Post by Johnny Vachon on Dec 16, 2019 23:28:46 GMT -5
The clinking of glasses and the mild sound of chit chat is heard as the camera fades in on a quiet punk bar in Chicago, Illinois. One might recognize the place from its decor and large sign reading “Shut Up and DRINK”. Yes, the infamous punk bar owned by a man who built it for his “family”. This is the second version of Shut Up and DRINK, the first being burnt to the ground by the hands of its owner, Johnny Vachon, after turning on the Filth Parade. It was rebuilt as a way to try and repay his sins against his family, but the Filth Parade did not take too kindly to the gesture, refusing Johnny and causing him to relapse.
The Gutter Punk is seated at the bar with a shot glass in front of him. He downs the shot as he slams the glass down on the counter. He signals to the bartender as she brings over a bottle of Metallica’s “Blackened” Whiskey. She cracks the top and goes to pour it in the glass, but Johnny stops her with his hand and takes the bottle telling her to leave it. The bartender, dressed in a patchwork vest over a Shut Up and DRINK cutoff shirt, let’s go and goes back to her other patrons. Johnny knocks the top off and takes a chug before laying the bottle in the counter. He looks down as he begins to speak, not even looking towards the camera.
“11 months alone really does something to a person. 11 months of pretending to be dead and watching as the world forgets you even existed. Yet in my absence my name always came to pass. I etched my legacy into stone long before I even tried. I’m a part of your eternal memory now motherfuckers. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”
Johnny taps the bottle to the wife of his head as he chuckles. He takes another swig before continuing with a smirk.
“I sat and watched as social media popped with my name. When I ODed and was medically dead I saw people post about me. How sorry they were and how much I was truly loved. I sat in that hospital bed, tubes and needles hanging out of every witch way, and I was fuming. When I tried to turn it all around nobody batted an eye. Nobody cared that I was trying to do better. I tried to regain my family and friends. I EVEN REBUILT THIS PLACE FOR THE FILTH PARADE! And what did I get for it? Shit on and told that I couldn’t be trusted. Ol’ Johnny Boy has and always will be trash. So I took a look in the mirror and I realized something after all of this. It doesn’t matter how hard you polish a turd… at the end of the day it’s still a fucking turd.”
Johnny pulls a pack of smokes out of his pocket and taps one out as he lays the rest on the bar. He pulls a matchbook from the counter and strikes a single one, lighting the cigarette and taking a few puffs, letting the smoke fill the air around him.
“Fuck the Filth Parade and fuck every single one of you motherfuckers who sat on Twitter and wrote a RIP Vachon Tweet! You didn’t accept me when I tried to do things the right way and wanted pity when I was gone?! Fuck that! I sat in that hospital bed and I made my decision. Doctors walked in and asked if they needed to call my boss and let them know that I was alive and recovering. I told them to keep their mouths shut. I was staying dead in the public’s eyes.”
The camera turns to a sign above the bar reading “NO FILTH PARADE ALLOWED” with pictures of its members with X’s scratches across their faces. Johnny smirks as he flicks a bit of ash off of the end of the cigarette into the ashtray.
“I figured I could live my life the way I wanted. I hit the streets and did what I do best. I fucking hustled. Drugs, booze, women, and more booze. Gutter King was fucking back! But anyone who’s a wrestler knows it all too well. The itch. The itch that bothers you like the STD you grabbed off of that 10 cent hooker you bought a ride from. The fucking ring called my name all over again. So I looked at my options. I could walk out there and just openly return and reveal myself to the world all over again. Or I could play it smart and fuck with everyone who did my dirty.”
Johnny now turns to the camera with a stern look on his face. He begins waving his arms around as he speaks, smoke filling the air and creating shapes as he talks.
“I looked at the landscape and watched as the fucking Filth Parade still walked around like their shit don’t stink. Cocky motherfuckers still at it thinking they’re gods gift to wrestling. I got together a plan. Talked to a bunch of heavy hitting motherfuckers who needed a purpose. Welcome to the Genocidal Hate Brigade! Win or loss, Ultraviolence Union was dead. GHB was inevitable. And we are out to mutilate the wrestling world! We’ve ripped apart dozens so far. And we’ve just gotten started!”
