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Travis McCoy · (03-29-2016)

Travis sits in a folding chair in a wrestling ring in a small wrestling arena. There are seats for 500 people but they are empty and folded against the walls. The room is poorly lit. Most of the bulbs have been smashed or just burnt out. The few that do work flicker occasionally, catching dust motes in their flashing light. The ring ropes droop and there is graffiti on the walls. Various gang tags, LONG LIVE THE REAL MCCOY, teenagers confessing their undying love for each other by vandalizing an abandoned building with cheap spray paint. The apron has been sliced and most of the turnbuckle covers are busted or hanging on for what ever is left of their life.

“I don't expect you to care but this is going to be important. I built this place, with my own money. My plan was to revolutionize our business. I was going to eliminate the need for a fed. The wrestlers would book their own matches and shows would of stood on their own as one match in the wrestlers own personal venue.

I did this because federations have always let me down.

I started wrestling in my previous world just over 10 years ago. Or maybe 11, I can't be bothered to look. I was a different man, barely a man at all. I smiled and I joked. I was angry with my dad and tortured by my past. My legacy haunted me. I was the stereotypical happy on the outside kid with a brooding sense of despair below. I was fucking disgusting My last name felt like a burden. When I started, my world had three running federations and a feeder federation. It was booming. Long history, certified legends walking the halls. Archives you could get lost in.

It was heaven.

I even made friends!! Can you believe that? Piss and vinegar Travis McCoy had people he liked! You know how rare that is in this business? I was happy. I entered the feeder fed and worked my ass off. I had a shot at the top title when I got a phone call asking if I wanted to move up to one of the big boy places.

I took it with out hesitation.

Then the bottom dropped out.

It happened slowly. It always does. People picture armageddon as big flash and then nothing. Armageddon is a slow moving plague. Armageddon is a slowly sinking ship. One of the other feds died but there were still two with full rosters and the feeder fed chugged along without a hint of a problem. Until new sign ups stopped coming, and those old legends couldn't be arsed to defend their title or even show up for a promo. Checks started coming a day or two late, then a week, then never at all. It just kept coming despite all my effort to power through it. You'd show up for a show and the doors would be padlocked. Sorry buddy, we couldn't be arsed.

We'd go home and we'd wait. Months would pass without any word and then we'd have a big meetings and discuss how to fix things. 'Less production on the shows!' 'Longer time between shows!'. We'd all agree and we'd get our hopes up and a brand new fed would start with a glorious manifesto. For a month or two things would go amazing. We'd all introduce ourselves again even though we already knew each others names and stories. A tournament would start! New feuds would emerge.

Then padlocks.

This happened countless times over the decade I worked there. I've introduced myself and reinvented myself more times than I can remember. The smiling stopped. Who has time for friends when you need to make an impact fast or risk never making one at all? As time went on people started disappearing. I couldn't even blame them. Why make all the effort to breathe life into something that was months from being a corpse. Why introduce yourself again? Why get involved when you knew where the road ended? This business is hard for a multitude of reasons. Now imagine all that work for something that never went anywhere. It was 10 years of broken promises and blue balls. You don't care about any of this. I know. But it made me who I am. Next time you hear me speak and you wonder why I'm so angry all the time, remember what I've been through.

In the end I tried to fix everything, but it was too late. I built this place in hopes that I could fix it. That if I got rid of all the bullshit, wrestling could prosper. I got a certified legend to accept my challenge but it was only us. No one even cared enough to watch our promos, but they were lovely. In the end I couldn't even be bothered to put on the show. In the end I became the bitter owner, too busy to entertain the fans.

But I tried. I fucking tried when no one else wanted to.

Because I love this. It's why I'm here. It's why I brushed off the ashes of the brushfire that place had become and dragged myself to the X-Treme Wrestling Federation. It's why I rose from the pyre an angry bitter man.

This place represents everything my career has been. Promise and beauty faded to busted lightbulbs and torn ring apron. I hate being here. I hate coming back to this place because it reeks of failure worse than a McCoy family thanksgiving. It should have been my greatest accomplishment, instead it's an empty cathedral covered in spray paint and used condoms.

I know none of you really care right now, but you will.

