Impostors, Stepping Stones, and the Infirm
Oct 29, 2016 11:32:54 GMT -5
Teo Blaze, Lilith, and 2 more like this
Post by Stephen Singh on Oct 29, 2016 11:32:54 GMT -5
Monday October 24th. 11:06 am. EST.
A bench in Washington Square, New York City. Erica Baringer, flippantly referred to as “Assistant” by her employer Steven Singh sits on a bench, bundled for autumn. Long, blue peacoat falls past her knees where she rests her ever-present laptop. She pulls down her scarf and sips her pumpkin spice latte from Starbucks--truly, the most basic of bitches. She breaks from studying anthropology to check her WCF email. Wise beyond her co-ed years, she gave Singh an email separate from her personal. Foolish in her youth, she gave him her actual phone number. She had received her normal flurry of post-Slam texts.
You see this shit? Lerch thinks he’s cute, adding that little bonus for whoever gets the pinfall. You couldn’t cause friction with sandpaper, you shitbrick.
Cliff looked pretty freakin’ good tonight, didn’t he? I don’t hear you mentioning Odin Balfore now.
Well now what the hell. TommyBoy can’t even walk after those clowns pummeled him. There’s no way he can make it to Helloween. And I’ve been prepping for him for three weeks already. Bullshit.
She had her normal post-Slam-text-flurry afterthoughts.
Why won’t he just use twitter? These are all tweets. Twitter was created for lonely men with no one to text their constant ramblings to. I mean, he’s essentially paying me to read these, he could be getting ignored for free on twitter.
She sifts through a few WCF emails and then reads two different recaps of the Slam, hoping the reviewers actually covered everything. Her phone rings; the caller is identified as “Asshole.”
Shit. Need to change that before he sees it.
She answers the phone.
Erica: Hello, Superstar.
Singh: Assistant! Did you get my texts? Did you watch Slam? Did you clear my schedule for this week so I can focus on the title shot?
I’m doing great. Thanks for asking.
Erica: Yes I got them. Yes I watched Slam. And you know there are certain things I can’t clear off your schedule.
Singh: Ugh. Sometimes I don’t know what you actually CAN do for me. What awful slog are you putting me through this week?
Erica: You know I’m not the one putting you through these things. The only appointments I can’t cancel are contractually obligated by the WCF.
Singh: Yeah, yeah Assistant, never take responsibility for your failures. That’s fine. What is it this week?
Erica: Tuesday night you have a meet and greet.
Singh: Another bunch of disgusting little cesspool of germs and disease?
Erica: No, I doubt there are going to be any kids, It’s a professional organization of--
Singh: Don’t care. Just send me the address and time and I’ll give them the requisite hours of my invaluable time.
Erica: Don’t you mean valuable?
Singh: Are you kidding me right now? Aren’t you in college? Invaluable. As in, of great value. Even priceless. I understand it might be counter-intuitive but it’s just like inflammable.
Erica: Like fireproof?
Singh: Lord give me strength. No. Just nevermind. You’re getting an Oxford English Dictionary as a Christmas bonus. Congratulations. Which is a word one uses when they wish to express their happiness for another’s accomplishments. Now I need you to find me the location of the best Poke bowl in my area. I need to eat before I make my triumphant return stateside. Despite all your myriad failings, you usually provide very reasonable restaurant recommendations. I’m not exactly sure you do it, but you always seem to come through. So please, proceed.
She opens a new browser tab, goes to google maps and enters his location. She clicks “Nearby” and then types in Poke Bowl. The map is littered with options. She quickly and almost randomly picks one out near his hotel and then sends the location to his phone. This is her great and mysterious method of recommending restaurants.
Erica: There. I just sent you the location. And I’ll email you the information on your meet and greet. Anything else?
Singh: Yeah, reply to my texts. It’s not twitter; I’m not typing those for my own amusement. I’m texting my Assistant important information. Got it?
Erica: Yeah. Have a good week, Superstar.
Singh: Don’t worry, you’ll hear from me before the week’s out.
Steven Singh ends the phone call.
Oh thank God.
She sighs audibly, closes the laptop and shoves it into her oversized purse.
The Honolulu KingFish restaurant is all but empty. There are two elderly tourists happily tossing back their brightly colored rum concoctions. Their white, dusty chortles bellowed through the empty restaurant. There was empty table after empty table; each with its own, entirely unused formal setting and white table cloth. The host excited calls to a patron entering the front door.
Host: Hello and welcome!
With luggage in tow, The Superstar approaches the host stand and peers past the maitre d, into the gaping cave of sadness that is this dying business. He checks his watch, sighs and addresses the host.
Singh: How long is the wait?
Host: Huh?
Singh: Nevermind. It’s just me for dinner, let’s go.
Host: Of course, sir. Follow me.
The maitre d’ grabs a menu and leads The Superstar to a table about ten feet from the two men at the bar--the only two people in the entire restaurant.
Singh: You’re fucking kidding me right? What is it with you people? Why do restaurants always do this? Do you think I actually want to be near these mouth-breathing alcoholics? This entire place is a ghost town and you’re going to put me nearly on top of these fuckchops?
Host: Oh--er...My apologies, sir. Where would you prefer to sit?
Singh: ANYWHERE else. Literally anywhere else in this entire goddamn restaurant. This is not that hard.
The host walks him to the other side of the restaurant, sets the menu down and begins to pull out the chair.
Singh: Alright, we’re fine here. Scram.
The Superstar turns to face the camera.
Salutations, WCF. Is everyone excited for Helloween? Are you excited to watch Pantheon steamroll over the leftover scraps you wouldn’t feed your dog calling themselves ‘Team WCF?’ How about that World Title match where Corey Black beats all the hell out of two guys he always beats the hell out of? No? No one cares about any of it? Because it’s all a foregone conclusion? It’s the same trash-for-ratings bullshit that the WCF fans have become accustomed to? Of course. Well normally I’d implore you tune into MY match to bear witness to some ACTUAL wrestling, to see a true technician in action, to watch the poetry of violence I write every week. Unfortunately, Seth Lerch has seen fit to replace the such a serene scene with the WCF trademark of big time violence and gimmick matches over any sort of fucking substance. Just big shocks and over-reaches instead of actual quality booking and allowing WRESTLERS to WRESTLE. The blood-thirsty, backwoods hordes smack their lips and wring their hands in anticipation of the lowest brow of entertainment possible and Lerch is all too happy to oblige. No matter that we’ve been leading up to a Tag Team Title match with Tomahawk and Captain WCF for THREE weeks now. No matter that if a competitor is unable to perform his duties as champion, his title should be VACATED. No matter that a six man clusterfuck like this is apropo of absolutely nothing. Well this Sunday, as it’s been for me every Sunday since I stepped foot in the WCF, it’s going to be my mind over all that ‘no matter.’ Keep doing whatever you can to keep those titles out of my hands, Lerch. You want the title to stay around the waist of your beloved Captain WCF; I’m sure that illiterate ignoramus moves plenty of merchandise for the kids. It’s in your best financial interests to keep that strap on him. And you obviously have no interest in two barely-known rooks coming up and collecting the tag team titles. So you try to drive a wedge between us with that little $25,000 bonus? Heh. Good effort Lerch but you couldn’t drive a wedge if it came with a steering wheel. I am not a man who is distracted from his goals. I set my sights and I do not move them until the target is mine. My current target: the tag team titles. Add whatever stipulations you want. Nothing is keeping me from my goal. Not you, not any crude stipulations, not any of those other four bush pigs you’re throwing to their slaughter. Nothing.
As The Superstar finishes speaking, the waiter approaches, begins filling his empty water glass, and greets him.
Server: Hello and welco--
Singh: Just water, thanks. And leave the carafe, it’ll be easier on the both of us. I’ll have whatever your best poke bowl is.
Server: Unfortunately sir, we’ve recently changed menus and the Poke Bowls are no longer available.
Singh: God dammit, Assistant.
Server: We do have a wide variety of sushi if you’d like to have a look at your men--
Singh: Wait a second. You have a “wide variety of sushi” but no poke bowls? Isn’t it essentially the same damn thing?
Server: Well no, the preparation for a--
Singh: Yeah, I understand that they’re prepared differently. But it’s raw fish, rice, sesame seeds, seaweed and whatever else isn’t it?
Server: Yes sir but our menu ha--
Singh: Yes, your menu changed. I understand that. Did the language you fucking speak change? Did your chef suddenly become entirely incapable of putting those same ingredients in a goddamn bowl? I mean, theoretically, it should be easier than preparing sushi. Shouldn’t it?
Server: Well I’m not really sure but unfortunately we ca--
Singh slams his hand down on the table; the water glass jumps, splashing just a spit of its contents out of the glass.
Singh: Good God! Fine. Whatever. Bring me four pieces of sashimi and three maki rolls. Chef's choice. And that does NOT mean whatever is about to go bad. If you bring me some rank-smelling fish, you’re going to eat this tablecloth. Now go.
The server scurries off, wondering where to best spit in sushi as not to make it terribly obvious.
O Captain! The Captain! your fearful trip is done,
Your partner has been crippled and thus ends your fun.
Your end is near, I am here, Stevenites all exulting,
Now lend your ears and take a knee, as I do my insulting.
You know, Cap, there was actually a time where I resented you. Can you even believe that? A man like ME, wasted the energy resenting a man like YOU. But I resented you, Captain. I resented your savant-like ability to be in the right place at the right time. I resented that you stumbled over your words and your feet, somehow dumb lucking your way into the titles and then into successful defense after successful defense. I’ve watched match after match of yours and it always looks to me like your pudgy ass was being carried to victory by He Who Tells Tales Already Told. I resented the fact that you had gold around your waist, that you supposedly represented some of the best this place has to offer. I came here to stare across the ring with the best the wrestling industry has to offer. I didn’t bumble into a contract by “a series of miscommunications.” I am here for the purpose of proving that I am again an ELITE member of this industry. Your only purpose here is as a placeholder; you’re a tattered and rickety bridge between the last era and the Golden Era forthcoming. Your partner was double-teamed into the fucking retirement community by two no-class clowns and where were you, Cap? You were nowhere to be found. You deserted him. After month upon month of carrying your dead weight through title defenses, you left him to that pack of hyenas and now he’s been reduced to no more than a pile of flesh. We’ll never see him again here because he finally buckled under the pressure of lugging your fat, talentless carcass through match after match. Well good for him for finally ridding himself of the dead weight one or another. This Sunday at Helloween, I rid the WCF Title picture of your dead weight. I claim my FIRST gold here in the WCF. And I make it crystal goddamn clear that you don’t--nor did you ever--deserve being called a champion here.
The server returns with The Superstar’s four pieces of sashimi along with a bowl of miso soup.
Server: Here you are, sir. And the soup is on the house.
Singh: You can just take it back.
Server: I’ll just leave it here in case you--
Singh: Take it to the back. You definitely spit in it. So just take it back there and dump it out. I’m not going to eat it.
The server sighs and picks the miso soup back up. He carries the loogie-laden bowl back to the kitchen but The Superstar calls him back. Annoyed, he pivots back to the table.
Singh: Is this wasabi?
Server: Yes sir.
Singh: I mean actual wasabi. Is it real wasabi or is it horseradish dyed to look like wasabi?
Server: I’m fairly certain it’s wasabi?
The Superstar pokes a chopstick into the little green mound on his plate and tastes it.
Singh: It’s definitely horseradish, you cheap bastards. Alright, thanks for nothing, scram.
This is you, right here Cap. In so-called sushi restaurants across the nation you’re brought a side of “wasabi.” It’s almost always a green, dusty little mound right next to some ginger shavings. The thing is, it’s almost always horseradish. Wasabi is a much rarer, more expensive plant than horseradish so it’s usually secretly subbed out for food-dyed horseradish. And, of course, the public just eats it up. You’re the wasabi, Cap. You’re a fraud, an imposter. You’re a child playing dress up. You’re being served to the undiscerning masses and they’re smiling and shoveling the unappetizing SHIT of your career right up. It’s sad but the mongrel hordes truly don’t know any better. They’re told that pile of green garbage is wasabi so they shrug and shove it down their gullet. They’re told that you’re an actual WCF Tag Team Champion so they shrug and shove it down their gullet. You’re a simple side dish, an afterthought of the actual presentation but you’re accepted by virtue of your mere presence and persistence. You’re bland and inoffensive so the world shrugs and buys their idiot child a Banzai! T-shirt to go with their Tag Title shield. But now that your partner--the equally bland and useless ginger--has been wiped clean from the plate the whole world is suddenly looking at you with a feeling of unease. They’ve finally begun to see you for the sore thumb you are. When somebody with the gravitas, the talent and the passions of The Golden God steps up to the call BULLSHIT on your whole facade the entire world squints a little harder and goes, “Is that...is that just horseradish?”
