Post by God King Dune on Jan 19, 2018 21:26:27 GMT -5
A fax machine that’s seen better days sits on a countertop before us, and an old-school CRT big screen TV stands in the background. It’s a scene straight out of 1996...or it would be were it not for the fact that the tube is set to the WCF Network, and none other than Hank Brown has just finished recapping One 2017.
Hank Brown: ...marks the beginning of Sidney J. Warwick’s reign. And with the return of such stars as Wade Moor and Dune, the next few weeks and months should be interesting to say the least. On that note, stay tuned for a special announcement at the top of the hour. You’re not going to -
But the beeping and whirring of the fax machine drowns out Hank’s voice. When a “Mute” icon appears on the tube, he’s silenced entirely. And just as a piece of paper begins shuffling its way out of the fax machine, the hulking, blurry form of a man enters the frame. He moves toward the screen, and as the picture adjusts, his identity is revealed.
Dune reaches the fax machine just as it finishes spitting out a single sheet of paper. He holds it up, and we cut to an over-the-shoulder shot to reveal four names and two words beneath them:
It’s the first he’s learned of the impending matchup, and we cut to a frontal shot as his icy blue eyes flick up at the screen.
Dune: Well ain’t this some shit. Two matches into my return to the WCF, and after Slam on Sunday I’ll have shared the ring with Wade Moor in 100% of them. The Leviathan took me to the limit at One. Had the tides shifted in the slightest, it may well have been his arm getting raised after the final bell. But things went my way in my first match back. And luckily for me, things are already going my way for my second, because this time around I’ve got Swagrid himself in my corner.
The question remains though: will he have my back? Anything can happen inside a WCF ring, but I have a feeling I know the answer.
Likewise, I’m damn near certain I know the answer to another question: will the men standing across from us have each other’s backs?
Ah shit. I may have misspoken. I’m still not real clear on how this works. Stephen Singh’s definitely a man. It’s been confirmed. He’s got a penis. I haven’t seen it, but I have seen the birth certificate - posted to the web by an overly obsessed fan. It just so happens that the same fan also managed to get his hands on the birth certificate of Sidney Warwick...or, as the certificate reads, Josephine Sydnee Warwick.
Yes that’s correct. As most had speculated long before he told all in the days leading up to One, Sidney J. Warwick is a woman.
And that’s fine, Sidney. For fuck’s sake, as someone who takes such an exorbitant amount of pride in herself for being socially progressive and superior to everyone in every facet imaginable, you certainly were ashamed to let the truth that’s defined your entire existence out of the bag. That’s a sign of some real deep-seated issues. It’s yet another of countless signs that your pathetic holier-than-thou bullshit is a complete charade; a veil you’ve been hiding behind your whole life to conceal the true Sidney Warwick. Well believe it or not, now that the truth has finally been confirmed for the long-suspecting masses, I hope you feel free. I really do. I hope you feel like a weight’s been lifted off your shoulders. No more cowering in the dark, keeping yourself closed off from the world - sealed up like that secret pussy you were born with. Speaking of which...do they just kind of sew it up, or do they, I don’t know...sort of cauterize the thing shut, or -
Ah fuck me.
You know, had you just been straight with everyone - had you not been born and raised a coward at heart - your manhood, or lack thereof, wouldn’t be an issue. But like the feeble little bitch you are, you waited until you were outed by Hank Brown and threatened with blackmail to man up and tell the world of what you internally came to define as your shame, which in turn has become front page news. In fact, it’s completely overshadowed something far more newsworthy; something far more important...that being your World Title victory over John Rabid at One. And the worst part is, you wouldn’t have it any other way.
This isn’t about wrestling for you. This isn’t about competition in its highest form. For you, the WCF is a fucking soapbox - a tool for you to spread the word that it’s okay to have been born with a mind that’s entirely out of sync with its body. And it is okay. It’s fine. It’s not a big fucking deal. People disagree? Who cares. Ignore them. What IS a big deal, though, is that you’re the WCF World Champion. Your win wasn’t made more important or historical because you’re trapped inside a woman’s body, which, as much as you may have altered it, it will always be. It’s important and historical because YOU’RE THE WCF WORLD CHAMPION. That alone is a big deal. No asterisks for footnotes necessary, you fucking clown.
I’m sure you’re absolutely appalled at what you perceive as my lack of sensitivity for your struggle, but I want you to understand that I’m accepting of your situation. I even feel for you, despite your being an insufferable cunt. The situation you were born into is tragic...but the way you’ve handled it in the last few weeks is even moreso. In short, I can’t bring myself to accept the way you’ve devalued the World Title. That’s what matters most to me in all this, not your sob tale. Instead of your victory at One being a story about how a young up and coming wrestler scaled WCF Mountain and claimed her place on the throne at the top, you’ve crumpled it and twisted it and shit all over it so that now it's sure to become little more than a Lifetime original about the hardships and triumph of a social outcast confused about his sexual orientation.
What the fuck?
Goddamn, Sidney. Here in the WCF, that belt means more than your inability to be truthful about what kinds of private parts you were born with.
I mean, listen to this shit. This is your WCF. It’s absolutely pathetic that in your WCF, guys like me have to explain to you that this place is bigger than any one individual, yourself included. It actually means something to those who have helped lay its foundation and add to its legacy. And more than anything, what you wish to do is destroy it - to turn the WCF into something else entirely, something that no longer resembles the WCF we’ve all come to know and love. The WCF with you at the helm is headed for that rocky shoreline full speed ahead, and not because you have a mangled piece of flesh to piss through now thanks to the miracle of modern medicine. Your WCF is about the trivial war for social justice, not supremacy in the ring. Your WCF is about ushering in an era of accommodation for millennial sensitivities. Your WCF is about forcing a skewed sense of civility and decency onto an inherently indecent sport that’s based on the most primal of human instincts and emotions.
