Truffle Shuffle OR No More Than An AfterThot

[Stephen Singh]

**ORIGINALITY**

Some people believe originality--and original ideas--to be a finite commodity. Some people would have you believe that all worthwhile artistic endeavors and their unique seeds of creativity have been done before. Any attempts at creation, at originality, is all for naught. These people are either simply unintelligent or lazy. These people lack the depth of person and necessary self-reflection for any true innovation. Though it is true that we’re all more alike than we are different, the best art, the best entertainment takes those similarities and sees them through a lens of originality; you’re seeing the same word you know but suddenly with new eyes. Your viewpoint, your brain itself is being expanded by virtue of someone properly engaging with their own creativity and originality. David Lynch ignores almost all other forms of media to create so much of his art, his story. He meditates daily and lets images, scene float in and out of his headspace; he frequently doesn’t shape them so much as he lets them shape themselves. He feeds and grows his creativity. Whether or not one enjoys his creations, it can be agreed that they are truly original.

In the wrestling business, originality is even harder to come by than most other forms of mass media. Despite the blood, guts, and cut throat competition this is still a business and with past performances being the best predictors of future performance, originality is not always seen as a virtue. Promoters and owners frequently have little interest in something deeply original, they’d much prefer a proven commodity, something with a proven sales history. It’s this top-down predilection for the already-tread that leads to the wrestlers themselves recycling old and worn out “gimmicks” or “characters” to ensure gainful employment. People have mouths to pay and bills to feed, so if the industry demands boring, staid, already-explored characters than this is what they get. They get the Mushroom Mandingos. They get two more men obsessed with their genitalia and its relative size. They get two men--two men who are vicious competitors, World Title caliber fighters, current Tag Champions--making embarrassing puns and sullying their respective brands with pathetic pandering. One could argue that it’s not their fault but that would take their agency from them, that would deprive them of their independence and thoughtfulness. Singh: the last Trios Champion, The Trios Cup Winner, The Ultimate Showdown Victor, The World Champion, Stephen Singh. The desperation to remain relevant is understandable but it’s no excuse. The only true way to the top, the only true way to greatness is through originality, by being a one of one. He is the first of his kind and he ushers in a new, Golden Era of WCF. A place where mundane Mushroom Mandingo monotony is not rewarded. Instead it is swiftly and unceremoniously put out of its misery.

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To: Stephen Singh
From: Erica Baringer

Still not talking to me? I can't keep getting all my communications from the goddamn Mooch. It's obnoxious and he won't stop asking me to dinner or something about my "arruso." I don't know, either way can't we just talk? I'm sorry about...what happened. But can we at least talk about about why with you? It's fine if we're not dating or whatever anymore but if I'm still your assistant, we have to at least have a professional relationship. I even did what you asked for Revenge; I filed those false reports about Teo and it got him arrested just like you asked. Even though I told you you didn't need it, you could've easily beaten him without that. Still, I did it. I put myself out there hoping that would mean we'd talk. But apparently not. Just send a text or email. Otherwise I'm really not sure I can keep being your assistant.

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OOOOOOOIIIIIIINK

The pink hog snorted loud and displeased. At least, it sounded displeased as pigs always do. This one though, had more than adequate reason to be actually angry, with a slightly-too-small harness strapped around its bulbous torso and a man who basically has no idea what he’s doing holding the reigns. There’s certainly a metaphor here about Seth and the WCF but let’s ignore it. Instead, let’s focus on Byron, proud Bronx resident, bookie and friend to the World Champion. Currently, he stands in the Pacific Northwest, fully out of his element, struggling to reign in not one but two massive hogs who chortle and grunt as they pull against the straps. Byron and the creatures are surrounded by the plush greenery of Washington’s forests, lush evergreens and ferns providing their backdrop. Stomping suddenly into the area to join them is WCF World Champion and mastermind of whatever this fiasco is.

Singh: Byron you picked up our friends! Good work!

The Superstar is dressed in a very different fashion from his usual three piece suit or training gear. Instead he appears to have dressed the part of northwestern woodsman: a flannel shirt beneath a blue vest, a simple pair of jeans which are pulled down over the brown leather of the Chippewa boots which serve as a bookend to his knit cap. Byron was dressed in his everyday attire: a sweatshirt, jeans, and a pair of Chuck Taylors. Singh, of course, had not told him they’d be trudging through the forest on this trip.

Byron: About time you showed up. What the hell are we doing out here?

Singh: We’re hunting, Byron! That’s what these fantastic beasts are for! The hunt!

Byron: Since when are you a hunter?

Singh: Since I could use this particular hunt as an analogy to elucidate exactly what trash the Mushroom Mandingos are!

Byron: ...Of course.