Server: Is the sashimi to your liking, sir?
Singh: You can look at the plate and see I haven’t tried it yet. Why do servers pull this shit? Use your eyes.
The server turns to walk away but The Superstar holds up a finger and pops a piece of sashimi into his mouth with the chopsticks. He closes his eyes and chews slowly.
Singh: Fucking Assistant….
The server bristles a bit, ready to be scolded again.
Singh: You've done it again! Luckily for your incompetent ass, my Assistant at least seems to know how to recommend a restaurant; this sushi is delicious.
Server: I’m glad to hear it’s to your liking, sir.
Singh: No, you’re not. You don’t give a shit. Here.
The Superstar hands the server a hundred dollar bill.
Singh: That’s the first part of your tip. I need you to go to the back, throw away whatever pieces of sushi you had the kitchen shove down their pants or whatever you’ve done and make sure I get uncontaminated fish please.
Server: Sir, I would nev--
Singh: Listen, I’m an asshole. I get it. I’ve had your job. It’s shit. And the only power you have is exercised back there in the kitchen behind the closed doors. I understand that. Hence, I’m handing you one hundred dollars now and at least that much at the end in good faith that you won’t abuse the power you have over me just because I’m an asshole.
The server looks at the bill in his hand and tilts his head at Superstar, unsure what to make of his request. The server grabs a plate and chopsticks off a nearby table and removes one of the pieces of sashimi from The Superstar’s plate. Singh smiles and nods at him. The server scurries off again. The Superstar eats another piece of the sashimi.
Singh: Look around, Captain. Look at all these lovely, empty tables. They’re all perfect, orderly blank slates waiting for someone to fill them with life. The tables just wait for someone with appropriate laughter and love and passion to fill them, to breathe joy into them, to make them finally whole. The Tag Team Championships, as far as I’m concerned, are as blank as these tables. You’ve done nothing for them and with yelling “Geronimooooo!” as he limps off your sinking ship, you’re all alone. You do not have the personality, you do not have the intelligence, you do not have the SKILL to set the table, Cap. You’re ten pounds of sausage stuffed into a 5 pound casing. Tell me what you’ve brought to the table thus far. Tell me what you’ve done to better the division. Tell me your greatest accomplishment. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. You were seated at the table--the beautiful blank slate of a tag team division--and did NOTHING to fill it. Your cold, stale, lifeless promos and bargain-basement wrestling skills sucked whatever minute amount of life the division had in it prior. But fear not. Since it was clear that our mutual host Lerch was never going to invite me to the table, I went ahead and made my own goddamn reservation. And now I’m going to kick the whole fucking thing over and watch the glass shatter and dinnerware clatter to the floor. I’m going to show you and the entire WCF what a champion is supposed to look like; how one should carry himself. And I’m going to show you what The Sure Thing brings to pay per view title matches. Last month everybody “ooooohed” and “ahhhhed” as I racked up pin after pin in War. This month it’s not going to be a surprise when I hoist up your doughy-ass and drive you neck-first through a table with a Supernova. I’m not just going to bring passion and life and the joy of an actual wrestler to the table this Sunday, I’m going to drive you other midcard mulkies right through the goddamn things before I claim my first prize here in the WCF.
The Superstar eats his last piece of sashimi just as the server brings out his maki rolls. The two exchange a genuine smile and nod, the server no longer putting on his usual airs. Money can both create pomp and circumstance as well as cut right through it. Singh contentedly finishes the rolls, confident that they’re unfucked with. The server comes back out, drops the check off, and begins clearing the table.
Singh: Thanks.
Server: No problem, man. Thanks for the tip. And I really usually don’t tamper with the food, I was just having such a shit day and--
Singh: Hey! Never apologize for exercising whatever power you can. Everybody does it and your position leaves you with fewer options. Like I said, I’ve been there. It sucks. I’m just glad we could come to a mutual understanding.
Sever: Me too. Thanks again.
The server disappears back into the kitchen as Steven eyes the bill. $94.07. Overpriced by a bit maybe but he was truly content with the quality of the food. The Superstar leaves the leather folder with the bill inside empty on the table. He walks past maitre d’ who’d been in and out of the dining room keeping himself busy through the night.
Host: Have a great night, sir.
Singh: I absolutely will. Make sure to tell my server that the change is his to keep.
Host: Of course sir. Aloha.
A union hall. The building is old, musty, and usually empty. Unions aren’t the same powerhouses they once were. At least in New York, a mecca for liberals who still believe in the ideas of Unions, they still held some power, some sway. This building, though, was generally unimpressive save for its paint. The paint job appeared fresh as a newborn and was as near perfection as human hands can get. There was no overspray, no stray drips, no uneven strokes or unwanted textures on the walls. It could even be described as impressive if one were to actually be impressed by something as pedestrian as flat paint on an interior wall. The men milling about the space today, of course, were impressed. This was the IUPAT; the International Union of Paints and Allied Trades. As they did at every meeting, the men would eye the paint job closely for flaws and imperfections, pointing out the usually-imagined shortcomings to each other. They’d even discuss what order they think the walls were painted in or what brand paint was used. They’d smell the walls, claiming they could tell by that. These boring old fucks really actually enjoyed watching paint dry. Today they were congregating around a few tables pushed together which housed the finest taco bar one can barter for by promising a free interior paint job to the owner of a nearby Taqueria. As the the crowd of primarily middle-aged white men got cheap chorizo in their mustaches a wildly out-of-place Superstar Steven Singh sat at a table across the room, currently on his phone. He wore a double breasted suit likely more expensive than most of these men’s entire wardrobe. He texted with Jerry: one-legged veteran, low-level drug dealer, and current head bitch in charge of The Superstar’s social media accounts.
You’re supposed to be representing my brand on social media and you’re letting Blaze and Doc flap their gums about how they’re going to be tag champs.
Sorry, Supe. It’s been hella busy on my end. Business is booming!
I don’t care, Jerry. Don’t let those mooks besmirch my name all week while you stay silent. Now did you figure out some cardio for tomorrow?
Yeah, we’re on. I’m pumped to play basketball with the future tag team champion of the WCF!
The Superstar didn’t exactly stop to consider what type of “cardio” he could possibly get from playing basketball with a one-legged man but that wasn’t on the forefront of his mind at the moment. The forefront of his mind was currently occupied with his mental countdown of how much longer he’s obliged to be at this WCF-mandated meet and greet. 40 minutes left in his hour obligation. The Superstar leans back in his steel folding chair and rolls his neck. It pops over his right shoulder as it always does. Behind Singh is a myriad of ladders. Piled one on top of the other, clearly a depot for the members to stash theirs or borrow one as needed. 6 foot ladders, 8 foot ladders, 10, 15, wooden, steel, extension ladders, step ladders, platform ladders. They were all there just laying in a pile behind him, uncared for and most of them nearly forgotten.
Well here I am, WCF. Fulfilling yet another godforsaken obligation of this fucking slave-contract I’m on. I guess I should be thankful. If not for having to be here, I’d have to actually be preparing for my match. And usually that’s a treat; that’s my favorite part of any day. But I don’t know if I could sit through one, single promo more from Oblivion. You see, I’ve watched him in-ring. I’ve watched him since the day I got here because before Pantheon made their triumphant resurgence he was pointed to as a guy to watch out for. He’s a two time World Champion. He’s a TWO TIME WORLD CHAMPION. I apologize for repeating myself but it’s just one of those things I need to state out loud before I can fully come to terms with it. This fucking guy was once the absolute BEST the WCF had to offer. Now, I found this to be so unbelievable, such an incredulous fact that I thumbed my way back through the record books to check out those reigns and found them to last for an absolutely astounding...34 days! What a champion! What a legend!
What.
A.
Joke.
The second of those two reigns was all of six days, huh Big O? You’re barely a blip on the radar it turns out. You’re a simple pass-through. You’re an afterthought. But I at least have to commend you on consistently doing the J-O-B to real WCF legends. You can always hang onto that as your claim to fame. I mean, you’ve lost to Odin Balfore, FPV, Slickie T, Jeff Purse...And that’s just for the world title! I mean, if we looked at your full retard resume, it’d be a veritable Who’s Who the WCF! I mean, you’ve really lost to just about every goddamn person in that locker room! What a career! That’s how I know it, IT. That’s how I know that you’re not a Monster to be feared. That’s how I know that you’re just another man inside that ring. That’s how I know that you’re just another big, dumb fucking animal that won’t see the traps I set. Maybe you’re the biggest, nastiest animal in the forest but that’s all you’ll ever be: a fucking animal. I am man, I am evolved. I do not get into that ring without a game plan, without my battlelines meticulously drawn. I do not waste breath on idle threats of dismemberment and murder.
Ya know, he killed that Baron guy.
The Superstar’s shoot is interrupted by Don. Don is a rotund man with a long island accent, a thick mustache speckled with bits of cilantro, a plaid shirt tucked into his wranglers and a plate full of tacos.
Singh: Yeah I saw that. I was about to address that. But you felt the inexplicable need to interrupt me.
Don: Well I’m just saying. You’re saying them threats are idle. I’m sayin he made good on that Butcher. And he’s done it other times too.
Singh: Oh has he? Thanks so much for the fucking scouting report. I’ve actually never seen one of his matches.
Don: Really? Shouldn’t you be studying up on that guy?
Singh: YES I SHOULD BE. But instead I’m here, meeting and greeting with you peasants. And of course not really! I’ve seen plenty of his matches. The Butcher was only the last one to fit the bill of that psychopath actually being allowed to indulge himself on live television! What do you want? You want an autograph or something?
Don: Naw, not really. I’m more of a Doc Henry guy myself.
Singh: Of course you are.
Don: Or I like that new guy, Kid Krazzy. Anyways, I’m Don. Did you get any tacos? They’re good. Queso dip is good too. It’s like a warm cheese.
Singh: Oh is that what queso dip is? Thanks for the primer. And no, I’m somehow resisting the temptation of that titillating taco bar.
Don: Your loss.
Singh: I’m not counting avoiding diarrhea and/or food poisoning as a loss.
Don: Well ya know what they say: beans, beans, the music--
Singh: You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. This is my hell. I’m obviously being punished for something.
Don: Maybe it’s all your thievin.
Singh: Yeah, I’m sure that’s it. Oblivion kills a guy on camera and nothing happens but I get sent here as punishment for alleged “theft.” Thievin Steven is a moniker borne of a lie, Don. It’s a nickname born out a need for lesser men than myself to save face. Men like Oblivion and Doc Henry need to convince themselves that I somehow don’t deserve my success. It’s the only way they can wrap their tiny little brains around the fact that some new guy is about to shit in their lunch on his way up the ladder. Butcher was an idiot. He wanted to engage Oblivion in Oblivion’s world. He poked that bear. Like I said, as much as I’m going to EMBARRASS him this Sunday, Oblivion might still be the most dangerous animal out there. If some other lesser-minded loser wants to stand toe to toe with him like an animal then that’s fine. They’re going to lose. Unscheduled, unregulated, unadorned violence is Oblivion’s fucking playground. Butcher foolishly stepped onto that playground, got gutted, and then left for dead. Me? I’m not going to engage IT on his playground. So what if this is a TLC match? There are more moving parts and talented competitors to consider than O has had to deal with in months, maybe even years. You need to know your partner, your opponents, and the best way to achieve the actual objective. When the objective is simply to MAIM, then maybe I’ll tip my hat to the monster and be on my merry way. But there is so much more to what will be happening Sunday. Embrace your violence, you erroneously named “God of Enlightenment.” Go for the blood and the gore. I’ll be busy grabbing the fucking gold. You’ve got your head so far up Lilith’s gaping asshole, you’re not going to be ready for this match. Your little Bloodenstained Bears song and dance with her has you all kinds of worked up. I’m watching the supposed monster of the WCF tweeting on and on about some bear-obsessed nutcase? I mean, she bests you and your tag partner this past Sunday but you STILL obsess over her on the internet. She hasn’t suffered enough? Ha. Well I know I’ve suffered enough sitting through your fucking promos. And my loyal Stevenites have also suffered enough; having to hear me actually address you as though you’re any kind of a threat to my inevitable victory this Sunday. Obi, IT is all over. IT is going to get put out of ITs misery this Sunday. IT can at least take solace in the fact that when they look back through the history books, and your name is alongside Steven Singh’s first title victory in the WCF, you’ll have passed through the orbit of yet another WCF great.
