Post by Aaron Pearle on Jul 31, 2013 20:50:00 GMT -5
The Pearle Paradigm
Aaron Pearle is shirtless. This is a near constant condition for the 24 year old, and can you blame him? Look at those ripped abs, those defined pecs, those guns that even Ted Nugent would envy. The man is cut. He holds up a ring finger (Also bare. Take note ladies!) to the camera.
“Come here,” he purrs.
The camera obliges; zooming in on the raised digit, getting closer and closer, detailing every whorl, until it catches what sits on the very tip.
A grain of sand.
“This is dirt. Nothing special, right? Something you and I walk over every single day. Its’ beneath our notice. Pedestrian.”
The shot pulls back to show Aaron again. He grins, and rubs his free hand up and down that chiseled torso.
“Until it gets somewhere it isn’t supposed to be. Your eye. Your swimsuit. Your egg salad. Or……”
He reaches behind his back to produce a ceramic clamshell. How did that happen? There was no edit, no jump cut. Did he have it taped in place? Or did he simply hold it there, using his no doubt ridiculously developed Latissimus Dorsi muscles? A magician never reveals his secrets, friend.
A quick inspection of the bivalve reveals another mystery: why does it have the initials EPPW written across it in black magic marker? “The Lustrous One” doesn’t explain. Instead he flips it open and sticks his proffered finger inside, depositing the speck of sand. Once Pearle's hand is clear the shell shuts with a loud ‘snap!’.
Aaron shakes the clamshell vigorously, and tosses it from hand to hand, “The sand agitates. It can’t be removed, or destroyed, so the host has to come up with another way to deal with the pain. A transformation occurs.”
The shell is held up by Pearle’s palm. Another close up. When it opens, a single, silver pearl rests on its cushioned center. Sorcery!
“This is the Pearle Paradigm,” Aaron announces in a voiceover, “EPPW is in a state of change. The new status quo that’s coming, will be one set by me. And it will start this Sunday in Concord, New Hampshire, when I make my Slam debut. Tyler Walker, you might think you have what it takes to stop me, but you’d be wrong. The fans at the Verizon Wireless Arena are going to be treated to an opening main event like they have never seen before. And you, big man, are going to have the honor of being the first wrestler in Eric Price Pro Wrestling to serve as a landing zone for my patented Pearle Dive. I won’t lie: it’s going to hurt like hell, but at least you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing you’re going to be part of history, and the answer to the following trivia question:
Aaron plucks the pearl out of the shell and begins rolling it between his thumb and forefinger sensuously, like it’s an aroused nipple.
“Who was the first man ‘The Lustrous One’ Aaron Pearle pinned in his career long undefeated streak?”
And cut. Aaron sets aside the props and assumes the ‘Namaste’ position, meditating as he does for a good thirty seconds after a promo. Being simultaneously profound and sensual can burn a lot of chi. Finally, he raises his head, opens his eyes, and lopes off the set of the crowded little television studio located in the Cape Cod Community Media Center.
“How was it?” he asks his entourage.
Lonnie Doyle, owner of the Barnstable County Wrestling Alliance and Pearle’s trainer, defers from answering.
“Good,” compliments Rebecca Winters. The image consultant hands her client a towel and a bottle of water.
“I don’t get it,” Jody Dunbar admits, “Your promo made zero sense.”
Aaron cocks an eyebrow, but doesn’t answer. After wiping his face clean of makeup, and taking a long swig of his drink, he sits on one of the studio’s folding chairs and considers his manager.
“It’s the Pearl Paradigm.”
“Oh,yeah?”
“Yeah,” Aaron shoots back with a hint of irritation to his voice. Rebecca eases her pneumatic frame behind him and slowly begins to work out the kinks in his delts.
“Explain it to me again,” Jody requests, “as if I were a child.”
The Lustrous One sighs and kills the rest of his water. He makes a bank shot with the empty bottle into the trash, “Two points!” he exults, raising his long ranging arms into the air triumphantly. When he looks to his manager for approbation he finds none. His mood sours.
“EPPW is about to change because I’m part of it. That’s the Pearle Paradigm.”
