I'm About to be Hawaii Five and O
Oct 15, 2016 22:53:02 GMT -5
6ix God and "Invincible" Damian Kaine like this
Post by Stephen Singh on Oct 15, 2016 22:53:02 GMT -5
Monday, October 10th. 7:04 am.
No curtains or blinds or drapery on the windows allows the sun to pour into the tiny room unfettered. A twin mattress with sandpaper sheets and a single blanket on the floor. Next to it, a lamp shadows a set of keys, a glass of water, a woman’s wallet and a phone plugged into the wall. Erica Baringer’s scarlet hair is fanned across the white pillow case. A half a roll, a stretch and a small morning groan precede her legs swinging over the side and the blankets pushed back. Her flesh-colored camisole and black volleyball shorts set off against her porcelain skin. Eyes closed, she rolls her neck left to right and then back again; she stops at 12 o’clock, reaches towards the ceiling with a stretch and opens her eyes.
How does the ceiling get stained? Seriously. What are the stains even? They could be coffee or...Something else. God I just hope it’s coffee.
Snapped out of temporary, sleep-eyed contentedness by the undesirable condition of her efficiency she sighs and sees the green light blinking on her phone. She grabs the phone and checks it. 4 new texts. All from Steven Singh.
Just four? He must’ve actually had something else to do for once.
Recevied: 8:45 pm
My music is now “Super Villain Theme” by Madvillain. Update the WCF accordingly.
“Super Villain Theme?” Jesus. He thinks he’s Lex Luthor.
Received 9:13 pm
Tag Titles? What in all the fucks?! I’ll email you on this.
Tag titles? What is he talking about?
Received 9:45 pm
Did you check your email yet?
Received 10:23 pm
ASSISTANT: EMAIL.
God I really overestimated pro wrestling salaries; this is not worth it. At least not right now. Maybe in a bit. Maybe if he would just shut up and stop pissing off Seth, he could get a raise. Or a title shot or something. And then we’d start making real money.
Erica stands up, thrusts an arm underneath the mattress, searching. She pulls the laptop out, opens and reads her email from “Superstar” Steven Singh.
Not on your life, asshole.
She pulls up WCF.com and clicks a recap link entitled “Singh to get a title shot?!” She watches as Seth lays out the terms for the shot and his clear belief that Singh won’t get a partner.
Dammit, Seth’s probably right. Nobody’s going to want to tag with him.
She clicks another link and watches Singh get blown off by Jared Holmes. She snickers at the outright dismissal.
Thank God. I don’t know how both their egos fit in the arena together much less the ring. Ugh. That Championship salary bump would be nice. There has to be a pay bump right? There has to be. That prick isn’t going to be able to get a partner for himself. Sometimes I wonder how long until I have to wipe his ass for him too.
Erica begins typing a Memo to the WCF.
Monday October 10th. 7:45 pm
A public gym. Home to the terminally twenty pounds overweight, pathetic men ogling oblivious women and personal trainers over charging for the “expertise.” On a bench lays Byron, a stout, young black man. The bar carries a forty five pound weight on either side as he pushes it upwards, exhaling. At his head stands The Superstar Steven Singh. Byron grunts through another rep as Singh pays the most marginal of attention.
Singh: It’s going to be that sad little stereotype Tommy Hawk or his boy Captain WCF. God what a waste of space those two area.
Byron pauses at the top of his rep and breathes forcefully out three time. He lowers the bar to his chest again. Byron pushes it up but the bar doesn’t move.
Singh: That’s the only way to sensibly book it. Seth knows I’m getting a tag title shot, so you lead up to that with a singles match.
The bar is on Byron's chest.
Singh: So the question is, who am I more likely to face? I guess it only superficially matters. I’ve already begun dissecting the both of them in anticipation of Hellimination.
Byron: Uggghh…
Byron’s soft grunt called Singh’s glance downward to his face now shaded pink. Singh hoists the bar with his left hand and racks it as Byron gasps for his breath.
Singh: Jesus, Byron. That’s embarrassing. What do you think?
Byron’s windpipe hadn’t fully recovered. He spoke broken words with darts of breath between.
Byron: I...think...you were….supposed to….
Singh: Be spotting you? Yeah, why do you think I grabbed that bar? Because I was spotting you. And you really need to warn me that you’re an enormous pussy if one hundred and thirty five pounds is going to nearly kill you. Or maybe we just let natural selection do its job next time. If you couldn’t have gotten that off you by yourself, I’m not entirely sure you’re fit for this world.
Sitting up on the bench, Byron rubs his throat.
Byron: Yeah, well who the hell would take your bullshit “sure thing” bets week after week if you let me die?
Singh: I’m sure there’s another idiotic degenerate bookie in the city dumb enough to pay me week after week when I win.
Byron: Maybe but how many of them are going to go to the gym with you?
Singh: Hopefully none of them. This place sucks. Look around. It’s filled with broken spirits and thirty-something losers still too dumb to know that it’s all passed them by. Their mind, their health, their entire lives are downhill from here.
Byron: Didn’t you text me saying that you wanted to work out?
Singh: Oh my apologies for not specifying, “Please don’t bring me to a landfill to work out; I prefer an actual gym.”
Byron: This is why your bookie is your only friend.
