GOLD LANG SYNE, MY DEAR (or: Slam Predictions Thread!)
Jan 1, 2017 14:20:46 GMT -5
6ix God, John Rabid, and 3 more like this
Post by Stephen Singh on Jan 1, 2017 14:20:46 GMT -5
December in New York. If you’ve never lived there the image--as it tends to go with these things--in your head is formed from television, film, or your other pop culture sedative of choice. It’s perfect. It’s beautiful and serene and the epitome of Christmas time. No matter that New York is a city which houses a greater percentage of followers of Judaism than the rest of the country. And no matter that a quarter of the population doesn’t identify with any organized religion at all. Because Christmas or the holiday season or the solstice or whatever you wish to call it, has become a uniquely and wholly American experience. Come to the non-denominational “Winter Village!” Ogle the holiday windows at Macy’s or Barney’s or whatever other giant corporation you want to burn your hard-earned money inside of this year. Watch a giant dead tree that we’ve torn from the ground and killed for the sole purpose of...well...There’s no real purpose is there? That’s the whole thing. As much of a scam as Christmas and Christianity is in the first place, they at least have--by their own internal mysticism and “logic”--a point. What the hell is the point of your “Christmas” tree? What’s the idea behind that poinsettia you buy every year? What the hell is the meaning of those gifts? To show those around you how much they mean to you? If you’re an actual self-reliant, independently-thinking human being, you don’t need a specific day to do that. You don’t need to be told by the gods of Americana and Nostalgia and Capitalism to go out and love. But you’re not a self-reliant, independently-thinking human being. No, not even you proud, plucky atheists loudly denouncing the christian son-of-God mythos while asking your sister for a list of things they want so you don’t have to spend more than ten minutes actually thinking about someone other than yourself. You’re all just the smiling, brain-dead, soulless robots of America skating in a plaza named for our wealthiest antecedent--the one who set our irreversible course for this apocalyptic love affair with fossil fuels. Skate, smile, kneel, worship and spend spend spend in front of your false idol, robots. The son of a huckster. Our nation’s first great monopolist. Christians, Jews, Atheists and almost all the rest of America, go and kneel before your golden calf. This empire--the one perfectly embodied by this season of greed and materialism and John D. Rockefeller--is skidding loudly into its decline. The ground gives way beneath your feet, America, the gravel tumbles down from your long-occupied mountaintop, joining your somersaulting, out-of-control body politic in its race to the bottom.
Zero Tolerance is a perfect encapsulation of this, our new america, lower case a. Jason Cash, Salem Shepard and Crazy J. Men who came from the dirt. Men who had nothing--maybe even less than nothing considering some of their upbringings. Men who had the world seemingly stacked against them are now stars, superstars even! They’re part of a billion dollar corporation. They are the American Dream. And like the false-bill-of-goods sold under the same name, they are dying. They stood as near to the top of the WCF mountain as you can get without holding its crown jewel. They defended four titles and dominated the airwaves. Any money their problem couldn’t solve, they looked to iron out in the ring. And even those were disproportionately decided in their favor. What a life they lead. But every empire in the history of the world has one thing in common: they fall. This particular fall came hard and fast in the form of an airdrop of former champions shoving the peak-usurpers, these false idols off their precarious perch atop the federation. Hellimination was the first chink in the armor exposed. The beginning of the indecent descent was blamed on outside forces. This is wildly typical of a failing empire. We’re infallible! This is the work of outside tampering! Of unfair influence! We will return stronger under solely our own power! The next battle, One, comes and goes and the empire loses again. The only win there was by virtue of the way in which Zero Tolerance lost. So now, as this once “great” empire slides and skids down the mountain it had so undeservingly occupied the top of ever-so-briefly, it’s bound to meet men who have slowly and surely been making their way up. Men who have only just begun to build the cornerstones of their own empire. Men who’ve laid their plans slowly and sunk their foot holes in deep. Men who foresaw and prepared for the avalanche of “talent” that would come tumbling down from the top of the mountain upon the arrival of Pantheon. A man who does not worship at the feet of any of America’s golden calves because he is a Golden God. There are no false idols because there are no idols. Only the mountain. Only the climb. And only continued fall of your dying empire.
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Thursday, December 22nd. New York City.
Erica Baringer, perpetually put-upon assistant to Steven Singh, sits Williamsburg roastery and cafe, Devoción. She clicks away at her laptop, crimson hair pulled back into a tight bun. She leaves her glasses near the tip of her nose, too busy to push them back up into their proper place. She’s dressed in a WCF “ugly Christmas sweater” featuring the tag team champions which hangs down just to her mid-thigh, making it perfectly acceptable to wear her black tights for the third day in a row. The cafe is bathed in the bright winter sunlight pouring in through the sunlight. Erica’s back is to a wall of greenery reaching toward the ceiling. She stops typing for a moment and sips a latte from the warm yellow mug. She sees Steven Singh stride into the cafe. He’s wearing a double breasted pea coat, cheeks slightly rosy from the frigid walk. Erica waves her hand to catch his attention. The legs scrape loudly against the floor as Superstar pulls the chair out and unbuttons his coat which reveals the Tag Team Title around his waist. He unsnaps it and thuds it hard onto the table, rattling the two mugs and drawing confused glances from the other patrons.
