Post by Deleted on Jun 7, 2013 3:55:15 GMT -5
The roar of the engine on the black cherry colored Dodge Challenger continued to be like music to Leander Apollo’s ears (like it was the first time he placed the keys in the ignition and turned it on, remembering quite well how his lips immediately went from nothing to a smile that would make a Cheshire cat somewhat envious), even as the engine itself was somewhat drowned out by the car’s own sound system, the thumping bass going along as “Grace” by Apocalyptica played inside of the Challenger, the windows on it open as he felt the roar of the wind blow his wavy, light brown hair every now and then while driving and weaving through Interstate 5, using it to make his way further into the city of Los Angeles – to be exact, into the San Fernando Valley area. While weaving through a set of rather slow cars before taking the exit advised to him by his cell phone’s nifty GPS navigation device, Leander made an extra mental note to actually write out a legitimate thank you note to William Bateman for letting him borrow this beauty to cruise around the Los Angeles area during the weekend – not to mention, it seemed to have made a bit of an impression on one Willow Winters when they met in the L.A. area for a sushi date the night before.
But alongside having an excuse to hang out with the newcomer beauty that arrived in Phoenix Wrestling and to watch her and many others go to work at their Redemption show at the Staples Center, there was something else that brought him to drive out of the big city environment and into the San Fernando Valley area in this faithful Saturday afternoon. Hell, he couldn’t believe his own eyes that he’d brought out here until he saw an article on the Los Angeles Times on his flight to L.A. about a retired wrestler running a weekend long seminar in a field of expertise that Leander couldn’t have imagined the man doing in his dreams. Especially considering his profession years ago – albeit by now, he was probably a retired wrestler…the different name, presumably his real one and a much different look certified it. However, the scar across his face was a dead giveaway to a face that Apollo never thought he’d see again.
An old friend from a far away land, a land where he once ruled during his young days as a wrestler.
His eyes averted from the road to his cell phone, glancing at the directions for a mere second every once in a while before focusing back on the road, making sure that he was on the right route – it was one of those things about not being familiar with a big city like Los Angeles, he’d have likely been lost without some sort of navigation device. The songs in the borrowed Dodge Challenger shifted, going all across the border on the musical range – “Perfect Strangers” by Deep Purple, “Death to All But Metal” by Steel Panther, “Can’t Hold Us Down” by Macklemore, “Die Schlinge” by Oomph!, “Maybe Tomorrow” by Yuki Kajiura…really, it did its fair share of genre shifting up until Apollo pulled up just outside of the location described by the L.A. Times piece. The place in question was Paramount Elite Gymnastics and as he parked the car and turned off the engine, Leander lifted his aviator shades from the way of his almond shaped green eyes while gazing at the building momentarily. He folded the aviators and placed them inside the glove box compartment before removing the seat belt and taking the keys off the ignition, opening the driver’s side door, grabbing a folded newspaper from the passenger’s side and exiting the car before quickly shutting it, only having to press a button on the device next to the car key to lock up the Challenger before sliding the key itself back in the front left pocket of his denim jeans.
He made his way out of the street and into the sidewalk, feeling the humidity of the California air hit him with each step and making sure that he’d likely be sweating a fair amount under the faded red t-shirt with a golden lion logo on its center and the words “Hear Me Roar” below it in the same color. Opening the double doors to the gym itself, he entered the inside and the air conditioning of the building hitting against his skin was enough to cause goose bumps and a sigh of relief to escape Leander’s lips, his eyes scanning the surroundings until finding a group of folks gathered – mostly parents with their children next to them, all in a circle and conversing with a tall, lanky man, blond of hair, short cut and neatly trimmed compared to many years ago, piercing blue eyes that have maintained the exact same vibrancy since Leo last saw of him and of course, a scar running from the left side of his temple in a vertical manner up to his jaw line that made him stick out like a sore thumb. Leander almost took a step forward, before halting in his tracks and just deciding to let the situation play out. He allowed the scarred man to continue and finish his conversation before the parents slowly began to disperse with their kids, family by family, until nobody else remained in the gymnasium’s main room outside of Leo and the scarred man.
Finally, the scarred man’s eyes set themselves upon Apollo, widening at the sight before he exhaled, his gaze and facial expressions returning to the stern, no-nonsense approach that Leo remembered.
“So this is what you meant by ‘I nearly made the German Olympic team’ once…”
The scarred man’s expression didn’t change. “How exactly in the world did you find me, Abel?”
Abel. Phoebus Abel. The moniker he once carried through his early years of wrestling across Germany and eventually, most of Western Europe. It is a name that still lives in infamy in Europe, given the impressive undefeated streak that Leander managed to have under that name…nearly three straight years, no black marks whatsoever to his name. Yet, the most mysterious aspect of it all was the lack of hardware around his waist – for at that time, Leander didn’t stay put in one place. While finishing school, he took it to explore every corner of Germany and eventually, countries like Italy, Switzerland, France, Belgium, Netherlands, Austria…never staying quite put enough to win a title, but continuing to accumulate victory after victory after victory…and the man before him was a key figure during those years, a veteran of the sport that served as a voice of conscience to an American foreigner who stepped into a land filled with people more than happy to take his head off his shoulders.
“The Los Angeles Times.” Leander tossed the folded newspaper piece he had in his hand this entire time at the scarred man, who caught it and unfolded the paper, carefully scanning before a groan escaped his lips. “They made it rather obvious you’d be running this whole seminar thing this weekend.”
“And here I was, expecting they’d only run this in one of the back pages,” His German accent flows lightly through his speaking of the English language, displaying a few years of expertise with the language and definitely a sense of fluency. “Must have been a really slow news day to run it in the front page of the sports section along with Dodgers and Kings results.”
Leander waited for the man to fold the newspaper piece before approaching him, a small smile on his lips. “It’s been a long time, Herr Blut.”
“Quite, Myron.” The scarred man crossed his arms, watching the young lion’s eyes widen slightly after being called by his actual, real name. He was expecting a bit of cringing to boot and the lack of that surprised the scarred man just slightly. “Just as you no longer go by Phoebus Abel, I do not go by Blaues Blut either.”
“Right,” Apollo kept the small smile on his lips and his gaze onto the man across him. “Sorry about that. Old habits die hard, mister Reinhold.”
Matthias Reinhold shook his head, finally taking a step forward, as the two men proceed to shake hands at long last. Reinhold noticed the firm grip that Apollo had on his hand. “Formal as ever. However, you’ve grown your fair share since I last saw you,” Reinhold said, as the two parted hands. “I don’t get to see much of the sport these days, but looking at you alone tells me you’ve seen some shit since you left Europe and the title of ‘Undisputed of the Western World’ aside.”
“I’ve got some stories, that’s for sure,” Leander explained. “I had no idea you were out here in Los Angeles, however.”
“Have been here for about roughly two years. Actually left Germany about three months after you did, decided to call it quits on my wrestling career,” Reinhold managed a small smile. “As you’ve deducted by now, I used to be a gymnast before I wrestled. And yes, I’d have been a part of the Olympic squad many years ago were it not for a nagging injury during tryouts. But I’ve still kept up with it, felt that I had knowledge to pass forward to the boys and girls trying their hand at it…and America presented a better opportunity to do so than the Deutschland.”
“Well, as coincidence would have it, I’m out here to watch a show in Los Angeles tomorrow night.” Leander glanced around the gym. “Got some time in your hands? It’d be nice to catch up.”
“Yeah, I’m about done here – just gotta talk to the owner of the place, go over a few things and the like. Know just the place to do it, as long as you are willing to drive.” Reinhold noticed the subtle confusion on Apollo’s eyes. “I live five minutes away. It was much easier to walk rather than drive myself.”
Apollo nodded. “Sure. I can drive.”
