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The Infamous, Rebellious, Suicidal… 4C; The Evolution of GREED

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“Only at ‘Rock Bottom’ can one be insane enough to get better”

… This is the continuation of his tumultuous tale …



My right foot taps in a sporadic, yet rhythmic, fashion as a boundless collection of unique voice inflections are heard resonating throughout. My body, chemically ravaged and personally left for ‘dead’ over the last 30 days, stands in a close comparison with the room it resides in; broken-in, crackling under it‘s own weight, and showing years of wear & tear from every corner. The awkward realization of such a comparison doesn’t really sit well with me, but, there in lies the reason why I am here.


The leader of our small faction of self-destroyers appears to be free from our desires; however, showing signs that he once carried the same demons within. It’s in the way his face turns rather cold at the sound of his former vice; the way the chills appear to psychologically resurface with each and every account of dependency. While he doesn’t seem perfect, an attribute we tend to place upon most of our ‘leaders’ subconsciously, he does stand as an example of the general ability to overcome; His story not too much removed from my own; however, still so very different.


The rest of those within our semi-circle of self-loathing continue to forge through their recent triggers; their potential for debilitating relapse. Whether it’s the weathered senile man wearing a pair of tattered jeans and a gristly Santa clause-like beard upon his face or the slender-framed career-woman with years of abandonment issues forging to the surface; we all came to this very run-down establishment for one reason: to seek a means to an end.


With a good, trusted, friend at my side, I find myself as the central focus of the infamous grouping. Their hazed, tear-filled, gaze fixate upon my dejected posture as I slowly remove myself from the comforts of the seat I once looked to for ‘psychological safety’.


Here I physically stand, slouching even as I remain upright, attempting to direct my eyes upon anything in the room except for those before me; embarrassed for my participation. With my hands buried deep in the front pockets of my faded jeans, I slightly crack my lips in which to speak; almost shaking by this point with fear. Was I scared of something before me? No. In this case, I was more afraid of the reality I was agreeing to with this very statement.




I sigh rather heavily, not all that excited to move forward with this; however, forced into doing so after looking upon my friend seated next to me. I had no choice in the matter, It was time to, once again, face the very demons that have plagued my existence since ‘The Injury’ took place roughly 3 years ago now.


With my voice wavering, cracking; however, gaining volume with each passing second, I finally spew forth the descriptive statement that brought me here in the first place.


“My name is John… and… I’m an Alcoholic.”
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Wait. . .did I miss something here or were you just about to get married or something?! If you pulled a late prank on us bravo!!!:D


Oh, I still am. However, the wedding isn't until June 25th. So, needless to say, I still have a lot of time on my hands. I wasn't planning on posting this soon but I found that I had already finished my first 4 posts in like 2 days. ha.


Rather than bottling it up, I thought I'd at least get this thing moving since I'm really excited about it.



What kind of break was that?:D


Well you know I will be a long for the ride. Have there been many 4C diaries on here? I only recall like one and that did not last all that long so this is sort of new territory.




I don't take well to retirement.

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I had to laugh at ol' Alfred's* comment above :D


Likewise, as I mentioned to you earlier 4C is going to be a brand new world for me so I can't wait. Fantastic start too, very...Greed. Gritty, personal, believable...Greed.


* this comment will make no sense when BHK changes his picture again but for the time being, it will suffice!

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More swerves than than a Ferrari being driven by Vince Russo drunk on Jack Daniels and high on cocaine on a cold and rainy night with Dusty Rhodes in the passage seat; it's Eisenverse!


If you can get 4C to TV you're the man now dawg.

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Nestled; deep within.



“Tell me more about the last 30 days of your life, John. What drove you to this point?”


His sunken eyes glare upon me over the top of his thick, artistically designed, flat-edge designer frames. There is this conflicting pull within the room; his voice delivering the message that he truly ‘cares’, while his subtle mannerisms tell of another, guarded, truth: He, like us all, is present for the sheer fact of obtaining capital. It’s a cold, disheartening, way to view another who is there ‘to help’; however, reality beckons me to trust his non-verbal clues over all. It’s easy to lie through your lips. It’s almost impossible to lie through your actions.


There is a brief, all be it awkward, silence that encompasses the shared environment within his office. No matter how hard I try to focus my mind elsewhere, conjuring up anything to occupy my thoughts, I’m left with the very same feeling continuously: Are we done yet?


With that being said, Larry was right. If I really wanted to get ‘better’, I need to reach out to those who are there to inspire my teetering transformation. I’ve shown, most glaringly in the last 30 days, that I, in my current state, am incapable of really ‘self-governing’; a soul-diminishing truth that leaves myself with the obvious truth that I am, for a lack of a better word, F*cked up.


I gently separate my dry, chapped, lips in which to speak; well aware of the damaging self-review that crouches around the corner of my thoughts.


“Well, Doc…”


My weathered body slowly shifts forward in the cushioned seat below; removing the lazy posture that, seconds ago, stood as the best perceptual tool as to who I had become. Broken.


Now, leaning forward in an un-threatening manor, I rest my bruised forearms upon my scarred knees; a laundry list of injuries resulting from my current vice: Alcohol. For 30 days, I have waged a personally Armageddon upon my borderline lifeless body. Taking out my internal nervosas on my broken figure; drinking away the days with the small severance package given to me by Arcadia.


“I was ‘the guy’ and now… I’m no one.”


