Post by Stephen Singh on Jan 15, 2017 17:00:00 GMT -5
Tuesday. December 10th. Highway I-95.
The non-descript black sedan speeds down I-95. It’s been on this highway for a period now, the tires running parallel to the yellow dashes from one state to the next, the highway effortlessly morphing from NY 495 to the 95 or the New Jersey Turnpike or I-276 West. It changes entirely in how people address it and slightly in shape throughout its journey without any apparent rhyme nor reason but its makeup remains the same: it’s the same asphalt it’s always been, the only difference is how everyone else is seeing it, using it, treating it. No matter how the world refers to it, the asphalt does its job, point A to point B to literally millions of others never considered by the people using and trodding on the asphalt. That’s fine. The asphalt worries not of their indifference, its purpose is known to itself so it continues successfully on its path no matter who sees it or how. It simply goes and goes, without end, fulfilling its purpose.
This particular car carries precious cargo: in the back seat rides WCF Tag Team Champion and Number One Contender, Steven Singh. Dressed for a workout in a sleeveless black t-shirt which reads “There is no cure for 1 Sick Bastard” in a blood-red font over a picture of Adam Young, black track pants and Nikes, Singh is thankful for the quiet driver. Car services don’t always take the request as seriously as they should and more than once he’s cut the trip short and Ubered from the nearest highway exit. A duffle bag with athletic tape, extra gymwear and the tag team titles slouched next to him on the seat. Singh closes his eyes and leans his head back against the rest.
Fuck this. Another week off for that prick and another week pounding in the face of some unworthy shitstain for me. Fuck this. Fuck Seth. He’s clearly already decided the winner at Rise Up; I get saddled with carrying his ratings-retarded program two weeks in a row while Flash sits at home and...And what? Masturbates to old Johnny Fly tape? Accidentally calls Jared Holmes’ name while putting it to Alessandra? Cries into his dead kid’s Dune Wrestling Buddy? Is he watching tape on me? Is he working out? Is that smug fucking wop even taking me seriously? Or is it Sanchez gnawing away at his mind? Is it watching his wife get punched in her dicksucker for the first time at XIII that has attention? There are too many plates; they spin unsteadily now. They’ll fall. Everything falls eventually and when attention is split, it falls more quickly than anyone thought possible. It doesn’t matter though; it doesn’t change my plan. I stay the course. Stay my course. Head down, eyes up. Study, absorb, work. Grind. I might not get another shot; if it were up to the powers that be, I probably wouldn’t have this shot. Vegas odds are outrageous, nobody in their right mind is expecting me to upset. Last I checked in with Byron, Smarts and Kaine had better odds this week than I do at the PPV; what a sham.
The satellite radio interrupted him as the voice of some tryhard DJ on the radio grated its way into Singh’s brain.
DJ: Next up DJ Black with an absolute jam from last year, “I’m Wearing Panties…”
Singh pushed the garbage back out of his thoughts.
I see their tiny little cogs turning now, I see the supposed “train of thought”--and the we’re using thought very loosely here--of both those misguided oddsmakers and likely the Brotherhood itself: “This is a classic trap match! He’s going to be looking past us! He’s too concerned with Flash! There’s been tension between Captain and Singh! This is our shot!” I feel bad for them, I really do. Not the oddsmakers, those guess-and-check charlatans are supposed to be professionals so if they’re giving The Otherhood even the slightest chance, that’s their own foolish failing. I feel bad for Damian Kaine and Joe Smarts. I can’t believe Seth isn’t in jail for letting Joe Smarts continue to compete. There’s got to be some equivalent to PETA for retards right? Shit. Cognitively disabled. Don’t say retard. Somebody needs to step in and save him. This poor short bus buster thinks he’s chasing a dream but he’d probably be just as happy chasing an ice cream truck. Scratch that. Fries truck. Do they have those? Fry trucks? Yeah probably; there’s a bullshit hipster food cart for everything now. Food from a cart, disgusting. Please, tell me how great the hygiene is on those. Tell me about all your hand washing procedures in the sink tha--oh what’s that? You don’t have a sink? Yeah, you’re a cesspit of filth. I can’t believe--
His phone vibrated in his pocket, ripping him from his tangent. An email.
From: WCF Auto Reply
To: Steven Singh, Captain Pantheon
Subject: Your Application Is Being Processed
Thanks for your application as the team, Cap ‘N Crook! Your submission will be reviewed and then you will be contacted shortly thereafter if the WCF chooses to add you to its roster. Be patent at this time as we will process your application as soon as possible.
Please do not reply to this email.
WCF Recruitment and Talent Development
Singh: The fuck?
Driver: Sir?
Dammit. And did that email say “be patent?” C’mon you fucking incompetents, you can’t just use spellcheck.
Singh: Nothing. How long until we’re there?
Driver: Not long.
