Post by Daron Smythe on Jan 18, 2024 21:55:22 GMT -5
The dimly lit Triple Nickel in McKeesport, PA, buzzed with the distant murmur of hushed conversations and the occasional clink of glasses. The air hung heavy with the scent of stale cigarette smoke, as neon signs flickered and cast an eerie glow on the worn-out furniture. In a secluded corner, Daron Smythe sat alone at the bar, nursing a half-empty glass of bourbon.
The worn wooden stool beneath him creaked in protest as Daron took a slow sip, his eyes fixated on the amber liquid. The flickering light revealed the fatigue etched on his face, the lines telling stories of a past that refused to loosen its grip. The low hum of a bluesy tune played by an old jukebox echoed in the background, adding to the melancholic atmosphere.
The bartender, a grizzled figure with a weathered apron, eyed Daron from across the bar. It was clear that the Triple Nickel had seen its fair share of patrons seeking solace in its shadows, and Daron was no exception. As he swirled the contents of his glass absentmindedly, the door swung open, releasing a gust of cold air that momentarily disrupted the stifling warmth within.
Daron's gaze remained fixed on the glass, lost in the amber abyss, as if searching for answers to questions he was hesitant to ask. The Triple Nickel, with its worn charm and gritty ambiance, provided a refuge for those like Daron – a place where the past and the present collided in a dance of regrets and unspoken tales.
Normally he'd be across the street at the old beat up warehouse known as the PWX Sportatorium, running the ropes, taking bumps, lifting old rusty weights. Across the street from the building was The Triple Nickel, a staple of McKeesport, and a place many of the PWX regulars came to get "socially lubricated" before a night at the matches. A time or two Daron had hustled across the street for a few bottles of water, braving the Walnut Street traffic. Tonight was a different night, though.
DARON: *taking a big swig, then slamming the glass down* Hey...can I get another one of those?
BARTENDER: You sure, buddy?
DARON: Yeah...keep em coming.
BARTENDER: Alright man, I'm on it.
Daron empties the remaining contents of the glass, a few brown drops of liquor and the rest of the ice, then sets the glass down and slides it over to the wayward bartender before looking right into the camera...
DARON: You gotta tell Jay I'm sorry...I told him to send a cameraman over to the building tonight for a promo, but I... I just couldn't go in there. Normally after a big loss like that, that ring over there is the first place I'd want to be...but for some reason, this feels...different.
The bartender slides a fresh glass down the bar, Daron stops it with his hand, takes another swig and sets it down, giving the bartender a thumbs up before wiping his mouth and looking at the camera again...
DARON: Story of my life, right? So close, yet so far away. Maybe it's why I identify with this area? A place that can't get out of its own way, right?
Last year in the Universal Stampede, I was able to eliminate Jackson Burnside and later on...I finally won that UWL World Title I was seeking. I carried that title with pride. But, once I lost that title to Cory Chevelle, it was like I was invisible again. Burnside won't even acknowledge me. The UWL roster didn't even case one single vote for me for wrestler of the year? After the year I had *Daron burps and takes another swig*? I wish I could say it surprises me, but it doesn't. Even though I've been here over a year and a half, even though I did everything I said I was going to do, there's still a broader group here that disregards me, that acts like I don't exist, merely because I exist in the present and not in the UWL's past. But if you stack up that year I had and compare it to anyone else's year in the past? No matter. I can't complain long. Tonight, I'll sit here and have some drinks, feel sorry for myself, and tomorrow? I'll get right back on that horse. EVERYONE is on my shitlist.
Jackson - congrats bro, you did it. You're the next in line for a world title shot. Can you beat Cory? I doubt it. But a part of me, selfishly, deep down inside is rooting for you to win that title because I would love to be the one to take it from you. I would love for you to finally have to acknowledge who I am, despite the fact that I'm not the UWL stars of the past - no Robb Daniels, no Billy Danielson, no Caleb Hart, no, I am goddamned Daron Smythe!
Cory - I hope you beat Jackson, I really do. I need to readjust and figure you out. Out of everyone I've come across here, despite your rough edges, you've been one who has taken me seriously. Maybe that's why I can't figure you out, because you actually respect me, unlike most of these people. Maybe I can't get as amped up to face you because you recognize who I am and what I am. Maybe it's because our stories are so similar. I don't know why I feel the way I feel but I do know this - if you can hold on to that title, I'd love to be the one to take it from you. I can play the long game, Cory. I'm here for the long haul. No matter how many times you beat my ass, I'm going to get up. I'm going to keep fighting. I'm going to reclaim that world title, whether it's from you or someone else.
Billy - I can't even count my "win" over you as a real win. I know it, you know it, everyone knows it. When I had the chance to eliminate you, I stopped focusing on everything else, and it cost me in the end. It's so frustrating for me. I should have kept my head. You have the one singles title in the company I haven't laid my hands on and I'd love to have it. I'll keep you in mind.