Your WCF is a fucking joke. It’s a farce, just like you.
Luckily for the locker room and the WCF Faithful, who are abandoning their faith in droves, I’m here to right the ship. I’m back, and I’m here to stay.
You hear that, Sidney?
I’m back...and I’m coming for my Title.
But I digress.
As to the question of whether or not the reigning World Champion, Sidney Warwick, and Stephen Singh - the man holding the Final Destination briefcase, thereby making him the #1 contender for as long as he chooses - can find it in themselves to work together long enough to defeat two of the all-time greats in myself and Wade Moor, the answer is no.
Then again, I suppose it was never really a question to begin with.
Dune turns away from the camera, glancing at the screen of the muted television before he continues.
Dune: As for “Superstar” Stephen -
But his voice cuts off, and he furrows his brow as he turns his attention back to the TV. On the screen, we see John Rabid seated at the head of a conference table. His lips move, but we don’t hear what he’s saying...that is, until Dune picks up the remote and turns the sound back on.
John Rabid: ...I now own the WCF.
Dune sets the remote down and takes a seat, his interest piqued as he processes this unforeseen occurrence. But it’s the end of Rabid’s message that make his eyes light up.
John Rabid: In a few short moments the details for our world title contendership tournament will appear on screen. The best and the brightest of the roster will fight it out next week on Slam to face Sidney J. Warwick for the World Heavyweight title in my absence as an active competitor.
Rabid says a few more words before the screen goes black and the names of eight competitors begin to appear. Dune’s heartbeat quickens with excited anticipation at the thought of getting a one-on-one shot at the reigning WCF World Champion…
...but as the eighth and final name comes and goes and the screen goes black, a wave of fury washes over him with the realization that his name wasn’t one of them.
He shoots to his feet, and in a flash he closes on the old school big screen. He grabs hold of it, and a commercial for Slam flitters out of existence as the chord is yanked from the wall. He lifts it high overhead then brings it crashing down with all his might, shattering it into a thousand pieces on the hard ground.
He exhales, and his fury is slowly replaced by a wave of calm. Just then a voice comes from the doorway behind him.
Freeman: What the hell happened?
Dune turns his way and catches his breath before responding.
Dune: I got fucked out of a World Title shot by the owner of the WCF, that’s what.
Freeman: Who, Seth?
Dune: John Rabid.
Freeman: What the...I thought he -
Dune: I’m assuming he bought out Lerch, and as his first move he’s holding a tournament to determine the #1 contender starting this Sunday.
Freeman: And you’re not in it.
Dune: I’m not.
Freeman: Wow. Hmm...well, nothing like breaking 25 year old TVs to ease the mind in situations like these.
Dune: Hey, it helped.
Freeman: Yeah. Really though, what’s Rabid thinking? Is he trying to protect Sidney Warwick now? Trying to build him up to make his losing the Title at One seem more credible? Anyone in their right mind would at least book you in the tournament if not just outright declare you as the #1 contender. Hmm...yeah, you got fucked alright. So what’s he got planned for you Sunday?
Dune: Warwick and Stephen Singh.
Freeman: Triple threat?
Dune: Nope. Tag match at the top of the card. And you wouldn’t believe who’s in my corner. Wade fucking Moor.
Freeman: Oh shit. Maybe Rabid’s not trying to protect Miss Sidney after all. You and Moor on the same team is a goddamn death sentence for those two. Powerful ally, Moor. Powerful foe too though. Don’t forget it.
Dune: Wade and I went through Hell together in the weeks leading up to One, and our match itself was the Ninth Circle. But both of us emerged from the depths superior. Wade’s known darkness just as I have, but when it comes to the squared circle, the man wants to win - same as me. And on Sunday, I’ll trust him like I would my own brother.
Freeman: Hey, I’m just saying...be careful. But anyway, you got my message, yeah? About the WCF outfitter coming by with some new ring gear?
Dune: Yeah I got it. Not interested.
Freeman: No, no, we talked about this.
Dune: No, you talked about this. I told you to fuck off.
Freeman: Ah come on. This is a fresh start for you in the WCF, what better way to emphasize the fresh by getting you in some fresh new gear?
Dune: Holy shit you’ve got to be kidding.
Freeman: Nuh-uh...fresh start. New look, new you. No backing out now. I scheduled her for noon today. She’s gonna be here any minute.
Dune: You what? Goddamnit, Freeman. I’m not wasting my time with -
But he’s cut off by the baying of the massive rottweiler who’s awoken from his slumber on the other side of the spacious room. The dog’s ears are pinned back as he faces the entranceway off to the side of both Dune and Freeman, and in turning toward it, they see the cause of the sudden outburst.
A huge, strange looking black woman dressed in gaudy robes stands beneath the open doorway, a grin on her round face and a ragged leather suitcase in tow. She moves into the room, and the hound’s fit of barking grows increasingly aggressive as she closes on Dune and Freeman. One fierce look from Dune quiets the beast, who lays down and growls to himself as Freeman speaks.
Freeman: You must be -
Woman: Morgana, pleased to meet you. I’m here for the fitting.
Her voice is deep, the bass so strong that it can almost be felt, and she stands a hair taller than Dune while weighing far more.
Freeman: The pleasure’s ours...well, mine at least. I’m Freeman, this is Dune.
Morgana: Oh, I know who he is.
She scans Dune from head to toe, and he shoots a glare at Freeman.
Morgana: I’ve seen you out there running around, Sugar. You’re something else. Mhmm...yeah, I can work with this.
Dune: Morgana...how’d you get in?
Morgana: The door was wide open, figured someone left it that way for me.
Dune: That’d be Freeman.