Assistant: What are you doing?
Singh: It’s uncomfortable to sit while wearing it. If I didn’t know better, I’d think these belts aren’t very practical.
Assistant: Yeah, I bet. I mean what are you doing bringing that here?
Singh: What am I doing bringing it here? Why would I not bring it here? Why wouldn’t I bring it everywhere?
Assistant: Seems...cumbersome?
Singh: Heavy is the head, dear Assistant. Plus, who do you think I am? Jason O’Neal? So desperate to be a cool guy that I piss all over the belt every chance I get? Leave it wherever? Pretend to lose it at every turn? C’mon. That’s a little staid, don’t you think?
Assistant: I guess?
Singh: You guess correctly, my dear. So I display this piece of hardware everywhere I go with the pride and showmanship a champion SHOULD have. Plus, it’s not a gimmicked-out, undercard-only, jobberthon of a belt. It’s...you know...an actual title.
The Superstar takes a long, deep sip from his mug.
Singh: Wow. Great work, Assistant. This brew is...incredible. Colombian?
Assistant: Wow, how did you know that?
Singh: It says it right there.
He motions towards a sandwich board touting their Colombian roots.
And also there.
He motions towards a small mural on the wall with the same message.
And the--
Assistant: Okay, I get it. You know, their beans are actually from farm to cup in only ten days. It’s kind of impressive how the--
Singh: Nope.
Assistant: It’s not impressive?
Singh: It might be impressive but I don’t have the time to hear about it. No, wait. That was a lie. I just don’t want to hear about it. Go yelp it or something. Onto business.
Assistant: Right. So have you decided what to do about Bates? Are you going to press charges or no? You keep getting mail from ambulance-chasing attorneys.
Singh: First of all, if I WERE to be pressing charges it wouldn’t be one of those bottom-feeding fuckchops. And second of all, with my neck ALMOST completely healed from that vicious attack, I think I might just make him pay in the ring. I think I might just make “The Mountain” tap out in front of all his adoring, loving sheep. This is the man with the code? This is the locker room leader? This the moral compass of the WCF? The man who violently attacks me without provocation or purpose OUTSIDE of the wrestling ring? Yeah, his facade is crumbling quickly. So I think despite him starting this fight outside the ring, I’ll bring it between the ropes and watch his backwoods bumpkin fans cry while he frantically taps out looking up at The Bright Lights.
Assistant: Are you shooting right now?
Singh: A.B.S.
Assistant: Anti-lock brake system?
Singh: Always Be Shooting.
Assistant: Huh?
Singh: Glengarry Glen Ross.
Assistant: Who?
Singh: Alec Baldwin.
Assistant: The guy on those credit card commercials?
What's his name?
Singh: Fuck you, that's his name! <holds for laughter> Nevermind you fucking millenial; I guess I'll skip the bit about why you can't have that coffee, either. No litigation for Bates. I want him in the ring and I’ll get him. One way or another.
She pecks a note into her laptop before moving on from Bates.
Assistant: What about the others who’ve been making claims to the Tag Titles or mentioning your name specifically?
Singh: You mean Sanchez.
Assistant: And Holmes.
Singh: Jared?
Assistant: Andre.
Singh: Are they related?
Assistant: Not so far as I can tell, no.
Singh: Is he Pantheon?
Assistant: Not officially.
Singh: What the hell does that mean?
Assistant: He appears to just be a hanger-on.
Singh: Yeah, I’m surprised they don’t have more sycophant simpletons on their coattails.
Assistant: You mean like Capt--
Singh: Why don’t you take a big sip of whatever diabetes-causing sugar cube of a drink you’ve got there instead of finishing that sentence.
Erica takes a big sip of her peppermint mocha latte. With whipped cream.
Assistant: Pretty protective. I'd almost believe you're...friends.
Singh: In any given title match, that guy is as responsible for this <slaps the title> as I am. So I’m as protective of him as I am of my title. Which is ve-fucking-ry. You’ve been advised. Now Holmes. I really feel like there was some other loud-mouthed minority who just made a return making ill-fated and barely-founded claims to MY tag team title. Who was that again, Assistant?
Assistant: Oath Breaker?
Singh: Great job, Assistant! Gold star! Yes, Oath Breaker. And we dispatched him quickly and with violent indifference. Holmes is in a different league than that mook but his claim to MY title is no more legitimate. So maybe let’s wait for him to actually sucker some jabrone into tagging with him, let him actually WIN a match or two and then talk about a title shot. For now, he should just stick to being the most overhyped return at the most overhyped card full of overhyped returns. How relentlessly disappointing.