Singh: Jesus, is that a measurement of time? “Not long?” Do you have some sort of malfunction? Do you have face blindness but for clocks? Or are you, like the majority of people I meet, sent to this planet simply to fucking annoy me and waste my time? How long until we arrive at the gym, Hoke?
Driver: Probably about twenty minutes. Maybe twenty five.
Singh: Thank you for putting yourself through the great stress and tribulation of using actual minutes to describe a period of time. Now I apologize for verbalizing anything in the first place and thusly opening our line of communication. That is, indeed, my fault. This will not affect your tip.
The driver bristles a bit, careful to make sure the last sentence stays true.
Driver: Thank you, sir.
You were never getting one.
The doors swings open into a musty old Bingo Hall pretending to be something it’s not: a hallowed hall of wrestling, the former home to ECW now called 2300 Arena. The dump has a ring in the middle and its setup defaults to one for professional wrestling. And people come from the country to worship in this place; they chant and sit and stand on cue like it’s Sunday mass but it’s just another false idol. Seeing this place mid-day, empty and reeking like the failures who’ve frequented it strips it of any of its magic. Viewed in this light, only simple-minded fools would glorify this hole.
Captain Pantheon: IS IT NOT GREAT?!
Singh thought he was early. He was early, at least twenty minutes. Captain Pantheon had been here for an hour and a half already, arriving on a city bus which he rode in his full Captain attire. When he got here, the place was locked up but a janitor arrived shortly thereafter and let him in. Captain had been running ropes, warming up, and being regaled with broken-english stories of this place from the hispanic janitor. Here, in this falsely worshiped cement box with a WCF camera crew in tow, Captain’s excitement was...palpable to understate it.
Champion. You’re a champion. He’s your partner. He’s as responsible for your title as you are.
Singh: Yeah, it’s a real fucking sight.
Captain Pantheon: 2300 Arena! Such history! I am very excited to compete here and defend our championships together again, Stefan! Cap ‘N Crook is best tag team in business!
Singh: Speaking of, you just went ahead and made it official without speaking to me? What did I tell you about Lerch?
Captain Pantheon: I want to be real team! People are saying we have problems, are not cohesive unit. I submit greatest team name for greatest team in WCF! I show everyone we are on same page!
He’s not wrong. The murmurs abound that your contendership has put stress on your title reign. The mooks think now is the time to strike. If a minor change in nomenclature gives enough of an impression of cohesion to the rank and file to buy me a few more weeks to keep my focus on Flash then so be it, I guess. Even if it’s the damned breakfast cereal bullshit.
Singh: Fine. We’ll keep it. I preferred “The Gold Standard” like I said before but you were probably right, it didn’t exactly feel applicable. But you couldn’t find a song...a little more intimidating or something? I know it’s on-brand and all but we couldn’t do some Run The Jewels?
Captain Pantheon: Jewel? The lady who wants me to adopt a pet?
Singh: I struggle to even begin to explain to you the ways in which you’re wrong, Cap. But I mean 90s alt rock is a little rote, don’t we think? “Been Caught Stealing” by Jane’s Addiction? Really?
Captain Pantheon: I like when the dogs bark! They’re very intimidating! And you like to steal!
You like when the dogs bark? Jesus, this guy.
Was Baha Men not available?
Singh: I don’t like getting caught. It doesn’t matter. Let’s move on. We’re Cap ‘N Crook, Tag Team Champions. It’s great.
Captain Pantheon: Great! Are you prepared for The Brotherhood this weekend? They will surely bring their greatest effort!
Singh tosses his duffel into an empty steel chair, sits down next to it and begins to lace his shoes properly for some sparring.
Singh: I’m sure they’ll give it 110%, Cap. It’s just unfortunate for them that their 110% is about 40% of what I do if I’m putting in 50% effort. We 100% clear on that?
Cap shakes his head. He is not clear on that.
Singh: Let me clarify. We’ll start with Joe Smarts.
Captain Pantheon: Captain Sisterhoodofthetravellingpants.
Singh: Don’t call him Captain Anything.
Captain Pantheon: Why?
Singh: Because that little afterthought is ripping you off. He hears you getting cheers, he hears people backstage actually respecting you and, most of all, sees that title on your shoulder so he figures he can just hide behind a mask and follow the path you’ve already blazed. He’s a fraud. He’s an uncreative kook doing whatever the hell he can to get over. Sunday you need to shove your Boom foot so far down his throat that while you can spell out “Fuck you, you gimmick-stealing skidmark” with piss in his mouth. You need to go on a mission to cleanse all these other fraudulent Captains from the Dub. There is only ONE Captain.
Captain Pantheon: Me?
Wide-eyed over that pep talk apparently not being clear, Singh nods.
Captain Pantheon: ME!
Singh: Right. You. Listen, I’ve beaten Joe Smarts pillar to post and back again. He’s terrible. He’s atrocious. And he can’t keep his gimmicks straight, he’s like a somehow even less compelling and more awful Adrian Archer which SOUNDS crazy because that guy is a human tire fire. Normally I’d feel bad for Smarts getting tossed into the ring with us but he’s got the stones to walk around here calling himself “Captain” whatever. So for that, he will be punished harshly and severely. If I were you, I’d rip off his terrible mask and shove it up his cavernous asshole.