A small crowd of thick-middled, middle-aged, white men has gathered to listen to The Superstar. A few them took photos on their phones they barely knew how to work. One guy legitimately snapped a photo with a disposable camera.
Don: That’s a lotta talk, Singh.
Singh: Yeah, Don. It’s what I get paid to do. I’m the Shakespeare of Shoot. First thing I do is TELL these fucklets exactly how and why I’m better than them. Then the next thing I do is SHOW them in the ring. And then after that sometimes I piss on the grave they dug for themselves all week by pretending they’re in my fucking league.
Don: I never cared much for Shakespeare.
Singh: You never cared much for Shakespeare? Of course not. That’s how you end up at a place like this at your age surrounded by other go-nowhere nancies.
A murmuring rises from the crowd; one man protests above the others
We ain’t no nancies! You’re the nancy, Thievin Steven! We thought we were getting a real wrestler coming here for this!
Singh: A real wrestler? A REAL wrestler? I’M THE REALEST GODDAMN WRESTLER IN THIS PLACE. My every move is measured and purposeful. Watch this Sunday as Don’s favorite abomination of a wrestler, Doc Henry
A few men now shout randomly back at The Superstar.
Doc the Cock! The Southern Rogue! Fuck ‘im Up Confederate Champ!
Oh I cannot wait for you simpletons to feast your eyes on what I do to your beloved Doc this weekend. You dimwits are cheering a so-called Southern Rogue who comes out to Dr. Feelgood by Motley Crue. No Lynyrd Skynyrd? No ZZ Top? Not even some Allman Brothers? No, you go with The Crue. Which is fine for a damn dirty Yank like myself and all your grubby-handed fans here before me. But you’re supposed to be a proud southern gentlemen and you don’t even step out from behind that curtain to a southern rock band? For shame, Doc Henry. But alas, I should be shocked by your lies and misrepresentation. Even if the WCF can’t rely on you anymore to show up week in and week out to put on a proper performance, we can always rely on you to lie and delude the masses about what you truly are. I saw you on social media this week referring to yourself a top five all time champion. A TOP FIVE ALL TIME CHAMPION?! In what fucking alternate universe is that the case? I mean, you’re barely a top five all time champion if you’re only counting The Confederate Championship: a belt you fucking invented out of thin air. Maybe I should create my own title to feel special too. Maybe after I pummel all these once-wases in MY tag team title match this weekend, I’ll declare myself a dual champion. Tag Team Champion and Reality Check Champion. Because that’s what I’m doing this weekend. I’m providing a harsh and unforgiving reality check for you two never-will-be-agains. You’ve got the stones to still peacock around that locker room like you matter while proving Sunday after Sunday that you’re not half the man you once were. Maybe whatever “gift” you had isn’t working the same as it once was. Could that be it, Doc the Crock? Maybe your god-given gifts just aren’t as dependable as they once were. It happens with age, don’t worry. You’ve been trouncing around that ring for a long time; your “gift” is bound to take a beating. I just feel bad for The First Lady of the South.
A few whistles and varying cat calls from the crowd.
Very classy, gentlemen. Anyways, I feel bad for poor Mary just like I feel bad for these diehard Henry marks here today. They’ve all gotten accustomed to a certain Doc, a certain set of gifts. But I see that your tank is running on E. I see that your juice is drying up. I see that you’re a shadow of the man who--even in his heyday--STILL fell short of that coveted world title. This is what happens, Crock. You drink, you smoke, you fuck, and you win. And that’s how it goes for a long time as you just coast off your god-given “gifts.” Then as you age, the toll of the matches is a little greater. It takes a little longer to recover, to recuperate. But still you drink and you smoke. You don’t respect yourself, your body. You don’t respect the gift you’ve been given. You’re a six foot, five inch, brawling bastard. Good for you. But your disrespect for the temple of your body is going to be punished by a man who eat, sleeps, and breathes success. By a man whose only concern is victory. A man who doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink, and only fucks your mother. ME, Doc.
Boos from the crowd. Singh smiles and stands up from his chair. He sets up one of the ladders behind him and climbs a few rungs before addressing the crowd and camera again.
Singh: What gentlemen, is this?
It’s a ladder you fuckin retard!
Singh: You color walls for a living, sir. Let’s be careful where we throw around these epithets. If my IQ indicates that I’m a “retard” I’m afraid you’d probably qualify as some type of plant life. And you’re wrong! It’s not a ladder! It’s Doc Henry! And Oblivion! And the entire match this Sunday! You see gentlemen, these artless, squabbling, reputation-riding, liverspotted, shameful shit kittens are my ladder. Despite the fact that I have done nothing but dominate thus far in the WCF, I know it’s not enough. I need to amass a collection of names--like so many scalps to be collected by a would-be champion--that I have put down and out of my misery. As tough as Bruno Armstrong may or may not have been, me ending his career means nothing because here, he was nothing. Me pounding the piss out of El Fuego or Jay West or whoever else is fruitless. It’s an exercise in futility and boredom; we all knew how those contests would end before they began. But this Sunday, with Doc and Oblivion, my true ascent begins. Thus begins my use of the ladder. There are still those foolish enough to believe that this particular match is not the same foregone conclusion, it is not the LOCK that my other contests have been. There are those that dare to imagine a world where Crock Henry and Faux-oblivion still matter. A world where they not only stand a chance this Sunday but where they’re the favorites. And THUS, due to the ignorance and naivete of these fools, you two are of great use to me. As a ladder. As a means for The Golden God to begin his climb to the place where fucking belongs: looking down across the landscape of the WCF to which he has laid waste.
This Sunday, you two will make a wonderful first rung on my ladder. Especially considering I’m going to use a ladder to bash your tiny little brains in before that. It’s tres apropos. Doc you’ve been running your whiskey-hole a lot this week already. It seems that while your partner is preoccupied with that human HPV Lilith, you’re obsessed with the main event. I can’t quite figure out if you’re scorned over being left off the “Team WCF” roster or if you truly feel that those in the match do a disservice to the name. Either way, it’s clear to me that your mind, your focus is not where it belongs. Your every waking thought should be filled with trying to find a way to tap into whatever it was that once-upon-a-time made you a name worth saying here. You should be trying to formulate some way to slow down my fucking rocket ship to the top. You should be poring over the output of the Picasso of Pontification in futile hopes to walk out the champion this Sunday. Instead you want to argue on the internet over should be representing “Team WCF.” Feel free, Crock. After I leave you facedown in the rubble of a table I just drove you through, I’ll make sure everybody knows that you’re a TRUE WCF representation. Maybe I’ll use one of the ladders to bust you wide open so everyone can see just how much you truly do BLEED WCF. You two will be a perfect start to my WCF ladder this Sunday.
Most of the union members have now surrounded The Superstar and meet the end of his speech with a chorus of boos. He hops down off the ladder and smirks. He checks his watch and is disappointed to see his obligated hour is not up.
So who wants a photo with the future tag champ?
The men murmur and angrily talk over each other in response. The Superstar chuckles.
Fine, waste your money. Where’d Don go? Donny boy, how much did your union have to shell out to get a WCF meet and greet anyways?
Don: Shell out? I don’t think we paid a dime.
A gruff voice comes from a tall man in the back.
Seth owes US cash! We did a paint job for him for one of his buddies over in Queens and is trying to tell us this makes us even. We at least thought he’d send somebody from the Brotherhood not your fancy boy ass…
Singh: Wait a second. I’m here because Lerch is trying to welsh on a bill?!
The crowd grumbles agreement.
Singh: No fucking way. I’m out of here. You mooks make sure to tune in Sunday to watch me pulverize your beloved Doc Henry and Oblivion!
This is the cardio Jerry had promised Steven Singh. The sounds of a basketball game fill the cavernous gym of a church. The sounds are mostly familiar; the ball dribbled off the floorboards, the rim clanging with a near miss, a friendly thud of a well-placed bankshot, men shouting over each other about defensive assignments and rotations. The visage of the basketball game is far less familiar; every single player is in a wheelchair. They fly up and down the court, most of their heads only five feet or so from the floor. They launch--and make--shots from their lower-than-usual positions. They set the ball in their lap between dribbles to push their chairs. They smash their chairs into one another, even tipping each over unintentionally and, perhaps, intentionally. You can smell the rubber from their tires as they recklessly tear up and down the court. Every hand pushing a wheel has either a callous or a blister depending on just how often they play. Off the court is another cluster of wheelchairs; they’re most of these men’s primary means of transportation. Jerry is mildly competent at the sport but the more regular players are very impressive; they’re smooth with the ball, consistent with their shots, and quick with their decisions. All the regular players have some disability or another keeping them from playing able-bodied basketball. So they use chairs to do the same. Most of them use chairs to get around on a daily basis as well. Chairs are literally their crutch; it’s the only means by which these men remain relevant and interactive with society.
Sitting with his head slightly above many of the other players is Steven Singh. He drips sweat, pushing his chair hard. He moves with great speed but he lacks control, which is not something he enjoys. Every time he is about to make a move or take a turn, a more seasoned player cuts him off, stops his movement. He gets passed the ball and can palm it easily and is quick to shoot from anywhere on the court. Accustomed to standard basketball, where he’d easily have been a college athlete were it his desire, he pulls the trigger quick and often. But he’s….bad. There’s no other real way to say it. He’s simply bad which is not something to which he’s at all accustomed. He turns the ball over. He leaves his shots short. He takes his hands off his wheels, losing his man on defense. The frustration paints his face between the streaks of the sweat. The fast break is on. His team presses the ball up court and he pushes hard, moving quickly with them. He looks back over his shoulder, calling for the ball, arm up. As he does, a full-bearded player with sculpted arms and a soft, pregnant belly cuts him off. Singh crashes hard into the stopped chair, flipping over forward. The ball goes over his head and out of bounds. The bearded paralyzed man rolls away; a few other players laugh. Singh unstraps himself from the chair and kicks it off of him.
Singh: Fuck this! Fuck this game! Fuck you, you bearded shitstain! And fuck you, Jerry!
The Superstar makes it back to his feet as more chuckles fill the air.
Yeah laugh it up you fucking cripples. I’d threaten to snap your necks but most of them are already broken.
Singh heads into the hallway and drinks from a water fountain. He sweats profusely.
Well. Jerry came through with the cardio. It seems I perpetually underestimate his ingenuity. But here we are. The countdown to Helloween continues. The countdown to the most important match of young career. The countdown to my the dawn of a Golden Era here in the WCF. This talk of Eras seems all the rage lately in the WCF. You’ve got Team WCF which has been dubbed the “new era” by both Pantheon and some of the old-hands who stayed on after the Mexico incident. Then you’ve got Pantheon, a group being called invaders and marauders while painting themselves as the true WCF. They paint themselves as saviors of a structure they claim is crumbling. And then there’s the last group who thus far remains heretofore unnamed. The group that makes up the majority of my opponents this Sunday: Henry, Oblivion, and Teddy Blaze are all among the men who stayed after the Mexico incident; let’s call them The Leftovers. They have histories with the members of PantheonKrew and now appear equally disappointed with much of the new era. I don’t blame them. Indeed, I don’t blame you, Teddy Blaze. I don’t want to be associated with this New Error of WCF stars. I came here due to the reputation of champions like Flash and Dune and Torture and Logan. Instead I was met with men like YOU and the rest of the Leftovers as the faces of the company. This travesty gave rise to the arrogance of so many of the New Error. The Leftovers’ failure, YOUR failure Teddy, to properly set the standards here breathed life into groups like Zero Tolerance. It filled men like Adrian Archer with the misconception that he could make it, that he could matter here. But I know otherwise. I know that the majority of the New Error don’t belong here. I know that Zero Talent don’t belong holding FOUR titles. So it’s an unfortunate trick of timing that I get lumped in with that group that you so hastily spat upon.
