MATCH PROMO Battleground 11/12 - Vs. Jason Ryan & Jake Smith

Bowie Gray

The motel room was a disaster. The bed was up on its side up against the wall. One of the wooden kitchen chairs had been destroyed; pieces of the once sturdy structure laid all over the room. A vintage television set had found a new home, as half of it was stuck in the wall that separated the bathroom and the main room. Garbage, clothes litter the floor, and in the middle of it all, Bowie Gray danced, and no, he wasn’t dancing like he was busting a groove in some club on Beale Street. This dance was a dance of someone experiencing the headache of all headaches; which at this very moment was the cause of Bowie Gray’s scrutinizing pain.

A single tear ran down Bowie’s cheek as he tried desperately to fix the ache inside his head. He clawed at his head like a deranged person would; his fingernails tearing into his flesh leaving little openings in his skin. Bowie whirled around until he couldn’t take anymore as both his legs gave out underneath him and he collapsed to his knees on the dirty floor.

“What the fuck is going on in there, I said no weird shit kid!” came a booming voice from outside followed by a rapid banging at the front door from the man that ran this cesspool of a motel.

Bowie stopped clawing at his injured skull as he locked his fingers together behind his head and covered his ears with his forearms. His body began to sway back and forth, as he panted heavily as he tried desperately to shut out the noises around him.

“Go away!”

He squeezed his forearms tighter and tighter and then everything stopped. The world around Bowie Gray, him included came to a halt as if somebody had pointed a remote and clicked the pause button.

Everything had begun to rewind. Bowie stood back up, and the destruction of his motel room started to come back together as the TV he had lodged into the wall founds its place on the dresser. The kitchen chair that he had beaten off the wall and floor found itself back underneath the kitchen table, and the bed that he had tossed found its rightful place with all his clothes laying back on the top of it. The room, compared to what it was about to become, looked sort of clean as Bowie begin to pace back and forth.

“Who is Jason Ryan?” Bowie Gray had asked nobody, as he was the only one in his motel room. “He is me?”

“Preposterous. We are not alike. Jason Ryan is a man on the verge of insanity, a man that you could say has dissociative identity disorder you know. I’m not on the verge of insanity, I’m— “

Says the guy talking to himself in a motel room. Alone.

“We all talk to ourselves alone dude. If that is what deems me insane, then this entire human society would be classed as out of their minds you know. I may be crazy to some people’s standards but insane; not I. There is a difference.”

Not really.

“Tell me how am I anything like him? On Monday he thinks himself to be some God running around with some cult of Satan and on Tuesday, he’s just like every other asshole outside my room. I know who I am, Monday through Sunday.”

Are you so sure? Willing to wager on this?

“About what? Knowing who I am? Yes. I know who I am… I am what you could say is a creation of this, this society. Just another fuckin’ broken piece you know, because all I’ve ever done, is been dealt one shit hand after another and want to know something, say Jason Ryan is some sort of actual God, then I have one hell of a bone to pick with the fuckin’ guy and come Monday at battleground, I have 23 years of rage to unleash on the guy.”

Poor fuckin’ Bowie, always pointing fingers at everyone else but no, never at himself. It’s never Bowie’s fault, right?

“Fuck you man! It’s not even like that man, I’m not blaming nobody. I’m. I meant. You got it all wrong, I didn’t mean, I don’t know… what I mean.”

You just blamed Jason Ryan dumbass.

“I didn’t. I. I said if he was a God not, Jason Ryan!”

Fuck you are dumb, you don’t even know what you are saying do ya?

“Don’t call me that! DO NOT FUCKIN’ CALL ME THAT!”

The pounding feeling in Bowie's head had begun to kick in as the vein on Bowie’s forehead had started to pulse as he grabbed the kitchen chair. The headache had always come when both voices had begun speaking when his mind would start racing, and the confusion would settle in. His entire face shifted in color from the pale kid who never went outside to a burner on a stove as Bowie struggled to keep his eyes open. The rage had begun to take him.

What are you going to do Bowie? Gray!


Bowie Gray lifted the kitchen chair off the floor, and then it had all started, taking us back to when it had all begun. The destruction of his motel room was underway. He destroyed his room in a rage until he was left sitting on the floor on his knees. He let his arms fall to the floor as he looked up towards the roof of his motel room as it had appeared all the rage had left him, and he appeared somewhat calm.

“I know what you are going to try and do, Ryan. You will try your hardest to break me down both mentally and emotionally but how can you break somebody when they are already broken? I am broken and been broken almost twenty-four seven my entire life man. You know, except one little part of me and that is when I am inside that ring. People may look at me and think I’m still broken, but no, well I am broken but not broken, broken. See to me it’s therapy for me when the bell rings. It gives me a place to unleash all my rage, a place when; bell to bell everything makes sense because my entire world becomes so quiet. My mind relaxes, and I know what must be done. I am focused, and the entire picture for once becomes so clear for those few minutes, and I know what I must do. What I need to do. It’s either you or me, you know. You are what stands in my way, nobody but you Ryan. Only you.”

You’re forgetting something Bowie. Remember.

“Or, is it Drake Solace now? It doesn’t matter. For whoever, it may be on this night, because you can be any one of the masks you pretend, no. I don’t mean to pretend. Whoever your mind tells you to be on this night. The foul speaking piece of, of shit! The god, wrestling supremacy; whatever costume you pull out of the closet the morning of, no not costume. Stop it. Listen, just know this; that when you come to the ring, you will step inside— “

Jake Smith.

“Jake Smith?”

You know this. Remember.

“HA! The guy that thinks I’m some alcoholic if that’s what he fuckin’ thinks all this is. He’s in for one hell of a rude awakening. I ain’t my fuckin’ father. I’m not fucked up because I slam a goddamn bottle down my throat every night. You think you know me? You know shit about me. But you wanna talk, lets fuckin’ talk about the guy who debuted in 2003 and come 2018, he still is working up the ranks in a development league. Really intimating. Do you see me shaking? You, Jake. Smith. I’m not even concerned or worried about facing you because you don’t even know what fuckin’ day Battleground is even on. Sunday? It’s Monday you tool! Stop it. Get out of my head!”

“To be honest, I don’t care what you guy’s have done, who you have beaten or not beaten. And no, don't take this as me casting you away as either of you being an legitimate threat. Just none of it matters to me you know. Every situation is different. I know I say I don't care about the wins, but even I know to stay in this business, they do mean something. And in order to keep a place that allows me a place to unleash the rage. I must win. I will win even if the odds are against me. Against me. Against me? AH! I may be the shortest fuck in this match. I may fuckin' weight in at the lightest but that shit don't matter. Look fuckin' around you... Little women, are fuckin' handing giants their asses on a regular basis. Height and weight, mean shit. Experience means shit. So, Jason Ryan and Jake Smith, just know this...”

Bowie’s head dropped back down. A sinister glare painted on his face.

“The fuckin’ reaper has come to collect!”

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