Post by Howard Black on Apr 23, 2015 21:02:09 GMT -5
The conclusion of the tag match and subsequent encounter with Grime in the backstage area had left a peculiar feeling dancing through the nerves of Howard Black. All things considered, while another loss added no favors to his record, he had managed to lock up with one of the more notorious individuals on the roster and keep his team in the match. The outcome, while unfortunate, hadn’t been his fault, and he still hadn’t been pinned or submitted. On this matter, a quiet satisfaction pooled in Howard’s chest and dulled the throbbing pain of his muscles and rapid beating of his adrenaline-soaked heart. The encounter with Grime, following the match, was a different beast.
The words were still fresh in his head, and as Howard walked to his rental car in the cold parking lot of the arena, he couldn’t help but begin to make strange connections and parallels between the comments and his position within the company. “People like Eve Vega that get to do whatever they please without even a slap on the wrist. Seth Lerch sees people with what he feels are stars by appearances.” Eve Vega. His lower lip curled under his teeth as he slowly pressed them together to chew lightly on it. Howard couldn’t help but give a faint shudder of resentment as he turned over the treatment and reception she’d received since beginning: adoration, exposure, and popularity. She was a name in magazines and headlines. By contrast, his own name sat in angry comment sections, internet wrestling community news blurbs, and liberal cultural analysis articles.
As he tried to retrace his steps and find out where there paths diverged, he found himself only more troubled. It was true that Eve was more outgoing and receptive to discussion than he was, but it was also true that he’d lasted longer in the battle royale than her and held their tag team together while she couldn’t. It was additionally true that he drew moral lines in the sand while she clearly had none. It was finally true that Eve had the natural looks and charisma he didn’t. He’d never be able to afford a make-up and wardrobe consultant nor wear designer brand clothes. At the thought of clothing, he focused down on his moving feet to examine the state of his wrestling boots. The stitching had begun to unravel around the heel of his left boot, and the thought of the added expense only amplified the bitter taste in his mouth.
After a short enough walk, he arrived at his rental car. He pulled the keys out of his gym bag and hit a button, causing the car’s interior to light up and resonate with the collective click of the locks. He opened the back driver’s side door and tossed his gym bag onto the seat, then opened the driver’s door to get into the vehicle. As he turned on the vehicle, the familiar sound of “Hell of a Life” by Kanye West filled the interior. Unlike last week, Howard didn’t feel the need to have quiet time in the vehicle; he flipped it into reverse and back out of the space before shifting and leaving the parking lot. A small smile was stretched across his lips.
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Toronto, Ontario, Canada
April 22, 2015 12:30pm
Howard Black and David Rogers sat across from one another inside the garishly furnished interior of the Rex Hotel Jazz and Blues Bar. The table was one of four pushed together, forming a make-shift bar, and the chairs were cheap pleather cushions on metal frames. Despite the tacky and vulgar décor, ranging from the linoleum floors to the rotten wood stage, the bar bustled with an air of artistry and sophistication reveling in the appropriation of the cheap. Howard rolled a bottle of Old Style back and forth between his palms, his eyes scanning across the posters of old blues singers, as David stirred a finger idly in his glass of whiskey (“on the rocks, two fingers, two ice cubes”).
David Rogers: "So. You got the monkey off your back, it seems."
Howard continued to look at the decorations, the sheer busyness of the room making it more than difficult for him to complete concentrate on his companion. Still, his response was prompt enough to signal that despite the wander of his gaze, his ears were turned towards the conversation at hand.
Howard Black: Yeah, I guess we can say that. I didn’t get jeering and bricks thrown at me.
David Rogers: Course not. You were too hard on yourself in the first place.
Howard Black: I don’t know about tha-
David Rogers: No, trust me, kid. If you got a real problem, Howie, it’s that you overthink. Overcompensate. You’re a gloomy guy regularly, but when you get down it’s practically Revelations to you. This is why you got me.
Howard looked down at his hands folded on the table, though the baseball cards set under the plastic topping of the wood tempted his attention. With a moment to quiet the details of the room fighting for his attention, he took a sip of his beer and looked at David.
Howard Black: I know. Thank you, David.
David waves a hand dismissively and gave a chuckle, his Jewish heritage betraying itself.
David Rogers: Not even, Howie. It’s my job. That doesn’t mean we don’t gotta talk about this week.
Howard looked back down again at the beer, sucking on his lower lip quietly.
Howard Black: They want me on the mic, don’t they?
David Rogers: You’re goddamn right, they do. I’m getting my phone blown up by these suits saying you’re close to violating your contract if you don’t speak, Howie.
Howard kept his eyes down, the corners of his mouth stretching down. His gaze traced the contours of the etchings in the plastic covering of the table as he turned over the dilemma now facing him.
David Rogers: Look, I get that’s not your style, and I know you think it’s irrelevant; but these guys care. You don’t have to do a backstage interview or address the audience in the ring, but they want at least a video they can roll or throw up so people can get a sense of who you are.