“Good. I’ll meet you outside, then. It should not be more than five to ten minutes.”
“Alright, then. I’ll be by the Dodge Challenger near the doors.”
“Got it. See you soon…”
--------------------------------
Roughly two hours later, both Leander Apollo and Matthias Reinhold were sat across from one another, empty plates in front of them that were once filled with savory chicken and Cuban sandwiches, drinks at each side and the conversation has been flowing as the two men have used this time rather wisely to catch up on what happened to the two of them since they parted ways in Germany, sharing stories, current day events and the like while sat in one of the outside tables of the “Ay Papa Que Rico” Caribbean restaurant, just a mile away from Paramount Elite Gymnastics. The shade from the umbrella above covered them from the sun, both men sat back in their chairs, Reinhold with his drink in hand – some type of tequila mix that escaped him – while Leander kept his own Cuba Libre at the table.
“Where’d you find this place?”
“First thing I found while visiting the surroundings after taking the job with Paramount. Good Cuban sandwiches.”
“You got that right. Felt like I was in Miami instead of Los Angeles.”
“Funny you mention it, given the subject you touched on a few minutes ago. Why move from Tampa Bay, if you had just gotten your own house out there and such?”
Apollo paused, taking a deep breath. This wasn’t exactly the easiest of subjects. “Too much going on all at once during the time. A lot of bad memories,” he explained. “Got to the point where I needed to leave before I made some decisions that I’d end up living to regret. Having it rented to a rather nice couple, though.”
Reinhold simply nodded, taking a sip from his drink. “Think you’ll ever be able to go back?”
“Someday, maybe,” Leander replied. “But for now, I’m content in New York. Code Red Wrestling’s been going really well and just being in a place where the distractions have come to a minimum is a nice change of pace.”
“While I can’t speak out on your personal life, I know for sure that neither of us cares much for politics in the work environment.” Reinhold leaned forward slightly on his chair, gazing into the eyes of the man who had become this “Red Comet,” this “Leander Apollo” that seemed so improved and yet, still fighting to find his place in the large world of professional wrestling, much like he did as Phoebus Abel all over Europe for nearly three years. “However, even without those distractions, I can tell…you’re still fighting it out to belong on the top of the food chain. Except this time, you’re the small fish in a sea of sharks instead of the shark in a small pond of fishes.”
The thought process behind Leander Apollo’s mind was rather obvious (to him, anyway – for all he knew, his thought process could be considered ludicrous to others).
“Yeah…I guess you can say that I’m still fighting.”
“Stop fighting so hard, then.”
That short, five word sentence was enough to catch Apollo’s attention.
“What do you mean, stop fightin-”
“Exactly that. If there’s one thing that hasn’t changed these years is just how hard you fight, Myron. That much has always been one of your best and yet, worse traits.” Reinhold takes another sip of his drink, vibrant blue eyes still keeping their gaze onto the still young “Red Comet.” “I’m not telling to just plain give up. In the wrestling business, that’s practically Morse code for ‘cripple me.’ But given the short version of everything you’ve done since you left Germany, along with experiencing the pain of losses for the first time in your young career, you developed a rather problematic pattern…”
“Matthias…” He was about to start arguing, as he usually did. If there was another thing Leander Apollo could claim to his “cons,” if he were making a list of such on a dating website or some other nonsense, it would be the fact that he was stubborn. At a mule’s level of stubborn. Except this time, one deep breath and a gulp of his own drink, he decided to keep his mouth shut. “Just…go on, I guess?”
“Thank you. At least you’ve been working on that thing about talking over other people.” Leander rolling his eyes at him didn’t go unnoticed. However, Reinhold kept himself focused on the subject at hand. “Alright, to demonstrate this hypothesis, I’ll need you to cooperate. Your first loss ever. Name the man who finally made the once proud ‘Undefeated of the Western World,’ a guy who had nearly gone three full calendar years without experiencing the most agonizing thing in this business…who was the man who made you taste bitter defeat?”
The question is unexpected and automatically, it brings Leander to grit his teeth. Not just because it was first loss, but because of the circumstances…an exposed turnbuckle, a roll-up with extra leverage being used via holding on to the tights. Just when he was so close to continuing the success he experienced in Europe, when he was about to shock the entire world by taking down the leader of the One Ring Circus on his own…
“Daniel Tenegra,” Apollo said, venomously. “Better known as M.D.K.”
“And tell me, Myron…what exactly did you do AFTER you were defeated by this M.D.K.?”
“…I swore to make him and his cronies pay the price.”
Reinhold set his drink back down on the table. “So, that was what influenced your move to the company you chose after that tournament was done.” He exhaled slowly, the old veteran with the scar running across the side of his face making damn sure the young pup was listening loud and clear. “Black marks, even to this day, have been a rarity for you – especially after what you did early in your career. Thus, you followed said M.D.K. and his faction until they were either finished by your own hand or somebody else’s…” Reinhold shrugged. “Stop me if I’m wrong.”
The silence and pensive expression on Apollo’s face indicated anything but those last few words. “Out of the emptiness that comes with a loss, your desire for victory grows stronger. Revenge, retribution, call it what you will. Just about anybody that has claimed a victory over you, you’ve gone after them until you evened the score or you just about broke them to a point they couldn’t stand up. Because you, Myron…” Reinhold made it a point to have his index finger reach out and tap the spot in his chest where beneath all the flesh and bone, his heart rested. “You are afraid of loss. Ever since your older sister passed aw-”
“Don’t.” The tone on Leander Apollo’s voice was one of finality, eyes sharpened and hands involuntarily grasping on to his glass and part of the table with far more intensity than a normal man ever should. “Ayla’s death has…”
“…Nothing to do with it.” Reinhold shook his head. “Right. So all of the pain, all of those decisive victories for nearly three years all across Europe…those had nothing to do with something inside you wanting to never feel ever again in your life.” The widening of Apollo’s almond shaped green eyes only seem to serve as a method of encouragement, rather than stopping. “I’m not trying to be a shrink, however much it may sound like it. Your life is yours to live as you see fit. However…as somebody who watched your completely green ass become a guy they deemed the ‘Undefeated of the Western World,’ somebody who’s had the distinct pleasure of teaming with you on occasions and someone much older and wiser than yourself…” He paused. “You keep going like this, you’re going to self-destruct like you nearly did before Jason Proctor took you out.”
His grip on his drink and on the table remained intact, however, it wasn’t as if he was flying on a blinding rage like he did months ago when Chris Strike tried to give him similar advice (in a harsher manner, far more fueled by his own ego than anything else). No, while Matthias Reinhold was a man he had not seen in the years, the man formerly known as ‘Blaues Blut’ had his back and served as a go-to guy for him, a guide to some of the stranger things in Germany and a somewhat friendly face in a sea of threatening ones. Leo recognized that enough to let the man speak his piece and to reflect on it.
M.D.K., the One Ring Circus, Brad Jackson, Jerry McClean, Gary Gilray, Jason Proctor…
All men who had at some point and time in their lives wronged him inside of the squared circle, robbed him of victories he felt should have been his, be it against them or against a different opponent. All men who he’d set his eyes on eventually getting even with and with the purpose of getting back what was taken from him at their hands. A shred of dignity, some semblance of honor regained and of course, revenge. The last man in question on that list still remained out, scot-free and without having suffered the consequences for his actions against him. Hell, he was the only one left remaining without having experienced his full-on wrath because out of all the times that he was faced with loss, this was the one time that Leander Apollo chose to walk away…
Self-preservation over self-destruction, something that led him to eventually re-evaluate his own goals within the wrestling business, to chart out the path that he had actually been seeking in Germany and Europe and beyond, before stepping into the world stage and nearly getting his limbs torn off due to rushing right at certain sharks.