Singh: You’re my bookie, not my friend. But having a spotter is important. Safety first, Byron.
The Superstar’s phone buzzes in his pocket. Google alert for his own name because of course it is. The card is up. He bellows:
Singh: YOU’VE GOT TO BE FUCKING ME!
Most of the rest of the gym stop for at least a moment to shoot a look of intrigue or indignation at The Superstar. His eyes are trained to his phone.
Byron: Man, I’ve gotta come back here. You’ve got zero chill.
People slowly go back to their half-assed workout routines, now periodically peeking over at the duo on the bench.
Singh: And if you’re coming back here, you’ve got zero class. And my “chill” Byron, has flown the coop. The card is out.
Byron: What the hell’s wrong? You gotta fight somebody from Pantheon?
Singh: Why the hell would I yell about that? That’s where I belong! Locked in the throes of battle with the best in the WCF. Top of the card! Racking up wins that actually mean something! Not...not fighting this fucking reject AGAIN.
Byron: Who is it?
The Superstar turns his phone to Byron who reads it aloud.
Byron: Fuego Del...Eterno...Infierno...Silencioso? Who?
Singh: Exactly, Byron! EXACTLY! Who?! Cue the owls or a trio of brightly-clothed black men because that’s all you’re going to hear when discussing this match. Who? Who?! WHO?!
Byron: Brightly clothed black men? What are you talking about?
Singh: Nevermind, Byron. The point is that the rest of this card is absolutely LITTERED with unearned, undeserved title shots! I’m going to murder Seth.
Byron: Come on mayne, it can’t be that bad.
Singh: Psychopomp for the Internet Title. Which he did exactly WHAT to earn again?
Byron: You don’t even want the Internet Title…
Singh: Don’t tell me what I want! And of course I don’t want the “Metaphor for the Downfall of Human Intellect as We Know It” Title!
Byron: That’s not a great name for a title. And Psychopomp pinned Bates so..
Singh: Fine! How about Damian Kaine for the Alpha Title? Is THAT a deserving shot?!
Byron: Umm...I guess not? Didn’t you tell me that was the “Curtain-Jerking Jackoff Title” a few weeks ago though?
Singh: Of course it is! So TEAM WCF Co-Craptain Demon Kane is right up that alley. Seth probably doesn’t want CJ getting his comeuppance for eliminating me from War just yet anyways. He’s already got that “Alpha Title Gauntlet” on the books for his little babyface fuckstick. This is a cakewalk, bullshit, all-but-squash match meant only for building CJ to look like he might have an actual chance of surviving the gauntlet. Which he doesn’t. How about Lilith? Are you going to tell me SHE deserves a title shot? After her RIVETING one-word War Promo? She spends all her time spouting her grade school gibberish on the Internet and then gets upset when no one takes her seriously? She’s the WCF’s new all-purpose punchline in lieu of The Butcher.
Byron: Harsh, Superstar.
Singh: Harsh but fair, Byron. And nevermind. I stand corrected. The actual WCF punchline is getting a World Title shot this week. A WORLD TITLE SHOT. Jesus. What is going on? What is Seth doing? Is it just because Young bitched and moaned enough about these lamented ‘invaders?’ Is that how he got this shot?! You’re at a zoo with your infant, Byron. Do you have an infant?
Byron: Naw.
Singh: You should. Your people need more male role models in their communities, you’d be a real stand up father. Anyways, you’re at a zoo with your infant. You’re looking at the lions. Your idiot kid is banging on the glass, maybe even throwing rocks at the lion. It’s all fine, it’s all fun and games. Then it’s time to leave and your kid throws has a fit, throws a full-on tantrum because they didn’t want to LOOK at the lion’s den, they want to be IN the lion’s den. Do you put them in the lion’s den?
The metaphor is lost on Byron. And his slow answer indicates he MAY not actually be that good of a father for a young black man…
Byron: …..No?
Singh: NO! Of course not! You don’t put your idiot baby IN the lion’s den just because they whined and cried about it! Adam Young is going to be torn limb from limb; he might literally die in the ring on Sunday. He whined and cried and now he’s in the lion’s den. If I would’ve known all it takes for a shot at the big one is to pitch a fit on the internet, I’d hire that walrus who went off about candles at Bath and Bodyworks!
Byron: I...I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Singh: Just google it, Byron. I don’t have time to personally keep you abreast of every pop culture happening. Especially ones from like four years ago. God. Maybe Seth wants Adam Young to die; that’s the only reasonable explanation here. And as if all this wasn’t insulting enough, Joe Smarts has a TV title shot. JOE SMARTS.
Byron: Dude. I can’t even.
Singh: You can’t even? Are you a 14 year old white girl? Have some self-respect. Ugh. Fuckin Seth.
Byron: Bait n switch, dude. Classic bait n switch.
The Superstar doesn’t respond, eyes burning a hole through his phone screen.
Byron: Bait and switch? Do you not know wha th--
Singh: Of course I know what it means, Byron! I just can’t believe Lerch pulled one on me.
Byron: There’s no saying you would’ve been in a title match this week either way, man.
