Post by Kyle on Feb 12, 2017 15:28:06 GMT -5
“I talk you up, show you the respect you so often lack, and this how you repay me?”
The difficulty with a company that finds itself in a new city every seven days is furnishing space in which to meet. That isn’t to say that the office that the two men found themselves in was not decorated, not even to say that it wasn’t decorated well. It just felt . . . off, a glimpse into a different world. A mural of a sunset over cornfields. A statue of a raccoon carved out of wood. By God, Indiana get your fucking act together. Both men were agreement that they wished to be elsewhere, somewhere that better represented the lives they lived. But, because they were not in agreement beyond this one particular thing, there they met. Sebastian Knight and Seth Lerch, two kings amongst golden stalks.
“I’m not sure I understand what has you so upset, Sebastian,” Seth said, looking down at his handwritten notes that would become in the next twenty-four hours the official card for the February 12th Slam—gotta love flashbacks—and shaking his head. “I figured after a match with two competitors who no roots in this company, a match with Justin Turner would a nice change of pace. He’s got some credible history in the WCF—“
Sebastian cuts Seth off with a wave of his hand. “I’m not here for that,” Knight continues, shaking his own head, “don’t give two shits really about Justin Turner. No, I’m here for one thing: Stephen Anderson.” Knight leans forward. “Take him off the card, Seth.”
Seth leans back, looking at the Television Champion across the table. “I’m not sure I follow. I know you and Adam Burnett have had your issues in the past, but I’m not entirely sure how Stephen Anderson fits into all of this."
“Because if he steps into that ring, you’re opening a door that was better left closed. ‘He’s just another rookie,’ you’ll say, ‘or just another novelty act that we see every single week in the WCF ring. Except he’s different,” Knight holds up one finger. “He, and Adam too, represent an entity in the wrestling social spectrum that thinks themselves qualified to stand where you and I stand because, what, they’ve wrestled for a few years in dingy gyms and Podunk towns? Quantity, they scream, in the hopes that we overlook the sheer lack in quality. They’re just good enough to not be lumped in with the one-and-dones, Seth, but not enough to be anything more than bodies to form a bridge to the greener pastures.” A pause. “You risk the oversaturation of your entire company because one guy just wants to wrestle with his best friend. This is wrestling, boss man: not everybody gets what they want.”
“So what makes you think you’ll get yours, then?”
Knight grins a feral grin. “Because, eventually, I’ll take it for yourself. I just wanted to offer you this opportunity to make this look like your decision and not someone elses.”
Seth glances at the camera. “Oh, they’ll know that it was my decision,” he said, nodding to the door. “Stephen Anderson will compete as planned. Now get out.”
The two men stare at one another before Knight nods to himself, and pushes himself to his feet. “So be it.”
Knight exits the shot as Seth looks back down at his list. The scene fades with his look of contemplation.
An audio clip over a black screen follows
“As the saying goes, you win some, you lose some. An idiom for idiots incapable of overcoming a rollercoaster existence. In other words, hello to you, Justin Turner.”
The voice chuckles.
“I have allowed that particular scene with ole Seth Lerch to be aired as a two-fold message to the few who still tune in and listen to these little diatribes of mine. Inevitability, you see, has a dualistic quality about it: it tastes sweet to some, and oh so bitter to others. And so, I feel—and do humor me please, in this little tangent of mine—that my viewership has go done in recent weeks because people just know the outcome before we even begin. Sure, its impressive, the way men like myself can boil success down to a science, but it can also grow a little stale, a little predictable. Why else do you think we only see Joey Flash once a month? There wouldn’t be enough graduates from Adam Young’s school of wrestling to supplement this roster should Flash choose to compete every single week. And so he is limited to these infrequent appearances in the hopes that ninety percent of this company can maintain the barest modicum of self-respect for their efforts in this company. But me?
I’m locked into this cycle of dominance.
And so, for the sake of something a little bit different, I present an instance where I did not get my way. What has recently been a series of no-nonsense scenes in which the slightest hint of doubt or incapability is ground to dust between my boot becomes . . . well, this. A glimpse into the reality that no man—for real, Joey, I’m so sorry that Fly snubbed you like that—gets what he wants at every waking moment. But like I said, the message is two-fold. People can watch this and think maybe, just maybe, Sebastian Knight will be off his game come Sunday night. But not Justin Turner. I made it very clear to him.
