The War of Art and the Erosion of the BeachKrew

[Stephen Singh]

Success

Success would be the one dull, uninteresting word that the majority of the universe attaches to the end of the stick dangling out in front of them everyday. Half of the world isn’t sure exactly what it means to them particularly but they know they want it; they desire success. Or perhaps they just desire being a ‘successful person’ which, of course, has more to do with others’ perception of you than of your actual achievements, of your actual feelings. Moor and Aquarius smack of this need for approval, this definition of success from the outside in instead of the inside out. The two of them desire to be seen as pictures of “success” here in the WCF. They desire that accolade, that acknowledgement. They don’t have any internal, self-defined picture of success so they need the t-shirt sales, the Brofessor match ratings, and the titles to feel...anything. Even if they’re given the benefit of the doubt, and it’s assumed they do have some semblance of their own definition of success: what is the point? Success is, if nothing else, perpetually fleeting. It is disposable and finite and flimsy. It’s the flaccid little tip of an iceberg of blood sweat and tears that is constantly threatening to fall off into the ocean of self-pity and irrelevance. Despite his own predilection for the water, Wade was surprised by the frigid splashback as his own success cracked and splintered its way into the freezing seas. Maybe success is like happiness as Matthew Weiner describes it through Don Draper: 

“Even though success is a reality, its effects are just temporary...You’re happy because you’re successful for now. But what is happiness? It’s a moment before you need more happiness.”

That is where Everest currently resides. They won the Trios Cup. They have the only true threat to Jared Holme’s title reign in their ranks. Six Titles shared across the waists of just four men. The best true and complete TEAM to ever be established here in the WCF. They are above all and they are successful...for now. For this moment. That moment. “This moment” doesn’t exist. It can’t. As soon as those words leave your lips or your fingertips the moment has passed and is gone forever. There is never a “this” moment because time pauses for no man, its waters rush over even the most stalwart of stones and wear them away little by little. So there was a moment in the cold, bright sun that Everest was successful. Happy. But it’s over now. And we begin again. We again lurch for that carrot, we fight for that prize, we rage against the indifference and malaise of lesser men. We assert ourselves and our dominance. We are Everest. And to again paraphrase the greatest ad man to have never lived:

We won’t settle for fifty percent of anything, we want a hundred.

We don’t want most of it.

We want all of it.

***********************************************

Friday June 16th. 7:23 pm. Manchester, New Hampshire.

The images flicker on the screen, intermittently lightening and darkening the faces of the few movie-goers in the theatre. “American Strange 2” was lauded by critics, an indie darling and a mainstay on the festival circuit before receiving its limited national release and predictably underwhelming box office numbers. Nonetheless, respected film critics across the nation had wet their collective panties at the movie so Steven Singh was compelled to see it. Seated alongside Erica Baringer, his assistant, he smiled in the darkness, mentally matching up what he’d already read--and accepted as truth--about the film to what danced in front of him on screen. It wasn’t just that he had expectations, he already had interpretations, thoughts, analyses before he’d seen a single frame of the film. He already knew the answers because he was fed them by critics from The New York Times and the like; watching the film was only a matter of working backwards to fill in the blanks or to be able to cite details when discussing his already-formed opinion with friends and the like. Eventually the film closes, open-ended and far from fully resolved. The credits roll--plain white text on a black background.

Singh: Even the credits are understated.

Erica: What?

Singh: Even the credits are so restrained and subdued. Yet...there’s something lurking behind them. Something grittier or or darker.

He parroted the words he’d read describing the film itself.

Erica: Uh...They’re just credits.

Singh: Even the credits are a choice, Assistant! Even that is a piece of this work of art!

She stands up, stretches and takes one last sip from their oversized Diet Coke. She tilts it toward Singh, offering him some but shakes it off.

Erica: Assistant? I’m pretty sure I’m your girlfriend right now.

Singh: You’re always both. That’s what makes this whole set up so…

Erica: Frustrating?

Singh: Special!

Erica: Right. Well, when you drag me to the movies and then refuse to go to anything that I’ve ever heard of, I’m your girlfriend; your assistant wouldn’t have to put up with that.

Singh: That makes sense.

Erica: And when you cut a hole in the bottom of the popcorn like you’re a 15 year old, I’m sadly your girlfriend. An assistant would quit and/or sue you for that.

Singh: This one makes less sense to me. Are you sure that's how it would go? Did you even see Secretary?

Erica: Yes, I’m sure.

Singh: Then why the hell do people get assistants?

Erica: Not for movie theatre handjobs, for christ’s sake!

Singh: Sounds lame. Remind me never to hire an assistant.