“Don’t fight so hard, huh?” Apollo finally managed to ask, taking a long but slow sip from his drink.
“Basically, don’t push yourself to a breaking point like you did. All in the subconscious – see, inside that ring? Most people can’t tell the difference. They’re too fueled up on emotions and their own inflated egos to even consider their fellow partners and opponents’ psyches. The smart ones, however,” Reinhold taps the side of his temple. “The guys who obsess over their study of tapes, the ones who take that moment or two to open their eyes and really see what’s going on in the canvas, the ones who methodically dissect any and all weaknesses of an opponent but only use them at the right time…those are the guys who rise up to be world champions.” He pointed at Leander again. “You have all the tools to do it. Double-edged sword as your current approach to it may be, your mentor instilled you with enough of a mental edge where you’ve channel that to where you’ve once raked up more victories and the kind of winning streak most men and women in this business would talk up a storm about on live television.” He paused again. “Don’t let the fear inside you cripple you before the battle’s even begun, much less let it determine how you live your life!”
Reinhold took another deep breath, glancing at his drink before looking back at Apollo, a sly grin appearing on his lips. “Heh, barely three hours after meeting you for the first time in nearly two years and you’ve already got me in full mentor mode like in the old days.”
“You’ve always had a penchant for it.”
“You think that’s good, you should hear me when talking about gymnastics.” Reinhold’s grin grew wider. “To them, I’m like Hasselhoff in his singing prime.”
Leander nearly spurted his drink in his lips, closing his eyes and managing to somehow gulp it down before a faint bit of laughter escaped him, nodding his head a few ones. “Oh, oh that’s good. I can already imagine all the soccer moms making dreamy eyes at you while their kids stare in awe.”
“He had his moments of glory, Myron.” Reinhold sighed, observing as the youth before him gradually stopped laughing and actually returned to normal from his brief, zany reaction. “Got it out of your system?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.”
“Alright then.” Reinhold finished the remainder of his drink, setting it down before gradually standing up from his chair. “This is where we part ways again, kid.”
Leander stood up from his chair as well, leaving the remainder of his drink on the glass. “Alright. How far are you from here?”
“Not too far. I can walk it.” Before Leander could even respond, Reinhold held up his hand. “I’ll be okay. Really. You’ve got things to do on your end, I can use the exercise, and it’ll all work out.”
“You sure about this, Matthias?”
“Absolutely.” Reinhold nodded. “Don’t be a stranger, Myron. This was rather entertaining.”
“I’ll keep in touch – but not too much to the point where I’m talking your ear off like I did years ago.” The two men shook hands once again. “Thank you.”
Reinhold managed a nod and a small smile. “Zeit ist das teuerste Kleinod. Vergeuden Sie es nicht, Myron.” Reinhold lets go of the handshake and without a wasted motion, makes his way out of the restaurant, nodding curtly to Leander before placing his hands on the pockets of his own jeans and moving along the street. “Bis später!”
Leander kept his eye out on Matthias Reinhold regardless while the man walked up the street, making sure that he would be safe and sound through at least as far as he could see him. He wouldn’t be surprised that Reinhold taking the right once near the closest intersection was his way of getting out of Leo’s sight. Exhaling slowly, Leander began making his way out of the restaurant as well and back towards William Bateman’s borrowed, black cherry Dodge Challenger. The words imparted to him by Reinhold were still implanted in mind, hitting a certain spot in his psyche that he never did stop to think about – not even through his sessions with the psychiatrist that he decided to see to help do something about his fair share of issues (and that he dropped like a bad habit the moment Jason Proctor took him out of action in late December of last year).
The fear of loss…and then, of course, the German proverbs that the old bastard seemed to have at the tip of his tongue.
“Time’s expensive, huh?” He whispered to himself while opening the doors to the Challenger and slipping inside the driver’s seat. The amount of food he had eaten along over the course of the past few hours kept the minimum amount of alcohol ingested from even coming close to impairing him from being capable of driving himself back to downtown Los Angeles. As the engine of the Challenger roared once more like a proud lion roaming through the pride lands, Leander leaned back on the driver’s seat and his green eyes caught a glimpse of the clear skies, feeling satisfied, as if handed a nice piece of the gigantic puzzle that he still needed to complete in both personal and professional aspects of his life.
He’d use those pieces accordingly with time.
Time that was too expensive to be lost to the gripping fear of losing…
--------------------------------
The following entry was taken from theredcometapollo.blogspot.com/:
“Yeah, uh
A fresh cool young Lu'
Tryna catch his microphone check 2, 1, 2
Wanna believe my own hype but it's too untrue
The world brought me to my knees, what have you brung you?
Did you improve on the design? Did you do somethin' new?
Well your name ain't on the guest list, who brung you?
You! The more famous person you come through
And the sexy lady next to you, you come too
And then it hit me
Standin' outside of heaven waitin' for god to come and get me
I'm too uncouth
Unschooled to the rules and too gum shoe
Too much of a new comer and too un-cool
Like Shadow and Lavelle, I battle with it well
Tho I need holiday like lady who sung ‘Blue’
Go back, whatever you did you undo
Heavy as heaven
The devil on me, two ton's too.”
– “Superstar” by Lupe Fiasco
Friday, June 7, 2013:
For a while, I was just contemplating going on camera and just going for it, letting myself just talk about what may very well be the biggest match of my life – but after a while, I just felt to take off the edge a bit alongside the green tea with lime that some typing would do the trick here today. Plus, it’s been a little bit since I’ve updated this thing…not since “Primetime” did his shit and had to be carried out after we got done at Mayhem because of the beating we gave one another. It was a tough loss…but if there is possibly one hell of a way to bounce off from said loss, Sunday Night Faceoff’s main event this week pretty much should say it all, you know?
Hell, this is a match that could easily be “my defining moment” in this business, my calling card for years to come when any wrestling who has never heard of Leander Apollo before can refer to, can watch and can learn exactly what is it about me that people seem to like so much when watching me go out to wrestle. Hell; people are coming left and right to see this match. Good friends, folks who decided I’m a decent enough human being for them to come out and support, through thick or thin. People that actually believe I’m sorta capable of pulling this off without making an ass of myself. No pressure whatsoever or anything, right, guys and gals?
But yeah, it’s a big time match. It’s the kind that people who have been around a long time have at least one of these, if they’re lucky. Or more, if they managed to do the first nine accordingly enough to be afforded second, third, fourth chances and so on – some legitimately earned said rights, others scrapped by using whatever unruly methods necessary to stay relevant enough to get those chances in the views of promoters, owners, people they were fucking, etc.
Sorry…I’ve seen a lot of shit in my first few years when I was roaming Europe. Most of you might be wondering about that part. I’ll give you the Cliff Notes version. Long story short, I used to be known as “Phoebus Abel” at one point (don’t ask, it’s Chris Strike’s fault) in time when I first started wrestling after graduating from All Star Wrestling Gym. I went to Germany due to interest on the language and the catch style. Nearly three years later, I had rampaged through all of Germany and various parts of Europe to the point where the last, reserve spot on the Experts tournament of 2011 sounded like a much better idea than spending another day wrestling there.
I was bored senseless! I wanted a challenge and instead, I just kept managing to curb stomp anybody who tried.
I needed to take that next step in the ladder if I wanted to achieve the eternal boyhood dream of becoming a World champion of some merit, recognized accordingly and not as some indy/unknown fluke who held their version of a “world title” twenty times (and then use it to stroke the MASSIVE ego) like some of the scum bags that enter this business are content with doing. Some people are content with being the World champion in a backwater place that only 20 people have heard of and instead of trying to do that shit in Germany, I flew on a plane and decided that I could fucking rumble with 63 other people to become the True Experts champion. And you know what? When one of the main entries went down (like a bitch), I stepped up. I swept the remainder of my group. I went to Siberia along with fifteen of the absolute best around and on that faithful day, Daniel Tenegra (you kids know him as M.D.K. – y’know, smarmy, British, kind of a complete dick) handed me my first ever loss.
