Sheyanne Successful [vs.] Flex Johnson

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Preface: Scene One takes place after my CD https://insurgencywrestling.forumotion.com/t4361-uncovered-past

Sleepless Nights (Saga) Part 3: Prelude to Sons of our Fathers

Scene One
Every once in a while, people ask me what the happiest day of my life was.

That’s a tricky question for me. Honestly, I’ve had a lot of those days. The first day I met my wife ranks highly up there; my marriage is up there as well.  

But you know one day that I’ll never forget?

That day would be the birth of my first son.

Yeah I know, it probably sounds extremely corny—but that’s how I really feel. You know as a man, when you are growing up and thinking about starting a family, you always imagine having a son. You imagine a little fat dude that looks like you. You picture a small mirror image of yourself.

I wanted to have a son, so that I could raise him to be a strong, proud man. As I look back on life, I can honestly as that I didn’t have the best father. My father’s name was Jeffery Johnson.

Why was my dad so horrible? Well, I’ll tell you.

I had three siblings; I was the youngest of them all. There were many differences between me and my siblings, besides age. For one, all of them were planned. My mom and dad had only wanted three children. I was what my dad called “an accident.” And let me tell you, my dad had no problem telling me that I wasn’t planned.

In that regard, I think my father hated me for that. I was told later in life that my dad was big planner. He planned out everything—how many kids he and my mom would have, how many hours he was have to work to make ends meet, everything. In his mind, I came along and fucked up everything.

Dad treated me different. He was loving and caring with all the others—he was cold and heartless with me.

I remember this one time—me and sister was playing in the house. We ended up bumping a lap and breaking it. My father came home. He gave my sister a small talk, but didn’t seem to upset. I took the grunt of the punishment. I didn’t get a talk—I got a beating.

My dad smacked me hard on the side of the head.

Then he took of his belt.

Additionally, I didn’t eat that night.

Shit like that happened with my father all the time; it never happened with my mom. Mom treated the same as everyone, but not good ol’ dad.

Jeffery Johnson left a big impression on me. When I got older, I made a promise to myself. I didn’t tell anyone about the promise, not even my wife. But…I promised myself that I’d become a good father. I wanted to be better dad to my son than my father was to me.

I wanted my son to respect me, not fear me.

That promise ran through my mind all the time.

I know it ran through my mind the day Flex was born.

I remember looking at him after he was born. My wife Mary was holding him. “That’s my boy,” I thought to myself. “I’m going to be a good dad to him; he is going to become great.”

Flex Johnson.

You know, I always loved the way his named sounded. I know it don’t really roll of the tongue, but it has a cool effect, at least to me. Ha, I don’t think Mary really like the name, but she allowed me to pick it. When we dating, Mary and I had talk about baby names—you know, like most couples do. I remember we had a hard time deciding and agreeing on names. So, she came up with a great idea. The idea was that I’d come up with our boys’ names, and she would come up with the girls’ names.

I actually got the name “Flex” from reading a Japanese anime magazine. Now, the Japanese actually don’t have a character for the name “Flex.” Instead, the character for “Felix” is used. “Felix” means prosperous.

So essentially, “Flex” equals “prosperity.”

Not too shabby huh?

Speaking of Flex, he is about five or so right now. He’s a smart kid—bright and intelligent. He doesn’t talk a lot, at least not as much as some five-year-olds. But kind of funny; he may be five, but he acts a lot older. Mary tells me that he always finishes his chores quickly. And, he helps out around the house. I know he also helps Mary take care of Myrice, his little sister.
He’s a good kid.

But am I a good father?

I wanted to be a great father to him. I wanted to teach him how to toss a football, how to throw a right hook. But, I haven’t done any of that. Hell, for the past couple of years I’ve hardly seen Flex. It’s not because I haven’t wanted to. Mary doesn’t work; she shouldn’t have to. I’m the man of this household—I need to provide for this family. So, I work my fingers to the bone every day, even on the weekends.

But, that means I don’t get to spend lots of time with Mary, or Flex, or Myrice.