Sanchez, on the other hand...Golden Goddamn did he show up. He’s an actual Pantheon member and has a World Title shot at his behest. And still...still he “prays” that I’m on the short list of next competition. That’s fine. He claims hunger but I think he’s confused because he sounds thirsty as hell. If his hunger were so deep and insatiable he would’ve taken up the offer from that no-talent ass-clown Jaice Wilds and tried to carry that deadweight to a Tag Title reign. But that “hunger” just isn’t that real for him. It isn’t that demanding yet. Or maybe he’s just not confident enough in his abilities to carry a mid-card mulkie like Jaice to the titles. Heh. You should try it! I was going to do it with Cliff of Doom before that little fucklet no-showed me. And then you know what I did? I got this title WITHOUT a partner. That’s hunger, Sanchez.
Assistant: You brought up Wilds. Do we need to do anything about him?
Singh: No.
Assistant: Do you want me to note anything?
Singh: What’s there to note? Seth was smart enough to keep him out of my crosshairs at Slam so he lives to put his super high-flying, flexible foot in his mouth another day. He’s insignificant, he’s not even an afterthought, he’s sawdust. I shouldn’t even have been sullying my brand by interacting with him. There, make that note. Do not hobnob with hobos and humps.
Assistant: Noted. Last order of business…
She pauses, uncomfortably. A long sip from the chalice and she sets it back on the saucer. It clatters as her hand shakes ever so slightly.
Assistant: I got a phone call from Mrs. <Redacted.>
Singh: God dammit, Assistant.
Assistant: I know, Superstar. I’m sorry but the WCF contacted her when you went down with that concussion so she tried to reach you but the only phone number you’ve ever given the WCF is mine so--
Singh: So what? What did she want?
Assistant: Mrs. <Redacted> was as--
Singh: Okay, let’s stop with that name. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t go by it for a reason so I don’t want to hear it. And she's absolutely not a "misses" anything so drop that as well. Now what the hell did she want?
Assistant: I’m sorry. She just wanted to make sure you were alright. They just left a message that you had been hospitalized so she wanted to make sure you were okay.
Singh: Yeah, they left a message for her on the cellphone I pay for. When did she call you?
Assistant: Ummm…
Singh: I’d ask if I stutter but I’m the excellence of elocution. When did she call you?
Assistant: She called me on December 3rd.
Singh: Typical. I was hospitalized the night of November the 20th and she doesn’t even call back for three weeks. What else did she want? I know she didn’t just ask, “Oh how’s Steve?” before going on her merry little way.
Assistant: Once I told her you were fine, she...uh...asked if you’d still get paid out for the rest of your contract no matter how severe your injury was.
Singh: Selfish bitch.
Assistant: You don’t know that. Maybe she wanted to make sure you were okay financially.
Steven pierces Erica with a glare from across the table. He reaches slowly for his still-steaming coffee and drinks it in slowly, never breaking his eyes from her. She doesn’t move. She knows the ice she treads is thin.
Singh: She wouldn’t know “okay financially” if it opened a checking account in her name. Because I have opened a checking account in her name. Multiple times. Do you know why you only deposit their money into savings, Assistant? Because you can’t get drunk and bounce checks out of a savings account.
A heavy sigh and Singh closes his eyes for just a moment.
Did you send them the December stipend?
Assistant: As per the usual.
Singh: Good. If you don’t have any other piddly, unimportant bullshit you want to bother me with I need to prepare for my press conference.
Assistant: What? I didn’t set up a press conference.
Singh: Jesus, I’m capable of doing SOME things on my own, Assistant. I’ve got a press conference to address a few things prior to this New Years Bash bullshit Leech has thrown me into.
Assistant: I guess that’s it.
On his feet, he pushes his left arm through the jacket and swings it around to the other side. Bottoms up for the last of his coffee before he grabs the tag title and ludicrously fastens it around his waist. A few other patrons look on, puzzled and probably assuming he won his fantasy football league this year. Superstar turns to walk away but stops suddenly. He hangs his head for a moment and turns back to face his assistant. His eyes don’t meet hers, he keeps his gaze above her head, afraid that if she could see his eyes that she’d know his pangs of sadness and care and self-loathing. He unconsciously rubs the title around his waist with one hand.
Singh: Did you ask about him?
Assistant: Of course. She said that the nurses say he’s doing fine but no real changes.
Singh: Is he using the ACAT program to talk? Is that working out?
Erica doesn’t answer immediately, searching for a proper phrasing for her undesirable response. Her eyes search for his for a moment so she can make known the forthcoming disappointment but his eyes were purposefully fixed up above her. The pause was enough warning anyways.
Assistant: All the technology arrived but it hasn’t been set up yet. She said she’s not sure who to call…
Singh: Selfish and incompetent. It’s too bad the Dub isn’t giving away “Mother of the Year” awards. Take care of it, please.
Assistant: Will do. And I’ll check again on your brother after it’s all set up.
Singh: Thanks, Erica.
With that rare utterance of her given name, Singh steels his face again with cold indifference to enter the cold, indifferent winter winds outside.
Friday, December 23rd.