Singh: Of course! Where’s the excitement, Byron? Where’s the joie de vivre?

Byron: Where’s the hunt? We’re not hunting these guys are we?

Singh: Why so concerned? You haven’t done something foolish like name them have you?

Byron: No, I ju--

Singh: Good! Let’s name them, then!

The champion steps back for a moment and assesses the two snorting animals; one a traditional pink and the other darker in color, nearly black with splotches of white scattered throughout.

Singh: Easy. This one is Jayson

He points at the pink hog.

Singh: And this one is Andre!

Byron: Don’t you think Andre is a little vague? I mean, there’s Aquarius or that Andre Jenson or or--

Singh: Fine, then it’s Holmes.

Byron: Well that could be Jared...

Singh: Ugh, whatever. This guy’s name is as unoriginal as his entire bit I guess. The pigs are Jayson and Andre. And they’re going to help us hunt.

The World Champion takes the reigns of the large pink pig, Jayson, from Byron.

Singh: Just the two of us, the two of them and the intrepid WCF camera crew out into the great wilderness! Man and beast joining forces on this great inquest into nature! How grand!

At that moment, “Jayson” plops out a Bates-sized pie of chocolate custard from his rear.

Byron: I’m kind of with him.

Singh: Nay-sayers, the both of you.

Byron: You still haven’t even said what we’re hunting.

Singh: We’re hunting originality, Byron. We’re hunting originality of thought, creativity of concept, proof of proper ponderance and intellectual stimulation. In short, we’re hunting things Mushroom Mandingo can’t and haven’t even fathomed. We’re hunting things they should’ve tried to find before starting this abhorrent excuse for a “gimmick.”

Byron: For a guy with like a dozen nicknames, you sure do beef with “gimmicks” a lot.

Singh: My many monikers are born not out of a cloying, desperate need for audience approval nor attention; mine are simple truisms. They are shorthand for who The Superstar is at his core, not some bullshit artifice I’ve concocted in hopes to get “over.”

Byron: Really? “The Sure Thing” Singh? Jack of All Trades, Master of One? Your shit even rhymes, mayne!

Singh: Dammit, Byron! Did you forget how this works? It’s my Golden Goddamned promo. Don’t undermine me. Now let’s go.

The four hunters set forth into the woods, Singh allowing Jayson the sow to lead their way as she snorts and chortles, pulling them all in seemingly aimless direction. Andre pulls more vigorously, with purpose and an apparent direction in mind.

Singh: You see, WCF, this week bores me. I’ve been placed across the ring with men far below my current station in our fine federation. Seth has decided to call this a “main event” despite David and myself having bested these men every chance we’ve had this year. While it’s true that Everest, as a team, suffered its first loss last week that was a clear aberration and the fault of our undeniably weakest link. And if you all recall, that link was promptly removed then obliterated. I feel confident that not only is he done sullying OUR good name with his presence, he won’t even be bringing down the quality of MY beloved federation by wallowing in its lowest rungs.

Speaking of lowest rungs, let’s get back to the Tag Team Champions. Do you bottom-feeding fuckchops even know why you’re Tag Champions? I’m assuming you don’t because I didn’t get the proper “Thank you” note from either of you. How would the kids say it, Byron? IT ME?!

Byron: Uhhh...I guess they would. But for real, don’t do that.

Singh: Haters going to hate, I guess.

Byron: Don’t do that either.

Singh: Disregard the world’s worst sidekick if you will gentlemen. Instead, Mushroom Manginas think back to Ultimate Showdown where the two of you were sent home with the indisputable consolation prizes. Do you remember what happened right before you two took a good look at the Bright Lights? Dion Necurat left empty-handed thanks to me. I took out the World Champ to prove a point, to expose him as a fraud and a pretender to my throne. Which I did, handedly. If not for my intention as such, it would’ve been one of you two no talent ass clowns that would’ve been leaving with nothing more than your overhyped dicks in your hands. So you’re welcome for this putrid little “title reign” that you’re attempting to put together. And while we’re on things to be grateful for: you’re also welcome that this isn’t a Tag Team Title match, a match The Golden has never lost. Everyone in that ring, everyone in that arena and everyone watching at home knows what would happen if those titles were on the line: I’d come for them like a Thief In the Night.

Because that’s what I do, don’t I Andre? I come through when the rest of you are sleeping. I snap necks while you’re lollygagging around the midcard trying to make something from the perpetual nothing that is the Hardcore Title.

Byron: Shots fired at Ethan.