It’s weird how to can work so hard, and still be a failure.

Hell, I don’t know why I’m writing down all these thoughts. I don’t even know who is even going to read it, if any ever does read it.

Flex, maybe you will read it someday. I don’t know how many of the entries I’m going to write. But, I’ve just decided—these are all going to be for you. You’re only five now, so you don’t really understand. Ha, but you’re so smart—maybe you do. But, when you are older, I want you to read these. I’m not the best talker, so maybe me written thoughts would be better.

Son, I just want you to know something. Regardless of how it may appear, I love you.

…

Flex sat the book down on the coffee table.

“Shit,” Flex said. Flex picked himself up off of the couch; he ran his fingers through his hair a couple of times. He turned to walk towards the kitchen. Before he could make it to the hallway, the front door opened up. Mya walked in the door, followed by Toby.

“Hey babe,” Mya said with a smile. “How are you.”

“Oh…I’m ok,” said Flex. He passed her and made his way to the kitchen.

Toby looked up and Mya.

“Roof!”

“I don’t know what’s the matter.”

Toby waddled into the living room; Mya slowly walked into the kitchen. Flex was stood near the sink, his head bent over slightly. Mya put her arms around his waist.

“Babe, what’s the matter?”

Flex didn’t speak; he just stood there for a few seconds. He then turned around to face Mya. Flex put his arms around Mya and pulled her closer. Mya looked into his eyes. Flex never tried to put on an act, but he didn’t usually convey the fact that something was bothering him.
Only a few people, including Mya, were able to look at him and know something was wrong.
Flex kissed Mya. He played in her hair for a few seconds.

“I’ll tell you about it later,” said Flex. He put on a weak smile.
“I need to clear my head; I’m going for a jog.”

Flex pulled away from Mya and headed up stairs.

Mya shook her head.

“This may be a problem—a big one.”


Scene Two
In a few days I’m going to walk into the biggest match I’ve had since joining IWF, no offense to Tim Patrick. And to be honest, it really isn’t my opponent that’s making this match so large—it’s the implications behind the match.

Well, I guess that’s not exactly true—my opponent is somewhat important. When Sheyanne took advantage of an opportunity, she became the first female High Impact champion. That means something; it’s a large feat. Therefore, everyone will be rooting for her—even though we all know I’m the better wrestler. I mean over the past week or so, I’ve gotten a great deal of emails defending Sheyanne as the champion.

If I lose this match, who knows when I’ll get another title shot. Hell, I might NEVER get another one. And if I win, then I risk alienating some fans.

What’s a man do?

Well, most men, especially here in IWF, would throw in the towel. Look at Storming Raven and Tim. They refuse to fight women.

But, I think I’ve made it pretty clear that I’m not like most men.

What am I going to do? Well, I’m going to stand up and fight! I don’t care if my opponent is a man, a woman, or an alien. I don’t care if they are taller or more muscular.

I’m a warrior—I don’t back down from ANYONE.

Sheyanne is going to have to kill me at Ragnarok; that’s going to be her only option.
Otherwise I’m going to just keep pushing, keep coming.

That’s what I do-that’s what I’ve always done.

Why change now?


Scene Three
Once again, Flex lay on the Dr. Lina’s black leather couch. However, this time Mya was there as well. She sat in a small chair near the couch. Dr. Lina had yet to walk into the room.

Flex stared up at the ceiling; there were a lot of things running through his brain.

“Where the hell did this journal pop up from,” thought Flex to himself. “I never knew my father very well. We didn’t talk about much, except for sports. I never really knew his inner thoughts about ANYTHING. And, I always coped with that because I told myself ‘he was working to provide for the family.’ But now, I’ve got a chance to read his inner thoughts—specifically, his inner thoughts about me.”

Before he could finish his thoughts, Dr. Lina entered the room. She smiled and took a seat.

“Good morning you two.”

“Good morning” Flex and Mya said in unison.

“Flex, how are you feeling today?”

“I’m feeling…alright,” Flex said. “Umm, something came up a couple of days ago. I’d like to discuss it with both you and Mya if that’s ok.”