My response, while rather short in nature, was the root of my subconscious hatred of all. My life has been nothing more than a mine-laced road in the middle of hell; continuously delegated to ‘the back of the line’ as the new, more fresh, object comes along to take my place. It happened during my in-ring career. It happened in Pittsburgh. Now, most recently, it happened in ‘Hollywood’. I was, without argument, the greatest example of an outgrown, half-bitten-into, child’s toy left for the dreaded toy box in the attic.


I am dispensable on all fronts.


“You know, John. Who delegates one as the great decider of your worth? If you, clouded by your own perceptions of this world, would take a step back for a second, You would realize that you are ‘the guy’ regardless of what others tell you; do to you.”


He pauses for a brief second, holding back the childish smile he so desperately wants to crack, knowing that his next statement coincides with his recently published ‘best seller’. Ultimately, highlighting a great point wrapped within an egotistical selling point.


“You are your own judge, jury, and executioner. The second that you understand that, the very moment that you understand that you are not chained to the perceptions given by some, is the exact second you’ll see life for what it really is: A connection of random events, circulating within your psyche, and ultimately creating your own perception of the world; yourself included. With this in mind, You can transcend others outlooks as you’re able, for once, to see that your life as valuable regardless of the good, or bad, scenarios that will arise.”


The childish smile slowly tears through his guarded demeanor as it’s become too much to suppress. Meanwhile, his accelerated pen strokes on the paper before him most likely force me into entrapment: needing to pay an ungodly amount of money in which to simply ‘speak my mind’. Never the less, His point was somewhat valid; even if clouded in a rain-storm of egocentrism.


His words continue to circulate through out my cluttered mind, often spiraling into my collection of misguided thoughts, and leaving me with an everlasting narrative: The power I need to cultivate internally is that of not giving a ‘damn’ what others think.


For too long, I have psychologically mangled my confidence through decades of seeking for external-reassurance. Whether it was looking to my Father shortly before his passing for a ‘good job, sport’, confiding in [Professor] Nero as a source of self-value, or looking to the ‘pro wrestling masses’ for a glimmer of respect for a ‘job well done’; I have been continuously entangled in a teeter-totter way of self-destruction. Happy when I am praised (all be it not very much) and self-damaging when I’m either A) Forgotten about or B) Outwardly shown dissatisfaction to. (ie: Arcadia; recently).


These massive high’s and devilish low’s were what fuels my underlying “martyr complex”; creating an Anti-Authority narrative within my mind that continues to this day.


With questions of ‘how’, ‘when’, and ‘why’ still raging through my head, I attempt to move forward with my life. Still a broken individual; however, doing my very best at attempting to remove years worth of psychological conditioning for the sake of my own sanity; less concerned with my professional outlook. More so fixated on the notion that my life, both physically and mentally, was in need for a drastic change.
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I had to laugh at ol' Alfred's* comment above :D


Likewise, as I mentioned to you earlier 4C is going to be a brand new world for me so I can't wait. Fantastic start too, very...Greed. Gritty, personal, believable...Greed.


* this comment will make no sense when BHK changes his picture again but for the time being, it will suffice!


I'll be the first to admit that I'm a novice to any game-area outside of the US; however, that's partly what intrigued me with venturing elsewhere. New characters, new environment, new areas to reach into. Overall, there's something very 'fresh' about working with a company outside of my comfort-zone. To say the least, I've been having a blast getting to know 4C (and on a greater level, Canada from a game-area perspective) over the last week or so.


Also, Thank you for your 'gritty greed' comment. In his purest form, John is a flawed man trying to forge on through life despite difficulties arrising. That said, This time around, Things are going to be MUCH more crazy if you can believe that. ha.



More swerves than than a Ferrari being driven by Vince Russo drunk on Jack Daniels and high on cocaine on a cold and rainy night with Dusty Rhodes in the passage seat; it's Eisenverse!


If you can get 4C to TV you're the man now dawg.


The image of this is hilarious to me. I had to re-read that sentence over a few times to fully grasp it. haha. That being said, I've always said that John Greed is the 'Vince Russo' of the Cornellverse in a way. Now, I just need to find a Dusty Rhodes to come along for the drive. ;) ha.


Also, I had NO IDEA why there was a James Bond video up at first. I thought it may be a virus at first; however, when I actually watched it, I bursted out into full on laughter. That was great, Celt. Loved it.


As for a TV deal, I'm sure that I'm pretty far away from that right now; however, that's the goal. :D We'll see if I can deliver on it.


yeay getting in ground level with time on my hands on an Eisenverse diary, and with a lesser highlighted pre existing promotion with possibilities too! Will be reading.


Thanks Hyde! It's great to see you on the boards again; haven't seen you in a bit. You've been a great show of support since I first started writing these things, so, it's always cool to see you stop by and leave your thoughts.






I just wanted to give everyone a 'heads-up' on the intro of this diary. To say the least, This project is going to have a LENGTHY background leading up to my first real show. So, I hope you can be patient with me as the story continues to unfold.


While John will have his own reason's, I personally was drawn to 4C long before my DOA project actually. In the end, I decided to go with the DOA; however, always felt like I 'missed out' with a 4C project. So, after months of slowly gaining more and more interest, I've decided to give my creative 'juices' their due as I book/write for the very company that I've wanted to work with for quite some time now. So, in a way, this is a 'dream project' for me.


I understand that 4C hasn't been used much in previous diaries and it's always confused me as to why? I mean, You've got an amazing product wrapped into a game-area unique in it's own right. With the 4C, They TRULY are the "ECW" if you will of Canada; just with more of an emphasis on Modern/Dare Devil wrestling than Hardcore action per se. Either way, I was so excited to get this project off the ground that I couldn't wait much longer to unveil it to you all!