Howard looked up, his brow furrowing and eyes narrowing as the quiet, exasperated frustration curled up his spine like a hot chain, leaving all traces of hesitation.
Howard Black: I let them film me train. I let them listen to my private conversations with my fuckin’ coach. Isn’t that enough for them, Dave? Is there something so wrong with preferring a fly-on-the-wall approach? Shit, even that made me uncomfortable, but I relented.
David Rogers: Howard, I know. But that’s show business. You’re not just a wrestler; you’re an actor now. You’re telling me you can take a chair to the face and dish it back, but you can’t talk a little shit on a couple of people? Bullshit, Howard. I remember you in college; you were a hell-on-wheels guy in an argument.
Howard grimaced, attempting to force a smile and spectacularly failing to hide his evident displeasure.
Howard Black: Cause I wasn’t forced to do those, Dave. I just called it like I saw it and fought with words over fists. This isn’t the public or some casual conversation; the whole point is fists over words.
At this, Dave jabbed a finger at Howard, this time his brow furrowing and his voice raising in frustration.
David Rogers: Yeah, well, guess what, Howard? You didn’t sign up for UFC or MMA, you signed up to be a professional wrestler. You knew exactly what the job entailed, and you chose it. So maybe for once it’d be conducive for you to shut up and work with someone if you wanted them to be willing to work with you.
An icy silence fell on the table, thick enough that the mere motion of Howard raising the beer bottle to his mouth for a drink seemed to only stretch and distort it rather than cut it. The two men locked eyes, Howard’s gaze softening to a blank and stony look like the mixture of a poker face and the tried and true “deer in the headlights.” David drew his finger from the glass of scotch and raised it to his lips, taking a long drink while never letting his eyes break the stare with his client. Howard’s voice came quiet and monotonous, as if echoing out from a cave deep in his mind as a ghost of his thoughts.
Howard Black: Okay, David. You’re right. I will… cut a shoot. I’ll go rent a video camera, shoot a video, and send it over to the WCF. I’ll play a little ball.
Howard blinked first, his eyes dropping down and lips slackening. The intensity and erupted frustration did not leave the visage of David, however, whose eyes continued to burn at Howard. His voice came gruff and through gritted teeth.
David Rogers: “Good. Now look, I’m your agent and your friend, but I’m not going to keep pulling you out of holes that you put yourself in. You’ve got a really bad habit with this, Howard; you feel cornered or slighted, you double down or you run your mouth, and then you need to be forcibly removed from the situation. You’re my client, and you pay me well, but you don’t make this easy. I don’t want things to get fucked up.”
Howard looked back up, his hands shaking with nervous electricity. He gripped the bottle white-knuckled, raising it to his mouth and deliberately chugging the remaining half of the beer he’d been nursing. Upon completion, he slammed the bottle down on the table and got up, not bothering to push in his chair.
Howard Black: “It’s been good seeing you, Dave.”
He walked out the door as David Rogers only shook his head.
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The video Howard Black sent the WCF began abruptly, evidence of Howard’s lack of technical knowledge about film or its editing process. The camera faced Howard Black, who sat in the chair provided to him in his hotel room. Behind him, the walls were a pale beige that seemed intensified in hue by the artificial lighting and cheap quality of the rented video camera. The camera was held in one hand, evident by its inability to remain steady, and in his other hand, Howard held a freshly lit cigarette. He wore his ring attire, though all that was visible in the frame was the black hooded sweatshirt and crucifix necklace he entered in. His hands were lightly taped, though the freshness of the bandages betray their purpose as purely for effect. Still, when David would later watch the video, he’d feel relieved that Howard had given it enough consideration to dress his part.
Howard Black: “After two weeks of refusing to openly address my competition, internal pressures from the WCF have given me no choice. Generally, I’ll use an old cliché and say talk is cheap: I shouldn’t need to rant on about my opponents to a camera or play armchair psychologist. My ring work should be sufficient in showing who is best. Suffice to say, this hasn’t exactly been greeted warmly. ‘Get on the mic’, they say, ‘act like a superstar.’ Apparently, being a “star” requires beating my chest and launching into some sort of tirade, and while this isn’t particularly my style, I have a wife and kid to feed, limiting my freedom. So fine, WCF. Fine, audience. Here you are; are you not entertained?”
Howard looked up and away from the camera for a moment, his eyes tilted towards the ceiling in thought. His hand brought the cigarette to his mouth, and he took a long drag as he closed his eyes, savoring the smoke but not the thought of what he had to do. After a few seconds of silence, he opened his eyes and looked back into the camera.