A solitary podium centered on a small stage. A single spotlight highlights its importance. Fine leather footwear clomps the floorboards as Singh enters from stage left, tuxedo-clad. The form and fit are perfectly tailored and classic in style. He stands tall at the podium and clears his throat loudly. Dressed to receive anything from a Nobel Peace Prize to an Academy Award and looking somber as a funeral, Singh addresses the crowd.
Singh: Thank you all for coming here today. I understand these types of events can be dreadfully boring so I will do my best--as I always do--to keep this brief and keep you entertained.
He clears his throat again.
Wow. What an honor. I mean, to follow in the footsteps of the incomparable Dune himself as the 2016 WCF Rookie of the Year. I’d like to thank all of the mooks and mulkies whose limbs I’ve snapped and spirits I’ve broken on my way to this prestigious award. From the completely forgettable and inconsequential Bruno Armstrong who I sent to the retirement home all the way to Tommy Hawk who I sent to the America’s last great industry: the prison industrial contest. Oh and I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention Teddy Blaze for being such an incompetent imbecile that he managed to lose a Tag Title Ladder match while the other half of his team won. Which of course, brings us to Captain Pantheon. A true beacon of hope and an inspiration to so many of here in the WCF. You know, I really thought this little piece of hardware might be his to lose but I think his presence...his very aura is that of such a cagy, wiley veteran that most of the federation forgot he even was a rookie! Oh what a hilariously beneficial misunderstanding for me!
The Superstar tosses his head back and lets out a throaty, forced cackle. Singh then loosens his bow tie slightly and stares into the camera with a much more familiar smirk.
Last but absolutely not least, all glory be to The Golden God. ME. I’m the one that waltzed in here, mowed down every mope they put in my path and then kept asking for more. I’ve got one wildly undeserved blemish on my record. I was in the top ten of time lasted at WAR while collecting the second most eliminations. Inside my first three months here, I’ve put gold around my waist and stabilized a division previously in classic WCF shitshow-turmoil. Outside of War, there hasn’t been a soul here who’s put my shoulders to the mat or tapped me out. Why’s that? Because I’m not just the Rookie of the Year you reprobates, I’m your GOLDEN GOD. I am the future of the WCF and I have only myself to thanks for my unprecedented success. So outside of Cap, the rest of the Dub can go suck a tailpipe for all I care. I don’t owe you gratitude for this victory because I earned it my Golden Goddamned self. So no...I’m not here to thank you. I am here to congratulate you though. Congratulations to the members of the voting public who were wise enough to have their hearts and ballots stolen by Thievin’ Steven. Congrats because as you look back on this a year months from now, or even years from now, you can know that you were on the white side of history.
A voice from the audience.
Voice: Right side of history.
Singh: What did I say?
Voice: White side.
Singh: The white side of history? Freudian slip I guess.
Voice: What?
Singh: Well I mean if we’re talking about history, what other side of it would you really want to be on? It’s that Louis CK bit. If you’re a white dude, you can go back to ANY time in the known universe and it’s probably going to be alright for you. But if you’re a black dude....Gotta be preeeetty careful.
Voice: Sad but true.
Singh: For you, maybe.
Voice: Wow, you must’ve watched too many Dag Riddik promos.
Singh: The guy certainly has a schtick. So what do you think? Should I just leave that freudian slip in? The “white side” of history?
Voice: No, man. You can’t say that.
Singh: Why not? You’re here. I could even include the n word if you’re around, can’t I?
The lights in the small auditorium snap back on as the spotlight disappears. The two hundred odd seats are empty. Aside from Singh, the only other occupants are a small WCF camera crew and his proudly black bookie, Byron, who stands next to the light switch.
Byron: No, man. Just because I’m around doesn’t mean YOU can say that word. And I don’t even say that word.
Singh: So you’re telling me I have to actually pay you for your labor now AND I can’t say that word? What good are you then?
Byron: Well, I’m still farming out all your WCF bets to other bookies, keeping your cash flow healthy as fuck. AND I’m fairly certain that I’m your only friend.
Singh: We’ve been over this. You’re my only bookie. And speaking of which, how’d I do at One?
Byron: Crushed it as per. 10 right, 4 wrong. I gave the cash to Erica already.
Singh: Who?
Byron: Assistant. I gave the cash to your assistant.
Singh: Ah, yes.
Byron: And did you really bring an entire camera crew here to record an acceptance speech for something you haven’t won yet?
Singh: Yes. I think we both know Seth isn’t going to give me the airtime I need and deserve to thank all the little people and put over his rinky dink award so I thought I’d just air it with my promo. Two birds, one stone and all that.
Byron: Speaking of your promo and two birds, you ready for your first official run in with Zero Tolerance?
Singh: Great segue, Byron. And am I ready? Ready doesn’t begin to cover exactly how ECSTATIC I am to knock these two shitbirds out of the sky with one big, golden boulder. The Shakespeare of Shoot is about to verbally violate these two mooks prior to dismantling them in the ring.
Byron: You’ve got three opponents, though. You’re not going to shoot on Cap?
Singh: Nope.
Byron: You’re not going to shoot on Cap at all?
Singh: No.
Byron: Nothing?