It was the most surreal experience of my life. Handed my first loss in this kind of a stage, done in the smarmiest and dishonorable of manners didn’t help with the whole “acceptance” stage. A fair share of words with Kurt Noble later that same evening, a few weeks later, I was brought in to aid the New Experts in their battle against the One Ring Circus. I eventually continued that fight by going into the TFWF and alongside Jason Proctor, we took gold from the ORC – really, the rest of that is modern, professional wrestling history that actually does matter.
But in between the 369 days as one-half of the TFWF World Tag Team champions, between beating the legendary Georgie Nickles for the DWIWF North American title. Hell, between going up against some of the best in this sport like Brad Jackson, Sabra Nikolayev, Scorpio, Hannah Rickman, Evan Envi and Doug E. Fresh…none of those matches compare to what I am coming into this Sunday night.
Because this is the main event against a guy who has become THE main event player in all of professional wrestling, no matter where it is that he steps foot on.
Maybe you might not be considered the “absolute” best according to many, but the fact is, over the past two years, you’ve come up on that thing known as your “prime.” And I don’t mean the kind of prime some indy jackass somewhere claims to be at in age twenty-two, but LEGITIMATE prime. The kind of prime that no matter where you go, you almost seem un-fucking-touchable, the kind of prime that almost took the Experts in 2012 by storm and that after falling short there, took everything it learned to APW, cornered it at Shockwave and after outsmarting Kurt freaking Noble, said prime began to make APW its prison bitch without even the decency of letting it drop its pants.
Too graphic? Maybe. But it illustrates the point very well, because you’ve been APW’s Undisputed Champion for 285 days and in that mean time, whether all of the fans of APW’s product like him or absolutely abhor him, they cannot deny the fact that they’re witnessing history happen in the company that they follow and along with it, perhaps the most dominant World champion we’ve seen.
Terry Marvin…for all your accolades, for all of your years of experience in this business, for all of the ego that you are willing to show without a shred of guilt or regret when you’ve got a microphone on your hands or you’re schooling somebody on the mat…you want to know exactly what I admire about you the most? It’s the fact that you somehow manage to still be an enigma to everybody who steps into the ring against you. They don’t know if they’re going to get this megalomaniacal figure that was one of the key architects in the foundation of the Sindicate, they have no idea if they’re going to get the guy who’s been on a war path to eradicate Veritas off the face of the planet in Code Red Wrestling or worse…they could get something else entirely, like the guy who drove Kurt Noble insane by playing mind games with him or the guy that fought Liam Alexander in the most noble and honorable of fashions. You just don’t know…
But I know that even with those different aspects that you can throw on within a snap, that even with your attempts to make yourself a better man and to forget some of your own deeds...believe me, I know old habits die hard. Fact is, I know better than most people you’ll likely run across. Because just like you have a penchant for destruction, chaos and every dirty trick in the book, I’m basically mortified of the idea of loss ever since my older sister, niece and nephew all died in the same night.
Loss of that magnitude, Terry…it’s easily the most empty, horrifying feeling. It’s a subject I’ve mentioned a fair share of times, but it’s not…easy to talk about. I just know that ever since that day, that fact’s been imprinted in my subconscious – hell, an old war buddy of sorts from my Germany days was able to point that shit out within minutes of talking shop, which means you’d have been able to do the same, if you haven’t done so already. See, Terry…that was what drove me harder than anything else could to chase after this dream of becoming a wrestler, of eventually winning a world title, becoming a big star…
Because at the time…I thought that maybe, just maybe, if I achieved that dream…all the nightmares would go away. Too simplistic…too naïve…and the kind of thinking that led me in my own personal path towards near self-destruction before a Judas Iscariot in Jason Proctor inadvertently stopped it by nearly tearing my shoulder off at Ice Storm just the night before New Year’s Eve.
A second coming happened months later, it brought me to Code Red Wrestling and now…I find myself in the biggest wrestling match of my career, the biggest main event, where all the lights shine the brightest against the greatest main event, big money player in pro wrestling.
Needless to say, I know who’s coming at me.
And just maybe, you might have an idea as to who is coming at you.
I’d like to hope so. Maybe this match might just be yet another main event you can chalk up on your vast resume, Terry. Most people wouldn’t blame you for just considering this “business as usual” before you have another go at Burden or somebody else for the Apex title, depending on how that situation plays out.
But to me, Terry? Let me put it this way…
Facing Doug E. Fresh at Sin City Wrestling on the same card that saw you beat Liam Alexander, Terry…that was my warm-up. That was my test, that was me putting myself into a big time situation against a guy who is at THAT echelon in his career, to find out how far my limits went…so that when an opportunity like this one came up, that I would be able to step up accordingly and to use that experience to surpass my own limitations, to overcome a man in THAT echelon and to do so in a place where there would be means of broadcasting it to the entire world.
Who says that the best stuff a company puts up is shit you have to pay to see on television?
Terry Marvin, this Sunday night to me could be a defining moment of the likes that…if I had to put it in an example for you, it’d be like when you hit Alexander McIntyre a low blow inside of Ring of Pride and you stole victory from the jaws of defeat. Remember that day? That was your defining moment, Terry Marvin – the one event that set off a chain of events that defined you as a wrestler and as a human being for the longest time.
And if you’re not careful enough, putting you in the Constellation Clutch and squeezing the damn life out of you until you are either tapping the mat vicariously or I make you go into Kirby’s Dream Land in the worst fashion possible via the Flash Kick could very well be my defining moment.
Because instead of being mortified by the concept of loss and what many are so eager to call “yet another notch on Terry Marvin’s wrestling belt,” I find myself in a state of bliss. Because while I may not know what aspect of Terry Marvin is coming right at me, what part of his personality is going to rear its ugly head to try and “cancel me” to continue on its SPRINGTIME IS SHOWTIME tour of all wrestling companies known to man (sorry about EXODUS, bro)…I still know that it’s going to be Terry Marvin coming at me. The twenty year veteran, the guy that’s at the apex of his prime, the guy who internet nerds everywhere have made a meme out of with the *SPOILERS: MARVIN WINS* pictures.
There’s no doubt that you are one of the best, Terry and denying that fact would be a rather disrespectful and delusional thing on one’s part to do. But however much on a roll you may have been lately, you’re not untouchable. The second that rabbit doesn’t come out of the hat, *SNAP!* The jig’s up, the news is out. Your idea of “Showtime,” the cute little memes, that shit comes to a screeching halt the second I show the world that Terry Marvin isn’t the unbeatable, unstoppable wrestling machine that he thinks he is. But instead of being like Kurt Noble, who just believed in those words, I’m going with the intent of proving them.
The thought of losing may be terrifying still. After all, losing is the easiest way to have detractors point their fingers and mock you at every turn. But it is a part of life.
Every man at some point in his life is gonna lose a battle. He's gonna fight and he's gonna lose. But what makes him a man is that in the midst of that battle, he does not lose himself. And I almost did lose myself once. I don’t intend to do it again. I don’t intend to lose myself, I don’t intend to lose the one thing in this world that was actually there to help cope with the loss, that helped instill dreams of traveling the world and doing a job that I love.
I don’t intend to lose to Terry Marvin. Not this Sunday night, not any other night. Especially not in front of every single person that has come to watch me take on one of the world’s best. It’s long time that somebody put you at that point to see if “The Real Show” Terry Marvin keeps his composure in the midst of that battle or if he loses himself like he did against McIntyre years ago.