Your comments were made public--supposedly against your will--expressing your true cowardice in regards to Hellimination. Pantheon kicks the door to WCF in and declares it in need of cleansing, they declare it infected and in need of amputation in order to save it. And what did you do, Leftover? Where were you? You’re so proud of your status as one who stayed. So where is your pride then in the face of men spitting on something you stayed and helped to create. The mediocrity of those Leftovers, YOUR mediocrity Blaze, is what left room for the growth and proliferation of these rejects and reprobates that don’t belong in MY ring. And that’s right, I say MY ring. I say it over and over and over again. Because every time I step in between the ropes that’s what it becomes. It becomes mine. I’m not here to jockey for position in the annals of history or to argue over who stayed, left or came-lately. I am here to step inside that ring and prove my mettle at every fucking chance I get. And you, Teddy, king of the inconsistent, incompetent, incorrigible Leftovers, are my greatest opportunity to do that thus far.
Keep your specs on, Teo del Soul-less, because I need to make a few things perfectly clear to you, a few things I need you to really see prior to Sunday. The first is that Cliff and I are the future of the WCF. We are the only two who can reasonably lay claim to that title. Your time has come and gone but by the whims of Overlord Lerch you’re handed a Tag Title shot that was dubbed MINE three weeks ago. You’re all over the internet licking your chops at this opportunity. It’s something you’ve “had your eye on” since you joined? What kind of man sets his tiny-minded, petty little sights on the TAG titles? Your great aspiration was to depend on another man, to depend on a partner in order to garner gold? Or do you not mean what you say? Is it more accurate to depict the tag titles as simply part of your “grand slam checklist?” Another laugh, Sweaty Uncle Teddy. Even if you manage to make good on some future undeserved opportunity after I’ve gotten bored with running the division and capture the tag titles, you’d still need to win the big one. Sure, I can see you stumble fucking your way into the tag titles at some point in your here-one-week, silent-the-next little sham of a career but the big one? The WORLD title? I couldn’t see that if I were wearing your rose-colored goggles, Teddy Bland. So go ahead and forget about working towards the Grand Slam this Sunday because Denny’s is shut the fuck down.
Do even know how long I have to go back to find a proper promo from you? Do you even know how far back I have to go to find something of substance or quality? And I’m really stretching the definitions of “substance” and “quality” here, TB. I’m certainly not talking about your Internet fucking boondoggle. I mean, kudos to you on that. You’re king of the trolls. You’re the Champion of 4Chan. The Ruler of Reddit. The internet is where intellect goes to die. It’s where true thought gets truncated to 140 characters, six second video clips, or 100 frame little jiffs. Internet Champion. Heh. All hail the proud representative of pornography and misinformation! All hail the champion of those who spend their energy building up whatever is hot this week only to backlash against it the next only to THEN create a backlash to the backlash. These are your people, Blaze. The impotent 55 year old white male who sees his world changing and only barely-grasps how much he stands to lose so when he gets done with his barely-paying 9 to 5 he hits up the Yahoo Comments section to drop racial and homosexual epithets. I wouldn’t bother spending so much breath disparaging the patrons of the most pathetic corners of the internet but you wear their sash so proudly that it must be said. You peacock around with that strap on your shoulder like it means anything more than the fact that you’re the king of the fucking mongrel hordes. You’re the monkey in the room typing who finally managed to sputter out a few pages of Hamlet. I don’t deny that there’s a certain...poetry to what you do on the Internet, Theo. But Sunday? Sunday you do not face me on dial up or high speed, you do not face me on forums or in chat rooms, you are not aided by gifs or youtube clips or memes. You face a man who lives only in the real world. A man who lives ONLY for success inside that squared circle, not inside your idiot box.
Back to my question. Do you know how far back I have to go to find something of SUBSTANCE from you? August. Fucking August, Blaze. I refuse to count that half-promo you cut for the TV Title at War, a match you lost, by the way. The Television Title is another artificially regulated mockery of a title here. No, to see what the fearsome man with the red eyes is truly capable when completely unleashed, to see what he can do when not confined to certain promo time limits or a medium such as the godforsaken hellhole of the internet I had to go all the way back to August. I listened you prattle on about having beaten then-world champ Gemini Battle before accurately declaring your superiority to Doc Henry. Hmph. August. That sure is a long time, champ. It sure seems like you’re not the week-in-week-out rock upon which The People’s Title garnered its wrongfully-respected reputation. You’re not a man to show the jabrones of the WCF galaxy what happens when a man is “pushed too far.” You’re not the symbol you claim to be nor the symbol you once were. You’re the very thing you claim to hate. You’re just another self-serving narcissist, Tedward.
“Take my title. Take all my titles. I just don’t. Care. Anymore.”
Being the symbol of the Internet seems to have really bled deep into your very person, Blaze. That little rant was the stuff of a fourteen year old emo kid’s instagram suicide note before they make their first “attempt” at ending it all. Read: “pathetic cry for help and attention.” No worries Blaze, because I’m Dr. Fuckin Kevorkian, at your service. Remember, if you really mean it, if you really wanted to give it all up, you want to go upstream, not cross the river. Using the blade to cross the river is just a little cry for help from a little man whose little role in this big galaxy just keeps getting littler. And he just can’t. Care. anymore. Because he’s quickly realized that the with the return of BeachKrewtheon and the addition of men like yours truly, the WCF Galaxy just doesn’t. Care. Anymore. So instead of deal with his own fading importance, he retreats into the world of “Nope! I don’t care! Go ahead! We lose! Who cares! Not me! I certainly don’t care!” It’s fucking sad to watch a champion of the people fold his arms and push his bottom lip out like a fucking three year old. But that’s what the internet brings out, doesn’t it: the truth. It brings people’s truest selves to the forefront, that’s why it’s a such a hellhole. The majority of humanity is a bunch of pea brained shitbirds just looking for an excuse to bash each other over the head with one of the five hundred words in their lexicon. And your truest self, is the petulant, resentful little derelict you’ve shown us most recently.
It truly burns you that you went from pinning World Champ Gemini Battle--on more than one occasion--to being an afterthought entry into the tag title match. MY tag title match. But who knows what we’ll get from you this week. Maybe it won’t be the woe-is-me, I’m-just-waiting-on-the-burial little fuckchop we’ve all gotten so accustomed to. Maybe you’ll come out guns a-Teddy-Blazin. It certainly seems you might at least TRY to conjure that other guy up since your little grand slam checklist has you salivating all your narcissist self. I truly hope you do conjure him up, Blaze. Shit, bring the mask back out. Go ahead and enthrall us with more theatre of the mind. Bring that symbol of what all that’s good back so I can show you all that’s GOLD. I want a victory over the best version of Teddy Blaze possible, I don’t want to place a checkmark next to the hollowed out, husk of a could’ve-been that seems to be your current operating system, Champ.
Jerry hobbles into the hallway.
Jerry: Yo, you done playing, Supe?
Singh: Yeah, I think so.
Jerry yells back into the gym.
Jerry: Yeah guys, he’s done.
A few players chuckle from inside the gym. The Superstar shakes his head and leads the camera back into the gym, towards the dozen or so wheelchairs that sit empty as the players go 4 on 4.
Take a look at these chairs, Teo. These are the only way these would-be men get around this world. Without these chairs, these guys can’t do so much as get out of bed to take a shit. They’re completely and fully dependent upon these apparatuses to interact with the rest of the world, to remain any semblance of relevance to society. It’s unfortunate that, for most of them, nobody has told them the truth: they are completely irrelevant to society now. They’ve become nothing more than a hindrance, dead weight for the rest of us to lug around. They barely work and scarcely contribute. If they can be depended on one week, they’re MIA the next. Even with these tools, even with these chairs they’re weak, useless, vacuous voids where men once were. Just like you, Theodore. Your crutch, your last gasps at relevance and relatability has taken various forms. You’ve donned the mask so that you could become a “symbol” to all the good people of the WCF Galaxy. You needed that mask to hide behind because the unmasked man before me now knows the truth: you’re not enough. You’ve never been enough, you never will be enough. Now your new crutch is even more enabling. Your new crutch is the internet itself, really just another mask. It’s something else for you to hide behind; you convince yourself in short bursts to exude confidence. You can hunch over your keyboard and giggle through your own photoshops, distracting you from your long-form failures. Distracting you from the fact that we’re here to do two things: PROMO and WRESTLE. Even though you’ve had some flashes of skill inside that ring, your gift of gab has been thoroughly rescinded. You’re boring, simple, and repetitious. Use whatever crutches you need this Sunday, Teo del Soulless. Because when I wrap a different kind of chair around your knee a dozen times, you might be leaving in one of these chairs. You’re going to regret accepting this convenient little handout this Sunday and wish you were battling on the internet like you’ve become so accustomed to because the only time u and I belong next to each is on a fucking keyboard.
The ball bounces out of bounds, towards where the Superstar and Jerry are standing amongst all the wheelchairs. Singh simply kicks the ball hard and it goes flying out into the hallway. The paralyzed player with the beard pipes up.
Beard: You’re some kinda goddamn pussy you know that?
Singh: Excuse you?
Beard: You heard me, pussy.
The player rolls over towards Singh who smiles at the aggressive bearded man in the wheelchair.
Beard: You act smug as hell when you show up, we whoop your ass up and down the court, I flip your nancy-boy looking ass over and then you quit. Like.a.pussy.
Jerry: Hey Chad just chil--
The Superstar puts a hand up to shush Jerry before addressing Chad, the bearded man.
Singh: Are you fucking cognitively disabled too? You’re going to roll over here and call me a pussy? Because I kicked your widdle baww down da hawway?
Chad: No, I’m calling you a pussy because you belong between your mama’s legs and not out here with men. I can’t wait to watch you get your shit pushed in this Sunday by those other four guys. They’re going to pound the living shit out of your pussy ass.
The Superstar throws his head back, laughs and turns partially away from Chad. He then suddenly turns back to him, and grabs the man’s right wheel. Singh lifts the man up onto his left wheel, pushes the button in the center the spokes and yanks the wheel off. Chad hits the ground hard.
Chad: What the fuck?!
Without answering, Singh throws his wheel on the ground and begins stomping it until the rim is wavy and the tire is slipping off. Chad has rolled himself over onto his back, and the rest of the players have rolled over to the scuffle. Singh whips the loose wheel at the crowd, bouncing it off one of their legs and into another face, who got his hands up in time. They’re all yelling at Singh now.
Jerry: Yo, we should go, Supe…
Singh: Gimme your knife, Jerry.
Jerry: My knife?! Shit man, you’re not stabbing--
The Superstar grabs Jerry by the shirt.
Singh: YOUR FUCKING KNIFE JERRY!
Jerry hands the Singh his fairly small, tactical switchblade. The crowd quiets and stops approaching, unsure what Singh is going to do. He looks around at their faces, including Chad who has unbuckled himself from his chair and is sitting on the floor.
Singh: If you weren’t a floor-dwelling little cunt of a cripple I’d soccer kick your teeth down your throat right now, boy.
Chad: Big surprise. Pussy doesn’t have the stones to do it.
Singh takes a step towards the man on the floor with the knife in hand. The man immediately winces and Superstar stops. He lets out a frustrated roar and turns back towards the sea of other wheelchairs that the men use in their daily lives. He begins indiscriminately tearing into the tires with Jerry’s knife. The tires pop and wheeze to their individual deaths as Singh quickly works through the lot of them, kicking them over as he goes, making sure to knife at least one tire of each. Singh tosses the knife back to Jerry, walks past Chad who’s still sitting on the ground. Superstar casually presses his shoulder with his foot as he walks by, causing Chad to fall flat on his back. Superstar walks out, Jerry limping behind him. The sea of chairs, of crutches, suddenly impaired. Thanks to Singh these men who were dependent on things to stay relevant, to stay connected to society were no longer any of those things. They’d have done better to just stay home that day, Teddy.