“I got it, Aaron,” Rebecca notes, as she switches her focus from Pearle’s shoulders to his neck.
“I know you did, babe. You wrote it.”
Rebecca Winters is a Communications Major at the local college (currently on sabbatical).
Lonnie Doyle finally speaks up, “Did you watch the tapes?”
“Yeah, coach. Saw every fight. Tyler Walker ain’t nothing to worry about.”
“The promo doesn’t match the point,” Jody notes, “You’re going to change EPPW, but the imagery you use is backwards.”
Doyle adds to the harangue, “Walker’s a powerhouse.”
“He’s slow. Dude moves around the ring like there’s cement in his boots. His record in EPPW is 1-6,” Aaron tilts his head up to give Rebecca a hangdog look, “Massage the temples, babe? I feel a migraine coming on.”
Jody takes up the trainer’s cause, “That’s one more win than you have, Aaron. And I want to get back to your promo. It’s nonsense.”
Aaron closes his eyes, content with Rebecca’s deft, circular rubbing of his forehead.
“First, you are putting yourself down in it. You’re comparing yourself to an insignificant grain of sand. Then, you are the one who gets transformed by the EPPW clam, instead of the other way around,” Jody ticks off her issues with the presentation before repeating her earlier contention, "It's backwards."
Aaron Pearle opens one eye and considers, “Um. Yeah, but….”
“Babe, she’s reading too much into it,” Rebecca’s hands slide down his neck, to rub over his pectorals, her own surgically enhanced chest pressing into the back of his head as she murmurs in his ear, “It’s wrestling, not brain surgery.”
Pearle’s derp face becomes derpier.
Dunbar and Doyle exchange knowing glances, an act Aaron Pearle takes issue with.
“God! You people!” he takes hold of Rebecca’s wrists and lifts them away as he stands, “All this bickering. Why is everybody trying to be the screen door on my submarine?”
He gathers up the “EPPW” tee shirt that came with his contract and puts it on, “You know how much pressure I’m under? This is my debut match in the biggest wrestling company in the world! Everyone on the roster is hoping I’ll fail. They are begging for the chance to run me down,” he folds his arms over his chest, “You know who’s got it good? Tyler Walker. Not only does he have zero expectations on him, he’s got a partner in Biohazard that will back him up!”
“You think Biohazard is an advantage for Tyler Walker?” Jody looks incredulous.
“Damn striaght! It must be nice to be working with someone you have faith in you no matter what, who isn’t going to try and drown you with negative energy! Those two trust each other because they both know how good they got it at the bottom of the EPPW ladder. Tyler Walker and Biohazard don’t have to worry about being the Jannetty in their tag team because they’re BOTH Jannettys!”
“Who are the Jannettys? Is that another stable?” Rebecca inquires.
“Biohazard has two more wins in EPPW than you,” Lonnie feels it necessary to point out.
Jody says nothing. Trying to reason with Pearle at this point is a lost cause. She simply takes out her phone and begins pricing livery services for the ride to New Hampshire.
Aaron Pearle glowers at his employees, clearly unsatisfied. Then he takes charge, “Becks, fix my speech. We’ll reshoot the whole thing tomorrow. Coach, unclench. Walker may be the Beast, but as far as he’s concerned I’m Marc Singer. Jody, cancel the rental car. We're going to have to spend at least another day here prepping before heading to the show.”
“I’m renting us a limousine,” she said, phone tucked against her chin, “We’ll let someone else worry about the commute.”
“That’s good, babe. Way to show some initiative,” Aaron Pearle’s smile crept back into place. He looked down at the dossier Lonnie had put together on his opponent for Sunday. He picked it up. A publicity still of Tyler Walker was clipped to the front of the folder. Taking out the special silver pen he had bought to sign autographs with, he began to doodle.
“You don’t know how good you have it, big guy,” he draws several syringes sticking out of the brute’s thick biceps, “Squatting down there in Jobberville, not a care in the world. You and your fellow Misfit of Science Biohazard. Life of Riley, man, Life of Riley,” he colors in his eyes and then slashes two Xs over them, “Even with the beating you’re about to get, I almost envy you.”