Freeman: No, I thought I - ah, nevermind. Well, we’re all here. Let’s get this show on the road. Morgana, what’ve you got for us?
Morgana: Only the best. Come on over here and I’ll show you.
Dune and Freeman follow her to the couch, on which she empties the contents of her suitcase.
Dune: Spandex.
Morgana: Boy like you’s gotta show off that tight butt somehow.
Dune: Is that a...thong?
Morgana lets out a hearty belly laugh that elicits a loud growl from the rottweiler, who eyes the woman from across the room.
Morgana: Don’t look so surprised! Less you got on, more mobility you got in that ring, am I right, Freeman?
Freeman: Oh yeah. Why don’t you try those on first, Dune?
Dune: Honestly, there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m not interested in new gear. My friend here -
Morgana: Scheduled a fitting with the finest outfitter on the globe. I had to trek a long, long way to be here today. The least you could do is try them on for me. Now what do you say, Sugar?
Freeman: Yeah Dune...what do you say?
Dune bites his tongue and shoots a “fuck you” glare at Freeman, then picks up the pile of clothes and heads for the privacy of the bathroom. As it latches shut, we cut to within.
Dune drops the clothes on the floor and turns toward the mirror. The camera pans over to reveal the reflection of his masked face and hulking frame. He leans over the sink and rests both hands on the countertop, and his eyes flick toward the screen as he speaks.
Dune: Sometimes I’m kind to a fault. Let’s see how long I can make this alone time last. Now where was I?
Ah, right...Stephen Singh. Thievin’ Stephen. The Golden God. The Superstar. Did I hit them all?
I don’t give a shit. Most of your monikers don’t hold water anyway. You’re not a Superstar, Stephen. Sure, you’re a talented wrestler - one of the few to have cropped up and stuck around since I left - but you’re not on the level of the true pillars of the WCF. Jonny Fly, Bobby Cairo, Steve Orbit, Corey Black, Odin Balfore, Joey Flash - motherfucking Wade Moor and yours truly - those are Superstars. Legacy’s a lie? No, legacy’s alive and well. The legacy that the ghosts of WCF Past forged is the only thing that kept this place afloat last year, which by all standards was the worst in company history. What the WCF needed last year was someone to headline shows and draw money; to take up the reigns and carry the company on his back. But instead they got you. Instead they got Stephen Singh…”The Superstar.” Maybe someday that’s what you’ll be, but as it stands today, you’ve got a long way to go.
Despite my absence, I tuned in while I was away. I watched you debut. I watched with high hopes as you started earning titles - not the ones you tack onto the beginning of your name, the belt kind; the WCF kind; the kind that matter. I was watching when you followed in my footsteps and won Ultimate Showdown, albeit against a depleted level of talent in comparison. I watched you become WCF World Champion...and I figured that would help to finally make your ‘Golden God’ moniker carry some meaning.
But...nope. I was wrong.
Your reign was just as mediocre as 90% of the Champs who’ve held the Title since I lost it. Your time as World Champion peaked as soon as you won the strap at Ultimate Showdown. It was all downhill from there. You would’ve been better off forfeiting it in the ring that night. Doing so would have had no bearing on the company’s success. It would’ve been in the shitter either way, and it would have saved you the embarrassment that followed. And yet, the face of the company was that of a supposed “Golden God.” Ironically, it was your lackluster run with the Gold that proved you were no God of the WCF at all. And they do exist, Stephen - Gods of our sport. I named a few earlier. When it comes to the WCF, transcending the constructs of mortality and crossing over to the realm of immortality is all too possible. But that sort of thing isn’t for everyone. Only one or two in any golden era make the leap. And though you like to boast that you’ve been wrestling in one such era, the last time anyone could truthfully make that claim was before I took my leave in early 2016. So when it comes down to it, you’ve never even been a part of a golden era, let alone been the “Golden God” who carried one.
But hey, I’m not here to dishearten you. You haven’t been a total failure. I mean, in the grand scheme of things you’ve been a success. There’s no question you’re a legitimate wrestler, and definitely not one to be taken lightly. You’re a multi-time Champion. That’s no joke. Let’s see… former Internet Champion, Trios Champion, Tag Champion, and World Champion. Atta boy, Stephen. Kicking ass and wearing straps is what this business is all about. Alongside your partner this week, Sidney Warwick, you’re the only other person still around who managed to make a name for yourself in my absence. And in the Dune-less WCF you’ve known since day one, you two managed to thrive.
Well congratulations. I hope you enjoyed it while it lasted, because that shit’s over with. Your days of rolling through the so-called competition unopposed are through. Now that I’m back in the WCF, you and all the rest who came along in my absence are marching like lambs to the slaughter. It just so happens that, of them, you’re the first in line. You’ll be the first to feel the hammer blow; the first to be cast into the fire by yours truly. And on Sunday, you’ll get your first taste of what you’ve been missing - what the WCF has been missing since I’ve been away.
I left behind some big ass shoes to fill when I parted ways with the WCF almost two years ago, and, try as they might, not a single person on the roster has been able to fill them. Not even you, Stephen, with your numerous title wins; with your Ultimate Showdown victory last year. Even with them, you pale in comparison to me in the ring. It’s something someone as arrogant and self-absorbed as you could never bring himself to admit, but deep down you know it’s true. And when we square off for the first time this Sunday at Slam, anyone out there who’s too foolish to recognize it now won’t have any excuse to fall back on when they witness me dismantle you in the ring - when they witness me dad-dick you from bell to bell.
That’s a perfect way to think of me going forward, Stephen - as Daddy Dune. Allow me to fill that void for you. Realize, though, that I’m not the coward of a father you lost long ago. I’m not Old Man Singh whose son provided so little joy to his life that he shot himself in the face without hesitation. I’m someone you can respect. I’m someone you can look up to. I’m someone you can trust to put this company on his back and carry it, like I’ve done before; unlike you or anyone else has proven capable of doing in my absence.