A bench in Washington Square, New York City. Erica Baringer, flippantly referred to as “Assistant” by her employer Steven Singh sits on a bench, bundled for autumn. Long, blue peacoat falls past her knees where she rests her ever-present laptop. She pulls down her scarf and sips her pumpkin spice latte from Starbucks--truly, the most basic of bitches. She breaks from studying anthropology to check her WCF email. Wise beyond her co-ed years, she gave Singh an email separate from her personal. Foolish in her youth, she gave him her actual phone number. She had received her normal flurry of post-Slam texts.
You see this shit? Lerch thinks he’s cute, adding that little bonus for whoever gets the pinfall. You couldn’t cause friction with sandpaper, you shitbrick.
Cliff looked pretty freakin’ good tonight, didn’t he? I don’t hear you mentioning Odin Balfore now.
Well now what the hell. TommyBoy can’t even walk after those clowns pummeled him. There’s no way he can make it to Helloween. And I’ve been prepping for him for three weeks already. Bullshit.
She had her normal post-Slam-text-flurry afterthoughts.
Why won’t he just use twitter? These are all tweets. Twitter was created for lonely men with no one to text their constant ramblings to. I mean, he’s essentially paying me to read these, he could be getting ignored for free on twitter.
She sifts through a few WCF emails and then reads two different recaps of the Slam, hoping the reviewers actually covered everything. Her phone rings; the caller is identified as “Asshole.”
Shit. Need to change that before he sees it.
She answers the phone.
Erica: Hello, Superstar.
Singh: Assistant! Did you get my texts? Did you watch Slam? Did you clear my schedule for this week so I can focus on the title shot?
I’m doing great. Thanks for asking.
Erica: Yes I got them. Yes I watched Slam. And you know there are certain things I can’t clear off your schedule.
Singh: Ugh. Sometimes I don’t know what you actually CAN do for me. What awful slog are you putting me through this week?
Erica: You know I’m not the one putting you through these things. The only appointments I can’t cancel are contractually obligated by the WCF.
Singh: Yeah, yeah Assistant, never take responsibility for your failures. That’s fine. What is it this week?
Erica: Tuesday night you have a meet and greet.
Singh: Another bunch of disgusting little cesspool of germs and disease?
Erica: No, I doubt there are going to be any kids, It’s a professional organization of--
Singh: Don’t care. Just send me the address and time and I’ll give them the requisite hours of my invaluable time.
Erica: Don’t you mean valuable?
Singh: Are you kidding me right now? Aren’t you in college? Invaluable. As in, of great value. Even priceless. I understand it might be counter-intuitive but it’s just like inflammable.
Erica: Like fireproof?
Singh: Lord give me strength. No. Just nevermind. You’re getting an Oxford English Dictionary as a Christmas bonus. Congratulations. Which is a word one uses when they wish to express their happiness for another’s accomplishments. Now I need you to find me the location of the best Poke bowl in my area. I need to eat before I make my triumphant return stateside. Despite all your myriad failings, you usually provide very reasonable restaurant recommendations. I’m not exactly sure you do it, but you always seem to come through. So please, proceed.
She opens a new browser tab, goes to google maps and enters his location. She clicks “Nearby” and then types in Poke Bowl. The map is littered with options. She quickly and almost randomly picks one out near his hotel and then sends the location to his phone. This is her great and mysterious method of recommending restaurants.
Erica: There. I just sent you the location. And I’ll email you the information on your meet and greet. Anything else?
Singh: Yeah, reply to my texts. It’s not twitter; I’m not typing those for my own amusement. I’m texting my Assistant important information. Got it?
Erica: Yeah. Have a good week, Superstar.
Singh: Don’t worry, you’ll hear from me before the week’s out.
Steven Singh ends the phone call.
Oh thank God.
She sighs audibly, closes the laptop and shoves it into her oversized purse.
~~~TABLE$~~~
Monday October 24th. 6:14 HADTThe Honolulu KingFish restaurant is all but empty. There are two elderly tourists happily tossing back their brightly colored rum concoctions. Their white, dusty chortles bellowed through the empty restaurant. There was empty table after empty table; each with its own, entirely unused formal setting and white table cloth. The host excited calls to a patron entering the front door.
Host: Hello and welcome!
With luggage in tow, The Superstar approaches the host stand and peers past the maitre d, into the gaping cave of sadness that is this dying business. He checks his watch, sighs and addresses the host.
Singh: How long is the wait?
Host: Huh?
Singh: Nevermind. It’s just me for dinner, let’s go.
Host: Of course, sir. Follow me.
The maitre d’ grabs a menu and leads The Superstar to a table about ten feet from the two men at the bar--the only two people in the entire restaurant.
Singh: You’re fucking kidding me right? What is it with you people? Why do restaurants always do this? Do you think I actually want to be near these mouth-breathing alcoholics? This entire place is a ghost town and you’re going to put me nearly on top of these fuckchops?
Host: Oh--er...My apologies, sir. Where would you prefer to sit?
Singh: ANYWHERE else. Literally anywhere else in this entire goddamn restaurant. This is not that hard.
The host walks him to the other side of the restaurant, sets the menu down and begins to pull out the chair.
Singh: Alright, we’re fine here. Scram.
The Superstar turns to face the camera.
Salutations, WCF. Is everyone excited for Helloween? Are you excited to watch Pantheon steamroll over the leftover scraps you wouldn’t feed your dog calling themselves ‘Team WCF?’ How about that World Title match where Corey Black beats all the hell out of two guys he always beats the hell out of? No? No one cares about any of it? Because it’s all a foregone conclusion? It’s the same trash-for-ratings bullshit that the WCF fans have become accustomed to? Of course. Well normally I’d implore you tune into MY match to bear witness to some ACTUAL wrestling, to see a true technician in action, to watch the poetry of violence I write every week. Unfortunately, Seth Lerch has seen fit to replace the such a serene scene with the WCF trademark of big time violence and gimmick matches over any sort of fucking substance. Just big shocks and over-reaches instead of actual quality booking and allowing WRESTLERS to WRESTLE. The blood-thirsty, backwoods hordes smack their lips and wring their hands in anticipation of the lowest brow of entertainment possible and Lerch is all too happy to oblige. No matter that we’ve been leading up to a Tag Team Title match with Tomahawk and Captain WCF for THREE weeks now. No matter that if a competitor is unable to perform his duties as champion, his title should be VACATED. No matter that a six man clusterfuck like this is apropo of absolutely nothing. Well this Sunday, as it’s been for me every Sunday since I stepped foot in the WCF, it’s going to be my mind over all that ‘no matter.’ Keep doing whatever you can to keep those titles out of my hands, Lerch. You want the title to stay around the waist of your beloved Captain WCF; I’m sure that illiterate ignoramus moves plenty of merchandise for the kids. It’s in your best financial interests to keep that strap on him. And you obviously have no interest in two barely-known rooks coming up and collecting the tag team titles. So you try to drive a wedge between us with that little $25,000 bonus? Heh. Good effort Lerch but you couldn’t drive a wedge if it came with a steering wheel. I am not a man who is distracted from his goals. I set my sights and I do not move them until the target is mine. My current target: the tag team titles. Add whatever stipulations you want. Nothing is keeping me from my goal. Not you, not any crude stipulations, not any of those other four bush pigs you’re throwing to their slaughter. Nothing.
As The Superstar finishes speaking, the waiter approaches, begins filling his empty water glass, and greets him.
Server: Hello and welco--
Singh: Just water, thanks. And leave the carafe, it’ll be easier on the both of us. I’ll have whatever your best poke bowl is.
Server: Unfortunately sir, we’ve recently changed menus and the Poke Bowls are no longer available.
Singh: God dammit, Assistant.
Server: We do have a wide variety of sushi if you’d like to have a look at your men--
Singh: Wait a second. You have a “wide variety of sushi” but no poke bowls? Isn’t it essentially the same damn thing?
Server: Well no, the preparation for a--
Singh: Yeah, I understand that they’re prepared differently. But it’s raw fish, rice, sesame seeds, seaweed and whatever else isn’t it?
Server: Yes sir but our menu ha--
Singh: Yes, your menu changed. I understand that. Did the language you fucking speak change? Did your chef suddenly become entirely incapable of putting those same ingredients in a goddamn bowl? I mean, theoretically, it should be easier than preparing sushi. Shouldn’t it?
Server: Well I’m not really sure but unfortunately we ca--
Singh slams his hand down on the table; the water glass jumps, splashing just a spit of its contents out of the glass.
Singh: Good God! Fine. Whatever. Bring me four pieces of sashimi and three maki rolls. Chef's choice. And that does NOT mean whatever is about to go bad. If you bring me some rank-smelling fish, you’re going to eat this tablecloth. Now go.
The server scurries off, wondering where to best spit in sushi as not to make it terribly obvious.
O Captain! The Captain! your fearful trip is done,
Your partner has been crippled and thus ends your fun.
Your end is near, I am here, Stevenites all exulting,
Now lend your ears and take a knee, as I do my insulting.
You know, Cap, there was actually a time where I resented you. Can you even believe that? A man like ME, wasted the energy resenting a man like YOU. But I resented you, Captain. I resented your savant-like ability to be in the right place at the right time. I resented that you stumbled over your words and your feet, somehow dumb lucking your way into the titles and then into successful defense after successful defense. I’ve watched match after match of yours and it always looks to me like your pudgy ass was being carried to victory by He Who Tells Tales Already Told. I resented the fact that you had gold around your waist, that you supposedly represented some of the best this place has to offer. I came here to stare across the ring with the best the wrestling industry has to offer. I didn’t bumble into a contract by “a series of miscommunications.” I am here for the purpose of proving that I am again an ELITE member of this industry. Your only purpose here is as a placeholder; you’re a tattered and rickety bridge between the last era and the Golden Era forthcoming. Your partner was double-teamed into the fucking retirement community by two no-class clowns and where were you, Cap? You were nowhere to be found. You deserted him. After month upon month of carrying your dead weight through title defenses, you left him to that pack of hyenas and now he’s been reduced to no more than a pile of flesh. We’ll never see him again here because he finally buckled under the pressure of lugging your fat, talentless carcass through match after match. Well good for him for finally ridding himself of the dead weight one or another. This Sunday at Helloween, I rid the WCF Title picture of your dead weight. I claim my FIRST gold here in the WCF. And I make it crystal goddamn clear that you don’t--nor did you ever--deserve being called a champion here.
The server returns with The Superstar’s four pieces of sashimi along with a bowl of miso soup.
Server: Here you are, sir. And the soup is on the house.
Singh: You can just take it back.
Server: I’ll just leave it here in case you--
Singh: Take it to the back. You definitely spit in it. So just take it back there and dump it out. I’m not going to eat it.
The server sighs and picks the miso soup back up. He carries the loogie-laden bowl back to the kitchen but The Superstar calls him back. Annoyed, he pivots back to the table.
Singh: Is this wasabi?
Server: Yes sir.
Singh: I mean actual wasabi. Is it real wasabi or is it horseradish dyed to look like wasabi?
Server: I’m fairly certain it’s wasabi?
The Superstar pokes a chopstick into the little green mound on his plate and tastes it.
Singh: It’s definitely horseradish, you cheap bastards. Alright, thanks for nothing, scram.
This is you, right here Cap. In so-called sushi restaurants across the nation you’re brought a side of “wasabi.” It’s almost always a green, dusty little mound right next to some ginger shavings. The thing is, it’s almost always horseradish. Wasabi is a much rarer, more expensive plant than horseradish so it’s usually secretly subbed out for food-dyed horseradish. And, of course, the public just eats it up. You’re the wasabi, Cap. You’re a fraud, an imposter. You’re a child playing dress up. You’re being served to the undiscerning masses and they’re smiling and shoveling the unappetizing SHIT of your career right up. It’s sad but the mongrel hordes truly don’t know any better. They’re told that pile of green garbage is wasabi so they shrug and shove it down their gullet. They’re told that you’re an actual WCF Tag Team Champion so they shrug and shove it down their gullet. You’re a simple side dish, an afterthought of the actual presentation but you’re accepted by virtue of your mere presence and persistence. You’re bland and inoffensive so the world shrugs and buys their idiot child a Banzai! T-shirt to go with their Tag Title shield. But now that your partner--the equally bland and useless ginger--has been wiped clean from the plate the whole world is suddenly looking at you with a feeling of unease. They’ve finally begun to see you for the sore thumb you are. When somebody with the gravitas, the talent and the passions of The Golden God steps up to the call BULLSHIT on your whole facade the entire world squints a little harder and goes, “Is that...is that just horseradish?”