If you join me in this diary, even as a consistent lurker, I promise you that you'll be treated to 'pure insanity' from a literary sense. :D In my eyes, all be it personally slanted, I don't think there's ever been a diary like this one before. That being said, now I have to find a way to best convey the 'image in my head' to you all; Let you in on the 'craziness' within my own mind I guess. ha.






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Don't call it a comeback, I've been here for years......:D;)


Good luck with this one Eisen. Always thought that 4C was interesting; looking forward to your vision of it.

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Don't call it a comeback, I've been here for years......:D;)


Good luck with this one Eisen. Always thought that 4C was interesting; looking forward to your vision of it.


OMG... :eek:


That's friggin hilarious. As a guy who grew up in Wisconsin, Brett Favre is kind of a GOD to me. So, I'll certainly take pride in being a GDS version of him; never stepping away for a single second for a breather. ha.


"I'm done. Wait... no... I may be... Uh... Okay, How about his new flashy 4C Diary? Huh? Huh?

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You know I'll be reading. And if you need a crash course on Canadism. you have a few of us on the board, myself included.


Love the Favre pic, NN...


Yep same here, may not have made a diary with em but I know the game world and the game workers. Canada culture yeah plenty of Canucks on board.

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“What’s your plan for today?”


The golden spotlight of the sun escapes through the small cracks of the shade-drawn window off to my left; beckoning me to join the rest of society in their call for normalcy. Meanwhile, my body still lies lazily on the curb-side found sofa couch positioned unevenly up against a nearby wood paneled wall.


An over-dramatic stretch is followed by a, somewhat, comical rubbing of my eyes; simulating the awakening moment of any typical sleeper. However, uniquely different to most my age as it’s already 1 PM and I am just succumbing to the notion that it’s “time to get up”.


Larry, fully dressed by this point; however, you would never know it with his signature ‘homeless man’ fashion sense, shuffles his feet through mounds of Fast Food wrappers located around the darkened living room; keeping a calm demeanor despite showing signs of unhappiness with his Friend’s recent condition. Even with his sadness though, He stands as the GREATEST asset to my full recovery; giving me a small apartment to stay in with him while he nurses a debilitating back injury bestowed upon him by a reckless Japanese fighter.


In a way, Larry was all I had at this point. Without him, I’m not really sure I would even be alive. I know, it sounds rather grand to make such a statement; however, it’s easily considered to be the truth. Without a roof over my head, a friend in my corner, and a ‘sponsor’ to help see me through my vice; I would almost certainly be stuck in the position that his ‘fashion sense’ attempts to portray.


“I don’t know… Watch some TV?”


I laughed rather heartily after delivering a ‘smart-a##” comment; knowing that Larry didn’t have TV in his apartment as he deems it as, and I quote, “The Brain Rotter”. As you can guess, He didn’t really find the statement very funny. Ultimately not coming back with any anger, but, giving me the insight of this through a hefty sigh.


“John. What’s your plan, man? You can’t just waste away like this. You know it, too.”


He was right; but with that said, I still wasn’t at a place where I could truthfully agree with him. If I attempted to seem like I did, It would only be hollow in practice.


“I know, I know…”


I’m now seated upright, feeling the unwanted side effects of sleeping for 12 hours overnight. With a side-splitting headache raging through my mind, I attempt to stare upon the deadest color in the room; hoping that would help to subside the pain.


“Do you have any leads on a job? I mean, I’m more than happy to put you up while you get back on your feet but I’m on my way back to Japan at the end of the month. When that happens, This apartment becomes an empty space for someone else with money; and a keen eye for the ‘slums’.”


Larry laughs to himself in a hearty kind of manor; knowing that his measly wrestling wages isn’t enough to garner a ‘deluxe apartment in the sky’. With that said, though, his gesture was much appreciated. With my headache slowly starting to subside, using a nearby glass of day-old water to quench my undying thirst, I conjure up my best “The sun will come up tomorrow” mentality. Not sure if I was trying to appease Larry… or myself…


“There’s a construction job down the street that I may look into…”


Larry quickly responds, almost shocked by my response.


“You’re still hardlining against a Wrestling job? I mean, come with me to Japan. I’m sure we can find you work somewhere over there. If not that, I’m sure Nero would pick you back up in a second. That man loves you.”


He may be true; however, I didn’t want to embrace Nero, for the first time in almost a year, in this state. Needless to say, I was up a creek without a paddle really. There was no Construction job down the street; I made that up. Was I against getting back into wrestling? If you would have asked me a month ago I would have told you that I was done… But now… I don’t know. I’m not sure if I have the sanity to keep up anymore.
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"Hold Still... This will only hurt your self-confidence!"



“Tell me more about Larry. How has he helped you through his time?”


I subconsciously go through the motions of cracking my knuckles; looking out upon the countless degrees plastered all over the Doc’s cream-toned walls. In a way, I’m envious of his ability to bask in his successes. His collection of university encrypted card stock, all the way down to the smattering of over-priced abstract art cluttering the wall behind his desk, was, in it’s purest, a form of proclaiming his successes in life.


I wish, rather selfishly, that I could claim the same.


“Larry’s a dear friend.”


I began to review my past like it was a low-budget indy film; projected on the constructed wall of my thoughts. There, with Pittsburgh as the picture’s backdrop, I warningly touch upon my time with Larry; a man who has been nothing but personally constructive since day one.