Howard Black: “With the chaff separated from the wheat, I return to the ring this week to face the same people I faced in my debut: Zione Redington, Eve Vega, and Florian Starks. Already, the odds makers are throwing the numbers at Zione because he got lucky during our debut and eliminated me with a cheap trick. I guess I’m only disappointed that I couldn’t be the one to add that first notch in your loss column, but I can’t help wondering where your head is going to be this week, Zione. Can you handle another loss? What’s that going to feel like? To be the best, you need a short term memory, just like in football. This is something guys like Florian and I had to develop because we came from nothing. We’ve expected no hand-outs, and we’ve generally lived with the deck stacked in favor of the house and our backs to the wall.”
His head tilted down, his eyes cast askance as the cogs in his head whirled. His lips pursed in frustration and the bubbling contempt sitting in his stomach as he brought the cigarette to his mouth again, dragging deeply and exhaling forcefully, externalizing that frustration. His head rose slowly, his brow creasing and eyes narrowing as he looked back into the camera.
Howard Black: “The same cannot be said for you, Zione. And Eve. You were raised with everything; what do you know about hard work when Daddy’s money can buy it? What do you know about tightening your belt and fighting through another morning of pain when you never had to give one hundred percent? You don’t know shit about it because you’re a pair of spoiled, entitled little bratty children with Seth acting as your new Sugar Daddy. You’re the designated faces and futures based off the geometry of your faces while us ugly types slave away, getting bleach thrown in our eyes. I don’t dislike you for our brief history or what you’ve said about me; I hate you because neither of you have earned anything that’s been handed to you here.
Let’s talk about you, Zione. You win a battle royale by capitalizing on a mistake I made, and suddenly you’re in a title match with the adoration and mutual cooing that’s expected of the locker room and fans when the new Fuck Boy Yes-Man takes the scene. You’re a golden boy; a prodigy. Since day one, you were the best. I knew guys like you; you were that kid who was captain of the swim team in high school and had everyone battling for the grace of your hand. That guy who, because of his status and coddling, never had consequences for his actions. You ran around the playground kicking sand castles in the name of ‘a good joke’ because fuck everyone. Some people will see you as the cool new kid who just moved here, but I see you for what you really are: an arrogant bully. You’re the sneer behind the smile at everything which doesn’t fit into that perfectly proportioned life of yours. You stayed away from the weirdos and the dirty people because you didn’t understand them which makes you fear them. You probably voted for Romney, too.”
His eyes remain on the camera as the cigarette returns to his lips, taking another long drag to keep the glowing ember of the cherry lit.
Howard Black: “One day, you’re going to fail, Redington. Maybe you get a B+. Maybe a hair falls out of place. Maybe you get your ass kicked and embarrassed by someone you thought beneath you. That’s when you’re going to snap. You can’t handle not being the better than those you deem beneath you? Scarecrow? That guy’s paid his dues. He’s cut his teeth. No one expected you to win that match, and no one got why it was offered to you, but it’s still this big shiny accolade for you to file under your ‘win’ column, even though you lost. But if I kicked your ass? Or Florian? What then? You’re gonna lose it because you’re an anal retentive little shit who takes himself too seriously and has no concept of self-awareness. Have you listened to the shit that comes out of your mouth? Does Michael Bay ghostwrite your monologues? Nothing about you comes across as sincere or real; you’re a plastic manikin poster boy begging to get flattened out and hung up. That’s why in a fair fight, you’ll never beat me: you don’t care enough. You don’t want this with every thread in you. This is just another little hobby for some bored rich snot; this isn’t your world, and you don’t belong here. FUCK your battle royale, you can’t take me clean.”
Howard raised the cigarette and flicked the butt with his thumb, discarding the pillar of ash forming at its end. He took a deep breath to calm himself, his lips creasing into a thin smile dripping with insincerity.
Howard Black: “Speaking of fighting clean and bored hobbies, let’s talk Eve. You talk big for someone who knows they won’t get hit back. You’re a Chihuahua nipping the heels of a disinterested shark. Shit, you probably carry one of those little dogs in your purse, just to drive the cliché home. If Zione’s entitled, you’ve got a goddamn God complex when it comes to how you see yourself here. Poor little rich girl, finally in a place where Daddy can’t buy her victory. Then she’s was gonna take her clothes off for the magazines to get Sugar Daddy Seth excited and buy it for her. Frankly, I’m fuckin’ glad Katherine Phoenix lit you up and spared us the travesty of you selling out your dignity. Three weeks in, and Eve’s already trying to jump on ‘sex sells’ to make up for mediocrity. What the hell are you even doing in this match, Eve? I spend an entire match kicking the shit out of Joey Flash, and you can’t even go a goddamn minute in the ring without getting pinned. Your little kicks and acrobatics betray it: you’re all style and no substance. You’re the “me-too” wrestler that no one expects to win. You want to lecture me about how I’m insulting female competitors and don’t respect them? Don’t even put yourself in the same league as any of the women in this federation, Paris Hilton.”
The faux smile evaporated from his face, his lips tightening in the middle before curling down in the corners. He raised the hand clutching the cigarette between two fingers as his jabbed it at the camera, his voice like a barking dog.