With that, the Tag Team Champion stands up, and steps over a mound of spilled popcorn that was a casualty of Erica earlier finding her ‘surprise’ amongst the kernels. Erica shakes her head but still grabs the nook of his arm as they exit, ever-charmed in spite of herself by his particular blend of arrogance and faux buffoonery. In the hallway, she pecks him on the cheek and tries to hand him her purse. He laughs loud and full and she sighs, scuttling off to the bathroom. Inside the theatre, the credits have finally ended and out steps the last viewer: Bale Pascal. The Tag Team Champion is ecstatic to see his partner for Sunday.

Singh: Bale!

He bellows across the hall to him. Bale, eye fixed forward keeps walking. Singh assumes he wasn’t heard so he tries again, louder this time.

Singh: BALE PASAL! WCF ROOKIE SENSATION! EVEREST ASSOCIATE! PEOPLE’S CHAMPION!

By this time, people are looking around to see who this large man is yelling to. Bale quickly realizes Singh is not going to relent and the commotion and attention will only increase so he strides toward his partner.

Singh: Good to see you, Pasquale!

Pascal: It’s Pascal.

Singh: I know, it’s just a joke.

Pascal: I would tend to disagree. I presume you were here for Cars 3 or the like?

Singh: Ha! See, I knew you had jokes. And no, I was here seeing that same little piece of genius you were.

Pascal: American Strange 2? I’d hardly call it a…”piece of genius.”

Singh: Are you kidding me?! It managed to be both an understated slice-of-life story AND a white knuckle crime drama!

Pascal: What does that phrase even mean? “Slice of life?”

Singh: It means, it feels true-to-life! It was palpable and real and visceral.

Pascal: Visceral is a euphemism for over-written. It was try-hard and mildly embarrassing for the filmmaker. I hated it.

Singh: What’s got your goat? Do you need to get home to put some water in Buck Nasty’s Mama’s dish?

Pascal: I do not follow.

Steven did. When it came to the arts, Steven generally followed. He read opinions of the supposedly respected and leaned on them as his own. That is what he did now but he was met with a man of opinion and tastes all his own.

Singh: That mov--That film managed to escape the gutters where so much of cinema is usually trapped and actually became art.

Pascal: It wanted to. That was the problem. It WANTED to be art instead of just BEING art.

They pause. Singh is still reciting lines from his favorite critics’ praises of the film, he was more movie trailer than human being. As he secretly second-guessed whether or not the film was ACTUALLY good and whether or not he actually liked it, Bale wondered whether or not he had even given the film a proper chance. Had his cynicism taken such a deep root he couldn’t even earnestly enjoy a film anymore?

Pascal: Or maybe you’re right, it doesn’t matter. To be entirely honest, I was just at the movies to gain a temporary reprieve from Aapo. The man is relentless.

Singh: Careful with that trademark infringement. But yes he is...ambitious shall we say?

At that moment, Erica re-appears from out of the bathroom. She smiles at Bale whose only response is his eyes shifting to her face for only a moment.}

Erica: Bale! Good to see you! Are you two talking about your match?

Pascal: We were actually discussing the merits of the film we all just happened to be seeing.

Erica: Oh yeah, that two hour punishment he drug me to?

Pascal: Ahh, we are of more similar opinion I see.

Erica: Yeah, I much rather would’ve been at Cars 3.

Both men bristle. This is why Bale avoids social interaction. And this is why Singh doesn’t bring Erica around Everest. For her part, Erica notices--nor would she care for--either of their discomfort, content in herself and her genuine enjoyment of Pixar films. She pushes the conversation forward.

Erica: Either way, would you like to meet us for dinner?

Pascal: Oh no, I’d never dream of intruding.

Erica: It’s no intrusion, come to dinner!

Pascal: Honestly, I can’t ev--

Singh: First of all, Bale, she’s going to keep harping so just give up now. Second of all, it would serve us well to discuss a few things prior to our first ever tag match, would it not?

With a sigh and against his instinctual inclination toward solitude, he cedes.

Pascal: It would.

Singh: Tremendous! I’ve got to do some shooting in this theatre like it’s Aurora, Colorado so let’s say an hour from now. Assistant will send you the restaurant information.

With that, Bale nods at his tag partner and strides off.

Erica: I literally just said I’m your girlfriend tonight.

Singh: But I’m having you send my associate our dinner location; that’s a job for an assistant! Context!

Erica: Oh my god, I’m the one that invited him to dinner. As your GIRLFRIEND.

Singh: Semantics.

Erica: You can’t argue FOR context and AGAINST semantics.

Singh: Can and did. Now come with me and get the camera ready. I’m going James Holmes in this shit.

Erica: The WCF doesn’t need ANOTHER Holmes.

Singh: It’s a refer...You know what, nevermind. Just come on.

Steven signals for her to follow him and she does, pulling out her phone and fingering her way to the camera application. Singh snatches a half-eaten tub of popcorn and waits for her to frame him up.

Singh: You’ve got to be kidding me.

Erica: What?