Singh: What do you want me to say? That I’ve obviously seen him more up close and personally than anyone else? That prior to our ladder match I watched hours and hours of tape on him? And that in the ring I know what he’s going to do before he does it? So there’s no hope for him to actually compete with much less eliminate me? No. I’m not going to say any of that. Because Cap isn’t going to come after me. For all his faults and whacky superhero bullshittery, he’s the consummate teammate. We’ll clean Zero Talent out of the gym and then handle our business as Champions do. So no. I’m not going to shoot on Cap. So let’s refocus ourselves here, Byron.
The Superstar fully unbuttons his bow tie and lets it hang loosely around his neck. He undoes the top button of his pressed white shirt and rolls his neck around. As Byron takes a seat in the front row, Singh produces his tag title from behind the podium. He sits on the stage, legs dangling off, tag title over his shoulder. His eyes, gleaming with excitement, fix directly into the camera.
Jason Cash. What’s it’s it like to KNOW that you’re the weakest link? To know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that every time you step into the ring with your teammates the opponents’ targets are set squarely on you first? To know that without you, their ship would move a little faster, their star might rise a little higher, and they might not be the mid-card lifers that you’re all going to be from here on out in the WCF? I know this has all been said to you before and--I do believe--you’re even plenty aware of it yourself. But such an existence is so perplexing to me that I can’t let it pass without comment. I guess being their dead weight got you a brief and uneventful trios title run but to what end? It must rack you with guilt to know that if they had a partner more their equal, somebody who could actually pull his own beer-bulked weight that maybe...just maybe they would’ve stood a chance.
Ha. Who am I kidding? They didn’t stand a chance either way. You’re all second rate reprobates. You’re all on your way down the card and likely out the door. And I, for one, couldn’t be more pleased. It’s men like you Cash that sully this sport of Gods and Kings. It’s men like you that lend our profession a certain notoriety. You’re an ignorant, beer-swilling, family-ignoring, backwoods loser who just “likes a good fight.” You’re a self-described “country boy” with no regard for wins or losses. No regard for wins or losses?
What?
You have no interest in victory? You have no desire for success? For dominance? You just want to get punched in the teeth and then smile to show off the three tobacco-stained chiclets you have left? Then get the fuck out of my ring, my federation, my sport. You can do that anywhere you half-wit so do us all a favor and crawl back into the shithole in Mississippi you were originally purged from. Go pick some fights with the local trailer trash to get your jollies. Down there, you can sling all the racial epithets you want and nobody will bat an eye. I’m pretty sure they elect that sort of thing into a position of political power. (See: T.U. Bates) There you can lean hard into that lesser self you flirt with daily, Cash. No one will judge the constant stream of beer you pathetically imbibe, making sure to keep yourself numb to your own myriad failures as a professional, a husband, a father, a man. Shit, you could really check all those stereotypical country boy boxes and start whooping their asses too. I mean, why not? If they don’t hate your alcoholic ass yet, they’re going to soon enough. If you don’t at least hit them, they’re going to sound like the biggest pussies at their Al-Anon meetings.
Byron: Damn, Supe. Did you just encourage the man to beat his family?
Singh: Number one, you’re working under the likely-false assumption that he isn’t yet. Number two, his strikes feel like little butterfly kisses so I’m sure they’ll just be grateful for the physical affection. And C, he could really use the sparring practice. I just want him at his best. Speaking of the best…
The Tag Champ removes the title from his shoulder and lays it next to him on the stage.
Salem “Schizo” Shepard. I can’t say my level of disdain for you is anywhere near Cashian proportions. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to admit something crazy here like a begrudging respect. Ha. No, no, no. We’re not anywhere near that sort of thing. But please refer to only moments ago when I insinuated that you were the “best.” And you are. You’re the best part of the worst stable in the WCF. Now don’t just go dismissing that compliment; regardless of how backhanded it might be, it is sincere. You’re the most gifted wrestler in that flock of fuckchops. So kudos on that. Unfortunately, you betray your namesake. You’re no Shepard, boy. You’re a sheep to those other two and that behind-the-scenes scamp Erik Black. And though you’re a gifted competitor, you’re not gifted enough to carry those other two onward and upward to proper success. You couldn’t do it at Hellimination, you couldn’t do it at One and you won’t be able to do it at New Year’s Bash. While you’re scrambling to save that inbred from Cap, I’ll be right behind you to drop you on the back of your skull. It’s unfortunate for you really because if you didn’t have this allegiance, you’d certainly have fared better to this point. If there’s only one face-painted poon wearing gold in Zero Talent, it definitively should be you, Salem. But it’s not. And you have no one to blame for that but yourself.