Justin Turner never had a fucking chance.”
A pause over the audio.
“Because if the ‘High Flying Freak’ took the time at all week to stop reminding the WCF universe why they were so relieved when he left the company in the first place, he realized that he fits in perfectly within the framework that I laid last week. Namely, I win and whoever drew the unfortunate short straw does not. But I doubt Turner even paused to notice, I truly do. No, Justin was probably high in a different sense after his stunning debut against—wait for it, let the suspense build—Sister Sin.
Sister Sin.
Fuck me, right? I should just up and give in now, right?
You think your one little win means something, Justin? That you’re our savior from the Sin’s sibling? Justin Turner, the leather-faced, red-necked Messianic figure from Florida of all places, here, right here in the WCF to purge this company of all things offensive and despicable. Or am I just looking too deeply into it all? Is the real reality far more simpler than that of a biblical-inspired Crusade within the wrestling world?
Maybe you just wanted to . . . well, you know, fly freakishly high. That train of thought certainly looks derailed enough to fit with what you seem to represent."
Another pause. You can almost hear Knight shake his head.
“’I just want to fly,’ Justin Turner screams as he’s expelled from the school of aviation after failing the intro courses that, frustratingly enough, had little to do with literal flying. I get it. I’m being absurd here. But you got to understand, I’m trying to wrap my head around a guy whose only apparent purpose to be in the sport is to spin and flip around the ring. Let me go out there every single week and perform moves that will not only hurt my opponent, but also hurt me. I may still lose, may seriously injure my body, but damn it’ll look good on tape.
Cue aforementioned idiom.
But the thing is, Justin, is this goes beyond this idea of an up-and-down career. You’re looking to put on a show, regardless of the cost and toll it puts on you, but it all comes down to one simple truth: whether or not the opponent is looking to accept the charges.
And I won’t be Sunday night, Justin.
There’s a reason the referee initiates a five count when a competitor ascends to the top rope, you in-bred twat. It’s illegal. Its not the original intention of this sport. Those ropes and turnbuckles were erected with the idea that the two men competing would stay within them. But a few choice men and women over the years bent the rules, they climbed those ropes. Most people will tell you that it was for the show, for the bated breath held until the two bodies crash into one another, but that isn’t the honest truth. No, men like yourself, Justin, have forced yourself to fly high, or crash and burn, because you have nothing else to offer in that ring. Like the bad men who poke eyes and pull hair, some just have to cheat when incapable of winning by ability alone.
You’re a fraud, Justin, and a disgusting, filthy excuse of a wrestler.
And I will not let you cheat me out of a fight come Sunday night. You will not dictate the rules of engagement. Sure, I won’t be able to stop you from climbing to the top every single time—even the squirrels can escape to the highest limbs away from the baying hounds—but that will be the extent of that. You’ve always thought yourself in control up there. You choose both the ascent and descent. But not this week. No, Justin, I’m going to shoot you down from your perch, watch your eyes roll back into your skull. I’m going to make you literally the error of your ways as you stare at the inside of your head, see those thoughts spinning around your head like fucking stars and ask ‘why did I even bother?’ An elbow, a knee . . . I have many weapons at your disposal, and you have none.
You’ve always been just a fall man, Justin.
And you will fall, make no mistake. Far into the abyss you will crash, back into the obscure darkness of the WCF undercard. Down there, where you’re too far below for me to notice, by all means flip your shit all want. But I hope you recognize that throbbing in the back of your mind for what it is. Its not the adrenaline coursing through your veins in the split-second before lift-off. No, I want you know the excitement of it all will be gone, replaced by a singular emotion: dread. Fear, anxiety knowing that if you dare try to fly this close to the Sun, the star of the Television division, you will do worse than just burn up again. And there’s more to it too, Justin, that I don’t want you to forget.
You deserved every single second of it.”
A final pause.
“Its because of men like you, Justin Turner, that I can to defend the credibility of the company in which I have so chosen to represent from men like Stephen Anderson. Men who watched you and your predecessors redefine what it means to be a professional wrestler. Forget legitimacy. Forget well-rounded ability. One adolescent teen flies off the roof of his childhood home and suddenly every two-bit athlete thinks he can do the same. A few achieve a little success, earn the opportunity to put reigning champions over, and then every backyard wannabe superstar deserves their time in the limelight. Well consider this your well-deserved chance.