Howard Black: “This doesn’t mean shit to you! This is everything to me! On your first interview, you said we stood eye to eye. We will NEVER see eye-to-eye. And it’s not because you’re a woman; it’s because you SUCK and deserve NOTHING. You think I don’t respect you for your gender, but I’m the only one who respects you for your gender; I don’t respect your skill. I’m not going fight you Eve, and it’s not just because I refuse to be the one who ends your career by breaking your arm while my son or wife watches: it’s because you aren’t even a threat in this.
Howard took a long drag off the cigarette, his voice dropping back down into calm mock.
Howard Black: “To think you have the nerve to say I lack the brain cells to ‘know when to quit’. That I couldn’t handle what ‘you’ve handled’. What the hell have you handled, Eve? Have you ever known hunger? Failure? Real loss? You get your clothes burnt and you throw a little fit. Now you’re trying to rough up your image hanging out with Mara Salvatrucha. Who are you? Strip out the crazy, which I don’t believe is anything more than another desperate grab at attention, and I don’t think you’re anything. Plastic and tinsel. Pure saccharine. Beverly Hills wrapped up into one little empty-calorie package for easy consumption. And frankly, I’d usually tell you that if you wanted respect, you’d have to earn it in the ring this week, but we both know that won’t happen. You’ll phone it in again because it’s all you know.”
He curled his middle finger back and raised his thumb to cradle the cigarette before flicking the smoldering butt off camera. His eyes followed the trajectory out of view before turning back to the device.
Howard Black: “And Florian Starks. That leaves us. See, you may not want to admit it, but we have a lot more in common than you think. We’re both down-on-our-luck types struggling to make an honest buck in a world where honesty gets sand kicked in your face. Last week, you got thrown to the lions, too, as Seth somehow felt like punishing you for your existence by booking you in a three-on-one. Are you fucking kidding me? Are you going to take that because I sure as shit wouldn’t. You’ve got the most to prove here, buddy. You and me, we don’t have people holding signs for us. I’m booed and you’re ignored. That’s going to change. See, I think you’re the dark horse in this match. You’re the one flying below the radar and being forcibly made the butt monkey so no one takes you seriously. Well I’m not everyone else; I think you’re going to be the real threat. You’re hungry, Florian, and you’re driven. You want this as much as I do. It’s not about the flair and the gimmicks and theatrics; you care about getting the job done. We’re in the same boat, hombre. And I look forward to squaring off with you in the end. Just know I’m not taking it easy.”
Howard looked down again, though his head did not follow suit. After a moment of silence, he reached forward.
Howard Black: “That’s it. How do I shut this thing off?”
The camera swung around the room as Howard turned it around to find the record button, and the video ended as abruptly as it began.
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Before his first match, they jeered. Before his second match, they met him with quiet indifference. As he sat outside the arena, smoking a cigarette in his ring gear, Howard could only wonder what reception he would be met with when he took to the stage and then ring to do battle once more. A call to his wife and son earlier had been the much needed panacea to the headache his career had been of recent, but even the melodic timbre of Sarah’s voice and jovial excitement of Joey couldn’t hope to truly silence the demons which had made their residence in the corners of his mind. They always came out strongest before he stepped into the squared circle.
He closed his eyes, reaching up to rub his eyelids with one hand in a vain attempt to massage the firing synapses in his body, but he couldn’t help but pick a distinct voice from the cacophony in his mind, the voice of Grime when they spoke a week ago. “People like Eve Vega that get to do whatever they please without even a slap on the wrist.” Perhaps there was some ugly truth to this. Battle had always been a catharsis for Howard, a certain zen-like environment which roused hot and full feelings within himself that he only rarely felt outside of battle: his wedding and the birth of his son. The idea that even in this paradoxical state of sanctuary he would be unmolested from the seas of troubles or slings and arrows of outrageous fortune now struck him as self-evidently untrue. The Devil worked in mysterious ways and poisoned what we loved most.
As the cigarette burned between his fingers, a clearer set of notions began to emerge from the tempestuous miasma of his pre-match mind. Once more, as had always been, he would need to fight to secure a place in what he loved. The irony of fighting to fight, a perfect matryoshka doll of conflicts, could only inspire a low laugh in reaction. An acknowledging smile at the curiosities and callousness of fate brought out a small, open mouthed smile. He took another drag off of his cigarette.
He didn’t need to be told when to come in by the stagehand this time; he stubbed the cigarette out and rose, pulling open one of the great metal doors to the back and heading towards the stage. As he quietly observed the men and women of the WCF, waiting for their matches or perhaps recovering from them, he pondered what they thought now when they saw him. A man with a mask like the head of a fox nodded toward him.