Singh: I asked for a title shot and that asshole offers me the tag titles. The tag titles! I’m supposed to share the ring and the glory with some mook? Normally not for me but I thought to myself, “No, no Steven. You should do whatever it takes to get some gold. Carry some nearly lifeless carcass across the finish line just like you did a few weeks ago in that six-man tag. Even if it’s essentially a handicap match, let’s do it! This is the quickest means to a title shot!” Nope. It turns out being a “Who’s That Again?” level jobber, a consistently-losing Bishop disciple, a human STD, or WCF’s soundly-rejected would-be leader-loser was the quickest way to a title shot. DAMMIT!
In a rare physical outburst of anger, The Superstar kicks over a triangular weight stand. The plates clang and clatter across the floor. Again, the entire place stops and stares. Superstar’s voice raises with a heretofore unheard lack of control.
Singh: I need a fucking a drink.
The Superstar steps over the pile of downed weights as two large personal trainers head towards them.
Singh: Don’t bother clowns, we’re leaving. This place sucks. You all suck. Keep dreaming you Pain & Gain gibbons. The world has already passed you by. Go home, watch TV, and proudly eat those Doritos you’d otherwise feel guilty about. Give up, shitheads.
Superstar blusters his way out of the gym and onto the street. Byron follows him.
Byron: You serious about needing a drink?
A long, deep breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. Eyes closed. His voice is back to its normal measured, exact cadence.
Singh: No. Absolutely not.
Byron: Alright, good beca--
Singh: Easy, Mom. I don’t need the rest of that sentence. Let’s focus our energies on what we CAN control shall we?
El Fuego Del Eterno Infierno Silencioso, how do you want it? Call your shot. Or more accurately, call my shoot. Prefieres espanol? Puedo darlote espanol. Pero la otra gente no hablan. Porque son gringos putos. Ya lo sabes. You already know that. That’s the last phrase I just said, you monolingual monkeys. I told El Fuego, “you already know that” which may as well be the theme of our entire goddamn match. Because I’m going to stand here and tell you all the exact ways and reasons that you’re going to lose to your Golden God but...You already know that. You know them. You know that I’m going to whoop your disfigured ass this Sunday because you already got to see me work close up. We were thrown into one of Seth’s trademark six-newbie clusterfuck tag matches and I carried your ass to your ONLY victory here.
YOU’RE WELCOME.
And though I’m sure you wouldn’t give up that single, solitary, lonely little win for the world you should really start working on some sort of Jay Omega style time machine and give it back if you can. Because for your insolence of--for all intents and purposes--NO SHOWING that week, The Superstar cometh. You have a tally in a the W column where you don’t deserve it. And that transgression will not stand. Success and its measurements are a holy thing to this Golden God, Fuego. And thou shalt not lie about success, about victory to your Golden God. That is the most precious commodity in the land, El Fuego. And since I drug your lifeless shell to a W, that means you owe me one. So maybe I should work on my attitude of gratitude and be thankful that Seth has gifted me this opportunity to WRENCH from you that W that you in no way, shape or form deserve.
If only I could actually erase that W from the history books altogether. That would really be my preference here. I’m sure it would be yours too now that you know the cost. Now that you know the cost is me strutting down to that ring, embarrassing you from pillar to ringpost and back again. I’m sure you’d go back and agree to just not show up and never get the credit for you undeserved victory. But it’s too late now. Regret is only a waste of energy, Hellfire. I’m sure you know that by now. I mean, your whole life has to be made up of regret, look at you. You’re a walking, talking...oh wait. I guess not really talking. But you’re the walking personification of regret. The story says that you refused to take a dive in your very first match and that’s how you got your burns. The strange thing about that is the implication that you actually won a match. Wait...maybe this explains your record here in the WCF so far; maybe you’ve just been taking dive after dive for “organized crime” this whole time. Or maybe...just maybe….you’re a terrible fucking wrestler.
Scratch that. You’re a terrible fucking fighter. I refuse to call you a wrestler; you’re an embarrassment to the word. You want a place that’s going to be more appreciative of your “style?” Guess what you pock-marked plebeian, this is not that place. In fact, I don’t think it even exists because, just like all these other hardcore hedge-pigs, YOU HAVE NO STYLE. You don’t wrestle. You grab whatever’s nearby and act like a six year old with a pinata. You just take wild swing after wild swing, wanting so badly to hit something, anything. Hoping to find some hidden secret...Something that the adults aren’t telling you about. You know it’s there, just beneath the surface, if only you weren’t just taking wild cuts at whoever is across from you maybe then you’d know the secret that the rest of us figured out ages ago: you’re a do-nothing loser and you always. You don’t belong in my ring, you don’t belong in my federation, you don’t belong in my PROFESSION. This Sunday you’re getting your--
Byron has been busy occupying himself scrolling through the WCF dirtsheets on his phone. Something has piqued his interest enough to interrupt Superstar.
Byron: Superstar, you’re going to want to see this…
Byron turns his phone around to show Singh. It’s the open memo
Singh: ASSISTANT!
The Superstar grabs his own phone and dials his assistant.
Singh: Interview’s over. I’ve got more important matters to attend to.
The Superstar walks off up the street with his phone to his ear. He was berating his assistant, Erica, over this:
Saturday October 15th. 4:03 pm
The Superstar sits with his assistant, Erica in the restaurant attached to his hotel. They’ve clearly already been arguing for a time period.