“When I first stepped foot in Pittsburgh, It was Larry who picked me up from the airport. Even then,
[Laughter coming through as I reflect upon ‘the good ole days’]
He could tell that I was struggling to make sense of life; terrified of my new role as a ‘backstage facilitator’.”


I stare onward, most likely looking like I’m stuck in a trance to those outside of my head; however, within it… There is a ‘feel good’ movie playing continuously before my eyes; resonating that life is well worth it in a sense.


“I can still remember what he first said to me…
[Conjuring up my best, while notably terrible, Larry Wood impression.]
‘Kid, If you let it swallow you up; It will. You need to toughen your skin up, always look like you’re in the ‘know’, and do your best. At the end of the day, That’s all it takes to be on the other side of the curtain.”


Recounting our initial visit together brought nothing but pure joy to a man without much to be joyous for recently. With that said, It was starting to make sense. Larry was more than just a dear friend… He was a symbol that there IS good out in the world. However, before you can realize this, You must drag yourself through the dirt to witness the beautiful lotus growing within the muck.


“He’s always been there for me. After I was fired from PSW, He was the first phone call I made. So, when this Arcadia situation came to happen, there was no denying who I was going to reach out too. Sure, I was difficult at first; I made things much harder then they needed to be. However, with time, He’s one of the main reasons I’m sitting here today. He’s helped me to see that… that… Sometimes you just have to ‘toughen your skin up & push forward’. That’s all you can ask for in a friend, I guess.”


There was this profound euphoria circulating throughout my weathered soul; this overwhelming feeling that things ‘may’ get better with time. However, with that said, that feeling, while overpowering, was still clouded by years of destructive internal rhetoric.


“Did he help you get the call?”


For a second, There was this wave of embarrassment flooding my perception of ‘life at hand’. Why? No one wants to think, know, feel, that they were given an opportunity by another; especially in an awkward time of need. Sure, help from others is what we all crave deep down; however, it also comes with a heavy dose of humility. If you’re unable to carry such a powerful personality trait at that time, then, that very scenario dripping in humility can seem more like a call for ‘pity’.


“No. Well, at least not that I know of.”


A slight pause forms within my conversational pattern; attempting to recall how ‘the call’ came to be.


“Sayeed gave me a ring a few weeks back, saying that ‘Too Hot’ had moved on to CGC. With that said, they were looking to fill his role…”





Another brief silence fills the room as the Doc continues to review the paperwork before him, as if there was some ‘magic psycho analysis tool’ scribbled down in which to help his line of questioning.




“Well, What?”


A coy look forms upon his face, Almost as if he knows that I know what he’s getting at; however, attempting to play dumb. In a way, I knew what he was pushing for… But, the answer, is something that even I had no idea how to survey.


“Do you plan on applying for the job?”


In a physical show of confusion, My head c*cks upward in which to stare at the ceiling; almost as if I’m expecting some magical ‘window’ to be there in which to help me escape. What was I escaping from? Needing to make a decision about the very industry that I’ve grown to love, and hate, all at the same time. Following a heavy sigh of my own, I slap my crackling hands down upon my dusty, faded and torn, jeans; responding as best that I could at this point.


“I don’t know…”
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How can I not think that it’s meant to be? The glass spout rests comfortably in my war-torn right hand; so perfectly that it conjures up the notion that the bottle is another appendage. An extension of my physical, and mental, well-being; knowing deep-down that it will only lessen the tremors; however, accelerate the slow destruction of my body as a whole. The smooth feel of fire-blown glass eases up against my stubble-infested right cheek; almost as if this very bottle, the very thing that is slowly killing me, carries a sense of unexplained comfort.


Butterflies, nay, pterodactyl’s aggressive swarm within my stomach as my left hand, the free one at this point, begins to shake uncontrollably. If you were an innocent bystander, hiding in the heavy cloak of darkness engulfing the shade-drawn right side of the living room, you would believe I was destined for a minor epileptic shock; my body sending the signals of such as my alcohol-obsessed mind looks to mask any feelings of discomfort with the esophagus-burning sensation of pure vodka.


With each passing second, I grow closer to my vice. At this point, practically speaking to it as if it were a long-anticipated friend. Seconds from ‘falling off the wagon’, if you will; however, not afraid of doing so in the slightest. You see, With my mind wrapped in a winter blanket of stress, dwindling self-worth, and stomach-churning unemployment, I find myself, in this moment, to be solely focused on ‘scratching the itch’ that plagues my entire being. Not intelligent, or a healthy decision by any matter; however, not worrying about the consequences as I only care about deafening my own inner-hatred.


My right hand slowly pulls the bottle away from my face as a look of conflicted anticipation begins to form. Without Larry present, as he’s off to a nearby free clinic for treatment on his crippling back pain, I was left to my vice. Left to the demons that control my subconscious, and sometimes conscious, decisions.


In an expert-manner, the bottle was open uniquely in a matter of a few seconds; the sharp aroma of pure alcohol permeating throughout the room. In my excessive state, The wafting aroma takes on actual, tangible, form; winding around the room in a cartoonish display of smoke. Enthralled by my own psychosis, The bottle grows closer to my quivering mouth; still surveying the imaginary, coiling, display of sweet smoke dancing around the room.









I am awoken from my upright state of slumber in which to realize that my phone was vibrating viciously upon the faded countertop before me. The sweet, imaginary, smoke has succumb to my mind’s disruption; quickly fading into oblivion as my focus comes rushing back to the moment at hand. The tremors in my left hand, all be it never that strong truthfully, fades also; my body is given a moment to ‘exhale’ the self-destructive demon from within.