By all means, follow the progression. Tell the world how you still are “God’s Gift to Wrestling,” even though there is no God and that cage wasn’t twenty feet. Tell them all that you are STILL the greatest thing to happen to professional wrestling, even though we’re mostly all in agreement that this is an argument between tag ropes and the fact you can use a ring apron to trap people. Tell them that the continuation of the Real Show Era is still on schedule and that “SHOWTIME!” is upon us in the Big Apple.
At least one out of four is right.
It is show time.
But this time around, you’re the one who’s going to be exiting stage left.
Battle’s on, Marvin!
But alongside having an excuse to hang out with the newcomer beauty that arrived in Phoenix Wrestling and to watch her and many others go to work at their Redemption show at the Staples Center, there was something else that brought him to drive out of the big city environment and into the San Fernando Valley area in this faithful Saturday afternoon. Hell, he couldn’t believe his own eyes that he’d brought out here until he saw an article on the Los Angeles Times on his flight to L.A. about a retired wrestler running a weekend long seminar in a field of expertise that Leander couldn’t have imagined the man doing in his dreams. Especially considering his profession years ago – albeit by now, he was probably a retired wrestler…the different name, presumably his real one and a much different look certified it. However, the scar across his face was a dead giveaway to a face that Apollo never thought he’d see again.
An old friend from a far away land, a land where he once ruled during his young days as a wrestler.
His eyes averted from the road to his cell phone, glancing at the directions for a mere second every once in a while before focusing back on the road, making sure that he was on the right route – it was one of those things about not being familiar with a big city like Los Angeles, he’d have likely been lost without some sort of navigation device. The songs in the borrowed Dodge Challenger shifted, going all across the border on the musical range – “Perfect Strangers” by Deep Purple, “Death to All But Metal” by Steel Panther, “Can’t Hold Us Down” by Macklemore, “Die Schlinge” by Oomph!, “Maybe Tomorrow” by Yuki Kajiura…really, it did its fair share of genre shifting up until Apollo pulled up just outside of the location described by the L.A. Times piece. The place in question was Paramount Elite Gymnastics and as he parked the car and turned off the engine, Leander lifted his aviator shades from the way of his almond shaped green eyes while gazing at the building momentarily. He folded the aviators and placed them inside the glove box compartment before removing the seat belt and taking the keys off the ignition, opening the driver’s side door, grabbing a folded newspaper from the passenger’s side and exiting the car before quickly shutting it, only having to press a button on the device next to the car key to lock up the Challenger before sliding the key itself back in the front left pocket of his denim jeans.
He made his way out of the street and into the sidewalk, feeling the humidity of the California air hit him with each step and making sure that he’d likely be sweating a fair amount under the faded red t-shirt with a golden lion logo on its center and the words “Hear Me Roar” below it in the same color. Opening the double doors to the gym itself, he entered the inside and the air conditioning of the building hitting against his skin was enough to cause goose bumps and a sigh of relief to escape Leander’s lips, his eyes scanning the surroundings until finding a group of folks gathered – mostly parents with their children next to them, all in a circle and conversing with a tall, lanky man, blond of hair, short cut and neatly trimmed compared to many years ago, piercing blue eyes that have maintained the exact same vibrancy since Leo last saw of him and of course, a scar running from the left side of his temple in a vertical manner up to his jaw line that made him stick out like a sore thumb. Leander almost took a step forward, before halting in his tracks and just deciding to let the situation play out. He allowed the scarred man to continue and finish his conversation before the parents slowly began to disperse with their kids, family by family, until nobody else remained in the gymnasium’s main room outside of Leo and the scarred man.
Finally, the scarred man’s eyes set themselves upon Apollo, widening at the sight before he exhaled, his gaze and facial expressions returning to the stern, no-nonsense approach that Leo remembered.
“So this is what you meant by ‘I nearly made the German Olympic team’ once…”
The scarred man’s expression didn’t change. “How exactly in the world did you find me, Abel?”
Abel. Phoebus Abel. The moniker he once carried through his early years of wrestling across Germany and eventually, most of Western Europe. It is a name that still lives in infamy in Europe, given the impressive undefeated streak that Leander managed to have under that name…nearly three straight years, no black marks whatsoever to his name. Yet, the most mysterious aspect of it all was the lack of hardware around his waist – for at that time, Leander didn’t stay put in one place. While finishing school, he took it to explore every corner of Germany and eventually, countries like Italy, Switzerland, France, Belgium, Netherlands, Austria…never staying quite put enough to win a title, but continuing to accumulate victory after victory after victory…and the man before him was a key figure during those years, a veteran of the sport that served as a voice of conscience to an American foreigner who stepped into a land filled with people more than happy to take his head off his shoulders.
“The Los Angeles Times.” Leander tossed the folded newspaper piece he had in his hand this entire time at the scarred man, who caught it and unfolded the paper, carefully scanning before a groan escaped his lips. “They made it rather obvious you’d be running this whole seminar thing this weekend.”
“And here I was, expecting they’d only run this in one of the back pages,” His German accent flows lightly through his speaking of the English language, displaying a few years of expertise with the language and definitely a sense of fluency. “Must have been a really slow news day to run it in the front page of the sports section along with Dodgers and Kings results.”
Leander waited for the man to fold the newspaper piece before approaching him, a small smile on his lips. “It’s been a long time, Herr Blut.”
“Quite, Myron.” The scarred man crossed his arms, watching the young lion’s eyes widen slightly after being called by his actual, real name. He was expecting a bit of cringing to boot and the lack of that surprised the scarred man just slightly. “Just as you no longer go by Phoebus Abel, I do not go by Blaues Blut either.”
“Right,” Apollo kept the small smile on his lips and his gaze onto the man across him. “Sorry about that. Old habits die hard, mister Reinhold.”
Matthias Reinhold shook his head, finally taking a step forward, as the two men proceed to shake hands at long last. Reinhold noticed the firm grip that Apollo had on his hand. “Formal as ever. However, you’ve grown your fair share since I last saw you,” Reinhold said, as the two parted hands. “I don’t get to see much of the sport these days, but looking at you alone tells me you’ve seen some shit since you left Europe and the title of ‘Undisputed of the Western World’ aside.”
“I’ve got some stories, that’s for sure,” Leander explained. “I had no idea you were out here in Los Angeles, however.”
“Have been here for about roughly two years. Actually left Germany about three months after you did, decided to call it quits on my wrestling career,” Reinhold managed a small smile. “As you’ve deducted by now, I used to be a gymnast before I wrestled. And yes, I’d have been a part of the Olympic squad many years ago were it not for a nagging injury during tryouts. But I’ve still kept up with it, felt that I had knowledge to pass forward to the boys and girls trying their hand at it…and America presented a better opportunity to do so than the Deutschland.”
“Well, as coincidence would have it, I’m out here to watch a show in Los Angeles tomorrow night.” Leander glanced around the gym. “Got some time in your hands? It’d be nice to catch up.”
“Yeah, I’m about done here – just gotta talk to the owner of the place, go over a few things and the like. Know just the place to do it, as long as you are willing to drive.” Reinhold noticed the subtle confusion on Apollo’s eyes. “I live five minutes away. It was much easier to walk rather than drive myself.”
Apollo nodded. “Sure. I can drive.”
“Good. I’ll meet you outside, then. It should not be more than five to ten minutes.”
“Alright, then. I’ll be by the Dodge Challenger near the doors.”
“Got it. See you soon…”
--------------------------------
Roughly two hours later, both Leander Apollo and Matthias Reinhold were sat across from one another, empty plates in front of them that were once filled with savory chicken and Cuban sandwiches, drinks at each side and the conversation has been flowing as the two men have used this time rather wisely to catch up on what happened to the two of them since they parted ways in Germany, sharing stories, current day events and the like while sat in one of the outside tables of the “Ay Papa Que Rico” Caribbean restaurant, just a mile away from Paramount Elite Gymnastics. The shade from the umbrella above covered them from the sun, both men sat back in their chairs, Reinhold with his drink in hand – some type of tequila mix that escaped him – while Leander kept his own Cuba Libre at the table.