Suddenly his closed fist raps on the marble countertop three times.
Dune: Can you hear me, Stephen?
He knocks again.
Dune: Can you hear me knocking?
Three more before he turns and burns a hole through the screen.
Dune: Daddy’s home.
And as the echo fades, we hear Freeman call out.
Freeman: What are you doing in there, Dune?
Morgana: Yeah, come on out now, Sugar, give us a look at you!
Dune’s eyes find the camera once more as he continues.
Dune: Now if you’ll excuse me...Daddy’s got some business to tend to.
He turns and exits the screen, which fades out as the opening drumbeat and synthesizer overlay of “Goodbye Horses” by Q Lazzarus fades in.
Ten seconds in, and the montage is in full-effect. Freeman and Morgana ooh and ahh at the unenthusiastic Dune while they sip on wine and pop cheese cubes into their mouths. They applaud as Dune reluctantly strikes a pose while wearing nothing more than black boots and black trunks that read "SANDMAN" in yellow print across front.
Next, Freeman and Morgana munch on hotdogs covered with the inspiration for Dune’s second outfit as they look on in awe. Mustard Dune is in the building, no question about it as he dons a yellow singlet and walks back and forth. We see Morgana examining the outfit up close, gesturing with her hands as she explains something to an intensely interested Freeman and a listless Dune.
The montage continues, and time inches forward as Dune strides toward the screen in super slow-motion. Freeman and Morgana look on, their mouths agape as they take in the sight of Dune in sparkly gold trunks and boots. Morgana motions for Dune to spin, and her jaw nearly hits the floor when she catches a glimpse of his backside.
Finally, we see Dune wearing tights made from the skin of several snakes, an apparent homage to Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs, who wore the skin of several humans as he pranced around to the same song that’s been the backdrop to this strange scene. The camera zooms in slowly on a nodding, wide-eyed Morgana, whose intense stare only adds to the strangeness.
The music stops, bringing an abrupt end to the montage, and Dune now stands before Freeman and Morgana in his original outfit.
Dune: Okay, that’s the last one. Thanks Morgana but -
Morgana: Uh-uh...you forgot about the centerpiece of the collection.
She holds up the snakeskin thong Dune mentioned earlier.
Dune: No.
Morgana: No to the thong? But think of the mobility!
Dune: No to the thong. No to that yellow monstrosity. No to all of them.
Morgana: But -
Dune: I don’t need a new ring outfit. No hard feelings. I appreciate you coming all the way out here, and I’ll be sure to tell the office what a fine job you did.
Morgana: Oh, that won’t be necessary, Baby. Well, alright then...I guess this is goodbye for now. You’ve been a doll, Dune, hope to see you around.
They shake hands, and Freeman nods toward the entranceway.
Freeman: Right this way my dear, I’ll show you out.
She follows him, and soon they’ve disappeared from sight. Dune walks back over to the fax machine and picks up the sheet of paper with his impending matchup printed on it. He taps his index finger on it a few times before his eyes find the screen.
Dune: Four names on a sheet of paper. Four names, four World Championships between them. On one side, you’ve got me and Godnilla himself - two of the greatest wrestlers in WCF history; two men who, when thrown together, become the most dangerous and destructive force in the WCF today without question. On the other, a pair whose respective names fail to inspire fear in the heart of their competitors; a pair whose despisal of one another is so great that to imagine them working as a cohesive unit in the ring is absurd.
Despite all evidence to the contrary, Stephen Singh is sure to think of himself as the smartest man in any room he walks into. But if you have half a brain, Stephen, you’ll realize that you have two options this week. You can win, or you can lose. No shit, right? Don’t get ahead of yourself. Allow me to explain.
There are two ways you can lose this match. You can stand alongside your partner, fight the good fight, and wind up crushed beneath the weight of the world when Wade and I bring it crashing down on you. We’re without a doubt the toughest challenge either of you have faced, and while a proper beatdown might be the best thing that ever happened to your respective careers, there’s a better alternative. Or, you could cash in and put yourself at an even greater disadvantage by making it you vs Warwick vs me and Wade, in which case we’d squash you both like flies then take our leave.
But if you want to win, all you need to do is sit back and watch the inevitable occur - me or Wade pinning your dickless partner - then cash in that briefcase of yours and fall on her for another three count.
You ought to be licking your chops right now. You ought to be imagining Sidney Warwick as the sacrificial lamb that he is this week; envisioning her utterly decimated and lying in the center of the ring after having failed in his feeble attempt at competing with me and Moor this Sunday. There will never be an easier route to taking the Title back. And after all, I’d like to think you don’t call yourself Thievin’ Stephen for nothing.
Meanwhile, Sidney - ever the victim - will have had one of the shortest Title reigns in history...and nothing could be more befitting of the Paper Champion she is.
I haven’t forgotten about you, Sidney, forgettable as you are. It’s still hard to fathom that you’re a WAR winner and the reigning World Champ. So far in your career, you’ve yet to impress me. Despite winning the match, you underperformed at WAR, drawing even with the only other who’s in the running for most pathetic WAR winner and World Champ. You underperformed against a lackluster showing by John Rabid at One. You would have lost to half the roster had you been up against them instead, but unfortunately Rabid already had his sights set on greener pastures...if only in his eyes. You’ve underperformed so frequently that I’ve come to realize your best is mediocre at best. And this from our World Champion, someone who, for the life of me, I can’t take seriously.