You’ve earned fucking bit of it.”
The scene fades
The difficulty with a company that finds itself in a new city every seven days is furnishing space in which to meet. That isn’t to say that the office that the two men found themselves in was not decorated, not even to say that it wasn’t decorated well. It just felt . . . off, a glimpse into a different world. A mural of a sunset over cornfields. A statue of a raccoon carved out of wood. By God, Indiana get your fucking act together. Both men were agreement that they wished to be elsewhere, somewhere that better represented the lives they lived. But, because they were not in agreement beyond this one particular thing, there they met. Sebastian Knight and Seth Lerch, two kings amongst golden stalks.
“I’m not sure I understand what has you so upset, Sebastian,” Seth said, looking down at his handwritten notes that would become in the next twenty-four hours the official card for the February 12th Slam—gotta love flashbacks—and shaking his head. “I figured after a match with two competitors who no roots in this company, a match with Justin Turner would a nice change of pace. He’s got some credible history in the WCF—“
Sebastian cuts Seth off with a wave of his hand. “I’m not here for that,” Knight continues, shaking his own head, “don’t give two shits really about Justin Turner. No, I’m here for one thing: Stephen Anderson.” Knight leans forward. “Take him off the card, Seth.”
Seth leans back, looking at the Television Champion across the table. “I’m not sure I follow. I know you and Adam Burnett have had your issues in the past, but I’m not entirely sure how Stephen Anderson fits into all of this."
“Because if he steps into that ring, you’re opening a door that was better left closed. ‘He’s just another rookie,’ you’ll say, ‘or just another novelty act that we see every single week in the WCF ring. Except he’s different,” Knight holds up one finger. “He, and Adam too, represent an entity in the wrestling social spectrum that thinks themselves qualified to stand where you and I stand because, what, they’ve wrestled for a few years in dingy gyms and Podunk towns? Quantity, they scream, in the hopes that we overlook the sheer lack in quality. They’re just good enough to not be lumped in with the one-and-dones, Seth, but not enough to be anything more than bodies to form a bridge to the greener pastures.” A pause. “You risk the oversaturation of your entire company because one guy just wants to wrestle with his best friend. This is wrestling, boss man: not everybody gets what they want.”
“So what makes you think you’ll get yours, then?”
Knight grins a feral grin. “Because, eventually, I’ll take it for yourself. I just wanted to offer you this opportunity to make this look like your decision and not someone elses.”
Seth glances at the camera. “Oh, they’ll know that it was my decision,” he said, nodding to the door. “Stephen Anderson will compete as planned. Now get out.”
The two men stare at one another before Knight nods to himself, and pushes himself to his feet. “So be it.”
Knight exits the shot as Seth looks back down at his list. The scene fades with his look of contemplation.
*****
An audio clip over a black screen follows
“As the saying goes, you win some, you lose some. An idiom for idiots incapable of overcoming a rollercoaster existence. In other words, hello to you, Justin Turner.”
The voice chuckles.
“I have allowed that particular scene with ole Seth Lerch to be aired as a two-fold message to the few who still tune in and listen to these little diatribes of mine. Inevitability, you see, has a dualistic quality about it: it tastes sweet to some, and oh so bitter to others. And so, I feel—and do humor me please, in this little tangent of mine—that my viewership has go done in recent weeks because people just know the outcome before we even begin. Sure, its impressive, the way men like myself can boil success down to a science, but it can also grow a little stale, a little predictable. Why else do you think we only see Joey Flash once a month? There wouldn’t be enough graduates from Adam Young’s school of wrestling to supplement this roster should Flash choose to compete every single week. And so he is limited to these infrequent appearances in the hopes that ninety percent of this company can maintain the barest modicum of self-respect for their efforts in this company. But me?
I’m locked into this cycle of dominance.
And so, for the sake of something a little bit different, I present an instance where I did not get my way. What has recently been a series of no-nonsense scenes in which the slightest hint of doubt or incapability is ground to dust between my boot becomes . . . well, this. A glimpse into the reality that no man—for real, Joey, I’m so sorry that Fly snubbed you like that—gets what he wants at every waking moment. But like I said, the message is two-fold. People can watch this and think maybe, just maybe, Sebastian Knight will be off his game come Sunday night. But not Justin Turner. I made it very clear to him.
Justin Turner never had a fucking chance.”