“Where’d you find this place?”
“First thing I found while visiting the surroundings after taking the job with Paramount. Good Cuban sandwiches.”
“You got that right. Felt like I was in Miami instead of Los Angeles.”
“Funny you mention it, given the subject you touched on a few minutes ago. Why move from Tampa Bay, if you had just gotten your own house out there and such?”
Apollo paused, taking a deep breath. This wasn’t exactly the easiest of subjects. “Too much going on all at once during the time. A lot of bad memories,” he explained. “Got to the point where I needed to leave before I made some decisions that I’d end up living to regret. Having it rented to a rather nice couple, though.”
Reinhold simply nodded, taking a sip from his drink. “Think you’ll ever be able to go back?”
“Someday, maybe,” Leander replied. “But for now, I’m content in New York. Code Red Wrestling’s been going really well and just being in a place where the distractions have come to a minimum is a nice change of pace.”
“While I can’t speak out on your personal life, I know for sure that neither of us cares much for politics in the work environment.” Reinhold leaned forward slightly on his chair, gazing into the eyes of the man who had become this “Red Comet,” this “Leander Apollo” that seemed so improved and yet, still fighting to find his place in the large world of professional wrestling, much like he did as Phoebus Abel all over Europe for nearly three years. “However, even without those distractions, I can tell…you’re still fighting it out to belong on the top of the food chain. Except this time, you’re the small fish in a sea of sharks instead of the shark in a small pond of fishes.”
The thought process behind Leander Apollo’s mind was rather obvious (to him, anyway – for all he knew, his thought process could be considered ludicrous to others).
“Yeah…I guess you can say that I’m still fighting.”
“Stop fighting so hard, then.”
That short, five word sentence was enough to catch Apollo’s attention.
“What do you mean, stop fightin-”
“Exactly that. If there’s one thing that hasn’t changed these years is just how hard you fight, Myron. That much has always been one of your best and yet, worse traits.” Reinhold takes another sip of his drink, vibrant blue eyes still keeping their gaze onto the still young “Red Comet.” “I’m not telling to just plain give up. In the wrestling business, that’s practically Morse code for ‘cripple me.’ But given the short version of everything you’ve done since you left Germany, along with experiencing the pain of losses for the first time in your young career, you developed a rather problematic pattern…”
“Matthias…” He was about to start arguing, as he usually did. If there was another thing Leander Apollo could claim to his “cons,” if he were making a list of such on a dating website or some other nonsense, it would be the fact that he was stubborn. At a mule’s level of stubborn. Except this time, one deep breath and a gulp of his own drink, he decided to keep his mouth shut. “Just…go on, I guess?”
“Thank you. At least you’ve been working on that thing about talking over other people.” Leander rolling his eyes at him didn’t go unnoticed. However, Reinhold kept himself focused on the subject at hand. “Alright, to demonstrate this hypothesis, I’ll need you to cooperate. Your first loss ever. Name the man who finally made the once proud ‘Undefeated of the Western World,’ a guy who had nearly gone three full calendar years without experiencing the most agonizing thing in this business…who was the man who made you taste bitter defeat?”
The question is unexpected and automatically, it brings Leander to grit his teeth. Not just because it was first loss, but because of the circumstances…an exposed turnbuckle, a roll-up with extra leverage being used via holding on to the tights. Just when he was so close to continuing the success he experienced in Europe, when he was about to shock the entire world by taking down the leader of the One Ring Circus on his own…
“Daniel Tenegra,” Apollo said, venomously. “Better known as M.D.K.”
“And tell me, Myron…what exactly did you do AFTER you were defeated by this M.D.K.?”
“…I swore to make him and his cronies pay the price.”
Reinhold set his drink back down on the table. “So, that was what influenced your move to the company you chose after that tournament was done.” He exhaled slowly, the old veteran with the scar running across the side of his face making damn sure the young pup was listening loud and clear. “Black marks, even to this day, have been a rarity for you – especially after what you did early in your career. Thus, you followed said M.D.K. and his faction until they were either finished by your own hand or somebody else’s…” Reinhold shrugged. “Stop me if I’m wrong.”
The silence and pensive expression on Apollo’s face indicated anything but those last few words. “Out of the emptiness that comes with a loss, your desire for victory grows stronger. Revenge, retribution, call it what you will. Just about anybody that has claimed a victory over you, you’ve gone after them until you evened the score or you just about broke them to a point they couldn’t stand up. Because you, Myron…” Reinhold made it a point to have his index finger reach out and tap the spot in his chest where beneath all the flesh and bone, his heart rested. “You are afraid of loss. Ever since your older sister passed aw-”
“Don’t.” The tone on Leander Apollo’s voice was one of finality, eyes sharpened and hands involuntarily grasping on to his glass and part of the table with far more intensity than a normal man ever should. “Ayla’s death has…”
“…Nothing to do with it.” Reinhold shook his head. “Right. So all of the pain, all of those decisive victories for nearly three years all across Europe…those had nothing to do with something inside you wanting to never feel ever again in your life.” The widening of Apollo’s almond shaped green eyes only seem to serve as a method of encouragement, rather than stopping. “I’m not trying to be a shrink, however much it may sound like it. Your life is yours to live as you see fit. However…as somebody who watched your completely green ass become a guy they deemed the ‘Undefeated of the Western World,’ somebody who’s had the distinct pleasure of teaming with you on occasions and someone much older and wiser than yourself…” He paused. “You keep going like this, you’re going to self-destruct like you nearly did before Jason Proctor took you out.”
His grip on his drink and on the table remained intact, however, it wasn’t as if he was flying on a blinding rage like he did months ago when Chris Strike tried to give him similar advice (in a harsher manner, far more fueled by his own ego than anything else). No, while Matthias Reinhold was a man he had not seen in the years, the man formerly known as ‘Blaues Blut’ had his back and served as a go-to guy for him, a guide to some of the stranger things in Germany and a somewhat friendly face in a sea of threatening ones. Leo recognized that enough to let the man speak his piece and to reflect on it.
M.D.K., the One Ring Circus, Brad Jackson, Jerry McClean, Gary Gilray, Jason Proctor…
All men who had at some point and time in their lives wronged him inside of the squared circle, robbed him of victories he felt should have been his, be it against them or against a different opponent. All men who he’d set his eyes on eventually getting even with and with the purpose of getting back what was taken from him at their hands. A shred of dignity, some semblance of honor regained and of course, revenge. The last man in question on that list still remained out, scot-free and without having suffered the consequences for his actions against him. Hell, he was the only one left remaining without having experienced his full-on wrath because out of all the times that he was faced with loss, this was the one time that Leander Apollo chose to walk away…
Self-preservation over self-destruction, something that led him to eventually re-evaluate his own goals within the wrestling business, to chart out the path that he had actually been seeking in Germany and Europe and beyond, before stepping into the world stage and nearly getting his limbs torn off due to rushing right at certain sharks.
“Don’t fight so hard, huh?” Apollo finally managed to ask, taking a long but slow sip from his drink.