Captain Pantheon: I don’t want to shove things up asses.
Singh: Just speaking figuratively, Cap. But this guy is attempting to steal your identity. He’s trying to steal the niche you single-handedly carved out for yourself here. People thought Captain WCF was a joke.
Captain Pantheon: A joke?
Dammit. Just keep going, he’ll let that go.
Singh: But you showed them how seriously you should be taken. You carried that dead weight, alcoholic plagiarist for months before becoming part of the division-crushing and title-stabilizing force known now as Cap ‘N Crook.
Ugh.
And Short Bus just thinks he can steal that away from you without the hard work that you’ve put in? I mean, people can’t just go around stealing things without earning them. There’s no honor in theft, is there Cap?
Confused by Singh’s apparent moralizing, Captain Pantheon wants to question Thievin’ Steven’s own history of five-finger discounts but thinks better of it. He shakes his head no.
Of course not! You’re a force for good here in the WCF! You’re an upstanding pillar of morality and justice and hard work! Shit, half the time I’m waiting for you to tell people to say their prayers and eat their vitamins. So this false-flagged fucklet needs to be taught that you don’t just jump on the back of another man’s blood, sweat, and tears pretending that it’s going to get you anywhere. This week we tear him down and teach him that lesson one time. Then at Rise Up--on the same night that The Golden God is coronated as The WCF World Champion--you make sure the lesson is engrained into those three working brain cells he has. Got it?
What a fucking pep talk. I’m goddamn Coach K; I’ll make this guy into Grayson Allen yet.
A big thumbs up from Cap. Singh stands up off the bench and slaps Captain hard on the back. Singh rolls under the bottom rope and Cap follows excitedly. Singh wraps both arms around the top rope and leans back over them hard, stretching and getting a feel for the ropes.
God, even this ring fucking sucks. Historic shithole.
Captain Pantheon: Okay. I understand better now. I will not call him anything other than Bro Sharts.
Singh guffaws loudly. Captain beams; a laugh from his tag team partner is an exceedingly rare little treat for him.
Singh: What?
Captain Pantheon: Bro Sharts!
Singh laughs again, even stopping his stretching routine for a moment. He leans back into the turnbuckle, his chuckle slowly churning to a stop.
Pull it together, Singh. This is a training session.
Singh snorts and resets his face to its default humorlessness.
Singh: Let’s get some work in.
The two enter the ring and lock up in a collar and elbow. Singh immediately steps behind with a hammer lock. Cap struggles for a moment then swings wildly with a back elbow, ducked under by Singh who is looking for a Northern Lights suplex which Cap stymies with a guillotine choke.
Captain Pantheon: What about Damian Kaine? Surely, he is to be taken more serious.
Good guillotine. Proper pressure on the windpipe. He really absorbs the things I teach him.
The Number One Contender throws one arm over Cap’s head then scoops him up with the other one before putting him down with a slam and moving quickly into side mount where he feigns the elbows he’d normally rain down on an opponent, giving Cap a chance to work on covering up and dodging the strikes. Singh nods, releases him and the two get back to their feet, Singh takes a look towards the camera.
Singh: Take him MORE seriously? I suppose so but this is only in relation to Joe Sm...er...Bro Sharts so keep that in mind. Golden God’s honest truth? I feel bad for the kid. Here he was, building momentum towards somewhere other than a padded room for once in his life and instead of continuing to feed him the chum down in the shallow end, Lerch sacrifices him at my altar? First of all: I’m sorry. I’m sorry that Seth Lerch did this to you Damian. I’m sorry he thinks you were ready to even sniff my jock strap and I’m even more sorry that he saddled you with that dead weight. Granted, I’m not sorry enough to actually take it easy on you or do something other than send a message to Lerch about why you don’t belong in my main event by ripping apart the ligaments in that little microphone stand you call a leg. But the sentiment stands, I’m still sorry.
Secondly, your momentum is over now. Whatever little mini-push you were experiencing has come to an abrupt and premature halt. This is unfortunate but true. You’re a lesser competitor than me under any circumstance, you’re lesser competitor than my co-champion here under any circumstance. And in this current circumstance? The one where I need to keep piling up bodies and screaming at the top of my lungs to convince the mindless hordes at home to purchase a pay per view since Joey Flash is too good to make a single fucking appearance on Slam? Under THAT particular circumstance, Kaine your fate you’refucking buried. When you get in that ring this Sunday--if I let you get in that ring this Sunday--I’m not going to take mercy you simply due to your misfortune. Instead, I apparently have to pick you apart bone by bone and joint by joint in order to show Lerch, those fuckstick fans, and anybody else in the back that YOU do not belong anywhere near ME.