Perhaps Grime had been right all along about the WCF: it was a feed ground cloaked as a competition in which intelligent design rather than natural selection reign supreme. Perhaps the only reasonable option was to, by opposing, end them. “To be”. That was always the answer. He owed David a call and an apology later; it was good he cut the promo. It wasn’t about not needing to talk, it was about not hiding. Not being abashed about the truth. Standing up for something inherently decent against something inherently not decent.
As his music hit, Howard pulled up his hood.
The words were still fresh in his head, and as Howard walked to his rental car in the cold parking lot of the arena, he couldn’t help but begin to make strange connections and parallels between the comments and his position within the company. “People like Eve Vega that get to do whatever they please without even a slap on the wrist. Seth Lerch sees people with what he feels are stars by appearances.” Eve Vega. His lower lip curled under his teeth as he slowly pressed them together to chew lightly on it. Howard couldn’t help but give a faint shudder of resentment as he turned over the treatment and reception she’d received since beginning: adoration, exposure, and popularity. She was a name in magazines and headlines. By contrast, his own name sat in angry comment sections, internet wrestling community news blurbs, and liberal cultural analysis articles.
As he tried to retrace his steps and find out where there paths diverged, he found himself only more troubled. It was true that Eve was more outgoing and receptive to discussion than he was, but it was also true that he’d lasted longer in the battle royale than her and held their tag team together while she couldn’t. It was additionally true that he drew moral lines in the sand while she clearly had none. It was finally true that Eve had the natural looks and charisma he didn’t. He’d never be able to afford a make-up and wardrobe consultant nor wear designer brand clothes. At the thought of clothing, he focused down on his moving feet to examine the state of his wrestling boots. The stitching had begun to unravel around the heel of his left boot, and the thought of the added expense only amplified the bitter taste in his mouth.
After a short enough walk, he arrived at his rental car. He pulled the keys out of his gym bag and hit a button, causing the car’s interior to light up and resonate with the collective click of the locks. He opened the back driver’s side door and tossed his gym bag onto the seat, then opened the driver’s door to get into the vehicle. As he turned on the vehicle, the familiar sound of “Hell of a Life” by Kanye West filled the interior. Unlike last week, Howard didn’t feel the need to have quiet time in the vehicle; he flipped it into reverse and back out of the space before shifting and leaving the parking lot. A small smile was stretched across his lips.
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Toronto, Ontario, Canada
April 22, 2015 12:30pm
Howard Black and David Rogers sat across from one another inside the garishly furnished interior of the Rex Hotel Jazz and Blues Bar. The table was one of four pushed together, forming a make-shift bar, and the chairs were cheap pleather cushions on metal frames. Despite the tacky and vulgar décor, ranging from the linoleum floors to the rotten wood stage, the bar bustled with an air of artistry and sophistication reveling in the appropriation of the cheap. Howard rolled a bottle of Old Style back and forth between his palms, his eyes scanning across the posters of old blues singers, as David stirred a finger idly in his glass of whiskey (“on the rocks, two fingers, two ice cubes”).
David Rogers: "So. You got the monkey off your back, it seems."
Howard continued to look at the decorations, the sheer busyness of the room making it more than difficult for him to complete concentrate on his companion. Still, his response was prompt enough to signal that despite the wander of his gaze, his ears were turned towards the conversation at hand.
Howard Black: Yeah, I guess we can say that. I didn’t get jeering and bricks thrown at me.
David Rogers: Course not. You were too hard on yourself in the first place.
Howard Black: I don’t know about tha-
David Rogers: No, trust me, kid. If you got a real problem, Howie, it’s that you overthink. Overcompensate. You’re a gloomy guy regularly, but when you get down it’s practically Revelations to you. This is why you got me.
Howard looked down at his hands folded on the table, though the baseball cards set under the plastic topping of the wood tempted his attention. With a moment to quiet the details of the room fighting for his attention, he took a sip of his beer and looked at David.
Howard Black: I know. Thank you, David.
David waves a hand dismissively and gave a chuckle, his Jewish heritage betraying itself.
David Rogers: Not even, Howie. It’s my job. That doesn’t mean we don’t gotta talk about this week.
Howard looked back down again at the beer, sucking on his lower lip quietly.
Howard Black: They want me on the mic, don’t they?
David Rogers: You’re goddamn right, they do. I’m getting my phone blown up by these suits saying you’re close to violating your contract if you don’t speak, Howie.
Howard kept his eyes down, the corners of his mouth stretching down. His gaze traced the contours of the etchings in the plastic covering of the table as he turned over the dilemma now facing him.
David Rogers: Look, I get that’s not your style, and I know you think it’s irrelevant; but these guys care. You don’t have to do a backstage interview or address the audience in the ring, but they want at least a video they can roll or throw up so people can get a sense of who you are.
Howard looked up, his brow furrowing and eyes narrowing as the quiet, exasperated frustration curled up his spine like a hot chain, leaving all traces of hesitation.