“Basically, don’t push yourself to a breaking point like you did. All in the subconscious – see, inside that ring? Most people can’t tell the difference. They’re too fueled up on emotions and their own inflated egos to even consider their fellow partners and opponents’ psyches. The smart ones, however,” Reinhold taps the side of his temple. “The guys who obsess over their study of tapes, the ones who take that moment or two to open their eyes and really see what’s going on in the canvas, the ones who methodically dissect any and all weaknesses of an opponent but only use them at the right time…those are the guys who rise up to be world champions.” He pointed at Leander again. “You have all the tools to do it. Double-edged sword as your current approach to it may be, your mentor instilled you with enough of a mental edge where you’ve channel that to where you’ve once raked up more victories and the kind of winning streak most men and women in this business would talk up a storm about on live television.” He paused again. “Don’t let the fear inside you cripple you before the battle’s even begun, much less let it determine how you live your life!”
Reinhold took another deep breath, glancing at his drink before looking back at Apollo, a sly grin appearing on his lips. “Heh, barely three hours after meeting you for the first time in nearly two years and you’ve already got me in full mentor mode like in the old days.”
“You’ve always had a penchant for it.”
“You think that’s good, you should hear me when talking about gymnastics.” Reinhold’s grin grew wider. “To them, I’m like Hasselhoff in his singing prime.”
Leander nearly spurted his drink in his lips, closing his eyes and managing to somehow gulp it down before a faint bit of laughter escaped him, nodding his head a few ones. “Oh, oh that’s good. I can already imagine all the soccer moms making dreamy eyes at you while their kids stare in awe.”
“He had his moments of glory, Myron.” Reinhold sighed, observing as the youth before him gradually stopped laughing and actually returned to normal from his brief, zany reaction. “Got it out of your system?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.”
“Alright then.” Reinhold finished the remainder of his drink, setting it down before gradually standing up from his chair. “This is where we part ways again, kid.”
Leander stood up from his chair as well, leaving the remainder of his drink on the glass. “Alright. How far are you from here?”
“Not too far. I can walk it.” Before Leander could even respond, Reinhold held up his hand. “I’ll be okay. Really. You’ve got things to do on your end, I can use the exercise, and it’ll all work out.”
“You sure about this, Matthias?”
“Absolutely.” Reinhold nodded. “Don’t be a stranger, Myron. This was rather entertaining.”
“I’ll keep in touch – but not too much to the point where I’m talking your ear off like I did years ago.” The two men shook hands once again. “Thank you.”
Reinhold managed a nod and a small smile. “Zeit ist das teuerste Kleinod. Vergeuden Sie es nicht, Myron.” Reinhold lets go of the handshake and without a wasted motion, makes his way out of the restaurant, nodding curtly to Leander before placing his hands on the pockets of his own jeans and moving along the street. “Bis später!”
Leander kept his eye out on Matthias Reinhold regardless while the man walked up the street, making sure that he would be safe and sound through at least as far as he could see him. He wouldn’t be surprised that Reinhold taking the right once near the closest intersection was his way of getting out of Leo’s sight. Exhaling slowly, Leander began making his way out of the restaurant as well and back towards William Bateman’s borrowed, black cherry Dodge Challenger. The words imparted to him by Reinhold were still implanted in mind, hitting a certain spot in his psyche that he never did stop to think about – not even through his sessions with the psychiatrist that he decided to see to help do something about his fair share of issues (and that he dropped like a bad habit the moment Jason Proctor took him out of action in late December of last year).
The fear of loss…and then, of course, the German proverbs that the old bastard seemed to have at the tip of his tongue.
“Time’s expensive, huh?” He whispered to himself while opening the doors to the Challenger and slipping inside the driver’s seat. The amount of food he had eaten along over the course of the past few hours kept the minimum amount of alcohol ingested from even coming close to impairing him from being capable of driving himself back to downtown Los Angeles. As the engine of the Challenger roared once more like a proud lion roaming through the pride lands, Leander leaned back on the driver’s seat and his green eyes caught a glimpse of the clear skies, feeling satisfied, as if handed a nice piece of the gigantic puzzle that he still needed to complete in both personal and professional aspects of his life.
He’d use those pieces accordingly with time.
Time that was too expensive to be lost to the gripping fear of losing…
--------------------------------
The following entry was taken from theredcometapollo.blogspot.com/:
“Yeah, uh
A fresh cool young Lu'
Tryna catch his microphone check 2, 1, 2
Wanna believe my own hype but it's too untrue
The world brought me to my knees, what have you brung you?
Did you improve on the design? Did you do somethin' new?
Well your name ain't on the guest list, who brung you?
You! The more famous person you come through
And the sexy lady next to you, you come too
And then it hit me
Standin' outside of heaven waitin' for god to come and get me
I'm too uncouth
Unschooled to the rules and too gum shoe
Too much of a new comer and too un-cool
Like Shadow and Lavelle, I battle with it well
Tho I need holiday like lady who sung ‘Blue’
Go back, whatever you did you undo
Heavy as heaven
The devil on me, two ton's too.”
– “Superstar” by Lupe Fiasco
Friday, June 7, 2013:
For a while, I was just contemplating going on camera and just going for it, letting myself just talk about what may very well be the biggest match of my life – but after a while, I just felt to take off the edge a bit alongside the green tea with lime that some typing would do the trick here today. Plus, it’s been a little bit since I’ve updated this thing…not since “Primetime” did his shit and had to be carried out after we got done at Mayhem because of the beating we gave one another. It was a tough loss…but if there is possibly one hell of a way to bounce off from said loss, Sunday Night Faceoff’s main event this week pretty much should say it all, you know?
Hell, this is a match that could easily be “my defining moment” in this business, my calling card for years to come when any wrestling who has never heard of Leander Apollo before can refer to, can watch and can learn exactly what is it about me that people seem to like so much when watching me go out to wrestle. Hell; people are coming left and right to see this match. Good friends, folks who decided I’m a decent enough human being for them to come out and support, through thick or thin. People that actually believe I’m sorta capable of pulling this off without making an ass of myself. No pressure whatsoever or anything, right, guys and gals?
But yeah, it’s a big time match. It’s the kind that people who have been around a long time have at least one of these, if they’re lucky. Or more, if they managed to do the first nine accordingly enough to be afforded second, third, fourth chances and so on – some legitimately earned said rights, others scrapped by using whatever unruly methods necessary to stay relevant enough to get those chances in the views of promoters, owners, people they were fucking, etc.
Sorry…I’ve seen a lot of shit in my first few years when I was roaming Europe. Most of you might be wondering about that part. I’ll give you the Cliff Notes version. Long story short, I used to be known as “Phoebus Abel” at one point (don’t ask, it’s Chris Strike’s fault) in time when I first started wrestling after graduating from All Star Wrestling Gym. I went to Germany due to interest on the language and the catch style. Nearly three years later, I had rampaged through all of Germany and various parts of Europe to the point where the last, reserve spot on the Experts tournament of 2011 sounded like a much better idea than spending another day wrestling there.
I was bored senseless! I wanted a challenge and instead, I just kept managing to curb stomp anybody who tried.
I needed to take that next step in the ladder if I wanted to achieve the eternal boyhood dream of becoming a World champion of some merit, recognized accordingly and not as some indy/unknown fluke who held their version of a “world title” twenty times (and then use it to stroke the MASSIVE ego) like some of the scum bags that enter this business are content with doing. Some people are content with being the World champion in a backwater place that only 20 people have heard of and instead of trying to do that shit in Germany, I flew on a plane and decided that I could fucking rumble with 63 other people to become the True Experts champion. And you know what? When one of the main entries went down (like a bitch), I stepped up. I swept the remainder of my group. I went to Siberia along with fifteen of the absolute best around and on that faithful day, Daniel Tenegra (you kids know him as M.D.K. – y’know, smarmy, British, kind of a complete dick) handed me my first ever loss.
It was the most surreal experience of my life. Handed my first loss in this kind of a stage, done in the smarmiest and dishonorable of manners didn’t help with the whole “acceptance” stage. A fair share of words with Kurt Noble later that same evening, a few weeks later, I was brought in to aid the New Experts in their battle against the One Ring Circus. I eventually continued that fight by going into the TFWF and alongside Jason Proctor, we took gold from the ORC – really, the rest of that is modern, professional wrestling history that actually does matter.