Singh: Ethan thinks he’s coming for MY World Title. At this point, anything I fire is justifiable self-defense. Back to the lecture at hand: I was the one that “stole” a victory at the inaugural New Years Bash while the rest of you slept. There were rumblings and complaints backstage that no one had been given proper warning about it being for a number one contendership. Heh. Typical bitching and moaning from typical lightweight losers who don’t put in maximum effort maximum time like your World Champion does. That’s how you end up in the main event, you relentlessly midcarding mulkie. You underestimated that match and you underestimated me. A similar chorus rings true from Ultimate Showdown. You incorrectly theorized that Everest’s one goal was “.. to ensure their leader, David Bitch Says, gets the World Championship in his grasp.” First of all, “David Bitch” is terrible. There’s no wordplay, no pun, nothing. It’s fucking lazy. Just like you. Not because you’re black though. You hear me Byron?

Byron: Yeah I hear you. You know it’s worse when you point out “not because he’s black” right?

Singh: How is that worse, I’m pointing out how not racists I’m being!

Byron: Yeah, like a racist would.

Singh: Hmmm, I don’t think that makes sense. Let’s press onward. The point is that you were foolish enough to think our eyes weren’t all on this prize. You were lazy and foolish enough to see me and wonder to yourself, “why <he’s> here at the back of the bus trying to figure out what <he> wanna do.” I always know what I want to do. I know my next step and the seven after that. You take what’s handed to you--like those Tag Titles that I never lost--shrug and just do your best. I take what’s I want, I take what’s mine and I take the wind out of the sails of empty-worded, empty-headed, empty-handed blowhards like you. What do I want to do? Well I can’t exactly reveal to you all seven of the next steps but rest assured there are plans laid. I can tell you the very next want I have is though: lynch the Mushroom Manfuckers with their own flaccid cocks.

Byron: You can’t do that.

Singh: I know their dicks aren’t big enough to do that, it’s metaphorical.

Byron: No bruh, you can’t say you’re going to lynch a black guy.

Singh: Not even by his own huge cock?

Byron: No, not even then. The black man as well hung is just another stereotype.

Singh: But it’s a good one! Like sometimes when people just see “Singh” they think I might be good at I.T. or whatever. It’s a good stereotype!

Byron: You don’t get it. Hey man, have you talked to Erica?

Singh: Jesus, I’m in the middle of a shoot here.

Byron: You’re always in the middle of a shoot.

Singh: Always be shooting, can’t help it. And with all that shooting, I just haven’t had time to talk to her.

Byron: That’s a lie.

Singh: Only partially. But no I haven’t talked to her, no I don’t want to talk about it and no I’m not taking any follow up questions.

Byron’s leashed Andre suddenly yanks him hard in a new direction. Singh and Jayson the pig follow.

Byron: We couldn’t have done this with dogs or something?

Singh: Pigs are a thousand times more intelligent than dogs, Byron.

As The Champion makes this declaration Jayson begins sniffing Andre’s asshole.

Singh: Ignore that. Anyways, onto the other half of this jimmy-rigged joke of a team. The illustrious Jayson Price. A man who’s been to the top of the mountain on more than one occasion only to lean over the side to take a piss--presumably he saw underage girls climbing up--only to go tumbling down as quickly as he had ascended. Mr. Not Every Title. Change it to Mr. Once-Was because you haven’t done anything but fall at the feet of Everest this year, Price. Which is still probably better than last year when you were jobbing out to the Jason O’Neal the greatest Paper Champion in WCF history. Still, I like having you around. You’re the easiest punchline there is now that Gemini Battle is dead. Even I try not to speak ill of the deceased. Just kidding, I hope that Proto-Juggalo jagweed is burning in hell. You know hell, right Price? The place we all go to whenever we have to sit through one of your promos? Your most appropriately named one in recent memory is “Jayson Price Shows Up” along with some asinine, elementary reference to your penis of course. But “Jayson Price Showed Up” might as well be your eulogy. That’s all you’ve done in the twilight of your otherwise impressive career here, Price. You just keep showing up. You showed up in the Trios finals just to lose to Everest. You showed up to Ultimate Showdown just to walk away with the consolation prize. And you’re showing up to the main event this week just to get your Fifteen Minutes of Fame.

Who are you now Price? I get that you’re the guy with the dick but you also appear to be the guy who’s tagging with Pantheon. Or are you in Pantheon? It’s so hard to keep up. I remember you crying about no phone calls from your Man Crush Monday 4Ever Corey Black and therefore you renounced Pantheon and all it meant but….here you are, lips firmly around the tailpipe of that jalopy once again. I guess I don’t blame you; as I pointed out, what the hell else has this run been good for? Why are you doing it to yourself? Why do you want to walk with a limp for the rest of your life just to have a Tag Title run with another guy who can’t sniff the jock of the guy who cleans the guy’s jock who carries The World Title? Are you that desperate for approval? For attention? For the Hall of Fame? You don’t have to answer that, we all already know the answer. It’s Jeopardy style, that one’s a given.