Now that I’ve properly and falsely inflated your ego while placing just a seed of doubt about why you’re even associating with your partners, let’s go ahead and take the air out of this a bit. You’re still not good enough. Physically, you seem ALMOST there. You’re right at the cusp of being ALMOST worth my time and full attention. But mentally...Wow. Where to begin? I mean, you proudly wear the moniker “Schizo” like it’s a boon. Like it’s going to help you get anywhere other than wearing a nice, tight jacket inside a room with padded walls. I’m sorry for your condition--I truly am, mental illness, unlike your career, is no joke--but it behooves me to tell you that MY WRESTLING RING IS NO PLACE FOR A DERANGED DERELICT. Get your mental ducks in a row and then come back to make proper use of your god-given in-ring talents. For now, those voices only serve to distract and deter you from the task at hand. Me? I’m laser-focused. I’m the pin-pointed, tunnel-visioned, myopic-minded Jack of All Trades and Master of One. I see the man, woman or child unlucky enough to have been placed across the ring from me on any given week and the only voice in my head is my own. It’s the one informed by the hours of research I’ve already done. It’s the one reminding me of my oil-dicked opponent’s unconsciously repetitious movement in the ring, of their predictable set ups, of their inborn and unavoidable flaws that I will exploit on my way to having my hand raised. The voice in my head is loud, clear, and singular as it SCREAMS to me about your weaknesses and faults. My vision is crystal clear and my mind is razor sharp. All that chatter in your head leaves you clouded; you’re always wrestling through a haze of disjointed priorities and ideals. Again, I am sorry for your condition but maybe the voices will offer your even the briefest reprieve when I cave part of your skull in. You’re welcome in advance.
Let’s play pretend for a moment. You like pretend, don’t you Shep? Of course you do, you’re a child, a mental midget. Oh! That reminds me. Midgets? You’re afraid of midgets? And elves? And what the hell else? Any other deep-seated, soul-stirring, UNORIGINAL AND BORING AS ALL FUCK fears you’d like to share with us? No? Good. Thank Golden God. Let’s move on. We were playing pretend. Let’s pretend for a second that you did quiet the voices in your head for long enough to try and actually compete with yours truly in the ring. Let’s pretend you were of sound mind for one night and one night alone and actually brought your fullest self into MY ring. Well...the sad news is, you’d still come up shorter than one of those people you’re so afraid of. Wrestling is an escape for you. Don’t get me wrong, I believe you love it now. But it started as an escape and a seed can only grow what it came from. It was an escape from your family, from the slums of Houston, from drug addiction. Now it’s an escape from your inane fears, the voices inside your head and the pressure of keeping your trashbag sister on the straight and narrow. Wrestling....Just listen to that holiest of words...WRESTLING is not an escape. It’s not an escape for me nor should it be for anyone. Wrestling is the goal. It is the end in and of itself. Wrestling is the REASON for wrestling. It’s not an escape for me, Shep, it’s my fucking oxygen. And you, on your best day, with all your less-than-impressive mental facilities fully functioning, don’t even BEGIN to have what it takes to shut off my oxygen. An escape. Pathetic. Escapes for those who can’t handle the reality that they themselves have created. We each forge our own path, our own little cave upon the walls of which, the shadows of reality dance. So if you’re so goddamn scared all the time, if you need an escape, it’s no one’s fault but your own. You’re a weak-minded, weak-willed, weak-kneed, know-nothing knave that cannot and will not rise to meet his own potential in MY most glorious of sports because he’s used it as nothing than an “escape.”
There’s only one thing worse than a person who looks to escape: a person who hides. Low and behold, you’ve gone two for two you face-painted fuckstick. Explain to me the point of the face paint; the point of it for you or any of the other burnout bushpigs donning it. I’m sure you can’t because you don’t know why you do anything. You just do. The paint isn’t an homage to an absolute tire fire of a “band” that briefly forayed into wrestling. No, the paint is how you hide. You hide your true self, your true face. You hide like a coward from what you’ve done in your life and you hide from where you might be going. It all frightens you so much so you cower behind that face paint. Tell yourself it’s who you are but it’s just another crutch, another half-truth, another piece of proof that you’re nothing more than a child playing here in a man’s game. In addendum to the face paint, you hide inside of Zero Tolerance. You lack the wherewithal and mental fortitude to blaze your own trail, to carve your own path. Instead, you hide alongside two lesser men. Surround yourself by fives and you may fool The World into thinking you’re a nine. I am not The World, Shep. I see the zero standing before me. I see the put-upon, hard-luck loser who had no one to talk to, no friends, no one who understood him. I see a face-painted pariah that would probably have gone full Dylan Klebold if only he had the balls. But you weren’t man enough to do that then and you’re not man enough to step out from your hiding spots now. So you won’t join them in posthumous notoriety, you’ll die a fearful, anonymous loser like so many have before you. And when the last member of ZT is dead, no one will mourn Salem: just another sad clown who should’ve just hung himself in high school.
Byron: Good lord.
Singh: What?
Byron: A little dark, don’t you think?
Singh: I think that my faithful Stevenites tune in here for that verbal violence, venom, and vitriol. I don’t think they’re looking for rainbows and puppy dogs. Save the parody skits, dwarves and blow-up dolls for those half-wits. I’m just speaking the goddamn truth.
Byron: Well you’re killing ‘em with it, Pablo. Nothing like listening to the Picasso of Pontification bang it out.
Singh: Thank you, Byron. Your enthusiasm is never welcome but always warranted.