The tag champions go in for another collar and elbow.
Captain Pantheon: Daemon King beat Airhead Archer.
Are you fucking second guessing me right now? Did I just drop a half-assed mini-shoot only to have it undermined by you pointing out my opponent’s prior success?
With a low snort and a grumble, Singh backs his partner into the turnbuckle and catches him in a clinch. Cap tries to break the clinch but Singh feints knee strikes to either side of Cap now, periodically landing one softly to the ribs as Cap struggles to get out of the corner.
Singh: He beat the face-changing chumpstain. Great. Now maybe he’s ready to move onto bigger fish like Kidd fucking Krazzy or someone else terrible. That’s the problem with these midcard mulkies; Jobber 1 gets a win over Jobber 2 and they think they’re ready to move up the card.
The knees are landing a little harder now.
Singh: But the thing is, Kevin Bitchup keeps signing every fucking jobber in this place to his loser label. So when they get a victory over Jobber 2--such as Archer/Morph of X-Men fame in this scenario--there are no other jobbers for them to battle with. They’re all “brothers” or whatever, doing each others’ toe nails under the banner of Bitchup’s bullshit.
Cap hooks a knee as it comes in and pushes out of the corner with a judo trip.
I don’t remember teaching him that. I didn’t each him that.
Upon hitting the mat, Singh immediately scooted into closed guard. Captain is fighting to pass guard as Singh continues his diatribe from the bottom.
Singh: Maybe this thick-skulled skankbox actually thinks he’s ready to stand in the ring with us. The research I’ve done on him says otherwise. He’s barely ready to stand in the front row WATCHING us. Without Bitchup holding the leash this little puppy would’ve been run over by three cars by now. Daddy won’t be there to help him out Sunday. And as punishment for possibly ever considering yourself worthy of a shot at MY--
Captain: Our.
Don’t fucking interrupt me.
Singh clears his throat, anger swelling on the back of his tongue.
Singh: As punishment for possibly ever considering yourself worthy of a shot at...OUR Tag Team Titles, I might snap his twig neck this Sunday. I might shatter half of his frail little bones and knock that brain around enough that it shatters his too-fragile-for-my-sport psyche. This punishment might seem a bit harsh, Cap but I’ve had to sit through his promos. I had to watch those dimwit dullards sit around and play chess. FUCKING CHESS. That’s what passes for a promo at Camp Nowhere. I’d develop mental problems too so I could hopefully forget what a no-talent piece of shit I am.
Distracted with his own verbosity, Singh allows Cap to suddenly pop his hips and escape the guard. Side mount, into full mount.
What the FUCK do you think you’re doing?!
As Captain begins to pantomime ground and pound--just as Singh did before--the Number One Contender grabs an arm and slaps on his patented triangle choke, Bright Lights. In the past, once it’s on, Singh releases it, he’s won.
I win two matches in one night while Flash sits at home.
Captain figures his partner is giving him a chance to work on his escapes and reversals so he works to do so. As Cap struggles, Singh robotically tightens the hold.
I tap out the Alpha Champion, supposed next big thing Jason O’Shitheel. And Flash sits at home.
Captain is fighting to get free a bit more frantically now, the choke starting to takes its toll despite not being applied full force. As Cap pulls away harder and Singh reflects on his upcoming World Title shot, eyes shrinking into two slits, he sinks the choke in deeper. Cap begins to tap.
This week, I have to sully my brand by euthanizing two of Bitchup’s lapdog losers while Flash fucking COMMENTATES Thirteen?!
The vice tightens on Captain’s carotid artery. He taps frantically. Singh is holding his breath now too. A loud gasp from the Captain. Singh’s eyes pop wide, he releases the hold immediately and rolls backwards away from his partner. A huge gasp for air from Captain Pantheon who sits on his bottom, legs straight out to either side of him. Singh hangs both arms over the top rope. Both men take deep breaths, each consciously slowing their breathing, attempting to regain control of their blood pressure and heart rate.
Captain Pantheon: STEFAN WHY WOU--
Singh: Cap…
Captain Pantheon: We were jus--
Singh: Cap, I’m sorry.
Steven’s unexpected contrition silences Cap for a moment.
Singh: Really, I’m sorry. That wasn’t okay. It’s just been…
Captain Pantheon: Stressful?
Singh: Yeah. Stressful.
Silence again between the partners. Cap’s neck still hurts. His feelings still hurts. Singh’s back is too him. The contender’s arms are draped over the top rope and his head is bowed slightly. Captain Pantheon bounds to his feet and smiles.
Captain Pantheon: That’s why we’re going to have fun tomorrow!
Fun is when I have my hand raised as World Champion.
The co-champion comes up behind Singh and puts an arm around him.
Captain Pantheon: Tomorrow we run the Rocky steps right? Maybe play the music? Then I beat up Bro Sharts.
This fucking guy. Bro Sharts. Ha.
Singh: Yeah, Cap. We’re still going to run the stairs and we still run the Tag Team Division. Let’s get back to the sparring.