Time and again you fail to project that you’re on another level. You fail to exhibit any measure of intensity whatsoever. You fail to convey the threat of violence or any sense of impending danger to those you’re up against. These are all basic things a World Champion should be able to do...but you can’t, Sidney, and it’s because you’re not worthy of the Title. You attach the label of crusader and forerunner to your name and compare yourself to Jackie fucking Robinson in a desperate attempt to trick the WCF Faithful into remembering you for more than being the failure that, deep down, you know you’ll always be.
You don’t belong in a WCF ring, Sidney. You’d be better off performing shitty standup at a pretentious hipster comedy club. You’re more at home in a safe space on a college campus protesting fictional racism with forced, passionless tears in your eyes. But this Sunday, you’ll find no safe spaces in the ring. Because when you’re in the ring with me - when you’re in the ring with Wade Moor - you’re in a decidedly unsafe space. And at Slam, nothing you or Stephen Singh do is going to change that.
Nothing.
Just then, his eyes glance off screen, and we cut to a wideshot as Freeman enters the room once more, a look of bewilderment etched on his face as he stares at the ground.
Freeman: It’s the darndest thing…
Dune: What is?
Freeman: I walked Morgana out, we said our goodbyes, then I came back inside...
Dune: I’ll be darned.
Freeman: ...but when I was about halfway down the corridor, I heard a knock at the door behind me. I figured she forgot something - or maybe wanted a goodbye kiss. So I went back, opened it, and it was someone else - some pretty young woman holding a suitcase.
Dune: Who was she?
Freeman: She was the head of the WCF design team. Showed me her credentials and everything. I told her there must be some mistake, we just had the fitting. I told her Morgana came by to do it.
Dune: And?
Freeman’s troubled eyes turn up at Dune.
Freeman: She only has two employees, and Morgana isn’t one of them. Dune...she didn’t know her.
Dune: Wait...well then who was...how did she -
He cuts off, knowing Freeman is just as perplexed as he is. And as a chill creeps up each one’s spine, we cut.
Hank Brown: ...marks the beginning of Sidney J. Warwick’s reign. And with the return of such stars as Wade Moor and Dune, the next few weeks and months should be interesting to say the least. On that note, stay tuned for a special announcement at the top of the hour. You’re not going to -
But the beeping and whirring of the fax machine drowns out Hank’s voice. When a “Mute” icon appears on the tube, he’s silenced entirely. And just as a piece of paper begins shuffling its way out of the fax machine, the hulking, blurry form of a man enters the frame. He moves toward the screen, and as the picture adjusts, his identity is revealed.
Dune reaches the fax machine just as it finishes spitting out a single sheet of paper. He holds it up, and we cut to an over-the-shoulder shot to reveal four names and two words beneath them:
DUNE/WADE MOOR VS STEPHEN SINGH/SIDNEY J. WARWICK
MAIN EVENT
It’s the first he’s learned of the impending matchup, and we cut to a frontal shot as his icy blue eyes flick up at the screen.
Dune: Well ain’t this some shit. Two matches into my return to the WCF, and after Slam on Sunday I’ll have shared the ring with Wade Moor in 100% of them. The Leviathan took me to the limit at One. Had the tides shifted in the slightest, it may well have been his arm getting raised after the final bell. But things went my way in my first match back. And luckily for me, things are already going my way for my second, because this time around I’ve got Swagrid himself in my corner.
The question remains though: will he have my back? Anything can happen inside a WCF ring, but I have a feeling I know the answer.
Likewise, I’m damn near certain I know the answer to another question: will the men standing across from us have each other’s backs?
Ah shit. I may have misspoken. I’m still not real clear on how this works. Stephen Singh’s definitely a man. It’s been confirmed. He’s got a penis. I haven’t seen it, but I have seen the birth certificate - posted to the web by an overly obsessed fan. It just so happens that the same fan also managed to get his hands on the birth certificate of Sidney Warwick...or, as the certificate reads, Josephine Sydnee Warwick.
Yes that’s correct. As most had speculated long before he told all in the days leading up to One, Sidney J. Warwick is a woman.
And that’s fine, Sidney. For fuck’s sake, as someone who takes such an exorbitant amount of pride in herself for being socially progressive and superior to everyone in every facet imaginable, you certainly were ashamed to let the truth that’s defined your entire existence out of the bag. That’s a sign of some real deep-seated issues. It’s yet another of countless signs that your pathetic holier-than-thou bullshit is a complete charade; a veil you’ve been hiding behind your whole life to conceal the true Sidney Warwick. Well believe it or not, now that the truth has finally been confirmed for the long-suspecting masses, I hope you feel free. I really do. I hope you feel like a weight’s been lifted off your shoulders. No more cowering in the dark, keeping yourself closed off from the world - sealed up like that secret pussy you were born with. Speaking of which...do they just kind of sew it up, or do they, I don’t know...sort of cauterize the thing shut, or -
Ah fuck me.
You know, had you just been straight with everyone - had you not been born and raised a coward at heart - your manhood, or lack thereof, wouldn’t be an issue. But like the feeble little bitch you are, you waited until you were outed by Hank Brown and threatened with blackmail to man up and tell the world of what you internally came to define as your shame, which in turn has become front page news. In fact, it’s completely overshadowed something far more newsworthy; something far more important...that being your World Title victory over John Rabid at One. And the worst part is, you wouldn’t have it any other way.
This isn’t about wrestling for you. This isn’t about competition in its highest form. For you, the WCF is a fucking soapbox - a tool for you to spread the word that it’s okay to have been born with a mind that’s entirely out of sync with its body. And it is okay. It’s fine. It’s not a big fucking deal. People disagree? Who cares. Ignore them. What IS a big deal, though, is that you’re the WCF World Champion. Your win wasn’t made more important or historical because you’re trapped inside a woman’s body, which, as much as you may have altered it, it will always be. It’s important and historical because YOU’RE THE WCF WORLD CHAMPION. That alone is a big deal. No asterisks for footnotes necessary, you fucking clown.