Singh: I don’t care, Assistant, you don’t just do this without my permission. How the hell does it make me look?! You’re out here begging anybody….ANYBODY in the entire WCF to be my partner!?
Erica: No, I opened the floor for applications.
Singh: This is a top tier position. Do you think Goldman-Sachs just accepts any old application for their top level openings?
Erica: No but people don’t hate Goldman-Sachs.
Singh: First of all, yes they do. Second of all, no one hates me. I just wasn’t garnering enough interest from MY preferred candidates
Erica: Well you got some real ones here….
Singh: The shit I do!
Erica: Jayson Price filled one out! Look!
She slides a piece of paper towards him.
Singh: Well he’s right about your questions being fucking terrible. What kind of animal would you be? Are you kidding me?
Erica: It was on a list of--
Singh: God. Stop taking one single google as gospel you millennial mulkie. It’s embarrassing. And Price closes his application with a joke about my mother and encouraging me not to choose him.
Erica: Well yeah but it’s not entirely clear how serious he is. So we could just send him a quick em--
Singh: Absolutely not. You think I can trust one those Pantheon pignuts? I trust those guys about as far as you can throw them.
Erica: Fine, how about Psychopomp? He seemed excited abou--
Singh: No.
Erica: Why not?
Singh: I’ll just assume that’s a joke question. The WCF’s resident Cookie Monster doesn’t belong getting a Tag Title Shot; the only guys jobbing harder than him are his other two “Brothers.”
Erica: You know he pinned Ba--
Singh: Why do people feel the need to remind me of this?! Do you people think I don’t watch Slam?! What the hell else do I do? I spend my every freaking waking moment thinking about this godforsaken place and studying tape. Yet people feel the need to give me a recap. I don’t need it, Rajah.
Erica: Rajah?
Singh: Nevermind. I’m going to need you to apologize for dragging my name through this mockery though.
Erica: You need a partner! We need this title shot!
Singh: We?!
Erica: We! I’m part of Team Singh!
Singh: Mmmmm...I’m not sure about that one.
Erica: Here! This one! This is it! This is why you have to make these open applications! Look at who you partner is going to be.
She hands him another piece of paper.
Singh: Odin Fucking Balfore? This is….unexpected.
Erica: Looks like you’ve got your partner!
Singh: Not so fast, Assistant…Why the hell would he do this?
Erica: To...be tag champ?
Singh: Maybe. But he’s already “the best tag champ of all time” so what the hell good does it actually do him? And can I really trust this guy to show up week in and week out?
Erica: Well let’s worry about winning the titles first. And this is definitely your best shot to do that.
Singh: Maybe….but I don’t get it. Why would he do this? I thought his 7 man murder spree at War once a one-off. It doesn’t smell right to me.
Erica: It smells like gold is what it smells like.
Singh: You need to calm down. Let’s say I go with Balfore and we win...then what? You think the headline will even have my name in it the next day? All it’s going to say is “ODIN RETURNS AND IS TAG CHAMP AGAIN! OH YEAH AND THERE WAS ANOTHER DUDE THERE, I DON’T REMEMBER HIS NAME, LOL.”
Erica: Who is writing this headline, Zmac?
Singh: Maybe! Listen, if this is the best we’ve got, it’s the best we’ve got. But let’s wait until Slam to make a final decision and announcement. I want those titles but I want the win to be MINE. I’m not trying to share my shine with some fuckchop from Poon Guinea.
Erica: Fine. But I really think this is the guy…
STAY TUNED WCF! WHO WILL BE THE SUPERSTAR’S TAG PARTNER?! Psychopomp? Odin Balfore? A dog in a singlet? See you Sunday!
No curtains or blinds or drapery on the windows allows the sun to pour into the tiny room unfettered. A twin mattress with sandpaper sheets and a single blanket on the floor. Next to it, a lamp shadows a set of keys, a glass of water, a woman’s wallet and a phone plugged into the wall. Erica Baringer’s scarlet hair is fanned across the white pillow case. A half a roll, a stretch and a small morning groan precede her legs swinging over the side and the blankets pushed back. Her flesh-colored camisole and black volleyball shorts set off against her porcelain skin. Eyes closed, she rolls her neck left to right and then back again; she stops at 12 o’clock, reaches towards the ceiling with a stretch and opens her eyes.
How does the ceiling get stained? Seriously. What are the stains even? They could be coffee or...Something else. God I just hope it’s coffee.
Snapped out of temporary, sleep-eyed contentedness by the undesirable condition of her efficiency she sighs and sees the green light blinking on her phone. She grabs the phone and checks it. 4 new texts. All from Steven Singh.
Just four? He must’ve actually had something else to do for once.
Recevied: 8:45 pm
My music is now “Super Villain Theme” by Madvillain. Update the WCF accordingly.
“Super Villain Theme?” Jesus. He thinks he’s Lex Luthor.
Received 9:13 pm
Tag Titles? What in all the fucks?! I’ll email you on this.
Tag titles? What is he talking about?
Received 9:45 pm
Did you check your email yet?
Received 10:23 pm
ASSISTANT: EMAIL.