The non-descript black sedan speeds down I-95. It’s been on this highway for a period now, the tires running parallel to the yellow dashes from one state to the next, the highway effortlessly morphing from NY 495 to the 95 or the New Jersey Turnpike or I-276 West. It changes entirely in how people address it and slightly in shape throughout its journey without any apparent rhyme nor reason but its makeup remains the same: it’s the same asphalt it’s always been, the only difference is how everyone else is seeing it, using it, treating it. No matter how the world refers to it, the asphalt does its job, point A to point B to literally millions of others never considered by the people using and trodding on the asphalt. That’s fine. The asphalt worries not of their indifference, its purpose is known to itself so it continues successfully on its path no matter who sees it or how. It simply goes and goes, without end, fulfilling its purpose.
This particular car carries precious cargo: in the back seat rides WCF Tag Team Champion and Number One Contender, Steven Singh. Dressed for a workout in a sleeveless black t-shirt which reads “There is no cure for 1 Sick Bastard” in a blood-red font over a picture of Adam Young, black track pants and Nikes, Singh is thankful for the quiet driver. Car services don’t always take the request as seriously as they should and more than once he’s cut the trip short and Ubered from the nearest highway exit. A duffle bag with athletic tape, extra gymwear and the tag team titles slouched next to him on the seat. Singh closes his eyes and leans his head back against the rest.
Fuck this. Another week off for that prick and another week pounding in the face of some unworthy shitstain for me. Fuck this. Fuck Seth. He’s clearly already decided the winner at Rise Up; I get saddled with carrying his ratings-retarded program two weeks in a row while Flash sits at home and...And what? Masturbates to old Johnny Fly tape? Accidentally calls Jared Holmes’ name while putting it to Alessandra? Cries into his dead kid’s Dune Wrestling Buddy? Is he watching tape on me? Is he working out? Is that smug fucking wop even taking me seriously? Or is it Sanchez gnawing away at his mind? Is it watching his wife get punched in her dicksucker for the first time at XIII that has attention? There are too many plates; they spin unsteadily now. They’ll fall. Everything falls eventually and when attention is split, it falls more quickly than anyone thought possible. It doesn’t matter though; it doesn’t change my plan. I stay the course. Stay my course. Head down, eyes up. Study, absorb, work. Grind. I might not get another shot; if it were up to the powers that be, I probably wouldn’t have this shot. Vegas odds are outrageous, nobody in their right mind is expecting me to upset. Last I checked in with Byron, Smarts and Kaine had better odds this week than I do at the PPV; what a sham.
The satellite radio interrupted him as the voice of some tryhard DJ on the radio grated its way into Singh’s brain.
DJ: Next up DJ Black with an absolute jam from last year, “I’m Wearing Panties…”
Singh pushed the garbage back out of his thoughts.
I see their tiny little cogs turning now, I see the supposed “train of thought”--and the we’re using thought very loosely here--of both those misguided oddsmakers and likely the Brotherhood itself: “This is a classic trap match! He’s going to be looking past us! He’s too concerned with Flash! There’s been tension between Captain and Singh! This is our shot!” I feel bad for them, I really do. Not the oddsmakers, those guess-and-check charlatans are supposed to be professionals so if they’re giving The Otherhood even the slightest chance, that’s their own foolish failing. I feel bad for Damian Kaine and Joe Smarts. I can’t believe Seth isn’t in jail for letting Joe Smarts continue to compete. There’s got to be some equivalent to PETA for retards right? Shit. Cognitively disabled. Don’t say retard. Somebody needs to step in and save him. This poor short bus buster thinks he’s chasing a dream but he’d probably be just as happy chasing an ice cream truck. Scratch that. Fries truck. Do they have those? Fry trucks? Yeah probably; there’s a bullshit hipster food cart for everything now. Food from a cart, disgusting. Please, tell me how great the hygiene is on those. Tell me about all your hand washing procedures in the sink tha--oh what’s that? You don’t have a sink? Yeah, you’re a cesspit of filth. I can’t believe--
His phone vibrated in his pocket, ripping him from his tangent. An email.
From: WCF Auto Reply
To: Steven Singh, Captain Pantheon
Subject: Your Application Is Being Processed
Thanks for your application as the team, Cap ‘N Crook! Your submission will be reviewed and then you will be contacted shortly thereafter if the WCF chooses to add you to its roster. Be patent at this time as we will process your application as soon as possible.
Please do not reply to this email.
WCF Recruitment and Talent Development
Singh: The fuck?
Driver: Sir?
Dammit. And did that email say “be patent?” C’mon you fucking incompetents, you can’t just use spellcheck.
Singh: Nothing. How long until we’re there?
Driver: Not long.
Singh: Jesus, is that a measurement of time? “Not long?” Do you have some sort of malfunction? Do you have face blindness but for clocks? Or are you, like the majority of people I meet, sent to this planet simply to fucking annoy me and waste my time? How long until we arrive at the gym, Hoke?