Server: Is the sashimi to your liking, sir?
Singh: You can look at the plate and see I haven’t tried it yet. Why do servers pull this shit? Use your eyes.
The server turns to walk away but The Superstar holds up a finger and pops a piece of sashimi into his mouth with the chopsticks. He closes his eyes and chews slowly.
Singh: Fucking Assistant….
The server bristles a bit, ready to be scolded again.
Singh: You've done it again! Luckily for your incompetent ass, my Assistant at least seems to know how to recommend a restaurant; this sushi is delicious.
Server: I’m glad to hear it’s to your liking, sir.
Singh: No, you’re not. You don’t give a shit. Here.
The Superstar hands the server a hundred dollar bill.
Singh: That’s the first part of your tip. I need you to go to the back, throw away whatever pieces of sushi you had the kitchen shove down their pants or whatever you’ve done and make sure I get uncontaminated fish please.
Server: Sir, I would nev--
Singh: Listen, I’m an asshole. I get it. I’ve had your job. It’s shit. And the only power you have is exercised back there in the kitchen behind the closed doors. I understand that. Hence, I’m handing you one hundred dollars now and at least that much at the end in good faith that you won’t abuse the power you have over me just because I’m an asshole.
The server looks at the bill in his hand and tilts his head at Superstar, unsure what to make of his request. The server grabs a plate and chopsticks off a nearby table and removes one of the pieces of sashimi from The Superstar’s plate. Singh smiles and nods at him. The server scurries off again. The Superstar eats another piece of the sashimi.
Singh: Look around, Captain. Look at all these lovely, empty tables. They’re all perfect, orderly blank slates waiting for someone to fill them with life. The tables just wait for someone with appropriate laughter and love and passion to fill them, to breathe joy into them, to make them finally whole. The Tag Team Championships, as far as I’m concerned, are as blank as these tables. You’ve done nothing for them and with yelling “Geronimooooo!” as he limps off your sinking ship, you’re all alone. You do not have the personality, you do not have the intelligence, you do not have the SKILL to set the table, Cap. You’re ten pounds of sausage stuffed into a 5 pound casing. Tell me what you’ve brought to the table thus far. Tell me what you’ve done to better the division. Tell me your greatest accomplishment. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. You were seated at the table--the beautiful blank slate of a tag team division--and did NOTHING to fill it. Your cold, stale, lifeless promos and bargain-basement wrestling skills sucked whatever minute amount of life the division had in it prior. But fear not. Since it was clear that our mutual host Lerch was never going to invite me to the table, I went ahead and made my own goddamn reservation. And now I’m going to kick the whole fucking thing over and watch the glass shatter and dinnerware clatter to the floor. I’m going to show you and the entire WCF what a champion is supposed to look like; how one should carry himself. And I’m going to show you what The Sure Thing brings to pay per view title matches. Last month everybody “ooooohed” and “ahhhhed” as I racked up pin after pin in War. This month it’s not going to be a surprise when I hoist up your doughy-ass and drive you neck-first through a table with a Supernova. I’m not just going to bring passion and life and the joy of an actual wrestler to the table this Sunday, I’m going to drive you other midcard mulkies right through the goddamn things before I claim my first prize here in the WCF.
The Superstar eats his last piece of sashimi just as the server brings out his maki rolls. The two exchange a genuine smile and nod, the server no longer putting on his usual airs. Money can both create pomp and circumstance as well as cut right through it. Singh contentedly finishes the rolls, confident that they’re unfucked with. The server comes back out, drops the check off, and begins clearing the table.
Singh: Thanks.
Server: No problem, man. Thanks for the tip. And I really usually don’t tamper with the food, I was just having such a shit day and--
Singh: Hey! Never apologize for exercising whatever power you can. Everybody does it and your position leaves you with fewer options. Like I said, I’ve been there. It sucks. I’m just glad we could come to a mutual understanding.
Sever: Me too. Thanks again.
The server disappears back into the kitchen as Steven eyes the bill. $94.07. Overpriced by a bit maybe but he was truly content with the quality of the food. The Superstar leaves the leather folder with the bill inside empty on the table. He walks past maitre d’ who’d been in and out of the dining room keeping himself busy through the night.
Host: Have a great night, sir.
Singh: I absolutely will. Make sure to tell my server that the change is his to keep.
Host: Of course sir. Aloha.
~~~~~LADDERS~~~~~
Tuesday October 25th. 1:00 pm ESTA union hall. The building is old, musty, and usually empty. Unions aren’t the same powerhouses they once were. At least in New York, a mecca for liberals who still believe in the ideas of Unions, they still held some power, some sway. This building, though, was generally unimpressive save for its paint. The paint job appeared fresh as a newborn and was as near perfection as human hands can get. There was no overspray, no stray drips, no uneven strokes or unwanted textures on the walls. It could even be described as impressive if one were to actually be impressed by something as pedestrian as flat paint on an interior wall. The men milling about the space today, of course, were impressed. This was the IUPAT; the International Union of Paints and Allied Trades. As they did at every meeting, the men would eye the paint job closely for flaws and imperfections, pointing out the usually-imagined shortcomings to each other. They’d even discuss what order they think the walls were painted in or what brand paint was used. They’d smell the walls, claiming they could tell by that. These boring old fucks really actually enjoyed watching paint dry. Today they were congregating around a few tables pushed together which housed the finest taco bar one can barter for by promising a free interior paint job to the owner of a nearby Taqueria. As the the crowd of primarily middle-aged white men got cheap chorizo in their mustaches a wildly out-of-place Superstar Steven Singh sat at a table across the room, currently on his phone. He wore a double breasted suit likely more expensive than most of these men’s entire wardrobe. He texted with Jerry: one-legged veteran, low-level drug dealer, and current head bitch in charge of The Superstar’s social media accounts.
You’re supposed to be representing my brand on social media and you’re letting Blaze and Doc flap their gums about how they’re going to be tag champs.
Sorry, Supe. It’s been hella busy on my end. Business is booming!
I don’t care, Jerry. Don’t let those mooks besmirch my name all week while you stay silent. Now did you figure out some cardio for tomorrow?
Yeah, we’re on. I’m pumped to play basketball with the future tag team champion of the WCF!
The Superstar didn’t exactly stop to consider what type of “cardio” he could possibly get from playing basketball with a one-legged man but that wasn’t on the forefront of his mind at the moment. The forefront of his mind was currently occupied with his mental countdown of how much longer he’s obliged to be at this WCF-mandated meet and greet. 40 minutes left in his hour obligation. The Superstar leans back in his steel folding chair and rolls his neck. It pops over his right shoulder as it always does. Behind Singh is a myriad of ladders. Piled one on top of the other, clearly a depot for the members to stash theirs or borrow one as needed. 6 foot ladders, 8 foot ladders, 10, 15, wooden, steel, extension ladders, step ladders, platform ladders. They were all there just laying in a pile behind him, uncared for and most of them nearly forgotten.
Well here I am, WCF. Fulfilling yet another godforsaken obligation of this fucking slave-contract I’m on. I guess I should be thankful. If not for having to be here, I’d have to actually be preparing for my match. And usually that’s a treat; that’s my favorite part of any day. But I don’t know if I could sit through one, single promo more from Oblivion. You see, I’ve watched him in-ring. I’ve watched him since the day I got here because before Pantheon made their triumphant resurgence he was pointed to as a guy to watch out for. He’s a two time World Champion. He’s a TWO TIME WORLD CHAMPION. I apologize for repeating myself but it’s just one of those things I need to state out loud before I can fully come to terms with it. This fucking guy was once the absolute BEST the WCF had to offer. Now, I found this to be so unbelievable, such an incredulous fact that I thumbed my way back through the record books to check out those reigns and found them to last for an absolutely astounding...34 days! What a champion! What a legend!
What.
A.
Joke.
The second of those two reigns was all of six days, huh Big O? You’re barely a blip on the radar it turns out. You’re a simple pass-through. You’re an afterthought. But I at least have to commend you on consistently doing the J-O-B to real WCF legends. You can always hang onto that as your claim to fame. I mean, you’ve lost to Odin Balfore, FPV, Slickie T, Jeff Purse...And that’s just for the world title! I mean, if we looked at your full retard resume, it’d be a veritable Who’s Who the WCF! I mean, you’ve really lost to just about every goddamn person in that locker room! What a career! That’s how I know it, IT. That’s how I know that you’re not a Monster to be feared. That’s how I know that you’re just another man inside that ring. That’s how I know that you’re just another big, dumb fucking animal that won’t see the traps I set. Maybe you’re the biggest, nastiest animal in the forest but that’s all you’ll ever be: a fucking animal. I am man, I am evolved. I do not get into that ring without a game plan, without my battlelines meticulously drawn. I do not waste breath on idle threats of dismemberment and murder.
Ya know, he killed that Baron guy.
The Superstar’s shoot is interrupted by Don. Don is a rotund man with a long island accent, a thick mustache speckled with bits of cilantro, a plaid shirt tucked into his wranglers and a plate full of tacos.
Singh: Yeah I saw that. I was about to address that. But you felt the inexplicable need to interrupt me.
Don: Well I’m just saying. You’re saying them threats are idle. I’m sayin he made good on that Butcher. And he’s done it other times too.
Singh: Oh has he? Thanks so much for the fucking scouting report. I’ve actually never seen one of his matches.
Don: Really? Shouldn’t you be studying up on that guy?
Singh: YES I SHOULD BE. But instead I’m here, meeting and greeting with you peasants. And of course not really! I’ve seen plenty of his matches. The Butcher was only the last one to fit the bill of that psychopath actually being allowed to indulge himself on live television! What do you want? You want an autograph or something?
Don: Naw, not really. I’m more of a Doc Henry guy myself.
Singh: Of course you are.
Don: Or I like that new guy, Kid Krazzy. Anyways, I’m Don. Did you get any tacos? They’re good. Queso dip is good too. It’s like a warm cheese.
Singh: Oh is that what queso dip is? Thanks for the primer. And no, I’m somehow resisting the temptation of that titillating taco bar.
Don: Your loss.
Singh: I’m not counting avoiding diarrhea and/or food poisoning as a loss.
Don: Well ya know what they say: beans, beans, the music--
Singh: You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. This is my hell. I’m obviously being punished for something.
Don: Maybe it’s all your thievin.
Singh: Yeah, I’m sure that’s it. Oblivion kills a guy on camera and nothing happens but I get sent here as punishment for alleged “theft.” Thievin Steven is a moniker borne of a lie, Don. It’s a nickname born out a need for lesser men than myself to save face. Men like Oblivion and Doc Henry need to convince themselves that I somehow don’t deserve my success. It’s the only way they can wrap their tiny little brains around the fact that some new guy is about to shit in their lunch on his way up the ladder. Butcher was an idiot. He wanted to engage Oblivion in Oblivion’s world. He poked that bear. Like I said, as much as I’m going to EMBARRASS him this Sunday, Oblivion might still be the most dangerous animal out there. If some other lesser-minded loser wants to stand toe to toe with him like an animal then that’s fine. They’re going to lose. Unscheduled, unregulated, unadorned violence is Oblivion’s fucking playground. Butcher foolishly stepped onto that playground, got gutted, and then left for dead. Me? I’m not going to engage IT on his playground. So what if this is a TLC match? There are more moving parts and talented competitors to consider than O has had to deal with in months, maybe even years. You need to know your partner, your opponents, and the best way to achieve the actual objective. When the objective is simply to MAIM, then maybe I’ll tip my hat to the monster and be on my merry way. But there is so much more to what will be happening Sunday. Embrace your violence, you erroneously named “God of Enlightenment.” Go for the blood and the gore. I’ll be busy grabbing the fucking gold. You’ve got your head so far up Lilith’s gaping asshole, you’re not going to be ready for this match. Your little Bloodenstained Bears song and dance with her has you all kinds of worked up. I’m watching the supposed monster of the WCF tweeting on and on about some bear-obsessed nutcase? I mean, she bests you and your tag partner this past Sunday but you STILL obsess over her on the internet. She hasn’t suffered enough? Ha. Well I know I’ve suffered enough sitting through your fucking promos. And my loyal Stevenites have also suffered enough; having to hear me actually address you as though you’re any kind of a threat to my inevitable victory this Sunday. Obi, IT is all over. IT is going to get put out of ITs misery this Sunday. IT can at least take solace in the fact that when they look back through the history books, and your name is alongside Steven Singh’s first title victory in the WCF, you’ll have passed through the orbit of yet another WCF great.