Byron: Whatever, man, you eat that shit up. You gonna light up anybody else?
Singh: I told you, I don’t need to say a word about Cap.
Byron: Naw but if you wi--
Singh: When I win.
Byron: My bad. When you win your match you’re in that New Year’s Bash Match with the four other winners! Shit sounds hella dope!
Singh: That shit, my dear Byron, sounds like a gimmicked out, Vince Russo wet dream.
Byron: Whose wet dream?
Singh: Your mom’s. Just nevermind. That main event is going to be a classic clusterfuck shitshow. But maybe you’re right, let’s do a lightning round on these lames. What’s the first match?
Byron: You’ve got Archer, Blaze, Fuego and West.
Singh: I guess I’ll be seeing Teddy in the finals who I’ve already bested once so--
Byron: No, bruh. Johnny Blaze.
Singh: Ugh. Terrible. This better be the worst of these qualifiers.
Byron: It is.
Singh: Alright. Well I guess Archer gets handed this one by virtue of Seth being a blind-booking douchecanoe. Adrian, ole boy--wait, is it Adrian this month? I can’t always keep track of whatever hackneyed, poorly thought out bullshit you’re spouting this month. There should be an app I can download that just alerts me every time old @@@ flips his script and changes monikers and gimmicks and facial features. Actually, on second thought, I don’t need push notifications every 48 hours so let’s skip that. But yeah, congrats on your cakewalk to a prelim victory only to be followed up by being the first man eliminated from the Bash. You are--as seems to be your calling here in the Dub--in over your misshapen head. If you got slotted into any of the other qualifiers, you’re meat. But as it stands, you’ll pick up a W on your way to the slaughterhouse. Don’t worry about the inevitable loss at the end of the night, your new boys at the Brotherhood can help you deal with that. It’s their specialty.
Byron: Next up is Andre Holmes, Dion Necurat, CJ Phoenix and Anon Y. Mous.
Singh: I thought you said these got better? I guess this one has at least one contender in it. Assuming, that is, he actually shows up this week. Oh Relentless One, where was that ferocity, that viciousness in your Final Destination match? You go radio-silence in lead up to the biggest card of the year then shit the bed on the grandest stage of all? Tsk, tsk, tsk. I do hope that you’ll be looking to make up for your embarrassing failure this week with a proper showing. Because when I beat your ass from pillar to post and back again, I want to know that you were at your best. I don’t want that pesky little pissant from Twitter, I want the former Hardocre and Tag Champ. I want you to know that I’m your better so that you can keep my name out of your mouth and my tag title out of your dreams. A man who claims his life was changed by a trite song from a trite band? This isn’t a Hot Topic, Holmes. You need more than overwrought lyrics and overused chord progressions to drive a proper fire to the top here in the Dub. Stick to the comedy routines on the Internet; I can’t wait to “make the list” of people who’ve embarrassed you in the middle of that ring. Byron?
Byron: Ethan King, Damian Kane, Sebastian Knight and Dag Riddik.
Singh: Now here we go! This is a match! I could see any one of these three mooks pulling it out.
Byron: There’s four of them.
Singh: Oh so we’re just going to start pretending Damian Kane is a real wrestler now? Because he beat Archer? I don’t think so. Dagavald could be really locked in for his return.
Byron: You think it’ll be him?
Singh: Yeah. Let’s say Dag. Let’s say it’s the guy whose only identity is bound up in what he ISN’T. His European tribalism, pro-white ignorance is meant only to stir the dander of the lesser minded. And once he has their ire on the rise, he manages to squeak out a victory. Me? Your politics don’t phase me, Dag. Your heat is cheaper than Seth Lerch’s whiskey. I see through your boisterous bravado. It’s not fear-mongering; it’s fear-driven. You’re scared of others taking what you’ve been undeservingly handed so you cling tightly to it with white knuckles and white fear. I’ve held pasty white men up to the Golden light before and seen right through them. You’re not different. You’re an impotent, scared little plebeian who’s finally seeing his people’s lifetime of entitlement and privilege and headstarts begin to fade away. You’re pathetic. So nevermind, I guess it’s not going to be him.
Speaking of spoiled, entitled shitstains demanding things they don’t deserve, maybe Sebastian Knight will pull this out. Yeah, maybe this petulant little fuckchop puts his big boy pants on and fights for his dinner for the first time in his life. I wouldn’t count on it though. Men like Seb, the ones with the silver spoons and the affluenza do not cut it here in the WCF. There is plenty a wealthy man here in the WCF but the ones that are truly successful, the only ones that would pose any sort of threat are the ones who earned it themselves. It’s the ones who have already scratched, scraped or screwed their way to the top who know how to get it done again in the WCF. A man-child like Knight leans heavily on his dear old Pops whether he knows it or not. That support will get kicked out sooner rather than later and then, sunset or not, we see Knightfall. So no it’s probably not him either…
I guess that just leaves Ethan King! Pantheon Puppet and shark-fearing shitkicker! Another scintillating return! And from a man driven by such a deep and unwavering force that he is surely to be feared! Oh wait, nevermind. He’s moved only by Holme’s tiny little hand up his ass. Now I’m not against wrist-deep butt-puppetry in principle but when another man’s whims and wants are the primary governors of your in-ring actions? Heh. The dude does not abide. I know you were bereft of purpose (porpoise? #beachkrew, am I doing it right?) when your little Pride failed to produce the same level of commitment that you had but you can’t look to a guy like Holmes to motivate you. Don’t look to a man whose sole motivation is an attempt to somehow, someway plug the black hole where his own motivating soul should be. I mean, his own vacuous and pointless existence might ironically give HIM meaning and porpoise but it just gives you instruction. You’re following step by step procedures without a picture of whatever you’re building. So when another man who sees--and plays--all the angles just like your Massa’ does, it’s all too easy to lay “your” plans to waste. I wish I had dementia so I could forget you ever existed.