Driver: Probably about twenty minutes. Maybe twenty five.
Singh: Thank you for putting yourself through the great stress and tribulation of using actual minutes to describe a period of time. Now I apologize for verbalizing anything in the first place and thusly opening our line of communication. That is, indeed, my fault. This will not affect your tip.
The driver bristles a bit, careful to make sure the last sentence stays true.
Driver: Thank you, sir.
You were never getting one.
*********************************************************
The doors swings open into a musty old Bingo Hall pretending to be something it’s not: a hallowed hall of wrestling, the former home to ECW now called 2300 Arena. The dump has a ring in the middle and its setup defaults to one for professional wrestling. And people come from the country to worship in this place; they chant and sit and stand on cue like it’s Sunday mass but it’s just another false idol. Seeing this place mid-day, empty and reeking like the failures who’ve frequented it strips it of any of its magic. Viewed in this light, only simple-minded fools would glorify this hole.
Captain Pantheon: IS IT NOT GREAT?!
Singh thought he was early. He was early, at least twenty minutes. Captain Pantheon had been here for an hour and a half already, arriving on a city bus which he rode in his full Captain attire. When he got here, the place was locked up but a janitor arrived shortly thereafter and let him in. Captain had been running ropes, warming up, and being regaled with broken-english stories of this place from the hispanic janitor. Here, in this falsely worshiped cement box with a WCF camera crew in tow, Captain’s excitement was...palpable to understate it.
Champion. You’re a champion. He’s your partner. He’s as responsible for your title as you are.
Singh: Yeah, it’s a real fucking sight.
Captain Pantheon: 2300 Arena! Such history! I am very excited to compete here and defend our championships together again, Stefan! Cap ‘N Crook is best tag team in business!
Singh: Speaking of, you just went ahead and made it official without speaking to me? What did I tell you about Lerch?
Captain Pantheon: I want to be real team! People are saying we have problems, are not cohesive unit. I submit greatest team name for greatest team in WCF! I show everyone we are on same page!
He’s not wrong. The murmurs abound that your contendership has put stress on your title reign. The mooks think now is the time to strike. If a minor change in nomenclature gives enough of an impression of cohesion to the rank and file to buy me a few more weeks to keep my focus on Flash then so be it, I guess. Even if it’s the damned breakfast cereal bullshit.
Singh: Fine. We’ll keep it. I preferred “The Gold Standard” like I said before but you were probably right, it didn’t exactly feel applicable. But you couldn’t find a song...a little more intimidating or something? I know it’s on-brand and all but we couldn’t do some Run The Jewels?
Captain Pantheon: Jewel? The lady who wants me to adopt a pet?
Singh: I struggle to even begin to explain to you the ways in which you’re wrong, Cap. But I mean 90s alt rock is a little rote, don’t we think? “Been Caught Stealing” by Jane’s Addiction? Really?
Captain Pantheon: I like when the dogs bark! They’re very intimidating! And you like to steal!
You like when the dogs bark? Jesus, this guy.
Was Baha Men not available?
Singh: I don’t like getting caught. It doesn’t matter. Let’s move on. We’re Cap ‘N Crook, Tag Team Champions. It’s great.
Captain Pantheon: Great! Are you prepared for The Brotherhood this weekend? They will surely bring their greatest effort!
Singh tosses his duffel into an empty steel chair, sits down next to it and begins to lace his shoes properly for some sparring.
Singh: I’m sure they’ll give it 110%, Cap. It’s just unfortunate for them that their 110% is about 40% of what I do if I’m putting in 50% effort. We 100% clear on that?
Cap shakes his head. He is not clear on that.
Singh: Let me clarify. We’ll start with Joe Smarts.
Captain Pantheon: Captain Sisterhoodofthetravellingpants.
Singh: Don’t call him Captain Anything.
Captain Pantheon: Why?
Singh: Because that little afterthought is ripping you off. He hears you getting cheers, he hears people backstage actually respecting you and, most of all, sees that title on your shoulder so he figures he can just hide behind a mask and follow the path you’ve already blazed. He’s a fraud. He’s an uncreative kook doing whatever the hell he can to get over. Sunday you need to shove your Boom foot so far down his throat that while you can spell out “Fuck you, you gimmick-stealing skidmark” with piss in his mouth. You need to go on a mission to cleanse all these other fraudulent Captains from the Dub. There is only ONE Captain.
Captain Pantheon: Me?
Wide-eyed over that pep talk apparently not being clear, Singh nods.
Captain Pantheon: ME!
Singh: Right. You. Listen, I’ve beaten Joe Smarts pillar to post and back again. He’s terrible. He’s atrocious. And he can’t keep his gimmicks straight, he’s like a somehow even less compelling and more awful Adrian Archer which SOUNDS crazy because that guy is a human tire fire. Normally I’d feel bad for Smarts getting tossed into the ring with us but he’s got the stones to walk around here calling himself “Captain” whatever. So for that, he will be punished harshly and severely. If I were you, I’d rip off his terrible mask and shove it up his cavernous asshole.