But in between the 369 days as one-half of the TFWF World Tag Team champions, between beating the legendary Georgie Nickles for the DWIWF North American title. Hell, between going up against some of the best in this sport like Brad Jackson, Sabra Nikolayev, Scorpio, Hannah Rickman, Evan Envi and Doug E. Fresh…none of those matches compare to what I am coming into this Sunday night.
Because this is the main event against a guy who has become THE main event player in all of professional wrestling, no matter where it is that he steps foot on.
Maybe you might not be considered the “absolute” best according to many, but the fact is, over the past two years, you’ve come up on that thing known as your “prime.” And I don’t mean the kind of prime some indy jackass somewhere claims to be at in age twenty-two, but LEGITIMATE prime. The kind of prime that no matter where you go, you almost seem un-fucking-touchable, the kind of prime that almost took the Experts in 2012 by storm and that after falling short there, took everything it learned to APW, cornered it at Shockwave and after outsmarting Kurt freaking Noble, said prime began to make APW its prison bitch without even the decency of letting it drop its pants.
Too graphic? Maybe. But it illustrates the point very well, because you’ve been APW’s Undisputed Champion for 285 days and in that mean time, whether all of the fans of APW’s product like him or absolutely abhor him, they cannot deny the fact that they’re witnessing history happen in the company that they follow and along with it, perhaps the most dominant World champion we’ve seen.
Terry Marvin…for all your accolades, for all of your years of experience in this business, for all of the ego that you are willing to show without a shred of guilt or regret when you’ve got a microphone on your hands or you’re schooling somebody on the mat…you want to know exactly what I admire about you the most? It’s the fact that you somehow manage to still be an enigma to everybody who steps into the ring against you. They don’t know if they’re going to get this megalomaniacal figure that was one of the key architects in the foundation of the Sindicate, they have no idea if they’re going to get the guy who’s been on a war path to eradicate Veritas off the face of the planet in Code Red Wrestling or worse…they could get something else entirely, like the guy who drove Kurt Noble insane by playing mind games with him or the guy that fought Liam Alexander in the most noble and honorable of fashions. You just don’t know…
But I know that even with those different aspects that you can throw on within a snap, that even with your attempts to make yourself a better man and to forget some of your own deeds...believe me, I know old habits die hard. Fact is, I know better than most people you’ll likely run across. Because just like you have a penchant for destruction, chaos and every dirty trick in the book, I’m basically mortified of the idea of loss ever since my older sister, niece and nephew all died in the same night.
Loss of that magnitude, Terry…it’s easily the most empty, horrifying feeling. It’s a subject I’ve mentioned a fair share of times, but it’s not…easy to talk about. I just know that ever since that day, that fact’s been imprinted in my subconscious – hell, an old war buddy of sorts from my Germany days was able to point that shit out within minutes of talking shop, which means you’d have been able to do the same, if you haven’t done so already. See, Terry…that was what drove me harder than anything else could to chase after this dream of becoming a wrestler, of eventually winning a world title, becoming a big star…
Because at the time…I thought that maybe, just maybe, if I achieved that dream…all the nightmares would go away. Too simplistic…too naïve…and the kind of thinking that led me in my own personal path towards near self-destruction before a Judas Iscariot in Jason Proctor inadvertently stopped it by nearly tearing my shoulder off at Ice Storm just the night before New Year’s Eve.
A second coming happened months later, it brought me to Code Red Wrestling and now…I find myself in the biggest wrestling match of my career, the biggest main event, where all the lights shine the brightest against the greatest main event, big money player in pro wrestling.
Needless to say, I know who’s coming at me.
And just maybe, you might have an idea as to who is coming at you.
I’d like to hope so. Maybe this match might just be yet another main event you can chalk up on your vast resume, Terry. Most people wouldn’t blame you for just considering this “business as usual” before you have another go at Burden or somebody else for the Apex title, depending on how that situation plays out.
But to me, Terry? Let me put it this way…
Facing Doug E. Fresh at Sin City Wrestling on the same card that saw you beat Liam Alexander, Terry…that was my warm-up. That was my test, that was me putting myself into a big time situation against a guy who is at THAT echelon in his career, to find out how far my limits went…so that when an opportunity like this one came up, that I would be able to step up accordingly and to use that experience to surpass my own limitations, to overcome a man in THAT echelon and to do so in a place where there would be means of broadcasting it to the entire world.
Who says that the best stuff a company puts up is shit you have to pay to see on television?
Terry Marvin, this Sunday night to me could be a defining moment of the likes that…if I had to put it in an example for you, it’d be like when you hit Alexander McIntyre a low blow inside of Ring of Pride and you stole victory from the jaws of defeat. Remember that day? That was your defining moment, Terry Marvin – the one event that set off a chain of events that defined you as a wrestler and as a human being for the longest time.
And if you’re not careful enough, putting you in the Constellation Clutch and squeezing the damn life out of you until you are either tapping the mat vicariously or I make you go into Kirby’s Dream Land in the worst fashion possible via the Flash Kick could very well be my defining moment.
Because instead of being mortified by the concept of loss and what many are so eager to call “yet another notch on Terry Marvin’s wrestling belt,” I find myself in a state of bliss. Because while I may not know what aspect of Terry Marvin is coming right at me, what part of his personality is going to rear its ugly head to try and “cancel me” to continue on its SPRINGTIME IS SHOWTIME tour of all wrestling companies known to man (sorry about EXODUS, bro)…I still know that it’s going to be Terry Marvin coming at me. The twenty year veteran, the guy that’s at the apex of his prime, the guy who internet nerds everywhere have made a meme out of with the *SPOILERS: MARVIN WINS* pictures.
There’s no doubt that you are one of the best, Terry and denying that fact would be a rather disrespectful and delusional thing on one’s part to do. But however much on a roll you may have been lately, you’re not untouchable. The second that rabbit doesn’t come out of the hat, *SNAP!* The jig’s up, the news is out. Your idea of “Showtime,” the cute little memes, that shit comes to a screeching halt the second I show the world that Terry Marvin isn’t the unbeatable, unstoppable wrestling machine that he thinks he is. But instead of being like Kurt Noble, who just believed in those words, I’m going with the intent of proving them.
The thought of losing may be terrifying still. After all, losing is the easiest way to have detractors point their fingers and mock you at every turn. But it is a part of life.
Every man at some point in his life is gonna lose a battle. He's gonna fight and he's gonna lose. But what makes him a man is that in the midst of that battle, he does not lose himself. And I almost did lose myself once. I don’t intend to do it again. I don’t intend to lose myself, I don’t intend to lose the one thing in this world that was actually there to help cope with the loss, that helped instill dreams of traveling the world and doing a job that I love.
I don’t intend to lose to Terry Marvin. Not this Sunday night, not any other night. Especially not in front of every single person that has come to watch me take on one of the world’s best. It’s long time that somebody put you at that point to see if “The Real Show” Terry Marvin keeps his composure in the midst of that battle or if he loses himself like he did against McIntyre years ago.
By all means, follow the progression. Tell the world how you still are “God’s Gift to Wrestling,” even though there is no God and that cage wasn’t twenty feet. Tell them all that you are STILL the greatest thing to happen to professional wrestling, even though we’re mostly all in agreement that this is an argument between tag ropes and the fact you can use a ring apron to trap people. Tell them that the continuation of the Real Show Era is still on schedule and that “SHOWTIME!” is upon us in the Big Apple.
At least one out of four is right.
It is show time.
But this time around, you’re the one who’s going to be exiting stage left.
Battle’s on, Marvin!