“Yes of course,” said Lina. “Now, would you like to begin?”

Mya handed Flex a packet.

“I’ve got my assignment right here.

…

Since I was six or seven, I’ve been surrounded by death. I suppose these sessions have proved that. And yet, I don’t fear Death.

Is that wrong?

Death is a natural occurrence. Humans made to do a couple of things. We were made to grow and learn; we made to enjoy life and its pleasures. And after all of that, after I’ll time here is exhausted, we are made to pass away.

I never really had a problem with Death itself. No—I had problem with Death’s timing.
It’s one thing for a 90 year old man to pass. You know, it’s probably wrong to say, but an elderly person has lived a full life. They have traveled, had kids, and seen shit—good and bad. What more is there that they could possibly see?

But what about people like my brother? He was still young. Hell, he wasn’t even in his prime yet. His career had just taken off; he had gotten out of wrestling and was a successful fashion designer. About four month before his death, he just had a baby.

Death had shitty timing.

Oh, and let’s not forget about the actual death itself.

My father was murdered, gunned down by some criminal. And my brother, he was killed by a reckless drunk-driving college frat boy.

Is that fair? Was there any justice in those instances?

But, I suppose Death isn’t bound to things such as fairness.

I use to talk to God a lot about the issue. Scratch that—the “word” talking is probably inaccurate. I “complained” to God. Death couldn’t answer my questions about fairness, but I figured the Lord could. I prayed to him a lot after my father died; I did the same thing when Koji passed was well.

I listened, but he never spoke to me—not about Death anyway.

Maybe I wasn’t meant to know.

I enrolled in these sessions because of some dreams I was having. These premonitions depicted my death in many ways, and I wasn’t sure what to make of them. I didn’t tell Mya, but—I always figured to they were a sign. You know—a sign of things to come. I guess that’s why I had trouble sleeping and what not.

Maybe that’s why I was losing matches as well—but I’m not making an excuses.
But how do I feel now?

Even though Death surrounds me—I’m not afraid. Was I in the past? Of course. But things have changed. I stood in the face of Death my father died, and even though it hurt me, it also made me stronger. I was devastated when my brother was killed. But you know what I did? I mourned for a bit, as anyone would. And then, I picked myself up and continued to fight. That’s what he would have wanted; and, that’s what I’ve been known to do.
And, will Death take me out? Sure—eventually. But God hasn’t allowed Death to touch me yet, and there must be a reason.

There must be a good reason.

…

Lina took a couple of notes in her pad. After she finished writing, she dropped the pad on the floor near her feet.

“Flex that was very good,” Lina said with a smile. “I think these sessions have been really productive.”

Mya nodded her head. “Yes they have been. He’s seemed a lot less stressed at home—at least until today.”

Mya and Lina both turned a bit towards Flex.

“Flex, before we started you said there was a lil’ something you wanted to discuss.”

“Yeah,” Flex said. He sighed. “Well, a couple of days I got a package from my sister. She was going through some old boxes and ran across this book. The book was made out, or addressed to me, so she sent it to me. When it arrived I sat down a read a few pages.”

Flex sighed once again.

“The book was actually a journal—written by my dad. He wrote it to me, to tell me his experiences and thoughts.”

“Kind of like Sons of Anarchy?” Mya asked.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Hmm,” Lina said. “Interesting…Flex, we’ve talked a lot about your father. You told me you never really got to know him—that you weren’t very close.

“Are you ready to read this?”

“I don’t know if I’m ready or not,” said Flex. “But, I feel like this is something I need to do.”

“We just had a break-through; this journal might set you back.”

“He won’t be going through it alone,” said Mya. She put her arms around Flex. “I’ll be right there with him—every step of the way.”

Lina smiled.

“Flex if this is something you need to do—then you should do it,” Lina said. “An, if trouble arises, you’ll just have to come back and see me.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Flex picked himself off the couch.

“Dr. Lina, you’ve….