Captain Pantheon: I don’t want to shove things up asses.
Singh: Just speaking figuratively, Cap. But this guy is attempting to steal your identity. He’s trying to steal the niche you single-handedly carved out for yourself here. People thought Captain WCF was a joke.
Captain Pantheon: A joke?
Dammit. Just keep going, he’ll let that go.
Singh: But you showed them how seriously you should be taken. You carried that dead weight, alcoholic plagiarist for months before becoming part of the division-crushing and title-stabilizing force known now as Cap ‘N Crook.
Ugh.
And Short Bus just thinks he can steal that away from you without the hard work that you’ve put in? I mean, people can’t just go around stealing things without earning them. There’s no honor in theft, is there Cap?
Confused by Singh’s apparent moralizing, Captain Pantheon wants to question Thievin’ Steven’s own history of five-finger discounts but thinks better of it. He shakes his head no.
Of course not! You’re a force for good here in the WCF! You’re an upstanding pillar of morality and justice and hard work! Shit, half the time I’m waiting for you to tell people to say their prayers and eat their vitamins. So this false-flagged fucklet needs to be taught that you don’t just jump on the back of another man’s blood, sweat, and tears pretending that it’s going to get you anywhere. This week we tear him down and teach him that lesson one time. Then at Rise Up--on the same night that The Golden God is coronated as The WCF World Champion--you make sure the lesson is engrained into those three working brain cells he has. Got it?
What a fucking pep talk. I’m goddamn Coach K; I’ll make this guy into Grayson Allen yet.
A big thumbs up from Cap. Singh stands up off the bench and slaps Captain hard on the back. Singh rolls under the bottom rope and Cap follows excitedly. Singh wraps both arms around the top rope and leans back over them hard, stretching and getting a feel for the ropes.
God, even this ring fucking sucks. Historic shithole.
Captain Pantheon: Okay. I understand better now. I will not call him anything other than Bro Sharts.
Singh guffaws loudly. Captain beams; a laugh from his tag team partner is an exceedingly rare little treat for him.
Singh: What?
Captain Pantheon: Bro Sharts!
Singh laughs again, even stopping his stretching routine for a moment. He leans back into the turnbuckle, his chuckle slowly churning to a stop.
Pull it together, Singh. This is a training session.
Singh snorts and resets his face to its default humorlessness.
Singh: Let’s get some work in.
The two enter the ring and lock up in a collar and elbow. Singh immediately steps behind with a hammer lock. Cap struggles for a moment then swings wildly with a back elbow, ducked under by Singh who is looking for a Northern Lights suplex which Cap stymies with a guillotine choke.
Captain Pantheon: What about Damian Kaine? Surely, he is to be taken more serious.
Good guillotine. Proper pressure on the windpipe. He really absorbs the things I teach him.
The Number One Contender throws one arm over Cap’s head then scoops him up with the other one before putting him down with a slam and moving quickly into side mount where he feigns the elbows he’d normally rain down on an opponent, giving Cap a chance to work on covering up and dodging the strikes. Singh nods, releases him and the two get back to their feet, Singh takes a look towards the camera.
Singh: Take him MORE seriously? I suppose so but this is only in relation to Joe Sm...er...Bro Sharts so keep that in mind. Golden God’s honest truth? I feel bad for the kid. Here he was, building momentum towards somewhere other than a padded room for once in his life and instead of continuing to feed him the chum down in the shallow end, Lerch sacrifices him at my altar? First of all: I’m sorry. I’m sorry that Seth Lerch did this to you Damian. I’m sorry he thinks you were ready to even sniff my jock strap and I’m even more sorry that he saddled you with that dead weight. Granted, I’m not sorry enough to actually take it easy on you or do something other than send a message to Lerch about why you don’t belong in my main event by ripping apart the ligaments in that little microphone stand you call a leg. But the sentiment stands, I’m still sorry.
Secondly, your momentum is over now. Whatever little mini-push you were experiencing has come to an abrupt and premature halt. This is unfortunate but true. You’re a lesser competitor than me under any circumstance, you’re lesser competitor than my co-champion here under any circumstance. And in this current circumstance? The one where I need to keep piling up bodies and screaming at the top of my lungs to convince the mindless hordes at home to purchase a pay per view since Joey Flash is too good to make a single fucking appearance on Slam? Under THAT particular circumstance, Kaine your fate you’refucking buried. When you get in that ring this Sunday--if I let you get in that ring this Sunday--I’m not going to take mercy you simply due to your misfortune. Instead, I apparently have to pick you apart bone by bone and joint by joint in order to show Lerch, those fuckstick fans, and anybody else in the back that YOU do not belong anywhere near ME.
The tag champions go in for another collar and elbow.
Captain Pantheon: Daemon King beat Airhead Archer.