God I really overestimated pro wrestling salaries; this is not worth it. At least not right now. Maybe in a bit. Maybe if he would just shut up and stop pissing off Seth, he could get a raise. Or a title shot or something. And then we’d start making real money.
Erica stands up, thrusts an arm underneath the mattress, searching. She pulls the laptop out, opens and reads her email from “Superstar” Steven Singh.
From: Steven Singh
Subject: Tag Partner
Alright. I’ve got a shot at the tag titles pending finding a partner. My efforts thus far have been thoroughly fruitless; apparently everybody is intimidated by their Golden God. I’m going to list you as my partner and then do it my goddamn self. Pack your bag, you’re getting a night in Hawaii to get your name in the WCF record books as a tag team champion. Wear your…Nevermind, I’ll just bring you something.
-SSS
Subject: Tag Partner
Alright. I’ve got a shot at the tag titles pending finding a partner. My efforts thus far have been thoroughly fruitless; apparently everybody is intimidated by their Golden God. I’m going to list you as my partner and then do it my goddamn self. Pack your bag, you’re getting a night in Hawaii to get your name in the WCF record books as a tag team champion. Wear your…Nevermind, I’ll just bring you something.
-SSS
Not on your life, asshole.
She pulls up WCF.com and clicks a recap link entitled “Singh to get a title shot?!” She watches as Seth lays out the terms for the shot and his clear belief that Singh won’t get a partner.
Dammit, Seth’s probably right. Nobody’s going to want to tag with him.
She clicks another link and watches Singh get blown off by Jared Holmes. She snickers at the outright dismissal.
Thank God. I don’t know how both their egos fit in the arena together much less the ring. Ugh. That Championship salary bump would be nice. There has to be a pay bump right? There has to be. That prick isn’t going to be able to get a partner for himself. Sometimes I wonder how long until I have to wipe his ass for him too.
Erica begins typing a Memo to the WCF.
******************************************************************
Monday October 10th. 7:45 pm
A public gym. Home to the terminally twenty pounds overweight, pathetic men ogling oblivious women and personal trainers over charging for the “expertise.” On a bench lays Byron, a stout, young black man. The bar carries a forty five pound weight on either side as he pushes it upwards, exhaling. At his head stands The Superstar Steven Singh. Byron grunts through another rep as Singh pays the most marginal of attention.
Singh: It’s going to be that sad little stereotype Tommy Hawk or his boy Captain WCF. God what a waste of space those two area.
Byron pauses at the top of his rep and breathes forcefully out three time. He lowers the bar to his chest again. Byron pushes it up but the bar doesn’t move.
Singh: That’s the only way to sensibly book it. Seth knows I’m getting a tag title shot, so you lead up to that with a singles match.
The bar is on Byron's chest.
Singh: So the question is, who am I more likely to face? I guess it only superficially matters. I’ve already begun dissecting the both of them in anticipation of Hellimination.
Byron: Uggghh…
Byron’s soft grunt called Singh’s glance downward to his face now shaded pink. Singh hoists the bar with his left hand and racks it as Byron gasps for his breath.
Singh: Jesus, Byron. That’s embarrassing. What do you think?
Byron’s windpipe hadn’t fully recovered. He spoke broken words with darts of breath between.
Byron: I...think...you were….supposed to….
Singh: Be spotting you? Yeah, why do you think I grabbed that bar? Because I was spotting you. And you really need to warn me that you’re an enormous pussy if one hundred and thirty five pounds is going to nearly kill you. Or maybe we just let natural selection do its job next time. If you couldn’t have gotten that off you by yourself, I’m not entirely sure you’re fit for this world.
Sitting up on the bench, Byron rubs his throat.
Byron: Yeah, well who the hell would take your bullshit “sure thing” bets week after week if you let me die?
Singh: I’m sure there’s another idiotic degenerate bookie in the city dumb enough to pay me week after week when I win.
Byron: Maybe but how many of them are going to go to the gym with you?
Singh: Hopefully none of them. This place sucks. Look around. It’s filled with broken spirits and thirty-something losers still too dumb to know that it’s all passed them by. Their mind, their health, their entire lives are downhill from here.
Byron: Didn’t you text me saying that you wanted to work out?
Singh: Oh my apologies for not specifying, “Please don’t bring me to a landfill to work out; I prefer an actual gym.”
Byron: This is why your bookie is your only friend.
Singh: You’re my bookie, not my friend. But having a spotter is important. Safety first, Byron.
The Superstar’s phone buzzes in his pocket. Google alert for his own name because of course it is. The card is up. He bellows:
Singh: YOU’VE GOT TO BE FUCKING ME!
Most of the rest of the gym stop for at least a moment to shoot a look of intrigue or indignation at The Superstar. His eyes are trained to his phone.
Byron: Man, I’ve gotta come back here. You’ve got zero chill.
People slowly go back to their half-assed workout routines, now periodically peeking over at the duo on the bench.
Singh: And if you’re coming back here, you’ve got zero class. And my “chill” Byron, has flown the coop. The card is out.
Byron: What the hell’s wrong? You gotta fight somebody from Pantheon?
Singh: Why the hell would I yell about that? That’s where I belong! Locked in the throes of battle with the best in the WCF. Top of the card! Racking up wins that actually mean something! Not...not fighting this fucking reject AGAIN.