Singh: Landscape! ALWAYS landscape! Is this amateur hour?!

With an eye roll she turns the camera to the only acceptable orientation on a phone and begins recording. The corner of his cheeks turn up and his eyebrows raise ever-so-slightly with excitement. Singh stands with the popcorn firmly under his arm, addressing the camera.

Singh: Bienvenue my Faithful Stevenites to another chance for Everest to humble the so-called top-tier talent of this federation. Bienvenue to another marquee matchup among main event a marauders! To another...I should stop now. These, of course, are all lies, WCF. Now that we’ve curbstomped our way through the Trios Cup, the whole world is aware that we are the stable, the consortium, the TEAM to beat. The whole WCF galaxy knows that the tide is low on the Beach and as Bobby D would tell you: the times they are a-changing. Every single one of my Faithful Stevenites out there knows in their heart of hearts the unfortunate truth of my match up this week. And for the unfaithful and ignorant out there, allow me to illuminate you. This week, I serve sadly and for the first time a long time as this:

With that the champion dumps the bucket of popcorn onto the carpeted floor of the theatre hallway.

A popcorn match. This latest iteration of BeachKrew vs Everest is nothing more than an exercise in futility. It pains me to say it but I am a man of deep and inveterate honesty, you all know this by now. My words carry weight, worth their own in gold so I cannot dare tarnish their truthful gleam with anything other than the cold, hard reality that this is nothing more than a popcorn match. How else could one possibly describe something with such a fully foregone and ridiculously lopsided result already set in stone? It breaks my dear heart to know that as soon as the sound of Vic Mensa hits the speakers, half the arena stands up and gets refreshments. I don’t blame them but it still breaks my proud heart. Do you even blame them, Andre? What have you given these people? What have you done to make them respect you? Want to see you? Want to believe in you as anything other than a hanger-on? A do-nothing dope without a dollop of danger in his entire depository? Another child pretending to be a man, another insignificant little leech suckling at the flesh of men greater than himself? That’s all you, Andre. You proved that beyond a shadow of a doubt during Trios. That was your time to shine. That was your time to pull it together and make it matter. Even if you had lost--which you would have--you could’ve made a real effort. You could’ve brought your A game. Instead, I’m not even sure you brought a game. Maybe your C game. Or is it Sea Game?

Don’t answer that. I don’t care. No one cares. That’s the whole problem, Dickride Whackamura. Your marbled mouth muttering and marvelless matwork make for massive indifference from the crowd, from Seth, from your peers, from everyone. I watched all the tapes last time. I already did my homework in the midst of Everest acing the exam, the Big Bad Shark smelled his own blood in the water and you all ran. We did get to split a little time in that most hallowed of lands, the squared circle. Do you remember what happened? I’m going to assume not because you’re an incompetent child with drug problem. I beat you pillar to post without so much as losing my breath. Every time you got on your feet, I took you off them. Then I got a little bored and got caught with your….ugh…. “Pepekick.” You 4chan chode chortler, what is wrong with you? You’re surrounded by some of the best talent the WCF has to offer and you name a move after that mascot of the misinformed? Dag RidDark everybody. Here’s hoping your excommunication from BK is as swift and quiet as his was; I can’t stand to watch any more of your segments.

You see (sea?) child, I am your superior. I am your superior intellectually, athletically, and technically. I have done more here in less time. I created something with my chosen cohorts while you’ve barnacled yourself onto a now-sinking ship. And what do you do when that water comes creeping up under you chin, Mr. Cunta? When you start to spit and gurgle as it overtakes your mouth, nose, lungs? Just give in. Let that sweet, salty nothing swallow you up whole and then you can give me the only thing I ever really want from you: fucking silence.

That’s not true, Andre. I wanted more of you earlier. I wanted more of you at Trios. I wanted you to stand alongside The Beaver and rekindle that #BlackBeaver flame you boast about so bravely. Beavlieve me, Craptain had yapped my Golden Goddamned ears off about how great Dustin Beaver was and how everything Cap knew about being a tag team he learned from him and...It was unbearable. Unbeavable? No, that one feels like it doesn’t work. Sorry guys, I’m still new at shoehorning sealife puns into every other sentence. Anyways, I was so excited for Black Beaver’s deep bonded tag partnership to sail right into Trios and give me a proper challenge. Hell, maybe #DRG could win it all and the two of you could take a run at MY division: The Tag Titles. But no. Instead of any of that--or anything even resembling a challenge--you deserted your beloved partner. The man you professed so much love and respect for at the start of the tournament, you DESERTED. You guys gave Everest your best shots, we kept coming, kept kicking you in the teeth, and then you guys tucked tail. You got yourselves DQed--because you fuckups can’t even cheat properly--and then left the Beave in the ring with the three hungriest predators in the ecosystem. And we CONSUMED him. We ATE the Beaver.