Howard Black: I let them film me train. I let them listen to my private conversations with my fuckin’ coach. Isn’t that enough for them, Dave? Is there something so wrong with preferring a fly-on-the-wall approach? Shit, even that made me uncomfortable, but I relented.
David Rogers: Howard, I know. But that’s show business. You’re not just a wrestler; you’re an actor now. You’re telling me you can take a chair to the face and dish it back, but you can’t talk a little shit on a couple of people? Bullshit, Howard. I remember you in college; you were a hell-on-wheels guy in an argument.
Howard grimaced, attempting to force a smile and spectacularly failing to hide his evident displeasure.
Howard Black: Cause I wasn’t forced to do those, Dave. I just called it like I saw it and fought with words over fists. This isn’t the public or some casual conversation; the whole point is fists over words.
At this, Dave jabbed a finger at Howard, this time his brow furrowing and his voice raising in frustration.
David Rogers: Yeah, well, guess what, Howard? You didn’t sign up for UFC or MMA, you signed up to be a professional wrestler. You knew exactly what the job entailed, and you chose it. So maybe for once it’d be conducive for you to shut up and work with someone if you wanted them to be willing to work with you.
An icy silence fell on the table, thick enough that the mere motion of Howard raising the beer bottle to his mouth for a drink seemed to only stretch and distort it rather than cut it. The two men locked eyes, Howard’s gaze softening to a blank and stony look like the mixture of a poker face and the tried and true “deer in the headlights.” David drew his finger from the glass of scotch and raised it to his lips, taking a long drink while never letting his eyes break the stare with his client. Howard’s voice came quiet and monotonous, as if echoing out from a cave deep in his mind as a ghost of his thoughts.
Howard Black: Okay, David. You’re right. I will… cut a shoot. I’ll go rent a video camera, shoot a video, and send it over to the WCF. I’ll play a little ball.
Howard blinked first, his eyes dropping down and lips slackening. The intensity and erupted frustration did not leave the visage of David, however, whose eyes continued to burn at Howard. His voice came gruff and through gritted teeth.
David Rogers: “Good. Now look, I’m your agent and your friend, but I’m not going to keep pulling you out of holes that you put yourself in. You’ve got a really bad habit with this, Howard; you feel cornered or slighted, you double down or you run your mouth, and then you need to be forcibly removed from the situation. You’re my client, and you pay me well, but you don’t make this easy. I don’t want things to get fucked up.”
Howard looked back up, his hands shaking with nervous electricity. He gripped the bottle white-knuckled, raising it to his mouth and deliberately chugging the remaining half of the beer he’d been nursing. Upon completion, he slammed the bottle down on the table and got up, not bothering to push in his chair.
Howard Black: “It’s been good seeing you, Dave.”
He walked out the door as David Rogers only shook his head.
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The video Howard Black sent the WCF began abruptly, evidence of Howard’s lack of technical knowledge about film or its editing process. The camera faced Howard Black, who sat in the chair provided to him in his hotel room. Behind him, the walls were a pale beige that seemed intensified in hue by the artificial lighting and cheap quality of the rented video camera. The camera was held in one hand, evident by its inability to remain steady, and in his other hand, Howard held a freshly lit cigarette. He wore his ring attire, though all that was visible in the frame was the black hooded sweatshirt and crucifix necklace he entered in. His hands were lightly taped, though the freshness of the bandages betray their purpose as purely for effect. Still, when David would later watch the video, he’d feel relieved that Howard had given it enough consideration to dress his part.
Howard Black: “After two weeks of refusing to openly address my competition, internal pressures from the WCF have given me no choice. Generally, I’ll use an old cliché and say talk is cheap: I shouldn’t need to rant on about my opponents to a camera or play armchair psychologist. My ring work should be sufficient in showing who is best. Suffice to say, this hasn’t exactly been greeted warmly. ‘Get on the mic’, they say, ‘act like a superstar.’ Apparently, being a “star” requires beating my chest and launching into some sort of tirade, and while this isn’t particularly my style, I have a wife and kid to feed, limiting my freedom. So fine, WCF. Fine, audience. Here you are; are you not entertained?”
Howard looked up and away from the camera for a moment, his eyes tilted towards the ceiling in thought. His hand brought the cigarette to his mouth, and he took a long drag as he closed his eyes, savoring the smoke but not the thought of what he had to do. After a few seconds of silence, he opened his eyes and looked back into the camera.
Howard Black: “With the chaff separated from the wheat, I return to the ring this week to face the same people I faced in my debut: Zione Redington, Eve Vega, and Florian Starks. Already, the odds makers are throwing the numbers at Zione because he got lucky during our debut and eliminated me with a cheap trick. I guess I’m only disappointed that I couldn’t be the one to add that first notch in your loss column, but I can’t help wondering where your head is going to be this week, Zione. Can you handle another loss? What’s that going to feel like? To be the best, you need a short term memory, just like in football. This is something guys like Florian and I had to develop because we came from nothing. We’ve expected no hand-outs, and we’ve generally lived with the deck stacked in favor of the house and our backs to the wall.”
