Slam Spoilers and a Letter to the Fourth Wall
Jan 8, 2017 17:42:51 GMT -5
FPV, Joey Flash, and 7 more like this
Post by Stephen Singh on Jan 8, 2017 17:42:51 GMT -5
Dear Fourth Wall,
Hello old friend. I know, I know; I almost never write. You have my sincerest apologies. I’d say I’ve been busy but that isn’t why I haven’t contacted you in awhile; we both know the reason. I don’t reach out to you anymore, Fourth Wall, because it’s become stale, overused, hackneyed bullshit. I agree there was a time when pushing up against or even smashing all the way through was so exciting! It was new and original and unique and could breathe life into even the most lifeless of television, film or wrestling promo. Unfortunately that time has passed. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly WHEN acknowledging you jumped the Jared Holmes shark but it was most certainly years ago.
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Monday January 2, 2017. Steven Singh’s condo. New York City.
Everything is as it was before. The condo looks the same as it always does save for a WCF Tag Team Title displayed proudly on the living room wall, the first thing your eye goes to upon entry. The light gray sectional, the stainless steel appliances, empty countertops save for an Amazon Echo stuffed mostly out-of-sight were all the same as they were before. The full-wall windows present a lovely scene of the Brooklyn Bridge at dusk. Cars bustling over the bridge to their home or their work or to meet with friends or lovers or to a million other places for a million other reasons might be the exact same ones they’ve been a thousand times before this. Singh stands looking out the window, back to the camera. He doesn’t have a million places to be or a million reasons to be there. He stands here, in this one place, with only one thing on his mind: success. The word is subjective, of course, and it’s hard to deny that he’d already been experiencing it in spades here in the WCF. But Tag Titles and topping out at the midcard is not how The Superstar defined success, no true success at least. Modest success is even a stretch in his mind. But, again, that word is completely subjective. Now, as a shot at objective, undeniable success is promised him at the end of the month, Singh stands in the window overlooking the same canvas it has for the lifetime it feels he’s spent in this condo and it looks...different. As the camera swoops over his left shoulder, Singh isn’t watching the sun beginning its slumber behind the bridge at all; his nearly ear-to-ear grin is fueled instead by the moving pictures on the Samsung Galaxy in his hand. It dances the image of Andre Holmes getting rocketed out of the ring and Singh pinning Sebastian Knight as Freddy Whoa’s proclamation echoes in the cavernous, under-furnished condo:
STEVEN SINGH IS OUR NUMBER ONE CONTENDER!
STEVEN SINGH IS OUR NUMBER ONE CONTENDER!
STEVEN SINGH IS OUR NUMBER ONE CONTENDER!
STEVEN SINGH IS OUR NUMBER ONE CONTENDER!
STEVEN SINGH IS OUR NUMBER ONE CONTENDER!
STEVEN SINGH IS OUR NUMBER ONE CONTENDER!
STEVEN SINGH IS OUR NUMBER ONE CONTENDER!
A knock. Singh quickly closes the WCF Network app and shoves the phone in the pocket of his black track pants.
Singh: Bienvenue.
The door swings open quickly and reveals Erica Baringer, faithful assistant to the number one contender. While Singh is still in his workout clothes--which apparently includes a t-shirt that reads “FOREVER YOUNG” with a picture of the former WCF star--Erica is dressed to meet the queen. Her freshly styled auburn hair tumbles down to her shoulders. Underneath her winter coat she’d eschewed her basiC bitch winter-standards of tights and flannels for a cheap version of a cream colored dress she saw someone wearing at the MET Ball last year. Earrings, high heels. Her ivory breasts staged up high enough to distract most men but not so much as to be inappropriate for a more formal gala. She was excited to get her coat off so the new WCF Number One Contender could see the effort and care she had put in. So he could see her, for once. Tossing a plastic bag of Singh’s requested goods onto his island countertop, she bounds through the door and across the room to her employer. Before he can get a syllable of greeting out, she squeezes him around the waist and lets out a squeal.