Erica snickers from behind the camera and it jostles slightly.

Singh: What?

Erica: Oh like that wasn’t on purpose?

Singh: What wasn’t on purpose? I’m trying to shoot here, keep it down. As I was saying. Your ceiling has been reached, Prince Foreskin, and it’s been reached on the backs of men greater than yourself. And Everest has been systematically breaking the backs--metaphorically it’s backs but literally it’s necks!--of those men who’ve lifted you to that ceiling previously. Their sealegs are suddenly shaken and their stomachs turn with the shifting of the tides. We are in the midst of a sea change and you are simply caught in the undertow. Don’t worry though, lesser Andre, the end comes for you quick and silent...like a Thief in The Night.

Onto the big fish. Or at least the one-time Kingfish. A man with an actual list of accolades and all the talent that would come along with that list. A man that I previously battled to a no contest as we tumbled out and into the crowd. A man who has been THE man. A man who now...is nothing of the sort. He sullies his own name with his recent failures and shortcomings. Your previously deep sea of intimidation has evaporated into nothing more than a wading pool waiting to serve only as your own watery grave. Leviathon, I take the utmost plea--

As he’s speaking, it appears a nearby theatre has just ended their showing as a dozens of people walk between Singh and the camera. His head is mostly still visible as most of the crowd is not quite his height but they chatter mindlessly about whatever dreck they just watched, fully drowning out Singh’s dialogue. He can be barely seen above the crowd giving Erica a “cut” signal before the feed drops out.

****************************************

Friday, June 16th. 8:07 pm. An unnamed restaurant.

The three members of the dinner party have already been seated for a number of minutes, pleasantries already exchanged. Bale had already silently judged the restaurant’s decor and less-than-satisfactory wine list before ordering the table a bottle. Singh, on the other hand, effused about their in-house pastries which he had, of course, read about before coming. All that behind them, Erica worked on her second glass of red wine, scrolling away on her phone while the Everest cohorts instead spoke of business.

Pascal: You seem to carry very little worry with you.

Singh: Preparation voids my mind of worry, Bale. I already see all the angles, all the possibilities, all the things I can and will do against these men. I’ve faced them each before, so I’m simply recalling old dance steps, not learning new ones.

Pascal: A disqualification victory and a no-contest are hardly convincing victories.

Singh: Oh ye of little faith, Pascal! Heed the word of your Golden God!

Bale tries hard to hide his discomfort with Singh’s god-complex. He takes a long swig of the Cabernet he settled for.

Singh: Andre Aquarius is the gum on our shoe. He is a weed at the foot of Everest soon to be rolled over again by an avalanche and forgotten for time immemorial. The lowest IQ’d member of the WCF trots out to the ring to a tune from Vic Mensa. MENSA! The irony is Golden and he knows nothing of it.

Pascal: A fool or not, he is ruthless and relentless and my opponent in a few weeks.

Singh: You’re concerned?

A noise emits from the nose of Bale Pascal that--were it a different man--could be taken for a chuckle. From this People’s Champion, it was a snort at best.

Pascal: For that title? For that meaningless, silver-plated trinket? Never. He can have it.

Singh: Tertiary perhaps, but The People’s Title is not without merit and--at the least--symbolism here in the WCF. You cannot simply lay down and ha--

Pascal: Lay down!? This is not a thing you will see me do in our entire time as associates, Steven. This is not a thing you will see me do in my entire time as a competitor, as a man, as a human being with blood pumping through my veins and heart that beats.

Singh: I guess that’s reassuring at least.

The Tag Team Champion swills his water, opting out--as he usually does--of the alcohol.

Singh: I’ve watched you too, you know.

Pascal: One would assume.

Singh: We will work in a beautiful harmony. I am a measured, technical wrestler. Every move I make is planned and scouted and mapped in my brain before the match, I keep pushing the pieces in accordance with my plan until a checkmate. You, on the other hand...You are a bit more sporadic. Your movements, your style, your fight is...unpredictable. It’s nearly wild.

Bale smiles and sips his wine.

Singh: If there is one thing that I lack in my vast repertoire it might be just that. I am a man of such measure that I sometimes forget the value of fighting first with your heart instead of your head. I forget that what we do is a primitive, WILD endeavor. You, my friend, you fight with a deep passion and incongruity that cannot be imitated nor--dare I say--fully prepared for. We strike a certain balance that I think shall be very beneficial this Sunday.

Pascal: Balance is important in all fine things. The arts….wines….the fight.

Singh: Agreed. So let’s utilize our particular balance to further unsteady the ship of Pantheon and their BeachKrew brethren.

With that Singh scoops up Erica’s glass of Cabernet and raises it toward Bale.

Singh: Everest!

With the smallest hint of a smile hiding behind his otherwise ever-dour appearance, Bale clinks his own glass against the other.

Pascal: Above All.