Vela, Together We Await The Storme

[Steve Storme]

A story without a name, a desert journey that we became
Another test of our power overcoming on a black day
Appalling how they're running for the honor like a campaign
To be the leaders of a phony dead scene in a magazine
I always figured there was something more

A lot of people ask me... stupid fucking questions...

“Why are you wrestling again, Steve?”

“Do you really think you can beat Morrison, Steve?”

“Can you eat me out, Steve?”

The fact is Steve Storme will wrestle for PCW at Slamathon. Yes, your prayers have been answered. I shall save that PPV from its tedium with my in-ring prowess and unequalled charisma. No doubt this will spike buyrates as all the teenage bitches and bored housewives that imagine me while fucking their husbands will purchase the show. You can thank me later, Saint.

It takes a lot to get me interested in a match these days. I’ve beaten so many headliners, won so many titles and ended so many careers. Half these kids that shit-talk me have an over-inflated sense of self-worth that I do not care to indulge by responding to, let alone face in the ring.

This bout with Morrison caught my attention though. Why? His belt’s on the line, for a start. He’s still just as irrelevant to me as the other punks that jump and claw for my attention, but I do like to add to the stats. I’ll use the Platinum Championship to hold my pants up when I win at Slamathon. I’ll take the punk’s pride and joy and use it as a damn accessory.

Motivation is a bitch... time to fuck it ‘till it comes...

******

Fade in. It’s a cool May evening; Steve Storme is stood across the road from a sizeable church. His cold eyes scan over the stone walls and beautiful stain-glass windows. Storme takes a final drag from a cigarette before stubbing it out on the pavement. He turns and looks round at his surroundings with a heavy sigh, shaking his head from side to side.

A black cat watches him cautiously from the opposite curb. This suddenly triggers a mental image for Steve of what seems to be himself as a child affectionately stroking a black cat, as an unexplainable feeling of warmth washes over him.

As Steve walks casually towards the church entrance, the cat scarpers into a near-by alleyway. The church is equally as immaculate inside as it is out – even the old wooden pews are polished to look their best. “The E-Fed Messiah” strolls – hands in coat pockets – along the main passage way and then takes a right, entering into a fairly large room with lifeless cream walls and poor lighting. There is no furniture except a circle of ten plastic chairs where various men are slouched.

Storme’s foot-steps cause several to turn their heads, straining for a look of who’s entered. With a blank expression, Steve moves towards the circle and one man in his fifties – the priest – rises to his feet with his brow furrowed in confusion.

Priest: Steve?!

Storme: The one and only.

Priest It’s been so long...

Storme: I wasn’t sure if this even existed anymore.

Priest Oh yes, it’s still going strong. Are you joining us this evening – for old time’s sake?

Storme: Sure. Why not?

The priest smiles warmly despite Storme’s toneless words showing no enthusiasm. The priest then fetches another chair and places it within the circle. Steve takes a seat and glances between the other men, locking eyes with a few before they look down to the floor. The priest clears his throat in preparation to address the group.

Priest: My friends, this right here is Steve Ashton – but you may know him as Steve Storme. I still remember the first time Steve showed up here; it must have been four years ago now. He was a lost sheep so to speak, a young man with no direction in his life. His vices were so damaging and he saw no way out of-

Storme: My vices?

Steve chuckles to himself as the group stays in awkward silence.

Storme: If you’re going to tell a story then you shouldn’t leave out the details.

The priest smiles nervously and nods a few times.

Priest: Well, Steve was... an alcoholic... and, uh... he also had a very severe dependency on various narcotics.

Anyway, he had no family or friends to turn to. This very support group gave him a safe environment to discuss his problems – where nobody judged him. Through these weekly meetings, we helped him overcome his addictions and encouraged him to follow his dreams.

Look at him now! He’s a very successful professional wrestler with a bright future in a major company called Premium Championship Wrestling. Steve’s done very well for himself by turning his life around and I think he deserves a round of applause.

Almost robotically, the circle begin to clap at once. A bemused Storme simply looks from face to face, scrutinizing these broken men. His gaze then finally returns to that of the beaming old priest, still clapping emphatically.

Storme: Okay okay, you can all stop this shit right now. I don’t want or need approval from people like you but I have something I need to get off my chest. So just... sit... and listen.

Priest: Steve, why are you-

Storme: Are you losing your hearing or something? I said LISTEN.

Storme speaks at normal volume but his words are laced with contempt. The priest sighs and slumps back into his chair, not wanting any form of conflict.

Storme: You know it sickens me how you can so shamelessly deceive these people and yet call yourself a man of god – whatever that means. You’re a liar, “father”; re-telling the past to trick the latest band of scumbags into believing your god is the answer. When I came to this group and spoke passionately of my dream to become a wrestler, you know what you told me?

You told me to think like an adult, to put aside “childhood ambitions” and work towards something realistic. There was no encouragement, only continual failed attempts at forcing Christianity onto me and bitter advice to give up on my one passion in life. The rest of the group laughed and sneered when I said I’d never give up hope.