“Lina…”

“I mean—Lina, you’ve be a big help thank you.”

“You are quite welcome,” Lina said. “Now, if you to need anything don’t hesitate schedule an appointment. OR, just give me a call ok,” she said with a smile.

“Yes—thank you.”


Scene Four
Why did I get into this business?

Most kids have aspirations of becoming an astronaut or a doctor. But I wasn’t like most kids growing up. My dad and I—well, we didn’t bond too much. But, one thing that we did do is watch wrestling. I remember the first match that got me hooked. I don’t know how he did it, but my dad had gotten a hold of some NWA Mid Atlantic Wrestling tapes. I remember one Saturday we just sat down and watched for hours; it was one of the rare off-days that my father had.

The match that sold me was a bout between Ric Flair and Ricky Steamboat. It wasn’t like the others matches; it wasn’t just two brutes clubbing each other. No—it was a work of art! It was two skilled technicians demonstrating their craft and telling a story.

From that day on, I wanted to become a wrestler.

No—it was more than that! I NEEDED to become a wrestler; it was what I was destined to do. Throughout my lifetime, I told everyone about my dream. But, no one cared to hear. My friends that I was crazy; they told me I wasn’t a good enough athlete to become a wrestler. My teachers, professors, and counselors thought I was ignorant; based on race and statistics, they didn’t even see me being a free man, much less a successful wrestler.

Even my own father scoffed at the idea!

Only three believe that I could achieve my goal. The first was me, the second was mom. The third was my uncle.

Three people out of a lifetime.

How did I get into this business?

Everyone knows true dreams aren’t easily achieved—they require hard work.

You see, unlike you Sheyanne, I didn’t have the opportunity to learn at a fancy gym. I didn’t have a chance to rub shoulders with world-class trainers.

Hell, I could hardly afford a sub-par wrestling school. My uncle gave me a small loan; it was about $1,200. He gave it to me when I was 18. I saved that money for a couple of years until I found a school close by. The school that I did find was called New York Alliance. Although I truly appreciate everything I learned there, I’d be lying if I told you that it was top-notch. The trainers, although they were good people, weren’t known as the best in the business. But they taught us the basics. The wrestlers—well what about them? With the exception of myself, and my boy Jeff Haman, the wrestlers were terrible. Jeff and I were the only ones that made something of ourselves in this business.

The fact of the matter is, even though I trained, struggled, and scrapped to learn the business; theoretically, I still wasn’t supposed to be anything in this business.
But once I got into door, no one or nothing could hold me back.

Unlike you Sheyanne, I didn’t start off as a wrestling prodigy. After New York Alliance, I wrestled a couple of local indy shows, before I got picked up by a company called Studio 21. Studio 21 was a big deal at the time; but now, the company is dead. Regardless, at the time I wasn’t good enough to make it one the main roster. I was told that I showed potential—but potential is really worth shit. I was sent down to their developmental territory.

I should have been happy. I was finally living the dream right?

Wrong!

I wasn’t satisfied at all. And that’s why I eventually became great.

Studio 21’s developmental was terrible. In fact, I’d argue it wasn’t even designed to train up wrestlers. We didn’t have trainers or classes. Nope. We did all our learning in the ring. Road agents were in charge of booking; essentially, they would place two random people in the ring and let them go. After the match ended, sometimes the road agent would offer a little advice. But, most of the time the agent would say a thing at all.

Personally, I had to re-watch my matches, and try to compare them to the greats. That’s how I learned to work in the business, in the beginning at least. After Studio 21 I took some time and went to some immediate and advanced training sessions. But I digress; there were also other reasons why Studio 21 was a wrestler’s worst nightmare. Essentially, the development program was also a purgatory. Like I said, there no courses—no instructors. Therefore, a lot people never got better. I met some dudes that had been in that place for 5 years and still weren’t deemed good enough to make it onto the main roster.

Most of those wrestlers spent their entire careers working meaningless matches that no one would ever see.

But—they were content.

I wasn’t content.