Byron: Who is it?
The Superstar turns his phone to Byron who reads it aloud.
Byron: Fuego Del...Eterno...Infierno...Silencioso? Who?
Singh: Exactly, Byron! EXACTLY! Who?! Cue the owls or a trio of brightly-clothed black men because that’s all you’re going to hear when discussing this match. Who? Who?! WHO?!
Byron: Brightly clothed black men? What are you talking about?
Singh: Nevermind, Byron. The point is that the rest of this card is absolutely LITTERED with unearned, undeserved title shots! I’m going to murder Seth.
Byron: Come on mayne, it can’t be that bad.
Singh: Psychopomp for the Internet Title. Which he did exactly WHAT to earn again?
Byron: You don’t even want the Internet Title…
Singh: Don’t tell me what I want! And of course I don’t want the “Metaphor for the Downfall of Human Intellect as We Know It” Title!
Byron: That’s not a great name for a title. And Psychopomp pinned Bates so..
Singh: Fine! How about Damian Kaine for the Alpha Title? Is THAT a deserving shot?!
Byron: Umm...I guess not? Didn’t you tell me that was the “Curtain-Jerking Jackoff Title” a few weeks ago though?
Singh: Of course it is! So TEAM WCF Co-Craptain Demon Kane is right up that alley. Seth probably doesn’t want CJ getting his comeuppance for eliminating me from War just yet anyways. He’s already got that “Alpha Title Gauntlet” on the books for his little babyface fuckstick. This is a cakewalk, bullshit, all-but-squash match meant only for building CJ to look like he might have an actual chance of surviving the gauntlet. Which he doesn’t. How about Lilith? Are you going to tell me SHE deserves a title shot? After her RIVETING one-word War Promo? She spends all her time spouting her grade school gibberish on the Internet and then gets upset when no one takes her seriously? She’s the WCF’s new all-purpose punchline in lieu of The Butcher.
Byron: Harsh, Superstar.
Singh: Harsh but fair, Byron. And nevermind. I stand corrected. The actual WCF punchline is getting a World Title shot this week. A WORLD TITLE SHOT. Jesus. What is going on? What is Seth doing? Is it just because Young bitched and moaned enough about these lamented ‘invaders?’ Is that how he got this shot?! You’re at a zoo with your infant, Byron. Do you have an infant?
Byron: Naw.
Singh: You should. Your people need more male role models in their communities, you’d be a real stand up father. Anyways, you’re at a zoo with your infant. You’re looking at the lions. Your idiot kid is banging on the glass, maybe even throwing rocks at the lion. It’s all fine, it’s all fun and games. Then it’s time to leave and your kid throws has a fit, throws a full-on tantrum because they didn’t want to LOOK at the lion’s den, they want to be IN the lion’s den. Do you put them in the lion’s den?
The metaphor is lost on Byron. And his slow answer indicates he MAY not actually be that good of a father for a young black man…
Byron: …..No?
Singh: NO! Of course not! You don’t put your idiot baby IN the lion’s den just because they whined and cried about it! Adam Young is going to be torn limb from limb; he might literally die in the ring on Sunday. He whined and cried and now he’s in the lion’s den. If I would’ve known all it takes for a shot at the big one is to pitch a fit on the internet, I’d hire that walrus who went off about candles at Bath and Bodyworks!
Byron: I...I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Singh: Just google it, Byron. I don’t have time to personally keep you abreast of every pop culture happening. Especially ones from like four years ago. God. Maybe Seth wants Adam Young to die; that’s the only reasonable explanation here. And as if all this wasn’t insulting enough, Joe Smarts has a TV title shot. JOE SMARTS.
Byron: Dude. I can’t even.
Singh: You can’t even? Are you a 14 year old white girl? Have some self-respect. Ugh. Fuckin Seth.
Byron: Bait n switch, dude. Classic bait n switch.
The Superstar doesn’t respond, eyes burning a hole through his phone screen.
Byron: Bait and switch? Do you not know wha th--
Singh: Of course I know what it means, Byron! I just can’t believe Lerch pulled one on me.
Byron: There’s no saying you would’ve been in a title match this week either way, man.
Singh: I asked for a title shot and that asshole offers me the tag titles. The tag titles! I’m supposed to share the ring and the glory with some mook? Normally not for me but I thought to myself, “No, no Steven. You should do whatever it takes to get some gold. Carry some nearly lifeless carcass across the finish line just like you did a few weeks ago in that six-man tag. Even if it’s essentially a handicap match, let’s do it! This is the quickest means to a title shot!” Nope. It turns out being a “Who’s That Again?” level jobber, a consistently-losing Bishop disciple, a human STD, or WCF’s soundly-rejected would-be leader-loser was the quickest way to a title shot. DAMMIT!
In a rare physical outburst of anger, The Superstar kicks over a triangular weight stand. The plates clang and clatter across the floor. Again, the entire place stops and stares. Superstar’s voice raises with a heretofore unheard lack of control.
Singh: I need a fucking a drink.
The Superstar steps over the pile of downed weights as two large personal trainers head towards them.