Byron: Dementia?
Singh: Nevermind. I’m saying no, t’s probably not this pile of skin pretending to be a competitor either.
Byron: So you’re picking Damian Kane?
Singh: Sure, whatever, who cares.
Byron: And did you say porpoise a minute ago?
Singh: No.
Byron: Are you sure? I really feel like you said porpoise…
Singh: Absolutely not. Why would I say porpoise? That doesn’t even make sense.
Byron: Alright. Last qualifier is between Jaice Wilds, Teddy Blaze, John Gable and Oblivion.
Singh: Didn’t Obi Juan get his brains blown out?
Byron: What?!
Singh: Yeah, man. Do they not have the internet in Harlem?
Byron: You know I live in Williamsburg.
Singh: Harlem is the new Williamsburg, WAY douchier. You should check it out.
Byron: I’ll get right on that.
Singh: Plus...you know….You’re black and all. It just plays better. Anyways, this one is Gable’s to lose. Teddy Blaze forgot how to win matches that aren’t for his Internet straps so the pick is easy. It’s about as easy as it’ll be to push Gable’s shit in. I mean, he’s a talent for sure. And good Golden God is he handsome!
Byron: Da fuq you say?
Singh: What? I’m secure enough in my own sexuality to know when another man is, empirically, attractive. And John Gable is IT. Unfortunately for him, that pretty boy mug is going to get peppered and pocked pretty good in the main event. I’m tempted now to rag on the mook for his banal and boring backstory regarding a dead wife and a child he was too big a coward to raise but that’s not exactly fair. It’s not like he chose his life? Boring old storytelling tropes were just thrust upon him by the fates to be sure. So he’s here for his grand redemption song, to atone for his “sins.” This self-proclaimed free-thinking cynic stands in a church to address the WCF in his grand return? Why would that be? It’s because--like so many others here--he WANTS to believe. He WANTS to have the faith that anyone with a brain eschews. He’s beginning to beg, he’s here to BLEED for that comfort. He’s come back thinking he can make it better, thinking he can retrace his steps and redeem himself. THERE IS NO REDEMPTION, YOU REPROBATE. What’s done is done and there’s no magical time machine to change the past (RIP Omega, Battle, etc). You sit with your sorrow and your sin and know that there is no god above to absolve you. Your yearning for that forgiveness may be what has brought you back here but it’s exactly what makes you so weak. It’s exactly what makes me know that you are a not a whole man; you are not the ruthless man you were before. Your hat is in your hand and your heart is on your sleeve and your life...is meaningless. Welcome back, Gable, and come worship at MY altar; The Golden God offers absolution through blood and broken bones. You can have you first communion this Sunday.
Byron: Y’all need Jesus.
Singh: Thanks, Byron. I’m trying to end my potent prose with purposeful punctuation and you spout internet, meme bullshit.
Byron: Chill, I thought it was funny.
Singh: It wasn’t. Plus, it’s not your job to be funny. You just sit there and be bl--
Byron: Don’t say be black.
Singh: I’m not! You’re just sit there and be blessed. By my presence. You’re welcome.
Byron shakes his head and stands up, giving a stretch. Sing hops off the stage and tosses his tag title over his tuxedoed shoulder.
Singh: Before we part ways here, let me make this clear. I’m not looking PAST Cash and Shep. Well...Maybe I’m looking past Cash a little bit because that guy’s a born jobber. But either way, I don’t look PAST real competition, I look THROUGH it. To me, you’re all transparent. You’re all just apparitions; ephemeral shells of men seeking for something, anything to hold onto. To make it mean something. To make it all worthwhile. That’s the difference between us you bus station busters; as soon I step inside that squared circle I know it’s worthwhile. The Golden God knows he is at home, knows he has his purpose and knows how to rid his ring of pretenders to my throne. In 2017, I continue my slow, steady climb towards the apex of the WCF. I will leave bodies of greater import and impressiveness in my wake. I will stand atop a pile of carcasses having you all looking back on better days, singing about “For old time’s sake.” There is no cup of kindness forthcoming so look back on the time before 2017, The Golden Era, with great reverence and wistfulness. Auld Lang Syne, fuckchops.