But I didn’t and that strength of will has got me further than I’ve ever imagined. Like you said, “father”, my future is bright. Have any of you been watching Rapture lately? Any true PCW fans? I've been cracking skulls, I’m even on the verge of lifting gold – I can feel it... but... all this success has absolutely nothing to do with this group of gutless excuses for men.

He focuses on one in particular; shaggy brown hair, dark stubble and sunken eyes. Steve points a finger at this downtrodden man, eyes narrowed in digust.

Storme: You... Max... Max Wilkins, right? Heh. I remember you sat in that same seat four years ago. I can scarcely believe it, four fuckin’ years. It’s as if time has simply stood still for you. I bet you’re still shooting up, right? You’re probably jobless, damn near broke, living off hand-outs. Nothing has changed; the “support” of these losers hasn’t got you anywhere.

You know why? You just can’t rely on the weak. Only a fool puts their future in the hands of society’s underclass. I suppose you come here to be told you’re doing well, right? This is just one big pathetic ego trip. You want a pat on the back for not snorting that third line of coke last night. Or maybe it’s for not roughing up your girlfriend after you came home stinking of cheap whiskey. Congratulations Max!

You want to really change? Only you can make that change, Max. Only you – if you have the drive. This little circle jerk will get you nowhere. Trust me. It was NOT the foundation for my success and to even suggest such a thing is madness... but I guess you’ve got to be a little mad to have faith in a benevolent god...

The priest can take no more, rising to his feet, red-faced with his finger jabbing at air wildly.

Priest: How dare you besmirch His name here!

Storme: The innocent suffer as if burning in the fires of hell!

Priest: But God gave man free-will! If there was no evil then there would be no good. God gave us free-will so we could choose the right path and build a meaningful relationship with him.

Storme: What about babies slaughtered? They never got the chance to choose any path. They were without sin and yet nothing was done as they were murdered. What kind of a god intervenes on this planet to turn water into wine but allows such horrors to continue? Not a benevolent one, that’s for sure.

The priest closes his eyes and runs a hand through his thinning hair, exhaling once again.

Storme: What’s wrong, “father”? Have you run out of lies to spew already? I expected you to keep on justifying your god’s apathy. Don’t tell me I’ve destroyed your beliefs THAT easily.

Priest: I will never lose my faith!

Storme: Just your sanity then.

The priest closes his eyes and puts a hand to his head. Storme chuckles to himself as he rises to his feet as well, walking out into the center of the circle with his head bowed slightly.

Storme: You know what the worst thing about you people is? I’ve ran you and your support group into the ground. I’ve called you scumbags, losers, simpletons and all kinds of insults and yet... you’ve done nothing. You’ve just sat there and taken it. You are all goddamn cowards.

Looking all around him, Steve points his index finger at each and every one of the broken men. When he’s done, he casually walks out the door as if nothing is wrong. That no one confronts him before leaving only confirms his harsh words. They have no guts. Fade out.

******

Look, Morrison, you talk too much. You’re on radio shows jacking off over yourself. I realize it dented your ego when I snapped your little arm out of its socket, but my name’s in your mouth all the time. I’m under your skin; I’m the self-doubt in the back of your mind, everything you hate about yourself.

Do you hate me? Give in to that hatred. Let it consume you.

It seems you have to keep telling yourself and everyone else that I’m just an announcer, that I’m not in your league. You know my history – everyone does. I’ve won over forty titles in multiple companies, I’m respected throughout the wrestling world – to put it bluntly, I’m an E-Fed Messiah. So when you dismiss that so defiantly, I sense insecurity.

Are you, Morrison? Are you insecure?

I know you’re moderately successful here; the Platinum Champion, wins over several upper-carders... but scratch beneath the surface of those victories and they’re pretty hollow, kid. You resort to cheap tactics more often than not but then front like a legitimate athlete.

I’m a true legend of the sport at just twenty five years old. I’m not an old-timer, I’m not a has-been. I haven’t even reached my prime yet – and that’s a frightening thought to anyone that’s had the displeasure of facing me.

This match is a formality. I’m not caught up in the hype. You’re just another faceless egotist. There’s nothing that sets you apart from every other cocky prick I’ve put down like a troublesome canine. No, you’re more like a parasite. You suck life from PCW for your own ends.

I see through your bullshit, I see you for a charade. You try blur the lines between truth and lies, fact and fiction, legitimacy and fabrication. The result is a shell of a competitor with a little man complex, penis envy and a hard-on for himself. You’re fucking pathetic, kid.

I’ll crush what little true self-esteem you have like a paper cup. I’ll pimp slap you repeatedly like you’re a dirty Bronx hooker. To quote Nas, you’re a fan, a phony, a fake, a pussy, a Stan. You deal with emotions like bitches.

Keep speaking my name while you still can because after Slamathon II, your weak jaw will be wired shut and you’ll be sucking pussy through a straw.

The storm yet to come binds us as one through it all, lonliness and adversity, failure and injustices only guide us on our way
So pry, you won't be finding a faker, nor will an opportune moment arise

Gone, so many friends and lovers
So far, nothing to show in turn