Singh: Don’t bother clowns, we’re leaving. This place sucks. You all suck. Keep dreaming you Pain & Gain gibbons. The world has already passed you by. Go home, watch TV, and proudly eat those Doritos you’d otherwise feel guilty about. Give up, shitheads.
Superstar blusters his way out of the gym and onto the street. Byron follows him.
Byron: You serious about needing a drink?
A long, deep breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. Eyes closed. His voice is back to its normal measured, exact cadence.
Singh: No. Absolutely not.
Byron: Alright, good beca--
Singh: Easy, Mom. I don’t need the rest of that sentence. Let’s focus our energies on what we CAN control shall we?
El Fuego Del Eterno Infierno Silencioso, how do you want it? Call your shot. Or more accurately, call my shoot. Prefieres espanol? Puedo darlote espanol. Pero la otra gente no hablan. Porque son gringos putos. Ya lo sabes. You already know that. That’s the last phrase I just said, you monolingual monkeys. I told El Fuego, “you already know that” which may as well be the theme of our entire goddamn match. Because I’m going to stand here and tell you all the exact ways and reasons that you’re going to lose to your Golden God but...You already know that. You know them. You know that I’m going to whoop your disfigured ass this Sunday because you already got to see me work close up. We were thrown into one of Seth’s trademark six-newbie clusterfuck tag matches and I carried your ass to your ONLY victory here.
YOU’RE WELCOME.
And though I’m sure you wouldn’t give up that single, solitary, lonely little win for the world you should really start working on some sort of Jay Omega style time machine and give it back if you can. Because for your insolence of--for all intents and purposes--NO SHOWING that week, The Superstar cometh. You have a tally in a the W column where you don’t deserve it. And that transgression will not stand. Success and its measurements are a holy thing to this Golden God, Fuego. And thou shalt not lie about success, about victory to your Golden God. That is the most precious commodity in the land, El Fuego. And since I drug your lifeless shell to a W, that means you owe me one. So maybe I should work on my attitude of gratitude and be thankful that Seth has gifted me this opportunity to WRENCH from you that W that you in no way, shape or form deserve.
If only I could actually erase that W from the history books altogether. That would really be my preference here. I’m sure it would be yours too now that you know the cost. Now that you know the cost is me strutting down to that ring, embarrassing you from pillar to ringpost and back again. I’m sure you’d go back and agree to just not show up and never get the credit for you undeserved victory. But it’s too late now. Regret is only a waste of energy, Hellfire. I’m sure you know that by now. I mean, your whole life has to be made up of regret, look at you. You’re a walking, talking...oh wait. I guess not really talking. But you’re the walking personification of regret. The story says that you refused to take a dive in your very first match and that’s how you got your burns. The strange thing about that is the implication that you actually won a match. Wait...maybe this explains your record here in the WCF so far; maybe you’ve just been taking dive after dive for “organized crime” this whole time. Or maybe...just maybe….you’re a terrible fucking wrestler.
Scratch that. You’re a terrible fucking fighter. I refuse to call you a wrestler; you’re an embarrassment to the word. You want a place that’s going to be more appreciative of your “style?” Guess what you pock-marked plebeian, this is not that place. In fact, I don’t think it even exists because, just like all these other hardcore hedge-pigs, YOU HAVE NO STYLE. You don’t wrestle. You grab whatever’s nearby and act like a six year old with a pinata. You just take wild swing after wild swing, wanting so badly to hit something, anything. Hoping to find some hidden secret...Something that the adults aren’t telling you about. You know it’s there, just beneath the surface, if only you weren’t just taking wild cuts at whoever is across from you maybe then you’d know the secret that the rest of us figured out ages ago: you’re a do-nothing loser and you always. You don’t belong in my ring, you don’t belong in my federation, you don’t belong in my PROFESSION. This Sunday you’re getting your--
Byron has been busy occupying himself scrolling through the WCF dirtsheets on his phone. Something has piqued his interest enough to interrupt Superstar.
Byron: Superstar, you’re going to want to see this…
Byron turns his phone around to show Singh. It’s the open memo
Singh: ASSISTANT!
The Superstar grabs his own phone and dials his assistant.
Singh: Interview’s over. I’ve got more important matters to attend to.
The Superstar walks off up the street with his phone to his ear. He was berating his assistant, Erica, over this:
TO: All WCF
FROM: Erica Baringer, Assistant to Steven Singh
RE: Partnership Opportunity at Helloween
As you may or may not be aware, Seth Lerch generously offered my employer, "Superstar" Steven Singh, an opportunity to win the WCF Tag Team Championships at Helloween. Unfortunately, Mr. Singh has thus far been unable to obtain the services of a partner that he feels is up to his standards. With that in mind, I have taken it upon myself to extend this career-changing offer to the entire WCF roster. Please complete the application I've provided below and send it directly to Steven Singh so that we may discretely review all applicants and make our decision. I would be remiss if I didn't mention that I'm very well aware some of you may be slightly reticent to partner with my employer but I assure you that he values success above all else and will be focused solely on winning his first WCF Championship at Helloween. You'd assuredly be lucky to share the ring with him.
Thank you.
APPLICATION TO TEAM WITH STEVEN SINGH
Name:
WCF Record and/or Accomplishments:
Current Alliance(s):
Why should Mr. Singh choose you?