Assistant: Eeeeee! Oh my god! Can you even believe it? I can’t believe it?! OMG! Can you EVEN BELIEVE IT?
Surprised by his abnormally effusive assistant, it takes Singh a moment longer than usual to respond.
Singh: Believe what?
He knew what. He had just been watching what.
Assistant: You’re the number one fucking contender! You did it!
He finally squirms free of her embrace. She smelled of the same warm, summertime strawberries that winter colored her cheeks with.
Singh: First of all, watch your language and don’t wrinkle my vintage Adam Young t-shirt. Second of all, I haven’t done a Golden Goddamned thing yet.
Assistant: You’re the Number One Contender! Aren’t you happy? Or proud? Or ready to celebrate?
Singh: I’m supposed to celebrate? I’m supposed to squee and jump up and down? Since the day I started here, I’ve told everyone this was the path I tread. I promised them this and more. You don’t cut the nets until the championship is won. Until I feel Flash tap or see his shoulders flush to the mat while the referee slaps a third count, I have won nothing. I pop the bubbly to celebrate a number one contendership now and I’m just lining up to be another guy who Bites The Dust. Sure, I’m happy. Sure, I’m proud of some of what I’ve done so far but no, I’m not ready to celebrate; there’s not anything TO celebrate...yet.
Erica sighs and slides off her peacoat before hanging it over a stool in the kitchen. It slides off before she walks away; maybe because she was careless when she placed it there or maybe because she wanted to bend over to pick it up. Smirking as she puts it back over the stool more purposefully, she looked back at Singh whose attention was fully on the Tag Team Title which appeared to float against his plain white wall. She decided to engage his attention instead of attempt to divert it.
Assistant: How excited was Captain when you talked to him?
Singh: He was Captain.
Assistant: What does that mean?
Singh: He was ecstatic. Effusive. Euphoric. He was fucking annoying.
Assistant: Annoying?
Singh: Yeah, annoying. Like that name he gave us? Do you realize he officially submitted that to Seth?
Erica made a face like she had just watched someone break their arm.
Singh: Cap n’ Crook. He made us sound like part of a balanced breakfast. Maybe he’s fine being a human punchline but I’m trying to build a goddamn legacy.
Erica: Why don’t you tell him all that then?
Singh: I’m trying to place nice with the guy. I swear to you, I am.
Assistant: You should be, he sacrificed himself to get you the victory in that qualifying match. And you didn’t even thank him.
Singh: Oh I didn’t?
Assistant: Did you?
Singh: What the hell does it matter to you? Are you here to lecture me on manners and gratitude? Because I could’ve sworn you were here to ASSIST me. Not to split my finite attention towards things that just don’t currently matter like David Sanchez or those barely covered orbs pushed up under your chin.
Her eyes darted down and away as he saw easily through her bid for his attention. Affection? Attention. She didn’t look away for more than a second; if he saw, he’d know she did it on purpose. For now, it was only conjecture. But he saw. He always sees.
Singh: I want to trust Cap; I really do. But I’ve never seen a professional wrestler get more starstruck in my entire life. Every time we so much as walk by the Pantheon locker room he’s grabbing selfies. Every week is liking fucking WrestleCon for him. I can’t have him in my corner at Rise Up; him jerking off in the corner to mere visage of Joey Flash would probably be distracting. When we have to put those tag titles back on the line, great. I’m there with gold bells on. But for now, he should really just be worried about surviving the David Sanchez buzzsaw.
Assistant: And shouldn’t you be worried about David Sanchez?
Singh: You don’t cash in a briefcase to jump a contender, Assistant. I have nothing to fear from Sanchez Panza until after I pull back the curtain on the Wizard of Id, Joey Flash.
Assistant: So you go to war with Flash and manage to beat him and then Sanchez cashes in. Don’t you think you should be preparing for that?