You'll care Scully. Yes, I'm Irish. My great grandfather came over on a boat. Is that what you need to hear? Let me get this straight. You are allowed to be proud of where your family comes from because you were born there? Because your family was too stupid to leave the rainy gloomy weather and move to America? Why are you allowed to be proud of your country but I can't be proud of where my family came from? You shame Fern for not being proud of where he came from but I can't because I'm a few generations down the line? You ignorant fuck. No, it's not just a name. It's important for the same reasons where I was before I was here is important. It's who I am! You pompous cunt. 'Oy mate, I talk wit an accent you wankers. Bloody hell this lad is only Irish in name!'. What am I supposed to do to make you happy? You want me to go by an American name? Fuck that. I'm a McCoy like my father before me. I'm a mean mother fucker like my grandfather before him. They were losers but they left there mark. There are hundreds of men who are reminded daily of the time they fought a McCoy. Because one eye doesn't work, because their knee aches.

And yes I am American. Congrats dude. Very astute observation. I also have feet and breathe to survive. I also know countless ways to break every bone in your body without breaking a sweat. You said it yourself. I'm fucking impressive. Thanks boyo.

Travis loves a compliment.

Could you even grow a beard you baby faced dick? I don't like shaving. FuuUUuuuUUck you. Ask Tush what he thinks of me? Ask Tush if you should dismiss me. I dropped your buddy on his fucking skull then tossed his ass over the top rope. I flustered him to the point that he disappeared after one promo. Trax won the rumble after a nap but I'm the fucking reason Tush lost that battle royal. While you're asking him stuff ask him why he lied about not watching my promos. Ask him how he's enjoying being the leader of my fan club. It must be irritating hearing him verbally blow me all day. That must be why you're so angry with me.

No one is holding you dumb Brits down. If you were good enough you'd get a shot. It's that simple. What kind of man blames his failure on where he was born? You're a black dude blaming his prison sentence on the white devil, ignoring the pound of crack he was carrying in an unlicensed car with the headlights blown.

Guess what? Cole Adams was gonna be my partner! I was going to team with him because for a brief moment he impressed me. I never liked the dude. I don't like anyone. But I hate Fern and Luca. I was willing to team with a loser like Cole Adams because I knew I didn't really need him anyway. Scully, your partner is a fucking joke like you are. I've watched his promos and they play like a shitty British version of the hangover. The fact that you're remotely associated with Ted and Dave says just about everything that needs to be said about you. I almost entered this match on my lonesome because I know I'd be more than enough to win, and then hold those titles on my own.

But I found a partner.

One that I'm not ashamed to admit is just as good as me.

Hell, on a day or two he may even be better.

Ya.

Think about that. All you know about me. All I've said and done while I've been here. What kind of man would make me admit that he could occasionally best me?

A bona fide killing machine.

None of you stand a chance.

Did you think that if you guessed who it was you'd leave me reeling and speechless? You dumb fuck. You must be inbred like your queen. Guess away! I would of told you all exactly who it was on the card but my partner has a flare for the dramatic. Dude digs a surprise. Even if you manage to guess I'll still be here throwing verbal bombs. It's definitely not Cole Adams.

I've been through the fire and I stand before you a battle hardened desperate man. I've waited for fifteen years to make my name. I've waited for a decade and a half for McCoy to mean more than a boy with Irish heritage. You'll all know what kind of man I am soon enough. Fern will too. He's gonna get 'bodied' too. The fact that you've all sat around and let guys like Fern and Luca run wild is a testament to how fucking sad you all are. This is who's holding you back Scully? The glass ceiling you can't shatter is one that Fern somehow has gotten past? They use fucking HASHTAGS! They sound like twitter became sentient. These guys have run rough shot! You sad, pathetic, impotent bastards.

That ends this week. When you look at the top of the card and see me and my partner, you'll understand why you aren't where we are. Because at the end of the day we're better than the lot of you. You already know it but you won't let yourself admit it. I could run through all the names I'll be facing but why? Why should any of your names cross my lips? Why should I give you anything to desperately try to spin when none of you have given me anything? Not even a bit of entertainment. I've been tearing it up since I arrived. I don't owe any of you shit. Most of my opponents are tag teams of the moment. Two guys with nothing else to do.

'Bloody hell ole boy, we both enjoy tea and chicks dig our accents, lets form a league or stable and talk about footie. OY! OY! OY! Warm beer!'

Blow me

Tush did and he loved it.”

FADE

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