Sheyanne, that’s kind of been the story of my life. I’ve never been content with my position in this business. That’s why I’ve worked so hard over these years. That’s the reason why I’ve re-tooled and re-worked my style so many times of the years.

I’ve never been content in wrestling and that’s why I’m the best!

Sheyanne, this rematch between the two of us has been swelling for some time now. And at Ragnarok, it’s all going to come to a head.

Sheyanne, I HATE people like you. Would you like to know why? For most of my career I’ve been “The Black wrestler” of the fed. And because of this dark skin I’ve been mistreated, I’ve been bashed—hell I’ve been robbed of championships because of the color of my skin. And, I’ve faced all this adversity even though I’ve carried myself with dignity and honor. I’m a fucking role model. That poor black kid in the ghetto can say “I can make it, because Flex Johnson did.” I’ve been an excellent representation for OUR people.

And it really PISSES me off you people like you walk into a federation. You’re obnoxiously loud; you act as if you no one is able to hear your whiny, high-pitched voice. You can’t speak English to save your damn life; you sound like a fucking coon.

But most of all, you’re ignorant!

…

Sheyanne, let me ask you something.

What does “real” mean to you?

Over the past month or so you have been quick to run your mouth. You’ve thrown out terms like “fake,” and “bitch.”

So again, let me ask you—what’s “real” boo?

Let me tell you what’s “real;” “real” is struggle and pain. “Real” is growing up dirty poor with four siblings; “real” is watching your mother and father literally kill themselves to provide for the house. And, “real” is seeing the people you love gunned down or killed!

That’s “real” ma’am!

Your opponent at Ragnarok has endured all the instances above—it has transformed him in the man you see today.

Sheyanne, I called the police you for a specific reason. And hell, that reason was exactly wrestling related.  Three years ago my brother, Koji Johnson, was driving home from the store. He was driving on the expressway when he was hit on the driver’s side. The crash was brutal; Koji’s car was totaled. The driver’s side was nothing but mangled heap of steel.
Sheyanne, do you know who killed my brother? It was someone just like YOU. It was an ignorant, reckless 20-year-old punk who thought it would be idea to get drunk off his ass and ride around New York.

It was person like you who killed my brother—hell, I might as well as YOU killed my brother. So, yeah, I called the police. I’d hate for another family to face to go through the pain, agony, and heart break that my family had to go through just so you could go on a little “joy ride.”

But, don’t get me wrong—it’s people like you who have ruined this business. It’s thoughtless, shameless people like you that have tainted this great business. And you have the NERVE to say that you are a “real,” respectable champion.

Every single moment that you are the IWF High Impact Champion the company diminishes in value!

…

Sheyanne, let’s be perfectly honest—you are a fucking hypocrite! You call me a “coward” during interviews, you call me scum on Twitter.

Cool.

But let me ask you something. It’s clear that you don’t like me; it’s clear you have a problem with me. But, did you ever once try to come and talk to me about your issues? I mean, my locker room is always open.

But that thought never even crossed your mind did it? No of course not. Instead of trying to hash out issues like an ADULT, you decide to run to Twitter. Instead of being civil, you decided to run to Youtube. You chose to be an internet thug, typing and yakking mindlessly behind your MacBook.

And I’m the fucking coward?

But I don’t take it personally Sheyanne. I’ve known people like you all of my life. You talk shit and you think that makes you something; you think that makes you better than others. You think because you are loud and boisterous that everything you say is the gospel.

But in all honesty, character wise, you’re no better than me Sheyanne.

And that burns you up inside doesn’t it?

You can play the victim Sheyanne. You can suck up to people like Tim Patrick; you can try and plea to the fans. But at the end of the day, you and I are just alike.

You don’t like the way I won the title from Gordon. Hey, my question to you is why? That cock-sucker Gordon has been running his mouth ever since he came into IWF. And, he wrote a check his ass couldn’t cash when he talked shit about Remington. And Gordon, like the unfocused douche that he is, attacked Remington before our title match. And guess what—Remington beat his ass! I didn’t hire Remington; I didn’t pay him off.