It all felt rather supernatural, but at the same time, very real. Seconds ago, I was entrenched in a fantasy-like world where my own debilitating need for an ‘itch’ manifested itself in the form of a cartoon-like vision; displayed in the open-air as if I were stuck watching TV versus real-life. Now, broken free from this scenario, I find myself back at square one. Without alcohol in my system and my focus now turning swiftly to the ringing phone before me; not sure if it was because I wanted to answer said phone for the potential of something pleasant on the other end, or, If I had grown tired of the incessant buzzing forced upon me. Either way, I quickly grabbed my broken-in box-of-a-phone, Aggressively slamming my steady thumb upon the “CALL” button, and raising it’s speaker directly up to my left ear.


All with the bottle of room-temperature vodka still residing in my right hand; not knowing of it’s existence right now, however, only seconds away from turning back to it’s sweet company if the news on the other end is ‘bad’.


“Hey yo, John. What’s up Man??”


His tone was rather inviting; displaying a sense of enthusiasm wrapped within popular jargon.




I respond with a show of second-nature communication, Attempting to be polite by returning his show of pleasantness; however, unaware of who stands on the other side of the receiver.


“Come on, John. Don’t tell me you don’t know who this is!
I know it’s been a year, man, but I thought you would have kept my number.”


The uncomfortable reality almost forces me to hang up the phone right there; inching my thumb even closer to the “END” button while still holding it up against my head. It’s never easy to be on the phone with someone you don’t know and they seem to know you. Especially when you were seconds from relieving the same feelings of dismay through a bottle positioned in your hands.


With the uncomfortable scenario before me, The ‘itch’ begins to return. This time, not as a strong as before; however, still manifesting itself in a cartoonish kind of manor. Almost entirely removing myself from the reality at hand.


“It’s Sayeed, man. You really forgot my number?”


My mind accelerates rapidly through a collection of historical thoughts; mapping out a ‘whose who’ of everyone I’ve known over my entire lifetime with that same name: Sayeed. While unique in it’s wording, at first, I can’t seem to recall who it may be. Then again, this could be due to the fact that I am slowly starting to fall down the same ‘rabbit whole’ I once was forced out of by this very same phone call.


Then, by some act of great fortitude, It came to me.


Sayeed Ali.





He and I went back to my days in Pittsburgh. A ‘great guy’ with a thirst for violence, Sayeed was considered to be a ‘pet project’ of mine while booking for Naess’s promotion. With that said, knowing that I had much appreciation for his ability to ‘sell’ my violent projections within the ring, Sayeed hardly ever made ‘the main show’; wrestling in the ‘dark’ mostly. From what I know of, He never spoke a word of annoyance over the situation. Then again, by doing so, he would certainly been playing a bout of ‘Russian Roulette’ as it pertains to EVER getting on the ‘main show’.


It must not have p*ssed him off that much…


He’s on the phone with me now…


“Sayeed. Sorry man. It’s been a crazy year.”


I respond in an uninspiring manner; teetering on ending the phone call at any second.


“Yea, that’s what I’ve heard. What’s up with that whole Arcadia sh*t, man? Did you really walk out on them?”


The sheer mentioning of the Arcadia project sends shivers down my entire body; accelerating my tumble down the ‘Rabbit Whole’ before me. However, still only holding the bottle in my mind. This is most likely true because the phone conversation itself, while not pleasant for me personally, is holding my attention elsewhere.


“It’s f*cked up, Sayeed. I’ll leave it at that.”


My response was rather cold; so much so, that it forces Sayeed to return with a short stint of laughter.


“You dying or something, John?”


Yes. However, not wanting to say so really.


“No. This is just a bad time… Can I call you back?”


Knowing well enough that I wouldn’t.


“I’ll make it quick.”


Great. There’s nothing worse than wanting to get off the phone when another is focused on relaying a ‘story’ your way. Especially when you’d rather ‘itch’ than speak to anyone but the imaginary animals that surface after I start drinking.


“I’m back working in Ottawa… This small company with enough attitude to rip this country to shreds. You may have heard of it?”


I didn’t respond, but it didn’t matter, as Sayeed continues on with his ‘selling point’.


“Either way, The ‘G-Man’ is looking to pick up a new booker after our last one left for CGC. He’s ruffled about the whole thing, wants to find someone quick. This place would be perfect for you, John. Honestly. You should look into coming on board.”


Hell no. Why would I want to go to Canada? New York is my home; my crime-infested haven of gritty realism. I already left twice before, and to be honest, both times only reiterated the narrative that I love this city above all.


“Yea… I’ll look into that.”


I respond lazily; again, knowing that I wasn’t going to contact anyone about the job. I would much rather drink myself to sleep on the streets of Brooklyn than move to Canada.


“Good. I already gave him your number. Expect a call in 30 minutes.”


What the F*CK, Are you kidding me? Why would you pass my number off to someone about a job that I haven’t shown any interest in? Up until 2 minutes ago I didn’t even know there WAS a wrestling company in Ottawa. Jesus, now I have to talk to some punk who goes by ‘G-Man’? We’ll see if I even answer the phone…


With that, annoyed more so than anything, I subconsciously shove the bottle of opened vodka into the nearby kitchen sink; the contents of said bottle raging down the drain in the process. The moment has passed; however, I still find myself annoyed by the situation at hand; aggressively staggering my way back into the living room, dropping my body in a thunderous heap upon the curb-side-found couch below.


After a few, brief, seconds of ‘pouting’ internally…


I fall asleep.


My phone positioned directly next to the right side of my head on the stained couch cushion that resides below my body’s weight.
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... Unlocking the Truth buried deep in the subconscious ...