I’m sure you’re absolutely appalled at what you perceive as my lack of sensitivity for your struggle, but I want you to understand that I’m accepting of your situation. I even feel for you, despite your being an insufferable cunt. The situation you were born into is tragic...but the way you’ve handled it in the last few weeks is even moreso. In short, I can’t bring myself to accept the way you’ve devalued the World Title. That’s what matters most to me in all this, not your sob tale. Instead of your victory at One being a story about how a young up and coming wrestler scaled WCF Mountain and claimed her place on the throne at the top, you’ve crumpled it and twisted it and shit all over it so that now it's sure to become little more than a Lifetime original about the hardships and triumph of a social outcast confused about his sexual orientation.
What the fuck?
Goddamn, Sidney. Here in the WCF, that belt means more than your inability to be truthful about what kinds of private parts you were born with.
I mean, listen to this shit. This is your WCF. It’s absolutely pathetic that in your WCF, guys like me have to explain to you that this place is bigger than any one individual, yourself included. It actually means something to those who have helped lay its foundation and add to its legacy. And more than anything, what you wish to do is destroy it - to turn the WCF into something else entirely, something that no longer resembles the WCF we’ve all come to know and love. The WCF with you at the helm is headed for that rocky shoreline full speed ahead, and not because you have a mangled piece of flesh to piss through now thanks to the miracle of modern medicine. Your WCF is about the trivial war for social justice, not supremacy in the ring. Your WCF is about ushering in an era of accommodation for millennial sensitivities. Your WCF is about forcing a skewed sense of civility and decency onto an inherently indecent sport that’s based on the most primal of human instincts and emotions.
Your WCF is a fucking joke. It’s a farce, just like you.
Luckily for the locker room and the WCF Faithful, who are abandoning their faith in droves, I’m here to right the ship. I’m back, and I’m here to stay.
You hear that, Sidney?
I’m back...and I’m coming for my Title.
But I digress.
As to the question of whether or not the reigning World Champion, Sidney Warwick, and Stephen Singh - the man holding the Final Destination briefcase, thereby making him the #1 contender for as long as he chooses - can find it in themselves to work together long enough to defeat two of the all-time greats in myself and Wade Moor, the answer is no.
Then again, I suppose it was never really a question to begin with.
Dune turns away from the camera, glancing at the screen of the muted television before he continues.
Dune: As for “Superstar” Stephen -
But his voice cuts off, and he furrows his brow as he turns his attention back to the TV. On the screen, we see John Rabid seated at the head of a conference table. His lips move, but we don’t hear what he’s saying...that is, until Dune picks up the remote and turns the sound back on.
John Rabid: ...I now own the WCF.
Dune sets the remote down and takes a seat, his interest piqued as he processes this unforeseen occurrence. But it’s the end of Rabid’s message that make his eyes light up.
John Rabid: In a few short moments the details for our world title contendership tournament will appear on screen. The best and the brightest of the roster will fight it out next week on Slam to face Sidney J. Warwick for the World Heavyweight title in my absence as an active competitor.
Rabid says a few more words before the screen goes black and the names of eight competitors begin to appear. Dune’s heartbeat quickens with excited anticipation at the thought of getting a one-on-one shot at the reigning WCF World Champion…
...but as the eighth and final name comes and goes and the screen goes black, a wave of fury washes over him with the realization that his name wasn’t one of them.
He shoots to his feet, and in a flash he closes on the old school big screen. He grabs hold of it, and a commercial for Slam flitters out of existence as the chord is yanked from the wall. He lifts it high overhead then brings it crashing down with all his might, shattering it into a thousand pieces on the hard ground.
He exhales, and his fury is slowly replaced by a wave of calm. Just then a voice comes from the doorway behind him.
Freeman: What the hell happened?
Dune turns his way and catches his breath before responding.
Dune: I got fucked out of a World Title shot by the owner of the WCF, that’s what.
Freeman: Who, Seth?
Dune: John Rabid.
Freeman: What the...I thought he -
Dune: I’m assuming he bought out Lerch, and as his first move he’s holding a tournament to determine the #1 contender starting this Sunday.
Freeman: And you’re not in it.
Dune: I’m not.
Freeman: Wow. Hmm...well, nothing like breaking 25 year old TVs to ease the mind in situations like these.
Dune: Hey, it helped.
Freeman: Yeah. Really though, what’s Rabid thinking? Is he trying to protect Sidney Warwick now? Trying to build him up to make his losing the Title at One seem more credible? Anyone in their right mind would at least book you in the tournament if not just outright declare you as the #1 contender. Hmm...yeah, you got fucked alright. So what’s he got planned for you Sunday?
Dune: Warwick and Stephen Singh.
Freeman: Triple threat?
Dune: Nope. Tag match at the top of the card. And you wouldn’t believe who’s in my corner. Wade fucking Moor.
Freeman: Oh shit. Maybe Rabid’s not trying to protect Miss Sidney after all. You and Moor on the same team is a goddamn death sentence for those two. Powerful ally, Moor. Powerful foe too though. Don’t forget it.
Dune: Wade and I went through Hell together in the weeks leading up to One, and our match itself was the Ninth Circle. But both of us emerged from the depths superior. Wade’s known darkness just as I have, but when it comes to the squared circle, the man wants to win - same as me. And on Sunday, I’ll trust him like I would my own brother.
Freeman: Hey, I’m just saying...be careful. But anyway, you got my message, yeah? About the WCF outfitter coming by with some new ring gear?
Dune: Yeah I got it. Not interested.
Freeman: No, no, we talked about this.
Dune: No, you talked about this. I told you to fuck off.
Freeman: Ah come on. This is a fresh start for you in the WCF, what better way to emphasize the fresh by getting you in some fresh new gear?