Singh does his best Will Ferrell doing Alex Trebek.

Singh: Jayson Price is a sad, lonely, desperate alcoholic who is so loathed by Seth Lerch only because they are, in fact, mirror images of one another spiraling into the oblivion of meaninglessness so they both cling to this place with white knuckled desperation.

What is, Jayson Price’s reason for still being in the WCF?

The pigs suddenly stop pulling and are competing with each other attempting to dig into one spot at the foot of a tree. At this point Andre is exceptionally wild and Byron is having trouble controlling the beast. Andre snorts wildly, shoving Jayson out of the way and even charging at Byron when he attempts to get too close. Singh sighs and pulls Jayson away, tying him to a nearby tree. He approaches Andre gently, quietly from behind.

Singh: Eaaasy there, Andre. Eaaaaasy….

The pig doesn’t notice the approach, too preoccupied by whatever it’s trying to dig up. In a flash, Singh produces a knife from his waist band and plunges it into the wild sow who lets loose a blood curdling squeel. She gushes blood. “Like a stuck pig” as they say.

Byron: WHAT IN THE FUCK MAYNE?!

Singh: What?

The World Champion wipes his knife on his sleeve as the pig bleeds out all over the ground. The knife clean, Singh unzips his vest and stashes it on the inside. Under his vest, of course, was the WCF World Heavyweight Title around his waist. Byron stares in disbelief at the dead beast on the forest floor.

Byron: What in the fuck…

Singh: Jesus, pull yourself together. You eat bacon right? This is just a big pile of bacon. Here, hold this for a second. Don’t fucking scuff it.

He hands Byron the World Title who holds it with glossy-eyes still trained to the pig that Singh now rolls away from the area it was rooting in. With the pig out of the way, he digs his hands into the dirt and pulls up black spheres.

Singh: This! This is what we were hunting?

Byron: Why’d you kill the pig?

Singh: Andre. Its name was Andre, have some respect.

Byron: Why’d you kill Andre?

Singh: You saw her. She was too relentless. She was too fired up to properly achieve the goal we had. So I put her out of our misery. Same thing I’m going to do to that other wallowing sow that shared her name this week. Anyways, these my assuredly uneducated audience are truffles.

Byron: You killed Andre for truffles?

Singh: Dammit Byron! No I killed Andre for shock factor and also to call Holmes a wallowing sow! This is how you give good promo. Pay attention. Now back to the truffles. They’re the fruiting body of a fungus, something of a kin to your standard mushroom. Everyone is familiar with mushrooms, they’re everywhere. Canned, fresh, portobello, oyster, standard white, whatever. They’re ubiquitous. And therefore, boring. Their value is borderline non existent when compared to their rare, unique, ORIGINAL cousin the truffle. The truffle by virtue of its very nature is rare and hard to find. Its value is hundreds of times that of the “mushroom.” The mushroom requires no thought, no creativity, nothing. It just exists. As it always has and it always will. When “Mushroom Mandingos” runs its painfully pubescent course there will always be more that sprout up under it. Someone will always be taking the easy way, the simple way, the retread of the simple, tried and true formulas. There will always be some children running around, pointing at their dicks and swearing to their grandeur. And there will always be truffles, more valuable, harder to get to, rare. There are certainly championship mushrooms; you mandingos have found gold around your waist. But even those mushrooms are much more worthless and require far less effort and care than the buried treasure of a truffle. Truffles rule the world.

Mandingos, this week Everest reclaims their dominance and hands you your first L as a tag team. Though it’s an atrocity that this is not for the Tag Titles, Seth probably doesn’t want me to scare everyone out of the Tag division AGAIN so I understand his booking. Your imbecilic innuendos and pathetic penile puns certainly play well to the backwoods bushpigs that show up at WCF events. The new gimmick you’ve sold yourselves out for will serve you well for a short time. But know that so long as you wallow in the shit, desperate and cloying, you cannot properly grow and become the truffle, The Champion. Sunday will be a close as either of you ever get to MY title. Enjoy it while I snap your pathetic necks.

With that Jayson squeals from off-camera, waiting to be let free.

Byron: Are you going to kill Jayson too?

Singh: What are you talking about? I already did.

Byron: No, I mean the pig.

Singh: I knew what you meant, I just wanted to say that. And no, of course not.

Byron: Thank God.

Singh: It’s our new pet! Jayson Pig!

Byron: Our pet?

Singh: Yeah well I can’t take a two hundred and fifty pound pile of filth all over the country with me so she’s going to stay with you when I’m on the road.

Byron: You’re always on the road.

Singh: And you’ve been complaining about how shitty dating is! Look! I solved your problem! You and Jayson Pig can live happily ever after. Plus it could be worse, you could have to put up with the actual Jayson Price.