Singh: First of all, I’ve been preparing for Sanchez since the day he came back in with Pantheon. I’ve watched every move any one of them have made since their return. Knowing my true place was at the top of the card, I knew my path would take me through them. So first of all, let’s not wrongfully presume my ill-preparedness. And Sanchez won’t take that route, anyways.
Assistant: Why wouldn’t he? That’s what you’d do.
Singh: Ha. He’s not me. He’s a savage. He’s a tool for destruction to be sure, but he’s not an architect of it. Like I said he’s a buzzsaw, ready to destroy whatever is put in his way but fully unable to put his powers to their best use. He’s stuck on this path. Put frankly, he’s too dumb to use that briefcase in the best way possible.. He won’t take the path of least resistance because he needs everyone to know that he cleared every inch of his path with a cleaver. He needs to hold it up to the masses, soaked in the blood of his enemies, howling at the moon. He needs to watch the mooks and mulkies in the back cower in the face of his grit and grind. He’s desperate for the validation of a so-called “clean” victory. And that is something he won’t be getting over The Sure Thing.
Assistant: Alright, so you’re not talking to Cap and you’re not worrying about Sanchez. How about Flash? Are you concerned with him?
With a slow exhale through his nostrils, Singh scoops up a coffee mug that reads “Serious Gourmet Shit” and meanders towards the bodega bag his assistant brought him. He unpacks its contents as he answers her, annoyed.
Singh: The moment Flash dropped “The World” on the network, anyone with any semblance of an aspiration here has been concerned with him. I’ve watched every promo he’s dropped or match he’s been in since. I’ve gone back and looked at his pre-Mexico work. And know what?
Assistant: What?
Singh: It’s the same as his post-Mexico work. It’s fucking good. Hell, it’s great. So yes, I’ve concerned myself with him ever since he stepped foot back in this place because I make it my business to know everybody’s business. I make it my business to know everybody’s strengths, weakness, and how to exploit them. I make it my business to be the hardest goddamn worker and most informed member of this fucking popsicle stand.
He grabs a bag of Blue Bottle Honduran whole coffee beans from the bag. Erica half-sits on the arm of the sectional, legs crossed and doing her best to appear casual though agitated he hasn’t even looked at her yet. Instead, his attention is on the coffee beans. He rips open the bag and pulls a squat, stainless steel cylinder from the cupboard and pours his purchase in. He locks the airtight seal and puts the cylinder back into the cupboard. He hangs his head a moment and then finally turns to face her.
Singh: But right now? Right now, I have Jason O’Neal. The best review I’ve heard anyone in the back give my chances against Flash is that “It’s possible.” So this week I make an example out of the Real Deal. Before you barged in here ready to celebrate something that doesn’t even exist yet, I was doing research so if you don’t mind, I’d really like to get back to it.
She sighs, stands up and grabs her coat off the stool. Without a word, she pulls the door open and her high heel crosses the threshold. Singh grabs her wrist, jolting her a stop. He lowers his voice and the size and strength of his hand on her wrist adds the slightest color to her cheek and a bit of helium in her brain.
Singh: What the hell are you wearing? Did you think I was going to fuck you? That’s not how this works; you’re my employee. That’s now how I do things. I don’t need to put my dick in everything that moves to prove my manhood or show the boys in the back how fucking cool I am. I need a competent assistant. Little boys needs vaginal validation, my sights are set higher than what’s between your legs. My apologies.
Mortified, she’s trying her best to disappear into thin air. To evaporate into a cloud of nothing so she can escape this moment, this embarrassment and this patronizing asshole. He hadn’t let go of her wrist. She thought for a moment she even felt the most subtle of a caress from his thumb against her wrist. Secret tears welled in her eyes but she contained them. Still needing escape, she said her actual first thought upon seeing him today.
Assistant: No one would ever fuck you wearing that shirt.
He released his grip. She slammed the door shut behind her. With a smile, he bellowed after her.
Singh: ADAM YOUNG IS A NATIONAL FUCKING TREASURE!