Dune: Holy shit you’ve got to be kidding.
Freeman: Nuh-uh...fresh start. New look, new you. No backing out now. I scheduled her for noon today. She’s gonna be here any minute.
Dune: You what? Goddamnit, Freeman. I’m not wasting my time with -
But he’s cut off by the baying of the massive rottweiler who’s awoken from his slumber on the other side of the spacious room. The dog’s ears are pinned back as he faces the entranceway off to the side of both Dune and Freeman, and in turning toward it, they see the cause of the sudden outburst.
A huge, strange looking black woman dressed in gaudy robes stands beneath the open doorway, a grin on her round face and a ragged leather suitcase in tow. She moves into the room, and the hound’s fit of barking grows increasingly aggressive as she closes on Dune and Freeman. One fierce look from Dune quiets the beast, who lays down and growls to himself as Freeman speaks.
Freeman: You must be -
Woman: Morgana, pleased to meet you. I’m here for the fitting.
Her voice is deep, the bass so strong that it can almost be felt, and she stands a hair taller than Dune while weighing far more.
Freeman: The pleasure’s ours...well, mine at least. I’m Freeman, this is Dune.
Morgana: Oh, I know who he is.
She scans Dune from head to toe, and he shoots a glare at Freeman.
Morgana: I’ve seen you out there running around, Sugar. You’re something else. Mhmm...yeah, I can work with this.
Dune: Morgana...how’d you get in?
Morgana: The door was wide open, figured someone left it that way for me.
Dune: That’d be Freeman.
Freeman: No, I thought I - ah, nevermind. Well, we’re all here. Let’s get this show on the road. Morgana, what’ve you got for us?
Morgana: Only the best. Come on over here and I’ll show you.
Dune and Freeman follow her to the couch, on which she empties the contents of her suitcase.
Dune: Spandex.
Morgana: Boy like you’s gotta show off that tight butt somehow.
Dune: Is that a...thong?
Morgana lets out a hearty belly laugh that elicits a loud growl from the rottweiler, who eyes the woman from across the room.
Morgana: Don’t look so surprised! Less you got on, more mobility you got in that ring, am I right, Freeman?
Freeman: Oh yeah. Why don’t you try those on first, Dune?
Dune: Honestly, there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m not interested in new gear. My friend here -
Morgana: Scheduled a fitting with the finest outfitter on the globe. I had to trek a long, long way to be here today. The least you could do is try them on for me. Now what do you say, Sugar?
Freeman: Yeah Dune...what do you say?
Dune bites his tongue and shoots a “fuck you” glare at Freeman, then picks up the pile of clothes and heads for the privacy of the bathroom. As it latches shut, we cut to within.
Dune drops the clothes on the floor and turns toward the mirror. The camera pans over to reveal the reflection of his masked face and hulking frame. He leans over the sink and rests both hands on the countertop, and his eyes flick toward the screen as he speaks.
Dune: Sometimes I’m kind to a fault. Let’s see how long I can make this alone time last. Now where was I?
Ah, right...Stephen Singh. Thievin’ Stephen. The Golden God. The Superstar. Did I hit them all?
I don’t give a shit. Most of your monikers don’t hold water anyway. You’re not a Superstar, Stephen. Sure, you’re a talented wrestler - one of the few to have cropped up and stuck around since I left - but you’re not on the level of the true pillars of the WCF. Jonny Fly, Bobby Cairo, Steve Orbit, Corey Black, Odin Balfore, Joey Flash - motherfucking Wade Moor and yours truly - those are Superstars. Legacy’s a lie? No, legacy’s alive and well. The legacy that the ghosts of WCF Past forged is the only thing that kept this place afloat last year, which by all standards was the worst in company history. What the WCF needed last year was someone to headline shows and draw money; to take up the reigns and carry the company on his back. But instead they got you. Instead they got Stephen Singh…”The Superstar.” Maybe someday that’s what you’ll be, but as it stands today, you’ve got a long way to go.
Despite my absence, I tuned in while I was away. I watched you debut. I watched with high hopes as you started earning titles - not the ones you tack onto the beginning of your name, the belt kind; the WCF kind; the kind that matter. I was watching when you followed in my footsteps and won Ultimate Showdown, albeit against a depleted level of talent in comparison. I watched you become WCF World Champion...and I figured that would help to finally make your ‘Golden God’ moniker carry some meaning.
But...nope. I was wrong.
Your reign was just as mediocre as 90% of the Champs who’ve held the Title since I lost it. Your time as World Champion peaked as soon as you won the strap at Ultimate Showdown. It was all downhill from there. You would’ve been better off forfeiting it in the ring that night. Doing so would have had no bearing on the company’s success. It would’ve been in the shitter either way, and it would have saved you the embarrassment that followed. And yet, the face of the company was that of a supposed “Golden God.” Ironically, it was your lackluster run with the Gold that proved you were no God of the WCF at all. And they do exist, Stephen - Gods of our sport. I named a few earlier. When it comes to the WCF, transcending the constructs of mortality and crossing over to the realm of immortality is all too possible. But that sort of thing isn’t for everyone. Only one or two in any golden era make the leap. And though you like to boast that you’ve been wrestling in one such era, the last time anyone could truthfully make that claim was before I took my leave in early 2016. So when it comes down to it, you’ve never even been a part of a golden era, let alone been the “Golden God” who carried one.
But hey, I’m not here to dishearten you. You haven’t been a total failure. I mean, in the grand scheme of things you’ve been a success. There’s no question you’re a legitimate wrestler, and definitely not one to be taken lightly. You’re a multi-time Champion. That’s no joke. Let’s see… former Internet Champion, Trios Champion, Tag Champion, and World Champion. Atta boy, Stephen. Kicking ass and wearing straps is what this business is all about. Alongside your partner this week, Sidney Warwick, you’re the only other person still around who managed to make a name for yourself in my absence. And in the Dune-less WCF you’ve known since day one, you two managed to thrive.