BRADDOCK - You? I'll see you on Saturday and I'll have a lot more to say.
The camera fades to black...
The worn wooden stool beneath him creaked in protest as Daron took a slow sip, his eyes fixated on the amber liquid. The flickering light revealed the fatigue etched on his face, the lines telling stories of a past that refused to loosen its grip. The low hum of a bluesy tune played by an old jukebox echoed in the background, adding to the melancholic atmosphere.
The bartender, a grizzled figure with a weathered apron, eyed Daron from across the bar. It was clear that the Triple Nickel had seen its fair share of patrons seeking solace in its shadows, and Daron was no exception. As he swirled the contents of his glass absentmindedly, the door swung open, releasing a gust of cold air that momentarily disrupted the stifling warmth within.
Daron's gaze remained fixed on the glass, lost in the amber abyss, as if searching for answers to questions he was hesitant to ask. The Triple Nickel, with its worn charm and gritty ambiance, provided a refuge for those like Daron – a place where the past and the present collided in a dance of regrets and unspoken tales.
Normally he'd be across the street at the old beat up warehouse known as the PWX Sportatorium, running the ropes, taking bumps, lifting old rusty weights. Across the street from the building was The Triple Nickel, a staple of McKeesport, and a place many of the PWX regulars came to get "socially lubricated" before a night at the matches. A time or two Daron had hustled across the street for a few bottles of water, braving the Walnut Street traffic. Tonight was a different night, though.
DARON: *taking a big swig, then slamming the glass down* Hey...can I get another one of those?
BARTENDER: You sure, buddy?
DARON: Yeah...keep em coming.
BARTENDER: Alright man, I'm on it.
Daron empties the remaining contents of the glass, a few brown drops of liquor and the rest of the ice, then sets the glass down and slides it over to the wayward bartender before looking right into the camera...
DARON: You gotta tell Jay I'm sorry...I told him to send a cameraman over to the building tonight for a promo, but I... I just couldn't go in there. Normally after a big loss like that, that ring over there is the first place I'd want to be...but for some reason, this feels...different.
The bartender slides a fresh glass down the bar, Daron stops it with his hand, takes another swig and sets it down, giving the bartender a thumbs up before wiping his mouth and looking at the camera again...
DARON: Story of my life, right? So close, yet so far away. Maybe it's why I identify with this area? A place that can't get out of its own way, right?
Last year in the Universal Stampede, I was able to eliminate Jackson Burnside and later on...I finally won that UWL World Title I was seeking. I carried that title with pride. But, once I lost that title to Cory Chevelle, it was like I was invisible again. Burnside won't even acknowledge me. The UWL roster didn't even case one single vote for me for wrestler of the year? After the year I had *Daron burps and takes another swig*? I wish I could say it surprises me, but it doesn't. Even though I've been here over a year and a half, even though I did everything I said I was going to do, there's still a broader group here that disregards me, that acts like I don't exist, merely because I exist in the present and not in the UWL's past. But if you stack up that year I had and compare it to anyone else's year in the past? No matter. I can't complain long. Tonight, I'll sit here and have some drinks, feel sorry for myself, and tomorrow? I'll get right back on that horse. EVERYONE is on my shitlist.
Jackson - congrats bro, you did it. You're the next in line for a world title shot. Can you beat Cory? I doubt it. But a part of me, selfishly, deep down inside is rooting for you to win that title because I would love to be the one to take it from you. I would love for you to finally have to acknowledge who I am, despite the fact that I'm not the UWL stars of the past - no Robb Daniels, no Billy Danielson, no Caleb Hart, no, I am goddamned Daron Smythe!
Cory - I hope you beat Jackson, I really do. I need to readjust and figure you out. Out of everyone I've come across here, despite your rough edges, you've been one who has taken me seriously. Maybe that's why I can't figure you out, because you actually respect me, unlike most of these people. Maybe I can't get as amped up to face you because you recognize who I am and what I am. Maybe it's because our stories are so similar. I don't know why I feel the way I feel but I do know this - if you can hold on to that title, I'd love to be the one to take it from you. I can play the long game, Cory. I'm here for the long haul. No matter how many times you beat my ass, I'm going to get up. I'm going to keep fighting. I'm going to reclaim that world title, whether it's from you or someone else.
Billy - I can't even count my "win" over you as a real win. I know it, you know it, everyone knows it. When I had the chance to eliminate you, I stopped focusing on everything else, and it cost me in the end. It's so frustrating for me. I should have kept my head. You have the one singles title in the company I haven't laid my hands on and I'd love to have it. I'll keep you in mind.
BRADDOCK - You? I'll see you on Saturday and I'll have a lot more to say.
The camera fades to black...