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I certainly don’t mean to imply that you’ve never provided us with any good times, Fourth Wall. I mean, Annie Hall is an absolute classic and the question “What do you do when you get stuck in a movie line with a guy like this behind you?” haunts me now in the version of “What do you do when you get stuck on the card across from an unimaginative, one-note hack named O’Neal?” Sorry, I know you two are well-acquainted; you must spend time together almost weekly. I can’t say I exactly understand your relationship though, old buddy. That guy outrightly abuses you! You don’t have to let him come around trying to use you all the time. You deserve so much better. Sorry, I digress. All I know is that by the time Ed Norton turned to the camera to explain a few things about Tyler Durden to me, I was over it. I knew reaching out to you was dead.
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“:: Once again nothing much in terms of setting. Just a quaint room with a bit of dressing and not much.I’m so excited for this, Jason. This shoot I mean! I’ve been looking forward pissing down your throat since I stepped in between the ropes here. And despite what you think, it has nothing to do with the slight semblance of skill you do possess. And It has nothing to do with your accomplishments? Is that what we’re going to call the things you’ve done here so far? I mean, it’s a bit of a stretch but I’ll get into that later. For your own ease of comprehension, we’ll just go with accomplishments at this point. So if it has nothing to do with your in-ring talents or your WCF accomplishments, why have I been chomping at the bit to spit my verbal venom in your eye? You see, ever since I’ve premiered here, people have rightfully dubbed me the future of the WCF. “He’s the one to watch!” “ He’s the next great talent!” And I’d be so proud of these customarily small-minded fucks actually seeing real talent for once and then the other shoe would drop… “Yeah! He and Jason O’Neal!” Every Golden Goddamned time someone would make the very astute observation that I’m going to have my foot on the throat of this place sooner rather than later, they’d have to follow it up shortly with those four detestable, overrated, shitpile syllables: JA-SON-OH-NEAL. So. I’ve been looking forward to making it very clear to everyone in the WCF Galaxy...everyone from the front row to the nosebleeds, from the guy sitting gorilla to the guy scrubbing the toilets, from Odin Balore to Joe Fuckin Smarts...I’ve been looking forward to making it clear the Jason O’Neal is not the future of MY WCF because he’s not in my fucking league.
Let’s start by with a dissection of those aforementioned and wrongfully-labeled “accomplishments.” You’re the current reigning Alpha Champion. Kudos to you. You’re the top of the bottom feeders. You’re the biggest turd in the fucking toilet bowl, O’Neal, that’s all that signifies. And you know that. You’ve said it (over and over and over and over and over) yourself; that belt lends you false credibility while simply limiting your competition to whichever piece of meat survives a weekly Rookie Royale. Who’ve you beaten, O’Neal? Think about it. I know non-chalance is you fucking thing but take two seconds and think back about who you’ve beaten. Let’s table Jayson Price--who was clearly blacked the fuck out at One and the two weeks leading up to it--and discuss your other major wins. CJ Phoenix? And his greatest claim to fame is...The Alpha Championship. Right, so that win means nothing, as you yourself would admit. Okay so after him it’s...who exactly? Kidd Krazzy nine times? Joe Smarts? Yeah, you’ve been in the ring with Flash and he put you down like the midcard dog you are. You gave him your best shot and then he got up and left you starting up at the lights. How about Flash’s lapdog? No, you jobbed out to him too. Hmmm...It’s almost like any time you sniff anything other than the bottom of the card, YOU DON’T STACK UP. And here we are this week, O’Neal, right at the top of the card. Your name is again across from a man your better. Again, you’ve finally gotten that shot at the main event. And again you’re going to fall short. Again, you’re going to fail. And for the first time, it’s going to be absolutely crystal clear that YOU are no in MY league.