Rate Your Machiavellian Aptitude (1-10):
Please describe your greatest strength and your greatest weakness:
How do you resolve conflict with teammates?
If you were an animal, what would you be and why?
Any final comments?
FROM: Erica Baringer, Assistant to Steven Singh
RE: Partnership Opportunity at Helloween
As you may or may not be aware, Seth Lerch generously offered my employer, "Superstar" Steven Singh, an opportunity to win the WCF Tag Team Championships at Helloween. Unfortunately, Mr. Singh has thus far been unable to obtain the services of a partner that he feels is up to his standards. With that in mind, I have taken it upon myself to extend this career-changing offer to the entire WCF roster. Please complete the application I've provided below and send it directly to Steven Singh so that we may discretely review all applicants and make our decision. I would be remiss if I didn't mention that I'm very well aware some of you may be slightly reticent to partner with my employer but I assure you that he values success above all else and will be focused solely on winning his first WCF Championship at Helloween. You'd assuredly be lucky to share the ring with him.
Thank you.
APPLICATION TO TEAM WITH STEVEN SINGH
Name:
WCF Record and/or Accomplishments:
Current Alliance(s):
Why should Mr. Singh choose you?
Rate Your Machiavellian Aptitude (1-10):
Please describe your greatest strength and your greatest weakness:
How do you resolve conflict with teammates?
If you were an animal, what would you be and why?
Any final comments?
******************************************************************
Saturday October 15th. 4:03 pm
The Superstar sits with his assistant, Erica in the restaurant attached to his hotel. They’ve clearly already been arguing for a time period.
Singh: I don’t care, Assistant, you don’t just do this without my permission. How the hell does it make me look?! You’re out here begging anybody….ANYBODY in the entire WCF to be my partner!?
Erica: No, I opened the floor for applications.
Singh: This is a top tier position. Do you think Goldman-Sachs just accepts any old application for their top level openings?
Erica: No but people don’t hate Goldman-Sachs.
Singh: First of all, yes they do. Second of all, no one hates me. I just wasn’t garnering enough interest from MY preferred candidates
Erica: Well you got some real ones here….
Singh: The shit I do!
Erica: Jayson Price filled one out! Look!
She slides a piece of paper towards him.
Singh: Well he’s right about your questions being fucking terrible. What kind of animal would you be? Are you kidding me?
Erica: It was on a list of--
Singh: God. Stop taking one single google as gospel you millennial mulkie. It’s embarrassing. And Price closes his application with a joke about my mother and encouraging me not to choose him.
Erica: Well yeah but it’s not entirely clear how serious he is. So we could just send him a quick em--
Singh: Absolutely not. You think I can trust one those Pantheon pignuts? I trust those guys about as far as you can throw them.
Erica: Fine, how about Psychopomp? He seemed excited abou--
Singh: No.
Erica: Why not?
Singh: I’ll just assume that’s a joke question. The WCF’s resident Cookie Monster doesn’t belong getting a Tag Title Shot; the only guys jobbing harder than him are his other two “Brothers.”
Erica: You know he pinned Ba--
Singh: Why do people feel the need to remind me of this?! Do you people think I don’t watch Slam?! What the hell else do I do? I spend my every freaking waking moment thinking about this godforsaken place and studying tape. Yet people feel the need to give me a recap. I don’t need it, Rajah.
Erica: Rajah?
Singh: Nevermind. I’m going to need you to apologize for dragging my name through this mockery though.
Erica: You need a partner! We need this title shot!
Singh: We?!
Erica: We! I’m part of Team Singh!
Singh: Mmmmm...I’m not sure about that one.
Erica: Here! This one! This is it! This is why you have to make these open applications! Look at who you partner is going to be.
She hands him another piece of paper.
Singh: Odin Fucking Balfore? This is….unexpected.
Erica: Looks like you’ve got your partner!
Singh: Not so fast, Assistant…Why the hell would he do this?
Erica: To...be tag champ?
Singh: Maybe. But he’s already “the best tag champ of all time” so what the hell good does it actually do him? And can I really trust this guy to show up week in and week out?
Erica: Well let’s worry about winning the titles first. And this is definitely your best shot to do that.
Singh: Maybe….but I don’t get it. Why would he do this? I thought his 7 man murder spree at War once a one-off. It doesn’t smell right to me.
Erica: It smells like gold is what it smells like.
Singh: You need to calm down. Let’s say I go with Balfore and we win...then what? You think the headline will even have my name in it the next day? All it’s going to say is “ODIN RETURNS AND IS TAG CHAMP AGAIN! OH YEAH AND THERE WAS ANOTHER DUDE THERE, I DON’T REMEMBER HIS NAME, LOL.”
Erica: Who is writing this headline, Zmac?
Singh: Maybe! Listen, if this is the best we’ve got, it’s the best we’ve got. But let’s wait until Slam to make a final decision and announcement. I want those titles but I want the win to be MINE. I’m not trying to share my shine with some fuckchop from Poon Guinea.
Erica: Fine. But I really think this is the guy…
STAY TUNED WCF! WHO WILL BE THE SUPERSTAR’S TAG PARTNER?! Psychopomp? Odin Balfore? A dog in a singlet? See you Sunday!