“Tell me more about this dream, John.”


The heavy ticks of a giant grandfather clock fill the Doc’s office like a powerful wave capsizing a tiny fisherman’s boat; each and every tock reminding me of the obvious silence that awkwardly inspires me to fidget nervously like a pre-adolescent school boy in need of a bathroom break.


While psychologically wrestling with the notion that anyone can perceive dreams as anything but random neurological firings located somewhere within the brain; I exhale rather heavily, accepting the notion that relaying my dream would have to be touched upon. For, to explain my reasoning to throw caution to the wind & move up north, this psyche-shifting ‘cat nap’ essentially removed my deeply cemented ill-wills toward the industry as a whole.


15 minutes.


900 seconds.


In the grand scheme of things, a rather short time-frame. However, in this case, a monumental moment in time where it was made very apparent to me that my love for Pro Wrestling still pulsates vibrantly in, and out, of my weakened heart.


“Well, Doc. It starts with the vision of myself walking down a deserted road. There’s nothing in sight for miles, just the abrasive winds carrying mini particles of sand; projecting them violently at my body like tiny spears looking to penetrate my skin. With the sun beating incessantly upon me, slowly my stagger by the second, a band of faceless individuals appear on the horizon: all in a line. Militaristic almost; if you will. As they grow closer, their faces begin to take shape; all men of my professional past staring upon me with sadistic grins which, in hindsight, speaks volumes as to what they’re about to do."




"One by one, Each of them begin to rip my body to shreds. Mitch [Naess] starts with my head, Jensen [Tarver] removing my stomach/gut, Bear [bekowski] ripping both legs from my frame, and Richard [Eisen] pulling away my spine. From there, a trippy bottle of vodka forms hands and takes with him what’s left. So, in a sense, I’ve been disassembled from the top down; however, something still stands: My heart. Beating, pounding heavier than it ever had before, willing my soul to stay alive despite losing ‘everything’.”


A cold shake resonates through out my body like a strong electrical current waging war with my ability to stay current; in the moment. That shake, while explainable, marks the subconscious fear that still resides within me; handcuffed to my bones. Cemented to my psyche.


“So, one could say that this dream highlights the fact that, despite all the turmoil in both your professional and personal lives, Your love of Pro Wrestling still beats stronger than ever; untouched by those who have attempted to ‘tear you apart’?”


Silence fills the room once again; however, this time it’s not because I’ve mentally removed myself from the situation at hand. By the contrary, This silence is manifested through the action of my own self-analysis; gently raising my theoretical ‘sword’ while attempting to do battle with my acquired nervosas.


A slight smirk forms upon my face; the first time anything like this has happened in over a month.


“That’s what I’m thinking. Deep down, underneath it all, I’m not ready to call it quits yet.”


That slight smirk grows into an overwhelming smile by this point; Again, something unseen for quite some time. I, John Greed, the master of self-destruction, was smiling for the very fact that I now understand what my one true love is (and continues to be): Pro Wrestling.


You can take my leg, Bear.


You can remove my spine, Dick.


You can crush my head, Mitch.


And, You can hijack my gut, Jensen.


But, You may never take… remove… crush… or hijack my heart; My love for this craft.


With each passing nemesis, taking with them their most prized possessions, I was able to eventually regain functioning. Not because I was born with an iron-will; but rather, solely due to my infatuation with the ‘sport’ I grew up idolizing. The men, and women, who made it possible for such an industry to exist. Ultimately, you can destroy the physical being; however, you can never annihilate pure energy.


“So it was this dream, this process of engaging your love once again, that ultimately pushed you to accept their offer?”


He questioned with a slight smirk of his own; feeling as if he had just ushered in a ‘breakthrough’. A momentary feeling of euphoria; facilitated by his prying, inquisitive, nature.




A genuine smile still resides upon my face.


“If it wasn’t for that dream, I…”


A brief pause follows as I seamlessly search for the right wording; the best way to convey the power of such insight.


“I would probably be sleeping somewhere off of Clinton Ave; peddling for money in which to buy ‘booze’. Instead, I bought a car for $500 dollars the other day. All with the motive of moving to Ottawa.”


A coy smirk, again, forms upon the Doc’s face; responding with a warm-hearted ‘congrats’ through the form of this statement:


“I’ll have my secretary compile a list of good psychiatrists in the area.”
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Great move Greed, suck the entire American indie scene up into one company with written contracts, then get yourself fired from said company.


Luckily we can still trust Nemesis, because know he'll make those Arcadia *******s PAY THEIR F*CKING DUES*!!!!!!


*Monkeypox will never die.

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Great move Greed, suck the entire American indie scene up into one company with written contracts, then get yourself fired from said company.


Luckily we can still trust Nemesis, because know he'll make those Arcadia *******s PAY THEIR F*CKING DUES*!!!!!!


*Monkeypox will never die.


Actually, The only people under written contracts in the DOA are: Eric Tyler and Roy Edison. The rest of the cast was all set to PPA agreements. So, the US scene is still very rooted the way it use to be. Just now with an extra 'cult' company hanging out there.