Are you fucking second guessing me right now? Did I just drop a half-assed mini-shoot only to have it undermined by you pointing out my opponent’s prior success?
With a low snort and a grumble, Singh backs his partner into the turnbuckle and catches him in a clinch. Cap tries to break the clinch but Singh feints knee strikes to either side of Cap now, periodically landing one softly to the ribs as Cap struggles to get out of the corner.
Singh: He beat the face-changing chumpstain. Great. Now maybe he’s ready to move onto bigger fish like Kidd fucking Krazzy or someone else terrible. That’s the problem with these midcard mulkies; Jobber 1 gets a win over Jobber 2 and they think they’re ready to move up the card.
The knees are landing a little harder now.
Singh: But the thing is, Kevin Bitchup keeps signing every fucking jobber in this place to his loser label. So when they get a victory over Jobber 2--such as Archer/Morph of X-Men fame in this scenario--there are no other jobbers for them to battle with. They’re all “brothers” or whatever, doing each others’ toe nails under the banner of Bitchup’s bullshit.
Cap hooks a knee as it comes in and pushes out of the corner with a judo trip.
I don’t remember teaching him that. I didn’t each him that.
Upon hitting the mat, Singh immediately scooted into closed guard. Captain is fighting to pass guard as Singh continues his diatribe from the bottom.
Singh: Maybe this thick-skulled skankbox actually thinks he’s ready to stand in the ring with us. The research I’ve done on him says otherwise. He’s barely ready to stand in the front row WATCHING us. Without Bitchup holding the leash this little puppy would’ve been run over by three cars by now. Daddy won’t be there to help him out Sunday. And as punishment for possibly ever considering yourself worthy of a shot at MY--
Captain: Our.
Don’t fucking interrupt me.
Singh clears his throat, anger swelling on the back of his tongue.
Singh: As punishment for possibly ever considering yourself worthy of a shot at...OUR Tag Team Titles, I might snap his twig neck this Sunday. I might shatter half of his frail little bones and knock that brain around enough that it shatters his too-fragile-for-my-sport psyche. This punishment might seem a bit harsh, Cap but I’ve had to sit through his promos. I had to watch those dimwit dullards sit around and play chess. FUCKING CHESS. That’s what passes for a promo at Camp Nowhere. I’d develop mental problems too so I could hopefully forget what a no-talent piece of shit I am.
Distracted with his own verbosity, Singh allows Cap to suddenly pop his hips and escape the guard. Side mount, into full mount.
What the FUCK do you think you’re doing?!
As Captain begins to pantomime ground and pound--just as Singh did before--the Number One Contender grabs an arm and slaps on his patented triangle choke, Bright Lights. In the past, once it’s on, Singh releases it, he’s won.
I win two matches in one night while Flash sits at home.
Captain figures his partner is giving him a chance to work on his escapes and reversals so he works to do so. As Cap struggles, Singh robotically tightens the hold.
I tap out the Alpha Champion, supposed next big thing Jason O’Shitheel. And Flash sits at home.
Captain is fighting to get free a bit more frantically now, the choke starting to takes its toll despite not being applied full force. As Cap pulls away harder and Singh reflects on his upcoming World Title shot, eyes shrinking into two slits, he sinks the choke in deeper. Cap begins to tap.
This week, I have to sully my brand by euthanizing two of Bitchup’s lapdog losers while Flash fucking COMMENTATES Thirteen?!
The vice tightens on Captain’s carotid artery. He taps frantically. Singh is holding his breath now too. A loud gasp from the Captain. Singh’s eyes pop wide, he releases the hold immediately and rolls backwards away from his partner. A huge gasp for air from Captain Pantheon who sits on his bottom, legs straight out to either side of him. Singh hangs both arms over the top rope. Both men take deep breaths, each consciously slowing their breathing, attempting to regain control of their blood pressure and heart rate.
Captain Pantheon: STEFAN WHY WOU--
Singh: Cap…
Captain Pantheon: We were jus--
Singh: Cap, I’m sorry.
Steven’s unexpected contrition silences Cap for a moment.
Singh: Really, I’m sorry. That wasn’t okay. It’s just been…
Captain Pantheon: Stressful?
Singh: Yeah. Stressful.
Silence again between the partners. Cap’s neck still hurts. His feelings still hurts. Singh’s back is too him. The contender’s arms are draped over the top rope and his head is bowed slightly. Captain Pantheon bounds to his feet and smiles.
Captain Pantheon: That’s why we’re going to have fun tomorrow!
Fun is when I have my hand raised as World Champion.
The co-champion comes up behind Singh and puts an arm around him.
Captain Pantheon: Tomorrow we run the Rocky steps right? Maybe play the music? Then I beat up Bro Sharts.
This fucking guy. Bro Sharts. Ha.
Singh: Yeah, Cap. We’re still going to run the stairs and we still run the Tag Team Division. Let’s get back to the sparring.