His head tilted down, his eyes cast askance as the cogs in his head whirled. His lips pursed in frustration and the bubbling contempt sitting in his stomach as he brought the cigarette to his mouth again, dragging deeply and exhaling forcefully, externalizing that frustration. His head rose slowly, his brow creasing and eyes narrowing as he looked back into the camera.
Howard Black: “The same cannot be said for you, Zione. And Eve. You were raised with everything; what do you know about hard work when Daddy’s money can buy it? What do you know about tightening your belt and fighting through another morning of pain when you never had to give one hundred percent? You don’t know shit about it because you’re a pair of spoiled, entitled little bratty children with Seth acting as your new Sugar Daddy. You’re the designated faces and futures based off the geometry of your faces while us ugly types slave away, getting bleach thrown in our eyes. I don’t dislike you for our brief history or what you’ve said about me; I hate you because neither of you have earned anything that’s been handed to you here.
Let’s talk about you, Zione. You win a battle royale by capitalizing on a mistake I made, and suddenly you’re in a title match with the adoration and mutual cooing that’s expected of the locker room and fans when the new Fuck Boy Yes-Man takes the scene. You’re a golden boy; a prodigy. Since day one, you were the best. I knew guys like you; you were that kid who was captain of the swim team in high school and had everyone battling for the grace of your hand. That guy who, because of his status and coddling, never had consequences for his actions. You ran around the playground kicking sand castles in the name of ‘a good joke’ because fuck everyone. Some people will see you as the cool new kid who just moved here, but I see you for what you really are: an arrogant bully. You’re the sneer behind the smile at everything which doesn’t fit into that perfectly proportioned life of yours. You stayed away from the weirdos and the dirty people because you didn’t understand them which makes you fear them. You probably voted for Romney, too.”
His eyes remain on the camera as the cigarette returns to his lips, taking another long drag to keep the glowing ember of the cherry lit.
Howard Black: “One day, you’re going to fail, Redington. Maybe you get a B+. Maybe a hair falls out of place. Maybe you get your ass kicked and embarrassed by someone you thought beneath you. That’s when you’re going to snap. You can’t handle not being the better than those you deem beneath you? Scarecrow? That guy’s paid his dues. He’s cut his teeth. No one expected you to win that match, and no one got why it was offered to you, but it’s still this big shiny accolade for you to file under your ‘win’ column, even though you lost. But if I kicked your ass? Or Florian? What then? You’re gonna lose it because you’re an anal retentive little shit who takes himself too seriously and has no concept of self-awareness. Have you listened to the shit that comes out of your mouth? Does Michael Bay ghostwrite your monologues? Nothing about you comes across as sincere or real; you’re a plastic manikin poster boy begging to get flattened out and hung up. That’s why in a fair fight, you’ll never beat me: you don’t care enough. You don’t want this with every thread in you. This is just another little hobby for some bored rich snot; this isn’t your world, and you don’t belong here. FUCK your battle royale, you can’t take me clean.”
Howard raised the cigarette and flicked the butt with his thumb, discarding the pillar of ash forming at its end. He took a deep breath to calm himself, his lips creasing into a thin smile dripping with insincerity.
Howard Black: “Speaking of fighting clean and bored hobbies, let’s talk Eve. You talk big for someone who knows they won’t get hit back. You’re a Chihuahua nipping the heels of a disinterested shark. Shit, you probably carry one of those little dogs in your purse, just to drive the cliché home. If Zione’s entitled, you’ve got a goddamn God complex when it comes to how you see yourself here. Poor little rich girl, finally in a place where Daddy can’t buy her victory. Then she’s was gonna take her clothes off for the magazines to get Sugar Daddy Seth excited and buy it for her. Frankly, I’m fuckin’ glad Katherine Phoenix lit you up and spared us the travesty of you selling out your dignity. Three weeks in, and Eve’s already trying to jump on ‘sex sells’ to make up for mediocrity. What the hell are you even doing in this match, Eve? I spend an entire match kicking the shit out of Joey Flash, and you can’t even go a goddamn minute in the ring without getting pinned. Your little kicks and acrobatics betray it: you’re all style and no substance. You’re the “me-too” wrestler that no one expects to win. You want to lecture me about how I’m insulting female competitors and don’t respect them? Don’t even put yourself in the same league as any of the women in this federation, Paris Hilton.”
The faux smile evaporated from his face, his lips tightening in the middle before curling down in the corners. He raised the hand clutching the cigarette between two fingers as his jabbed it at the camera, his voice like a barking dog.