Funny enough though, I left the DOA in-game and vowed to let the game choose a new 'director of wrestling operations' (as I couldn't manipulate it anyways). Nemesis already stated that he wasn't interested (through my writings), so, I didn't start a new game with him at the helm. Either way, I'll let others know who it was that took over when the time comes for John to reflect upon where the DOA is now; without him. :D

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With my newly acquired 1992 Plymouth Sundance as my stuttering chariot, I set forth for the northern unknown: Canada; Ottawa to be exact. Dispelling a ploom of continuous smoke pulsating from the tailpipe behind, My rusting steed stammers toward the initial city limits; unaware of what awaits me ‘on the other side‘; however, shockingly eager to seek this mysterious opportunity. In between the sight of expelled toxins, I relay my final ‘goodbye’ to the city I had come to love dearly; New York, knowing that it’s beautiful depiction of a modern-day ‘Bohemia’ will continue to stand as my true place of comfort. With that said, Comfortability is what would eventually aide in the strengthening of my ’Demons’. I had to go elsewhere; had to embark upon a new pathway. Ottawa
that personally undiscovered trail.


For the next 9 hours…


450 miles…


I am desperately alone to my thoughts; a troubling fear for anyone entrenched in a battle for sanity. At first, I find myself vocally roaring to the classic’s of my childhood; gleefully matching pitch with my musical idols: Rush, Billy Idol, and Bruce Springsteen. However, with time, my terrible renditions of age-old anthems grows rather tiring. This is when my inherent doubt starts to creep outward like a boiling pot expelling water with every passing second.


Am I stupid for leaving New York? I mean, I know that Larry is already on a flight back to Japan by now; however, I’m sure I could have found another friend to room with until I was officially ‘back on my feet’. With time, though, this fear begins to slowly subside. I think back upon my time with ‘The Doc’, the dreaded soul-searching I had embarked upon, and eventually maneuver into a 2nd wind; eagerly focused on the task at hand.


My phone conversation with “G-Man” was awkward to say the very least. Something didn’t feel ‘right’; however, who am I to judge anyone else? My tumultuous past, while not entirely unique to myself, leaves me with no real right to pass judgment on others. With that said, It may have been solely due to my overreaching sleepy haze. Whose to say he didn’t think of me in the same light? Either way, I was hired. Shockingly rather quickly. Then again, Sayeed was right. It appears as if this mysterious “G” Figure wanted to fill this position rather intensely; getting straight to the point following a confusing laundry-list of bantering from his part.


With this in mind, I forge past the border; accelerating upward as I cross the beautifully green scenery of the ‘great north’. To say the least, I find myself in this state of general amazement; removed from my nervosas for a split second as I embrace my new environment.


As I pulled into Ottawa I rapidly search for a crumpled up piece of paper located at the base of my passenger side’s feet mat. There it was, in all of it’s scribbled glory, an address. A final destination.


I maneuvered in, and out of, traffic like a typical New Yorker; selfishly conquering the road like Alexander the Great; however, without the conscious motivation of destruction. With time, I find my destination nestled into the grungy, steel infested, ’warehouse district’ located at the very outskirts of the city. For a split second, I feel a sense of ’home’; the scenery eerily reminding me of my days in Pittsburgh.


I was expecting a small office, maybe even a basic abandoned warehouse where the 4C does business from; however, neither was what I found. Instead, I sit parked outside of a crumbling brick apartment complex. It’s erosion quite evident as crumbs of brick ash lay on the street corner before it. Needles to say, An overpowering sense of confusion grips my focus. Am I at the wrong place? I can’t be, for, this was the address the mysterious “G-Man” gave me. I ponder this reality as my eyes stare blankly; utterly unaware of what awaits me inside.
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He’s amazingly perfect; God-like if you will. His pinstriped Armani suit demands your attention, his slightly graying black hair portrays a sense of regality; meanwhile, the coy demeanor he masterfully utilizes brings on this sense of calm. To say the least, He doesn’t fit the typical ‘pro wrestling mold’. Carrying an underlying power of Eisen while fusing this notion with the suave, debonair, business-sense of a Tarver; the mysterious ‘G-Man” is everything you’ve ever wanted in a boss: Powerful yet not overly demanding, suave yet not manipulative, intelligent but not an elitist. In a way, he’s perfect.


He values my work, believes I am justified in my bitterness toward my former employers, and ultimately believes that my perception of the industry melds perfectly with his corporate vision for the 4C.


He’ll supply a 401k, an extensive healthcare package (with rehab covered), and a sizeable wage for my living expenses here in Ottawa. All in all, again, the absolute example of perfection from an employers standpoint.


I’m given free range; with no creative restraints.


An open checkbook to sign whoever I want; regardless of their asking price.


And, The ability to contract a local company into developing our own, state-of-the-art, coliseum.


To think, I was somewhat squeamish as to what lied within the crumbling brick apartment complex before me. Unaware that the ‘boss of my dreams’ stood only 20 feet away; located in a spacious living room that he calls his ‘command center’. At first, I was afraid to work for someone who didn’t have a towering office building in the sky; however, with time, I found it quite comforting that he is self-confident enough to sell ‘his dream’ regardless of the building it lies in.


What a dream job…


What… a… Day Dream…


<hr color="black>

***** All of this written above is
This was a day-dream
developed by John; conjuring up an image of what he WANTS vs. what may be reality. We all do it; however, NOW… It’s best to see if ANY of this lines up with REALITY *******


Picture Perfect; a dream.





The unexpected sounds of “Twisted Sister” find their dusty rebirth as an unfamiliar anthem of theirs bounces down the hallway like an infectious disease waiting to consume it’s next host. Meanwhile, a small smattering of elementary school children huddle around a half-opened door; snickering uncontrollably as they appear to be shoving one of their playmates, playfully against his will, into said doorway. Their ‘up-to-no-good’ laughter weaves itself within the complex-shaking bass line’s of the crimped-haired 80’s power band; creating a sonic noise engulfing every inch of the hallway I find myself staggering downward.


