestler in a wheel chair and now I've broken my neck. Nope. He didn't cross my mind. All I could think I was laying there was that I still hadn't won a singles title. In my entire time of wrestling I've never won a singles title.

Not a one.

I've already explain my story, I've deserved titles all along but things always got in the way. Federations closing mostly. Other times I was involved in a feud so hot management didn't believe it needed a title to sell seats. Can you believe that? Too good, too entertaining to be rewarded. You have no idea how that feels. How that drives a man. I've lived my entire life in a ring or preparing to be in one, and through bad luck and happenstance I've never held the one thing that shows any sort of accomplishment. If I died tomorrow my name would barely be in the books. Plenty of wins, a few losses and not a single title win. If I died tomorrow it would of all been a waste of time. Some men can live that life and be happy. Not me. I think they fill that void with other things. Religion, military service, a family. No time for a family when you devote everything to this. The legacy of The McCoys would be the same as before I was born.

I won't let that happen

I want the universal belt. I'm not going to pretend like that's not the final goal because it is. I'd drop everything and walk across the country tomorrow to Vinnie Lane's door and fight him in his front yard if it meant I got a chance to beat him for that belt. But for now I'll settle for any belt.

That brings me to Tush. I challenged the him like a man and he ignored me. He was happy to bicker and argue with me but when it came time to put his money where his mouth is the Lounge Lizard disappeared. He could of just said no. I would of earned my shot at him or another of the paper champions at some point. It's really only a matter of time, but the coward couldn't even tell me no. He's happy to tell me how many women he's slept with but when it comes time for a challenge he acts like the thing he's so proud of sticking his dick in. A pussy, if you couldn't follow that. Tush represents everything that is wrong with XWF. Talk, talk, talk, about everything that we don't get paid for. Fucking chicks, FUCCBOIS, hash tags, Japanese man servants. But when the rubber meets the road he's lacking in any real substance. Trust me, I get having some story, when done well it makes the real substance mean more, but when you spend 15 minutes showing me your night out on the town, or your WACKY interactions with a stereotypical Japanese kid just to make it look like you had something to say. I tune out.

And can you blame me?

Now Tush has been put in a battle royal, the winner gets a shot at a later date. As pointed out, the booking feels fishy, but I simply cannot leave the opportunity alone. I don't know how much time I really have and as I stated so well. I'm not a young man anymore. I'll take advantage of any chance I get. So ya

I'm in.

Plenty have stated their intention of being in the rumble. I think Shade did. Honestly I have a hard time understanding what he's talking about. His promos could use a second or third take I think. Dave and...something, I don't know, MacBeth's lackeys, none of my concern. Orphelia, seems like more of an attention grab than an honest threat. You don't dress the was he...she...does to blend into a crowd. That's a sad lonely boy...girl...who didn't get enough love as a child. Probably bad acne in highschool, terrible breath. We all know the type. She...he, just threw his...her hat in the ring to hear his own name. He's on the pay no mind list. The russian guy...Samson. Him I must admit I like so far. Not that he stands a chance, but I'll at least enjoy listening to him talk. In mother land Russia Travis Beats YOUUU. Barney is fun for much the same reasons, but he's a sad excuse for an athlete.

Don't get me wrong. Not everyone in this match is a shlub

Trax, six foot four 270 pounds, nice reach, good hands, submission game may be lacking a bit, prone to letting his arrogance get in the way of a win. Styles make fights right? Him and I would be drag down slug fest but I'd tap him in the end. It's pretty obvious isn't it? His motivation seems similar to mine. Problem is, he's been to the top. He's got accolades a mile long. All accomplished without me standing in his way, but accomplishments nonetheless. He's a man after thanksgiving dinner filling in the corners with desert. As hard as he talks, as driven as he seems, he can't and won't match up to me. That's barely an insult Carlos, I know what you are. I know how good you are. Truth is,

no one matches up to me.

I have to say it though. For the first time since I've walked into XWF. I'm actually interested in what an opponent has to say. I'm going to enjoy dumping you over the top Trax, because for once it'd make an impact. I can mop the floor with Branden Harvey and his ilk week after week and no one will bat an eye. But when I toss you, that means something. Because regardless of how meaningless all your wins are in my eyes, they mean something to the people that matter. When I maul you, they'll notice. They'll have no choice.

Don't tell me how tall you are and what the scale reads. I know it, I look in the mirror and I could be your Irish brudda. The measurables don't mean shit. I could be 5'7 175 and I'd still best you every fucking time. I've got what you don't. I'm starving my friend. You're heading back for seconds.

Tommy Gunn, also six foot four, 266 pounds. You fuckers could lose a few if you ask me. You and Trax both. Power guy, doesn't seem like a technical prodigy but this fucker...I kinda like this guy. Raised in a well off family and a bully. A bully not because he was just passing on abuse. A bully because he fucking liked it. Ya...THAT guy. We all knew this guy growing up. Letter jacket, stumbling over words but good with his fists. Ya...that fucking guy, and what does that guy do when his glory days of high school end. He joins the fucking military. OF COURSE HE DOES. Now he can shoot at brown people. Fucking RIGHT ON

Right?

Right?!

Guess what...the dude becomes a SNIPER. Probably a killer for hirer later, I dunno. I stopped paying attention. I saw American Sniper, I zoned out after the fake baby. I do know Chris Kyle was a liar of the biggest sorts so I'm just going to assume Tommy is too. Again. We all know this guy. The kind of dude that demands you support the troops. DEM TOWEL HEADS IS ASKIN FOR IT. The kind of guy walking around just begging you to thank him for his service. How about this Tommy.

Fuck you

and

Fuck your service.

Thanking a guy like Tommy for serving is like thanking the fry cook for properly salting your fries. Guys like Tommy didn't get into the military because they love their country. They get into it because they have no future and they like the idea of killing people. He's a sociopath.

That part...I kinda like.

Tommy is the kind of guy that watched me piss on that orphans graves and laughed or raised a beer. Tommy is the kind of guy that's a lot like me. Much dumber, but if you squint just right ya sure...lot like me.

But not quite me.

Just like Trax and every one else here. He doesn't match up. I'll enjoy dumping his ass over the top rope and if I think it might piss him off, I'll burn a flag too. Hell Tommy, if I think it'll get a rise from you I'll swear on the Qur'an and join ISIS. Fucking hell Tommy, I'm voting for Bernie Sanders. I'M GONNA FUCKING DO IT.”

Travis laughs, he's finished his stretch and he stands. Time for a shower then bed.

“Tommy, I like you, I do. But just like everyone in the rumble. From Tush to Orphelia, from Barney to Trax.

You're not Travis McCoy

You don't stand a fucking chance.”

FADE

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