Howard Black: “This doesn’t mean shit to you! This is everything to me! On your first interview, you said we stood eye to eye. We will NEVER see eye-to-eye. And it’s not because you’re a woman; it’s because you SUCK and deserve NOTHING. You think I don’t respect you for your gender, but I’m the only one who respects you for your gender; I don’t respect your skill. I’m not going fight you Eve, and it’s not just because I refuse to be the one who ends your career by breaking your arm while my son or wife watches: it’s because you aren’t even a threat in this.
Howard took a long drag off the cigarette, his voice dropping back down into calm mock.
Howard Black: “To think you have the nerve to say I lack the brain cells to ‘know when to quit’. That I couldn’t handle what ‘you’ve handled’. What the hell have you handled, Eve? Have you ever known hunger? Failure? Real loss? You get your clothes burnt and you throw a little fit. Now you’re trying to rough up your image hanging out with Mara Salvatrucha. Who are you? Strip out the crazy, which I don’t believe is anything more than another desperate grab at attention, and I don’t think you’re anything. Plastic and tinsel. Pure saccharine. Beverly Hills wrapped up into one little empty-calorie package for easy consumption. And frankly, I’d usually tell you that if you wanted respect, you’d have to earn it in the ring this week, but we both know that won’t happen. You’ll phone it in again because it’s all you know.”
He curled his middle finger back and raised his thumb to cradle the cigarette before flicking the smoldering butt off camera. His eyes followed the trajectory out of view before turning back to the device.
Howard Black: “And Florian Starks. That leaves us. See, you may not want to admit it, but we have a lot more in common than you think. We’re both down-on-our-luck types struggling to make an honest buck in a world where honesty gets sand kicked in your face. Last week, you got thrown to the lions, too, as Seth somehow felt like punishing you for your existence by booking you in a three-on-one. Are you fucking kidding me? Are you going to take that because I sure as shit wouldn’t. You’ve got the most to prove here, buddy. You and me, we don’t have people holding signs for us. I’m booed and you’re ignored. That’s going to change. See, I think you’re the dark horse in this match. You’re the one flying below the radar and being forcibly made the butt monkey so no one takes you seriously. Well I’m not everyone else; I think you’re going to be the real threat. You’re hungry, Florian, and you’re driven. You want this as much as I do. It’s not about the flair and the gimmicks and theatrics; you care about getting the job done. We’re in the same boat, hombre. And I look forward to squaring off with you in the end. Just know I’m not taking it easy.”
Howard looked down again, though his head did not follow suit. After a moment of silence, he reached forward.
Howard Black: “That’s it. How do I shut this thing off?”
The camera swung around the room as Howard turned it around to find the record button, and the video ended as abruptly as it began.
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Before his first match, they jeered. Before his second match, they met him with quiet indifference. As he sat outside the arena, smoking a cigarette in his ring gear, Howard could only wonder what reception he would be met with when he took to the stage and then ring to do battle once more. A call to his wife and son earlier had been the much needed panacea to the headache his career had been of recent, but even the melodic timbre of Sarah’s voice and jovial excitement of Joey couldn’t hope to truly silence the demons which had made their residence in the corners of his mind. They always came out strongest before he stepped into the squared circle.
He closed his eyes, reaching up to rub his eyelids with one hand in a vain attempt to massage the firing synapses in his body, but he couldn’t help but pick a distinct voice from the cacophony in his mind, the voice of Grime when they spoke a week ago. “People like Eve Vega that get to do whatever they please without even a slap on the wrist.” Perhaps there was some ugly truth to this. Battle had always been a catharsis for Howard, a certain zen-like environment which roused hot and full feelings within himself that he only rarely felt outside of battle: his wedding and the birth of his son. The idea that even in this paradoxical state of sanctuary he would be unmolested from the seas of troubles or slings and arrows of outrageous fortune now struck him as self-evidently untrue. The Devil worked in mysterious ways and poisoned what we loved most.
As the cigarette burned between his fingers, a clearer set of notions began to emerge from the tempestuous miasma of his pre-match mind. Once more, as had always been, he would need to fight to secure a place in what he loved. The irony of fighting to fight, a perfect matryoshka doll of conflicts, could only inspire a low laugh in reaction. An acknowledging smile at the curiosities and callousness of fate brought out a small, open mouthed smile. He took another drag off of his cigarette.
He didn’t need to be told when to come in by the stagehand this time; he stubbed the cigarette out and rose, pulling open one of the great metal doors to the back and heading towards the stage. As he quietly observed the men and women of the WCF, waiting for their matches or perhaps recovering from them, he pondered what they thought now when they saw him. A man with a mask like the head of a fox nodded toward him.
Perhaps Grime had been right all along about the WCF: it was a feed ground cloaked as a competition in which intelligent design rather than natural selection reign supreme. Perhaps the only reasonable option was to, by opposing, end them. “To be”. That was always the answer. He owed David a call and an apology later; it was good he cut the promo. It wasn’t about not needing to talk, it was about not hiding. Not being abashed about the truth. Standing up for something inherently decent against something inherently not decent.
As his music hit, Howard pulled up his hood.