A pause over the audio.
“Because if the ‘High Flying Freak’ took the time at all week to stop reminding the WCF universe why they were so relieved when he left the company in the first place, he realized that he fits in perfectly within the framework that I laid last week. Namely, I win and whoever drew the unfortunate short straw does not. But I doubt Turner even paused to notice, I truly do. No, Justin was probably high in a different sense after his stunning debut against—wait for it, let the suspense build—Sister Sin.
Sister Sin.
Fuck me, right? I should just up and give in now, right?
You think your one little win means something, Justin? That you’re our savior from the Sin’s sibling? Justin Turner, the leather-faced, red-necked Messianic figure from Florida of all places, here, right here in the WCF to purge this company of all things offensive and despicable. Or am I just looking too deeply into it all? Is the real reality far more simpler than that of a biblical-inspired Crusade within the wrestling world?
Maybe you just wanted to . . . well, you know, fly freakishly high. That train of thought certainly looks derailed enough to fit with what you seem to represent."
Another pause. You can almost hear Knight shake his head.
“’I just want to fly,’ Justin Turner screams as he’s expelled from the school of aviation after failing the intro courses that, frustratingly enough, had little to do with literal flying. I get it. I’m being absurd here. But you got to understand, I’m trying to wrap my head around a guy whose only apparent purpose to be in the sport is to spin and flip around the ring. Let me go out there every single week and perform moves that will not only hurt my opponent, but also hurt me. I may still lose, may seriously injure my body, but damn it’ll look good on tape.
Cue aforementioned idiom.
But the thing is, Justin, is this goes beyond this idea of an up-and-down career. You’re looking to put on a show, regardless of the cost and toll it puts on you, but it all comes down to one simple truth: whether or not the opponent is looking to accept the charges.
And I won’t be Sunday night, Justin.
There’s a reason the referee initiates a five count when a competitor ascends to the top rope, you in-bred twat. It’s illegal. Its not the original intention of this sport. Those ropes and turnbuckles were erected with the idea that the two men competing would stay within them. But a few choice men and women over the years bent the rules, they climbed those ropes. Most people will tell you that it was for the show, for the bated breath held until the two bodies crash into one another, but that isn’t the honest truth. No, men like yourself, Justin, have forced yourself to fly high, or crash and burn, because you have nothing else to offer in that ring. Like the bad men who poke eyes and pull hair, some just have to cheat when incapable of winning by ability alone.
You’re a fraud, Justin, and a disgusting, filthy excuse of a wrestler.
And I will not let you cheat me out of a fight come Sunday night. You will not dictate the rules of engagement. Sure, I won’t be able to stop you from climbing to the top every single time—even the squirrels can escape to the highest limbs away from the baying hounds—but that will be the extent of that. You’ve always thought yourself in control up there. You choose both the ascent and descent. But not this week. No, Justin, I’m going to shoot you down from your perch, watch your eyes roll back into your skull. I’m going to make you literally the error of your ways as you stare at the inside of your head, see those thoughts spinning around your head like fucking stars and ask ‘why did I even bother?’ An elbow, a knee . . . I have many weapons at your disposal, and you have none.
You’ve always been just a fall man, Justin.
And you will fall, make no mistake. Far into the abyss you will crash, back into the obscure darkness of the WCF undercard. Down there, where you’re too far below for me to notice, by all means flip your shit all want. But I hope you recognize that throbbing in the back of your mind for what it is. Its not the adrenaline coursing through your veins in the split-second before lift-off. No, I want you know the excitement of it all will be gone, replaced by a singular emotion: dread. Fear, anxiety knowing that if you dare try to fly this close to the Sun, the star of the Television division, you will do worse than just burn up again. And there’s more to it too, Justin, that I don’t want you to forget.
You deserved every single second of it.”
A final pause.
“Its because of men like you, Justin Turner, that I can to defend the credibility of the company in which I have so chosen to represent from men like Stephen Anderson. Men who watched you and your predecessors redefine what it means to be a professional wrestler. Forget legitimacy. Forget well-rounded ability. One adolescent teen flies off the roof of his childhood home and suddenly every two-bit athlete thinks he can do the same. A few achieve a little success, earn the opportunity to put reigning champions over, and then every backyard wannabe superstar deserves their time in the limelight. Well consider this your well-deserved chance.
You’ve earned fucking bit of it.”
The scene fades