As I grow closer, every step leaving a creaking noise in my wake, the band of pre-teens quickly make notice of my existence; forging into the darkness of a nearby stairwell, most likely embarrassed by their rousing display of self-moderated hazing. I now find myself alone in the hallway; minus Dee Snider violently conquering my, borderline, bloody ear drums.


I now come to the half-opened doorway; shocked by the reality that has bestowed itself upon me.




This was the room I was looking for.


The haven of the mysterious “G-Man”.


Hesitant at first, mostly due to the unique scenario surrounding this man’s apartment room, I slowly raise my right hand high into the air; slamming my knuckles in a knocking motion on the flimsy wood door before me. The strike, while rather light, gently manipulates the cracking wooden door to open slightly more; adding to the weird, dream-like, situation at hand.


The room itself, mostly visible by this point, is extremely small; Jail Cell’s would probably warrant you more room than this box of an apartment.


Directly in front of the doorway stands a giant heap, no, an army, of little plastic men; a collection of muscular, grandiose, action figures forming a small battalion of fighters. Their condition almost mint. Their aroma rather prevalent as that much plastic will certainly expel a noticeable stench.


Past the ‘city of plastic’, before the doorway, stands a large red bean-bag chair resting upon a ‘poop-brown’ installation of shag carpeting; a sign that this complex hasn’t been touched in a remodel-kind-of-way since it was built in the early 70’s. To say the least, the miniature box-of-an-apartment inches from my stance was not quit what I was expecting.


Outside of that, The only thing seen are a towering stack of fused Comic Books and early 80’s nudie magazines. How can I tell from this far away? I’m almost positive that I had the same issues back during my childhood. That said, It’s somewhat unsettling to see them ‘still in use’ by someone else.


That someone else stands in the middle of the room; staring at a small 13 inch TV screen in a hypnotic kind of fashion. Meanwhile, keep in mind, “Twisted Sister” still roars like a pterodactyl emerging like a flaming torpedo from hell. With that said, though, the TV does it’s very best to match the blaring audio in the background; pushing forth as much noise as possible for a dime-sized speaker system; a tsunami-like wave of sound literally shaking the single window in the apartment.




Nothing. The small figure continues to watch the TV before him incessantly.




Still nothing. I raise my voice a little louder.


“Are your parents home?”


Again, nothing. So, I slowly step my way into the room; doing my best to bypass the army of plastic below my feet; however, sadly leaving casualties in my wake.


My movement gains his attention.


“What do you want?”


I can barely hear his voice over the deafening sound resonating from his combination of a TV and Record Player.


“Uh… I’m here to see the “G-Man”… Is that your dad?”


The small figured individual slams the palm of his right hand firmly upon his forehead; so loud that the sound jumps over the noise pollution present. Seconds later, He’s seen turning off the TV in a rapid motion. With one conveyer of audio down, It’s becoming much easier to hear my own thoughts permeating.


“What do you want?”


I’m confused by this point; extremely confused.


“I was told by your dad to meet him here. I… I’m the new head booker for his wrestling company; 4C.”


The little one before me, with his body scrunched up like a spring on the verge of explosion, shakes his head in an awkward show of annoyance; sighing rather loudly as he waddles slowly toward the towering collection of magazines positioned in the corner of the box they call ‘home’. He reaches down, grabbing a crumpled napkin, while turning toward me; offering me the napkin.


Confusing me even more.


“Uh… Did you want me to throw that away or something?”


I survey the area awkwardly, quickly looking around the room for a nearby waste-basket. Really, anything that would help this little bugger out.


“You’ll find everything you need on this.”


His stubby little fingers extend outward; handing me the pizza-stained napkin as if it were excalibur itself.


By this point, while utterly shocked as to what’s going on, I extend my hand outward; accepting the small box-shaped piece of wrinkled paper.


“Okay? Is your dad here or should I wait for him?”


I look around the room again; knowing that he wasn’t there due to the sheer size of the room; however, still confused as to what’s going on.


“My dad doesn’t live here.”


Again, still more confusion.




I look down upon the napkin as a way of breaking the awkwardness that has found it’s way to my life; as always, when all of a sudden I come to realize: The names of those who work for 4C are scribbled rather lightly on the very napkin he’s handed me. Wait…


“Wait… Are you “G-Man?”


His eyes roll rather dramatically as he gently sticks his tongue out in an weird manner. Then, raising his eyebrows as high as they can go and dropping his jaw downward in an overly comical kind of fashion.


“Call me whatever you want… They all do anyways.”


“So… You….”


I bite my tongue; rather hard actually.


“You’re the master of this windowsill; make me proud.”


All I wanted to say was “WTF”; however, I continue to bite my tongue in fear of being sacrificed like an un-expecting lamb. I know it sounds rather harsh, but to be honest, through my review, It’s easy to see that this little man isn’t all there… A full hamburger and fries away from a full happy-meal… Missing all but one screw… Full Blown… Gatekeeper seeking Zuul… Crazy…


I gently thank the crazed mini-one before awkwardly staggering out of the room; again steering clear of the slew of action figures located before the door; only spinning around once to see the supposed “G-Man” looking blankly down toward the ground… Singing along with his idol… Dee.


I wish I could better convey how I felt at this time…


All that comes to mind is this…


What the F*CK have I gotten myself into?



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So far so good, EV ! It's really a pleasure to read your high quality backstory posts every time. Good luck with this diary. I followed your PSW work with passion, but I have to admit that DOA quickly faded in my interest for some reason.
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