A small crowd of thick-middled, middle-aged, white men has gathered to listen to The Superstar. A few them took photos on their phones they barely knew how to work. One guy legitimately snapped a photo with a disposable camera.
Don: That’s a lotta talk, Singh.
Singh: Yeah, Don. It’s what I get paid to do. I’m the Shakespeare of Shoot. First thing I do is TELL these fucklets exactly how and why I’m better than them. Then the next thing I do is SHOW them in the ring. And then after that sometimes I piss on the grave they dug for themselves all week by pretending they’re in my fucking league.
Don: I never cared much for Shakespeare.
Singh: You never cared much for Shakespeare? Of course not. That’s how you end up at a place like this at your age surrounded by other go-nowhere nancies.
A murmuring rises from the crowd; one man protests above the others
We ain’t no nancies! You’re the nancy, Thievin Steven! We thought we were getting a real wrestler coming here for this!
Singh: A real wrestler? A REAL wrestler? I’M THE REALEST GODDAMN WRESTLER IN THIS PLACE. My every move is measured and purposeful. Watch this Sunday as Don’s favorite abomination of a wrestler, Doc Henry
A few men now shout randomly back at The Superstar.
Doc the Cock! The Southern Rogue! Fuck ‘im Up Confederate Champ!
Oh I cannot wait for you simpletons to feast your eyes on what I do to your beloved Doc this weekend. You dimwits are cheering a so-called Southern Rogue who comes out to Dr. Feelgood by Motley Crue. No Lynyrd Skynyrd? No ZZ Top? Not even some Allman Brothers? No, you go with The Crue. Which is fine for a damn dirty Yank like myself and all your grubby-handed fans here before me. But you’re supposed to be a proud southern gentlemen and you don’t even step out from behind that curtain to a southern rock band? For shame, Doc Henry. But alas, I should be shocked by your lies and misrepresentation. Even if the WCF can’t rely on you anymore to show up week in and week out to put on a proper performance, we can always rely on you to lie and delude the masses about what you truly are. I saw you on social media this week referring to yourself a top five all time champion. A TOP FIVE ALL TIME CHAMPION?! In what fucking alternate universe is that the case? I mean, you’re barely a top five all time champion if you’re only counting The Confederate Championship: a belt you fucking invented out of thin air. Maybe I should create my own title to feel special too. Maybe after I pummel all these once-wases in MY tag team title match this weekend, I’ll declare myself a dual champion. Tag Team Champion and Reality Check Champion. Because that’s what I’m doing this weekend. I’m providing a harsh and unforgiving reality check for you two never-will-be-agains. You’ve got the stones to still peacock around that locker room like you matter while proving Sunday after Sunday that you’re not half the man you once were. Maybe whatever “gift” you had isn’t working the same as it once was. Could that be it, Doc the Crock? Maybe your god-given gifts just aren’t as dependable as they once were. It happens with age, don’t worry. You’ve been trouncing around that ring for a long time; your “gift” is bound to take a beating. I just feel bad for The First Lady of the South.
A few whistles and varying cat calls from the crowd.
Very classy, gentlemen. Anyways, I feel bad for poor Mary just like I feel bad for these diehard Henry marks here today. They’ve all gotten accustomed to a certain Doc, a certain set of gifts. But I see that your tank is running on E. I see that your juice is drying up. I see that you’re a shadow of the man who--even in his heyday--STILL fell short of that coveted world title. This is what happens, Crock. You drink, you smoke, you fuck, and you win. And that’s how it goes for a long time as you just coast off your god-given “gifts.” Then as you age, the toll of the matches is a little greater. It takes a little longer to recover, to recuperate. But still you drink and you smoke. You don’t respect yourself, your body. You don’t respect the gift you’ve been given. You’re a six foot, five inch, brawling bastard. Good for you. But your disrespect for the temple of your body is going to be punished by a man who eat, sleeps, and breathes success. By a man whose only concern is victory. A man who doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink, and only fucks your mother. ME, Doc.
Boos from the crowd. Singh smiles and stands up from his chair. He sets up one of the ladders behind him and climbs a few rungs before addressing the crowd and camera again.
Singh: What gentlemen, is this?
It’s a ladder you fuckin retard!
Singh: You color walls for a living, sir. Let’s be careful where we throw around these epithets. If my IQ indicates that I’m a “retard” I’m afraid you’d probably qualify as some type of plant life. And you’re wrong! It’s not a ladder! It’s Doc Henry! And Oblivion! And the entire match this Sunday! You see gentlemen, these artless, squabbling, reputation-riding, liverspotted, shameful shit kittens are my ladder. Despite the fact that I have done nothing but dominate thus far in the WCF, I know it’s not enough. I need to amass a collection of names--like so many scalps to be collected by a would-be champion--that I have put down and out of my misery. As tough as Bruno Armstrong may or may not have been, me ending his career means nothing because here, he was nothing. Me pounding the piss out of El Fuego or Jay West or whoever else is fruitless. It’s an exercise in futility and boredom; we all knew how those contests would end before they began. But this Sunday, with Doc and Oblivion, my true ascent begins. Thus begins my use of the ladder. There are still those foolish enough to believe that this particular match is not the same foregone conclusion, it is not the LOCK that my other contests have been. There are those that dare to imagine a world where Crock Henry and Faux-oblivion still matter. A world where they not only stand a chance this Sunday but where they’re the favorites. And THUS, due to the ignorance and naivete of these fools, you two are of great use to me. As a ladder. As a means for The Golden God to begin his climb to the place where fucking belongs: looking down across the landscape of the WCF to which he has laid waste.
This Sunday, you two will make a wonderful first rung on my ladder. Especially considering I’m going to use a ladder to bash your tiny little brains in before that. It’s tres apropos. Doc you’ve been running your whiskey-hole a lot this week already. It seems that while your partner is preoccupied with that human HPV Lilith, you’re obsessed with the main event. I can’t quite figure out if you’re scorned over being left off the “Team WCF” roster or if you truly feel that those in the match do a disservice to the name. Either way, it’s clear to me that your mind, your focus is not where it belongs. Your every waking thought should be filled with trying to find a way to tap into whatever it was that once-upon-a-time made you a name worth saying here. You should be trying to formulate some way to slow down my fucking rocket ship to the top. You should be poring over the output of the Picasso of Pontification in futile hopes to walk out the champion this Sunday. Instead you want to argue on the internet over should be representing “Team WCF.” Feel free, Crock. After I leave you facedown in the rubble of a table I just drove you through, I’ll make sure everybody knows that you’re a TRUE WCF representation. Maybe I’ll use one of the ladders to bust you wide open so everyone can see just how much you truly do BLEED WCF. You two will be a perfect start to my WCF ladder this Sunday.
Most of the union members have now surrounded The Superstar and meet the end of his speech with a chorus of boos. He hops down off the ladder and smirks. He checks his watch and is disappointed to see his obligated hour is not up.
So who wants a photo with the future tag champ?
The men murmur and angrily talk over each other in response. The Superstar chuckles.
Fine, waste your money. Where’d Don go? Donny boy, how much did your union have to shell out to get a WCF meet and greet anyways?
Don: Shell out? I don’t think we paid a dime.
A gruff voice comes from a tall man in the back.
Seth owes US cash! We did a paint job for him for one of his buddies over in Queens and is trying to tell us this makes us even. We at least thought he’d send somebody from the Brotherhood not your fancy boy ass…
Singh: Wait a second. I’m here because Lerch is trying to welsh on a bill?!
The crowd grumbles agreement.
Singh: No fucking way. I’m out of here. You mooks make sure to tune in Sunday to watch me pulverize your beloved Doc Henry and Oblivion!
~~~~~CHAIRS~~~~~
Wednesday October 26th. 8:12 pm. ESTThis is the cardio Jerry had promised Steven Singh. The sounds of a basketball game fill the cavernous gym of a church. The sounds are mostly familiar; the ball dribbled off the floorboards, the rim clanging with a near miss, a friendly thud of a well-placed bankshot, men shouting over each other about defensive assignments and rotations. The visage of the basketball game is far less familiar; every single player is in a wheelchair. They fly up and down the court, most of their heads only five feet or so from the floor. They launch--and make--shots from their lower-than-usual positions. They set the ball in their lap between dribbles to push their chairs. They smash their chairs into one another, even tipping each over unintentionally and, perhaps, intentionally. You can smell the rubber from their tires as they recklessly tear up and down the court. Every hand pushing a wheel has either a callous or a blister depending on just how often they play. Off the court is another cluster of wheelchairs; they’re most of these men’s primary means of transportation. Jerry is mildly competent at the sport but the more regular players are very impressive; they’re smooth with the ball, consistent with their shots, and quick with their decisions. All the regular players have some disability or another keeping them from playing able-bodied basketball. So they use chairs to do the same. Most of them use chairs to get around on a daily basis as well. Chairs are literally their crutch; it’s the only means by which these men remain relevant and interactive with society.
Sitting with his head slightly above many of the other players is Steven Singh. He drips sweat, pushing his chair hard. He moves with great speed but he lacks control, which is not something he enjoys. Every time he is about to make a move or take a turn, a more seasoned player cuts him off, stops his movement. He gets passed the ball and can palm it easily and is quick to shoot from anywhere on the court. Accustomed to standard basketball, where he’d easily have been a college athlete were it his desire, he pulls the trigger quick and often. But he’s….bad. There’s no other real way to say it. He’s simply bad which is not something to which he’s at all accustomed. He turns the ball over. He leaves his shots short. He takes his hands off his wheels, losing his man on defense. The frustration paints his face between the streaks of the sweat. The fast break is on. His team presses the ball up court and he pushes hard, moving quickly with them. He looks back over his shoulder, calling for the ball, arm up. As he does, a full-bearded player with sculpted arms and a soft, pregnant belly cuts him off. Singh crashes hard into the stopped chair, flipping over forward. The ball goes over his head and out of bounds. The bearded paralyzed man rolls away; a few other players laugh. Singh unstraps himself from the chair and kicks it off of him.
Singh: Fuck this! Fuck this game! Fuck you, you bearded shitstain! And fuck you, Jerry!
The Superstar makes it back to his feet as more chuckles fill the air.
Yeah laugh it up you fucking cripples. I’d threaten to snap your necks but most of them are already broken.
Singh heads into the hallway and drinks from a water fountain. He sweats profusely.
Well. Jerry came through with the cardio. It seems I perpetually underestimate his ingenuity. But here we are. The countdown to Helloween continues. The countdown to the most important match of young career. The countdown to my the dawn of a Golden Era here in the WCF. This talk of Eras seems all the rage lately in the WCF. You’ve got Team WCF which has been dubbed the “new era” by both Pantheon and some of the old-hands who stayed on after the Mexico incident. Then you’ve got Pantheon, a group being called invaders and marauders while painting themselves as the true WCF. They paint themselves as saviors of a structure they claim is crumbling. And then there’s the last group who thus far remains heretofore unnamed. The group that makes up the majority of my opponents this Sunday: Henry, Oblivion, and Teddy Blaze are all among the men who stayed after the Mexico incident; let’s call them The Leftovers. They have histories with the members of PantheonKrew and now appear equally disappointed with much of the new era. I don’t blame them. Indeed, I don’t blame you, Teddy Blaze. I don’t want to be associated with this New Error of WCF stars. I came here due to the reputation of champions like Flash and Dune and Torture and Logan. Instead I was met with men like YOU and the rest of the Leftovers as the faces of the company. This travesty gave rise to the arrogance of so many of the New Error. The Leftovers’ failure, YOUR failure Teddy, to properly set the standards here breathed life into groups like Zero Tolerance. It filled men like Adrian Archer with the misconception that he could make it, that he could matter here. But I know otherwise. I know that the majority of the New Error don’t belong here. I know that Zero Talent don’t belong holding FOUR titles. So it’s an unfortunate trick of timing that I get lumped in with that group that you so hastily spat upon.