“:: Honestly this is a pause to break the monotony of
Physically, you’re gifted, Jason. The Lagniappe is a devastating finisher. It’s also so-widely used that I’ve probably faced a hundred different opponents who’ve tried to slap this one me. Needless to say, I’ve already countered it dozens of times in dozens of different ways and from dozens of better competitors than you. So go for it on Sunday and you’re going to end up in a backstabber or a half and half suplex or maybe even a Supernova. And if I’m telling you the cutter is rote and worn and too simple and lazy and shows no creativity and...I mean you get the point. But if all that is true of your cutter, what do you think is true of your fucking SUPERKICK?! I mean, that trash is so overhyped and overplayed that you’ve got JoJo Flash using it ironically. But there it is, one of your specialties. One of the ways you think you’re going to step into the limelight with a man like me. You try to put your size 7’s under my chin and I’m going to pop every ligament in your leg with 15 Minutes of Fame. Again, this is nothing new to me. You’re a cardboard cutout of what a fifteen year old shit-for-brains bozo thinks a wrestler is supposed to be. Go back to the indies with this garbage move set. Or, you know, try to stand toe to toe with The Golden God and get Smited on Sunday. Your choice, fuckchop.
“::
(Are you starting to see how fucking lazy, obnoxious and fucking amateur this looks yet?)
Alright, let’s get out of the ring for a moment. I mean, I could now tout my superior record to yours or point out that I once watched you go flailing over the top rope in a battle royale at the hands of a jabrone named Johnny Evil. Or that you’ve been pinned by Cliff of Doom, a disgraced, child molesting teacher and overall schmuck. But if I really went in on any of that, it’d be like beating the dead horse that you call a career. Let me be clear: the nonchalant and passe manner in which you treat your wrestling career will keep you from ever beating a man like me. The worry you constantly carry on your back about your so-called “empire,” about the business you’ve built, about what REALLY matters to you; all those worries prevent you from even entering the class of men like me, like Flash, like proper WCF Main Eventers. Men who eat, sleep, breathe, and fuck to this sport. My attention is not furcated; I am, as I always am, of one intention and one goal. This week, that goal is putting my main event boot on your tiny little, insignificant head and SQUASHING you back into the micard. And in the name of this holiest of sports, in the name of that hallowed ground called the squared circle and in the name of The Golden God, your heathen ass will be struck down this Sunday under the Bright Lights. So instead of me continuing to fucking bury you based on what you’ve done inside the ring and how you treat MY sport, let’s talk about something else you seem to think you’re actually good at: your pathetic promos. The fucking seams are showing, man. I can see the template, the formula, the repetitious remedial rubbish. Here’s the Jason O’Neal promo checklist!
- Disparage the only thing lending you a shadow of relevance in the WCF, the Alpha Title
Make it clear you’re too fucking cool to actually care about your wrestling career - Play the race card in whatever way is most convenient this week (“You’re an Uncle Tom!” “Seth’s purposely holding me back because I’m black!” “I’m better than those other black people because I’m self-made and can’t be held back by anyone!”)
- Someone from your opponent’s promos or background appears magically in YOUR promo acting completely differently than they did previously
- Don’t respect the fucking form enough to put even a modicum of effort, thought, or passion into your scene setting
- Other people take actions clearly against their own self-interest without any motivation or reasoning
- Make sure Jason O’Neal gets whatever he needs whenever he needs it! Despite how unlikely or how many coincidences have to line up for it to happen
- Never care! About anything! At all! Lest it actually lend some heft, relevance or meaning to an upcoming event or match
We get it. You’re lazy. You don’t’ want to break out of your shell. You’ve found a formula that works well enough for you so you go back to it over...and over...and over again. I’ve got bad news, O’Neal. The well is dry. Go back to it again you might just find the girl from The Ring in there waiting to slit your unimaginative throat. I mean if you’re going to pull out the race card every third week, that’s fine but at least choose a single side of it to come down on. Are you the great black hope? Are you the inspiration for thousands of under-represented, socially oppressed youth as a man who can overcome anything on his way to success? Are you a probability-defying world beater? Or are you a victim? Are you being held back by the big, bad white wolf Seth Lerch? Which one is it going to be this week, O’Neal?