Johnny flashes a Genocidal Hate Brigade shirt that he’s wearing underneath his dirty and worn to shit leather jacket. It’s covered in band patches, random graffiti, spray paint, and studs. Punk rock to the fucking fullest!
“So in all of the excitement of the GHB I take a seat at the bar one night and get to thinking. I’ve begun to hurt those who have done me dirty, but there’s one piece of the puzzle missing. One company that from the beginning shit on Ol’ Johnny Boy in favor of motherfuckers like Dick Devereaux. Union Battleground. But how does a man who was banned from competing step back into the ring of their own company? You call out the hottest asset they have and challenge him to a fucking match.”
Johnny reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a photo of the Union Battleground Trench War Champion, Kaven Drell. He smirks as he holds it up to the camera.
“Kaven Drell. You wanted real competition? Now you’ve fucking got it! For far too long you have escaped with that Championship around your waist. Time and time again you’ve had challenges laid in front of you and you demolished them almost as if they weren’t even trying. The difference between them and me? I’ve challenged you personally.”
“You see, I don’t care about the Guerilla Warfare Match or the Union Battleground Championship. Nah. I’ve always been the type to gravitate towards Championships that have prestige. Belts that make you work to win. And that’s what you’re holding onto Kaven. The belt that matters most in Union Battleground. And I’m a man who’s missed a lot of action. And I’m ready to carve a path of my own personal annihilation.”
Johnny lays down the picture of Kaven as he takes another drag from the now shortened cigarette. He follows it with a chug of whiskey and then blows a plum of smoke from beyond his lips.
“It’s been over a year since I stepped foot in the Battleground. The last time I was here I was at a low point in my life and lost my roster spot in a match where I had to leave Union Battleground. So how did I end up back here? Times have changed now in the wrestling world. Union Battleground is no longer the Goliath that it once was when I was around. It has become somewhat of a special showcase for talent. Now don’t get me wrong, that’s all fine and dandy. But at the end of the day I’m not here to give the fans a show, I tried that bit. I’m out for me now. I’m out to prove to the world that I’m just as fucking good as I say I am. And right now Kaven, you’re standing at the top of the list.”
“No gimmicks, no ladders, no escapes. It’s just you and me, fist to fist, mono e mono. You’ve claimed the Trench War Championship and held it as a crown for far too long. It’s time for the King to be dethroned and your reign to be extinguished. You’ve ran through every man and woman laid in front of you to build your legacy. You’ve become a steam train with no stop in sight. Train meet the end of the line. You might’ve ran through everyone else, but you haven’t met me. A man hell bent on getting the revenge he rightfully deserves. I’m a man on a mission Kaven. I’m not another one of these body bags that you toss around for fun. The last time I was around I was a drunken mess of a competitor. Now… I’m at the top of my game and I’m ready to behead you if I have to in order to claim the Trench War Championship!”
Johnny lifts the photo back up and eyes it as he continues. The Trench War Championship gleaming in his eyes. Johnny is an 11 time DTW Eternal Warfare Champion. He knows what it takes to win and hold onto a belt like the Trench War Championship.
“Talk is cheap. It’s in the ring where we’ll do the rest of our talking. Fist to fist, sunshine. And when that proverbial smoke clears and the bell has rang, it’ll be my fists raised in the air, holding tightly onto your Trench War Championship. A smirk on my face and a boot on your fallen chest.”
“It’s time for your kingdom to fall. To burn to the ground like you claim to do to everyone else around you. And I know a lot about burning things to the ground. So Kaven, let’s play Sunshine. My torch is hot and yours is about to burn out as you fade away at the hands of a simple piece of gutter trash.”
Johnny holds up the photo of Kaven and stabs it in the face with his cigarette butt, burning a hole right through the face of Kaven Drell. Johnny drops it onto the ground, the picture catching flame as it floats softly to the ground and burns before touching floor. Johnny stands up, smashes his boot onto the ash, and lifting it to reveal nothing but a pile of burned paper and ash. Johnny tilts the whiskey bottle onto the pile, pouring some out for the memory of Kaven Drell before tipping the bottle back to his own throat and taking a sip as the scene begins to fade out to darkness.