Your comments were made public--supposedly against your will--expressing your true cowardice in regards to Hellimination. Pantheon kicks the door to WCF in and declares it in need of cleansing, they declare it infected and in need of amputation in order to save it. And what did you do, Leftover? Where were you? You’re so proud of your status as one who stayed. So where is your pride then in the face of men spitting on something you stayed and helped to create. The mediocrity of those Leftovers, YOUR mediocrity Blaze, is what left room for the growth and proliferation of these rejects and reprobates that don’t belong in MY ring. And that’s right, I say MY ring. I say it over and over and over again. Because every time I step in between the ropes that’s what it becomes. It becomes mine. I’m not here to jockey for position in the annals of history or to argue over who stayed, left or came-lately. I am here to step inside that ring and prove my mettle at every fucking chance I get. And you, Teddy, king of the inconsistent, incompetent, incorrigible Leftovers, are my greatest opportunity to do that thus far.
Keep your specs on, Teo del Soul-less, because I need to make a few things perfectly clear to you, a few things I need you to really see prior to Sunday. The first is that Cliff and I are the future of the WCF. We are the only two who can reasonably lay claim to that title. Your time has come and gone but by the whims of Overlord Lerch you’re handed a Tag Title shot that was dubbed MINE three weeks ago. You’re all over the internet licking your chops at this opportunity. It’s something you’ve “had your eye on” since you joined? What kind of man sets his tiny-minded, petty little sights on the TAG titles? Your great aspiration was to depend on another man, to depend on a partner in order to garner gold? Or do you not mean what you say? Is it more accurate to depict the tag titles as simply part of your “grand slam checklist?” Another laugh, Sweaty Uncle Teddy. Even if you manage to make good on some future undeserved opportunity after I’ve gotten bored with running the division and capture the tag titles, you’d still need to win the big one. Sure, I can see you stumble fucking your way into the tag titles at some point in your here-one-week, silent-the-next little sham of a career but the big one? The WORLD title? I couldn’t see that if I were wearing your rose-colored goggles, Teddy Bland. So go ahead and forget about working towards the Grand Slam this Sunday because Denny’s is shut the fuck down.
Do even know how long I have to go back to find a proper promo from you? Do you even know how far back I have to go to find something of substance or quality? And I’m really stretching the definitions of “substance” and “quality” here, TB. I’m certainly not talking about your Internet fucking boondoggle. I mean, kudos to you on that. You’re king of the trolls. You’re the Champion of 4Chan. The Ruler of Reddit. The internet is where intellect goes to die. It’s where true thought gets truncated to 140 characters, six second video clips, or 100 frame little jiffs. Internet Champion. Heh. All hail the proud representative of pornography and misinformation! All hail the champion of those who spend their energy building up whatever is hot this week only to backlash against it the next only to THEN create a backlash to the backlash. These are your people, Blaze. The impotent 55 year old white male who sees his world changing and only barely-grasps how much he stands to lose so when he gets done with his barely-paying 9 to 5 he hits up the Yahoo Comments section to drop racial and homosexual epithets. I wouldn’t bother spending so much breath disparaging the patrons of the most pathetic corners of the internet but you wear their sash so proudly that it must be said. You peacock around with that strap on your shoulder like it means anything more than the fact that you’re the king of the fucking mongrel hordes. You’re the monkey in the room typing who finally managed to sputter out a few pages of Hamlet. I don’t deny that there’s a certain...poetry to what you do on the Internet, Theo. But Sunday? Sunday you do not face me on dial up or high speed, you do not face me on forums or in chat rooms, you are not aided by gifs or youtube clips or memes. You face a man who lives only in the real world. A man who lives ONLY for success inside that squared circle, not inside your idiot box.
Back to my question. Do you know how far back I have to go to find something of SUBSTANCE from you? August. Fucking August, Blaze. I refuse to count that half-promo you cut for the TV Title at War, a match you lost, by the way. The Television Title is another artificially regulated mockery of a title here. No, to see what the fearsome man with the red eyes is truly capable when completely unleashed, to see what he can do when not confined to certain promo time limits or a medium such as the godforsaken hellhole of the internet I had to go all the way back to August. I listened you prattle on about having beaten then-world champ Gemini Battle before accurately declaring your superiority to Doc Henry. Hmph. August. That sure is a long time, champ. It sure seems like you’re not the week-in-week-out rock upon which The People’s Title garnered its wrongfully-respected reputation. You’re not a man to show the jabrones of the WCF galaxy what happens when a man is “pushed too far.” You’re not the symbol you claim to be nor the symbol you once were. You’re the very thing you claim to hate. You’re just another self-serving narcissist, Tedward.
“Take my title. Take all my titles. I just don’t. Care. Anymore.”
Being the symbol of the Internet seems to have really bled deep into your very person, Blaze. That little rant was the stuff of a fourteen year old emo kid’s instagram suicide note before they make their first “attempt” at ending it all. Read: “pathetic cry for help and attention.” No worries Blaze, because I’m Dr. Fuckin Kevorkian, at your service. Remember, if you really mean it, if you really wanted to give it all up, you want to go upstream, not cross the river. Using the blade to cross the river is just a little cry for help from a little man whose little role in this big galaxy just keeps getting littler. And he just can’t. Care. anymore. Because he’s quickly realized that the with the return of BeachKrewtheon and the addition of men like yours truly, the WCF Galaxy just doesn’t. Care. Anymore. So instead of deal with his own fading importance, he retreats into the world of “Nope! I don’t care! Go ahead! We lose! Who cares! Not me! I certainly don’t care!” It’s fucking sad to watch a champion of the people fold his arms and push his bottom lip out like a fucking three year old. But that’s what the internet brings out, doesn’t it: the truth. It brings people’s truest selves to the forefront, that’s why it’s a such a hellhole. The majority of humanity is a bunch of pea brained shitbirds just looking for an excuse to bash each other over the head with one of the five hundred words in their lexicon. And your truest self, is the petulant, resentful little derelict you’ve shown us most recently.
It truly burns you that you went from pinning World Champ Gemini Battle--on more than one occasion--to being an afterthought entry into the tag title match. MY tag title match. But who knows what we’ll get from you this week. Maybe it won’t be the woe-is-me, I’m-just-waiting-on-the-burial little fuckchop we’ve all gotten so accustomed to. Maybe you’ll come out guns a-Teddy-Blazin. It certainly seems you might at least TRY to conjure that other guy up since your little grand slam checklist has you salivating all your narcissist self. I truly hope you do conjure him up, Blaze. Shit, bring the mask back out. Go ahead and enthrall us with more theatre of the mind. Bring that symbol of what all that’s good back so I can show you all that’s GOLD. I want a victory over the best version of Teddy Blaze possible, I don’t want to place a checkmark next to the hollowed out, husk of a could’ve-been that seems to be your current operating system, Champ.
Jerry hobbles into the hallway.
Jerry: Yo, you done playing, Supe?
Singh: Yeah, I think so.
Jerry yells back into the gym.
Jerry: Yeah guys, he’s done.
A few players chuckle from inside the gym. The Superstar shakes his head and leads the camera back into the gym, towards the dozen or so wheelchairs that sit empty as the players go 4 on 4.
Take a look at these chairs, Teo. These are the only way these would-be men get around this world. Without these chairs, these guys can’t do so much as get out of bed to take a shit. They’re completely and fully dependent upon these apparatuses to interact with the rest of the world, to remain any semblance of relevance to society. It’s unfortunate that, for most of them, nobody has told them the truth: they are completely irrelevant to society now. They’ve become nothing more than a hindrance, dead weight for the rest of us to lug around. They barely work and scarcely contribute. If they can be depended on one week, they’re MIA the next. Even with these tools, even with these chairs they’re weak, useless, vacuous voids where men once were. Just like you, Theodore. Your crutch, your last gasps at relevance and relatability has taken various forms. You’ve donned the mask so that you could become a “symbol” to all the good people of the WCF Galaxy. You needed that mask to hide behind because the unmasked man before me now knows the truth: you’re not enough. You’ve never been enough, you never will be enough. Now your new crutch is even more enabling. Your new crutch is the internet itself, really just another mask. It’s something else for you to hide behind; you convince yourself in short bursts to exude confidence. You can hunch over your keyboard and giggle through your own photoshops, distracting you from your long-form failures. Distracting you from the fact that we’re here to do two things: PROMO and WRESTLE. Even though you’ve had some flashes of skill inside that ring, your gift of gab has been thoroughly rescinded. You’re boring, simple, and repetitious. Use whatever crutches you need this Sunday, Teo del Soulless. Because when I wrap a different kind of chair around your knee a dozen times, you might be leaving in one of these chairs. You’re going to regret accepting this convenient little handout this Sunday and wish you were battling on the internet like you’ve become so accustomed to because the only time u and I belong next to each is on a fucking keyboard.
The ball bounces out of bounds, towards where the Superstar and Jerry are standing amongst all the wheelchairs. Singh simply kicks the ball hard and it goes flying out into the hallway. The paralyzed player with the beard pipes up.
Beard: You’re some kinda goddamn pussy you know that?
Singh: Excuse you?
Beard: You heard me, pussy.
The player rolls over towards Singh who smiles at the aggressive bearded man in the wheelchair.
Beard: You act smug as hell when you show up, we whoop your ass up and down the court, I flip your nancy-boy looking ass over and then you quit. Like.a.pussy.
Jerry: Hey Chad just chil--
The Superstar puts a hand up to shush Jerry before addressing Chad, the bearded man.
Singh: Are you fucking cognitively disabled too? You’re going to roll over here and call me a pussy? Because I kicked your widdle baww down da hawway?
Chad: No, I’m calling you a pussy because you belong between your mama’s legs and not out here with men. I can’t wait to watch you get your shit pushed in this Sunday by those other four guys. They’re going to pound the living shit out of your pussy ass.
The Superstar throws his head back, laughs and turns partially away from Chad. He then suddenly turns back to him, and grabs the man’s right wheel. Singh lifts the man up onto his left wheel, pushes the button in the center the spokes and yanks the wheel off. Chad hits the ground hard.
Chad: What the fuck?!
Without answering, Singh throws his wheel on the ground and begins stomping it until the rim is wavy and the tire is slipping off. Chad has rolled himself over onto his back, and the rest of the players have rolled over to the scuffle. Singh whips the loose wheel at the crowd, bouncing it off one of their legs and into another face, who got his hands up in time. They’re all yelling at Singh now.
Jerry: Yo, we should go, Supe…
Singh: Gimme your knife, Jerry.
Jerry: My knife?! Shit man, you’re not stabbing--
The Superstar grabs Jerry by the shirt.
Singh: YOUR FUCKING KNIFE JERRY!
Jerry hands the Singh his fairly small, tactical switchblade. The crowd quiets and stops approaching, unsure what Singh is going to do. He looks around at their faces, including Chad who has unbuckled himself from his chair and is sitting on the floor.
Singh: If you weren’t a floor-dwelling little cunt of a cripple I’d soccer kick your teeth down your throat right now, boy.
Chad: Big surprise. Pussy doesn’t have the stones to do it.
Singh takes a step towards the man on the floor with the knife in hand. The man immediately winces and Superstar stops. He lets out a frustrated roar and turns back towards the sea of other wheelchairs that the men use in their daily lives. He begins indiscriminately tearing into the tires with Jerry’s knife. The tires pop and wheeze to their individual deaths as Singh quickly works through the lot of them, kicking them over as he goes, making sure to knife at least one tire of each. Singh tosses the knife back to Jerry, walks past Chad who’s still sitting on the ground. Superstar casually presses his shoulder with his foot as he walks by, causing Chad to fall flat on his back. Superstar walks out, Jerry limping behind him. The sea of chairs, of crutches, suddenly impaired. Thanks to Singh these men who were dependent on things to stay relevant, to stay connected to society were no longer any of those things. They’d have done better to just stay home that day, Teddy.