The only thing I did was wrestle the match I was booked in.

That’s it.

So, unless you have a problem with me doing my fucking job, I don’t see what your issue is.
What, you don’t think my win was “honorable?”

Well, let’s talk about “honor” for a moment. Because I’m guessing that’s something you know about—right?

At Isolation, I was booked in a dumbass Gauntlet match. I didn’t offer any arrogant promo; I didn’t challenge the entire roster. No, I was forced into that match due to contractual obligations.

But, even though I was forced into the match, even though the odds were statistically against me—I stood up and fought. Maso brought his wobbly ass into the ring, and I crushed his soul. The washed up Alexander Raven was the next person. He was more of a challenge than Maso. But in the end, he wasn’t able to cut it. In fact, he’s never been able to cut it—he couldn’t beat me in UECW, and he can’t beat me in IWF. Then out walked Frank Finelli, AKA the walking meat head. You see, Frank is big and bulky, and no doubt if it were a weight-lifting contest then he would have won. But it wasn’t—it was a wrestling match. Frank caught me with a couple of stiff blows; but, he was out-wrestled in the end. And then there was Jack Savage. Jack has never beaten me in his life; but, he thought he would try to take advantage of the situation. But, Jack miscalculated—he forgot he wasn’t good enough to beat me, not even in a weakened state.

You then, in stepped you Sheyanne.

Let me ask you, do you consider yourself honorable Sheyanne? Because, as I recall, you stepped into the ring with a man who had already wrestled four matches previously. You stood toe-to-toe with a man who was bloodied and battered, but still had the strength and gall to face you. Face it Sheyanne, not matter what way you try to spin it—you took advantage of a fucked up situation.

So let me ask you again Sheyanne, what makes you any different from me? You call me a coward, but you have done the exact same shit.

You know what—you’re actually worse than I am. At least I can recognize and own up to the shit I’ve done. But you Sheyanne, pssh, you live in denial.

But you won’t be able to live in denial when I pin you and re-capture my High Impact title!

…

You know, it’s kind of crazy. When I was young, I knew I wanted to be a professional wrestler. And when I got older, I knew that’s what I would eventually become. But you know, even though I believed in myself and my skills, I never knew I’d make it this far.

When I first stepped into the ring, I never dreamed of winning any titles—hell, the idea had never even came across my mind.

In the early days, all I wanted to do was win a match.

Hmm—look at me now.

People think I’m brash because mention my 10 title reigns. Others say that I’m arrogant because I mention the fact I’ve been inducted into two hall of fames. I’m far from arrogant; I bring up those accomplishments for a specific purpose.

I list those accolades to remind myself that you can come from NOTHING, and become something great—the true American Dream.

I was never supposed to be a ten time champion; and I certainly wasn’t supposed to become a hall of fame wrestler. Hell, most black men in Harlem don’t make it past the age of 25 with becoming some ghetto statistic. But—I made it. I became a champion; I became a hall of famer. Instead of sitting within a grave, I got to travel the world!

I defied the odds!

I’ve been defying the odds my whole career.

And at Ragnarok, I’m going to defy the odds one more time. Sheyanne, I’m going to win this match to prove people wrong. This match is going to show that a 40-year-old can not only “still go” in the ring, but thrive. This match is going to prove that IWF made its wisest decision ever when it hired me.

But most importantly Sheyanne—I’m going to prove that I’m better than you!

At Ragnarok, all the Twitter comments will be irrelevant. At Ragnarok the Youtube videos won’t matter. Sheyanne, the time for “tough” talk is passing away; the time for “action” is almost here. That’s the time that I live for. At the Pay-Per-View it will be just you and me in a ring. There aren’t going to be any trainers there to urge you on, and your mama won’t be there to lead you advice.

It’s just going to be your raw talent against my refined talent, and my experience.
And, I think we both know who wins in that matchup.

Every second of this match, you are going to wish you hadn’t opened your big mouth. You are going to wish that you had shown a minimum level of respect; you don’t disrespect legends in this business—and you’ve disrespected the greatest of them all!

END