What if I told you that the last 5 years were the prologue?
The last five years of introducing characters, setting tables, creating narrative context, and preparing fans to see the story Jon Moxley has been wanting to tell since he came to AEW.
Dean Ambrose was a part of one of the most important factions in WWE history. A trio that established Seth Rollins, Roman Reigns, and Dean Ambrose at the apex of the company. But the beginning of their stories was the end of the Shield; with the swing of a chair from Seth Rollins, their stories began.
Dean Ambrose went on to have some success in the WWE, but eventually – he left. What do you think he saw in his time with WWE? The biggest conglomerate in the history of professional wrestling. A monolith. A locker room filled with ego, politics, rumors and drama. The kind of place Jonathan Good was never meant to be, and certainly not the kind of place he would flourish. So, he left.
AEW was different. It was fresh and new and exciting. It was going to change everything. Until it didn’t. Until Jon Moxley found himself backstage with ego, politics, rumors and drama.
Jon Moxley knows how to change the status quo. He knows that sometimes in order to defend one’s home, force must be used. In order to win a battle, lives are lost. In order to win a war, someone, somewhere, has to pull the trigger.
Darby Allin has lived his life in spite. A comparatively small, arguably less talented “stunt man” who has spent his existence spitting in the face of the status quo. A misfit living in a world of gods. Bryan Danielson, Kenny Omega, Kazuchika Okada, Will Ospreay, Samoa Joe, The Young Bucks, Adam Copeland, Jay White, Sting…the list is near endless.
But in spite of all of that, Darby demanded success. He got huge wins against gods and in the process, he claimed titles, earned respect, gained followers, aligned with legends, and most of all: he built confidence.
So much confidence, in fact, that he decides that none of it is enough anymore. He has to conquer death. He has to climb a mountain littered with the frozen bodies of men who have failed before him. At least until fate stepped in and changed everything.
After his injury, a few months ago Darby unexpectedly returned and there was a new air about him. The spite that fueled him felt almost malicious now. He wasn’t defying expectations so much as he was lashing out. He was picking fights. His exchanges with his peers were often laced with stinging insults, truly personal and deep vitriol.
So much so, that fans have begun wondering if Darby is even a “good guy” anymore, or if this was the start of some kind of turn for him. He called himself the “face” of AEW. There’s something very familiar about that. There’s something…egotistical about that.
When a man chooses to fight while his body fails. When he chooses pride over family, and glory over future, what is that if not the arrogance of someone who’s lost his way? When a man calls himself the greatest talent on the planet, is that not the height of ego?
When a man whose original mission was to enrich the world he loved, to pass knowledge and build a generation of new warriors then finally falls victim to his own hubris, how do you rectify that? How do you keep him from becoming what he hated?
How do you save a man from himself?
When you become an idol yourself, how do you deal with the responsibility? When you become a leader and a role model, how do you ensure that you’re doing the right things? That you’re preparing your devotees to deal with the world when you inevitably leave it? To ensure the future.
And what if when you try, a devotee rebels? What if in his petulance, he refuses to see the truth and he abandons you to align with a new idol? One that is misguided. One that is prideful. One that threatens everything.
Jon Moxley is a quiet and calculated genius wrapped in a blanket of instability. He watches. He learns. He sees patterns and he realized long before anyone else what had to be done. He is often reserved and methodical. It’s not often he enjoys what he has to do. He sees it as duty.
He sees it as his code to protect the place he calls home. He doesn’t chase pride or accomplishment; he chases reputation and defines his legacy not by the battles, but by the wars.
Jon Moxley knows how to change the status quo.
How do you save a man from himself? You crush his pride before it infects everyone and everything around it. Even if you admire him. Even if you idolize him.
How do you save a protege from his own petulance? You force him to take the final shot. You force him to kill his idol.
How do you prevent ego from ruining potential? How do you make someone understand the misery of a future driven by hubris? Moreover, how do you do any of that when the personification of hubris is the one everyone looks up to? The one everyone idolizes. You kill the idol, and you force the ego to watch. You show him the future before it becomes his present.
You change everything. Not for you. Not because you “like” it or you “want” it. But because you have to. It’s bigger than anyone else understands because they don’t see the big picture the way you do. It’s not about a title. It’s about establishing territory and gaining an advantageous position for an incoming war that only you see coming.
You don’t kill idols because of joy. You kill idols to save yourself. You kill idols to save others. You kill idols to protect everything you hold dear because when the idol becomes corrupt, the corruption becomes malignant.
For some, last night was the end. For others, it was the beginning.
Last night was Darby Allin’s origin story.
Last night was the death of an idol, and they made him watch.
Full credit to BrianM for contributing this article.
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