Maybe it's neither. Maybe you're
I’m probably being at least a little too harsh. I’m probably not giving you enough credit for those riveting tales from the hood you tell. You know, the ones with the deaths of nameless, faceless fucks who you’ve never introduced previously so they don’t matter. The ones with the faux-danger that we all know will never actually touch the magically untouchable Jason O’Neal, a man who must have Neo-like bullet-dodging capabilities. The ones where if an insurmountable challenge presents itself, where if a problem seems unsolvable Golden God-knows-what falls from the sky to solve the fucking problem for O’Neal. You don’t tell any fucking stories O’Neal, you masturbate in front of a camera for awhile, pat yourself on the back and call it a day. There are no real stakes, no real motivations, no real talent.
The problem with the story this Sunday, O’Neal, is that there is no 4th wall for you to break. There is no deus ex machina to solve a problem like Steven Singh. There is no manic pixie dream cunt who can somehow break through all your emotional barriers despite yourself, who can help your business AND your wrestling career and somehow know you better than you even know yourself! This story isn’t so pat. The story isn’t as mildewed, stale and convenient as one of your promos. This story, MY story, isn’t so predictable. Not a soul thought a barely-known rook like me could get over like I did at War. Not a soul thought I’d win a three way tag title ladder match WITHOUT a partner but I left with championship in hand. And not a soul thought it’d be me walking away from New Year’s Bash with a Number One Contendership. So you see, my story isn’t the trite fucking cliche that yours is. Mine is packed with unexpected twists (of your ligaments) and unforeseen turns (of your neck) and all sorts of wrenches (of your joints) thrown into best laid plans. So this time, you’ll wish you’d actually RESPECTED the sport and the medium enough to make good on an opportunity afforded you. You’ll wish your story could be written like mine. You’ll wish that you didn’t create your place here in the WCF with a shrug and smirk but with the same laser-focus and precision that I do week in and week out. Sunday, I punctuate our little novella with a fucking exclamation point. I draw a conclusion full of concussions and contusions. I resolve my run-in with this reprobate with a relentless rampage. In fact, let’s flip to the last page of this story and see how it reads:
“The referee raises the hand of Steven Singh and hands him his Tag Team Title which he fastens around his waist. The referee holds the Alpha Title in hand and leans over to check on O’Neal. Singh stands over the beaten Alpha Champion, still not satisfied with the damage inflicted and snatches the Alpha Title out of the referee’s hand. He shoves the ref out of the ring and waits for O’Neal who struggles up to one knee only to have his own Alpha Title tattooed across the side of his head. JO rolls out of the ring as Singh looks briefly at the Alpha title in his hand before chuckling and throwing it outside, towards the downed body of Jason O’Neal.”
From there, MY story continues but ours is complete. And no dimwit dullard will ever utter our names in the same breath again.
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Even before I pronounced the time of death, your primary purpose seemed to be a comedic one, Fourth Wall. Monty Python, Wayne’s World, Space Balls, Austin Powers. I’ve got to be honest here friendo, we do not run in similar circles. I shudder at the thought of your Christmas parties. This does, however, make me think that perhaps I should be a bit nicer to O’Neal. I mean, you keep coming back for that weekly abuse. Perhaps he’s using you correctly, just the way you like. Maybe he’s actually IN on the meta. Maybe he knows he, his career and his promos are all jokes so he’s just Ferris Buellering his way right through the comedy-undercard. And if you’re smiling and laughing with him every time he attempts to brush up to you you with all the skill and grace of a hippo on roller skates, then who am I to judge? Maybe it’s the best either of you can do. Maybe I shouldn’t mock the fact that his scene setting prose is plainer, more boring and just as thoughtless as his fucking haircut. Maybe I should just let him continue his existence as an overhyped punchline of a pugilist and not condemn him for embracing his place in the universe as nothing more than a fucking joke. Live and let live, right? Wow. You’ve really helped me see things in a different light, thanks Fourth Wall!
May We Never Make Contact Again,
Your WCF Tag Team Champion and Number One Contender
Steven Singh