Well congratulations. I hope you enjoyed it while it lasted, because that shit’s over with. Your days of rolling through the so-called competition unopposed are through. Now that I’m back in the WCF, you and all the rest who came along in my absence are marching like lambs to the slaughter. It just so happens that, of them, you’re the first in line. You’ll be the first to feel the hammer blow; the first to be cast into the fire by yours truly. And on Sunday, you’ll get your first taste of what you’ve been missing - what the WCF has been missing since I’ve been away.
I left behind some big ass shoes to fill when I parted ways with the WCF almost two years ago, and, try as they might, not a single person on the roster has been able to fill them. Not even you, Stephen, with your numerous title wins; with your Ultimate Showdown victory last year. Even with them, you pale in comparison to me in the ring. It’s something someone as arrogant and self-absorbed as you could never bring himself to admit, but deep down you know it’s true. And when we square off for the first time this Sunday at Slam, anyone out there who’s too foolish to recognize it now won’t have any excuse to fall back on when they witness me dismantle you in the ring - when they witness me dad-dick you from bell to bell.
That’s a perfect way to think of me going forward, Stephen - as Daddy Dune. Allow me to fill that void for you. Realize, though, that I’m not the coward of a father you lost long ago. I’m not Old Man Singh whose son provided so little joy to his life that he shot himself in the face without hesitation. I’m someone you can respect. I’m someone you can look up to. I’m someone you can trust to put this company on his back and carry it, like I’ve done before; unlike you or anyone else has proven capable of doing in my absence.
Suddenly his closed fist raps on the marble countertop three times.
Dune: Can you hear me, Stephen?
He knocks again.
Dune: Can you hear me knocking?
Three more before he turns and burns a hole through the screen.
Dune: Daddy’s home.
And as the echo fades, we hear Freeman call out.
Freeman: What are you doing in there, Dune?
Morgana: Yeah, come on out now, Sugar, give us a look at you!
Dune’s eyes find the camera once more as he continues.
Dune: Now if you’ll excuse me...Daddy’s got some business to tend to.
He turns and exits the screen, which fades out as the opening drumbeat and synthesizer overlay of “Goodbye Horses” by Q Lazzarus fades in.
Ten seconds in, and the montage is in full-effect. Freeman and Morgana ooh and ahh at the unenthusiastic Dune while they sip on wine and pop cheese cubes into their mouths. They applaud as Dune reluctantly strikes a pose while wearing nothing more than black boots and black trunks that read "SANDMAN" in yellow print across front.
Next, Freeman and Morgana munch on hotdogs covered with the inspiration for Dune’s second outfit as they look on in awe. Mustard Dune is in the building, no question about it as he dons a yellow singlet and walks back and forth. We see Morgana examining the outfit up close, gesturing with her hands as she explains something to an intensely interested Freeman and a listless Dune.
The montage continues, and time inches forward as Dune strides toward the screen in super slow-motion. Freeman and Morgana look on, their mouths agape as they take in the sight of Dune in sparkly gold trunks and boots. Morgana motions for Dune to spin, and her jaw nearly hits the floor when she catches a glimpse of his backside.
Finally, we see Dune wearing tights made from the skin of several snakes, an apparent homage to Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs, who wore the skin of several humans as he pranced around to the same song that’s been the backdrop to this strange scene. The camera zooms in slowly on a nodding, wide-eyed Morgana, whose intense stare only adds to the strangeness.
The music stops, bringing an abrupt end to the montage, and Dune now stands before Freeman and Morgana in his original outfit.
Dune: Okay, that’s the last one. Thanks Morgana but -
Morgana: Uh-uh...you forgot about the centerpiece of the collection.
She holds up the snakeskin thong Dune mentioned earlier.
Dune: No.
Morgana: No to the thong? But think of the mobility!
Dune: No to the thong. No to that yellow monstrosity. No to all of them.
Morgana: But -
Dune: I don’t need a new ring outfit. No hard feelings. I appreciate you coming all the way out here, and I’ll be sure to tell the office what a fine job you did.
Morgana: Oh, that won’t be necessary, Baby. Well, alright then...I guess this is goodbye for now. You’ve been a doll, Dune, hope to see you around.
They shake hands, and Freeman nods toward the entranceway.
Freeman: Right this way my dear, I’ll show you out.
She follows him, and soon they’ve disappeared from sight. Dune walks back over to the fax machine and picks up the sheet of paper with his impending matchup printed on it. He taps his index finger on it a few times before his eyes find the screen.
Dune: Four names on a sheet of paper. Four names, four World Championships between them. On one side, you’ve got me and Godnilla himself - two of the greatest wrestlers in WCF history; two men who, when thrown together, become the most dangerous and destructive force in the WCF today without question. On the other, a pair whose respective names fail to inspire fear in the heart of their competitors; a pair whose despisal of one another is so great that to imagine them working as a cohesive unit in the ring is absurd.
Despite all evidence to the contrary, Stephen Singh is sure to think of himself as the smartest man in any room he walks into. But if you have half a brain, Stephen, you’ll realize that you have two options this week. You can win, or you can lose. No shit, right? Don’t get ahead of yourself. Allow me to explain.
There are two ways you can lose this match. You can stand alongside your partner, fight the good fight, and wind up crushed beneath the weight of the world when Wade and I bring it crashing down on you. We’re without a doubt the toughest challenge either of you have faced, and while a proper beatdown might be the best thing that ever happened to your respective careers, there’s a better alternative. Or, you could cash in and put yourself at an even greater disadvantage by making it you vs Warwick vs me and Wade, in which case we’d squash you both like flies then take our leave.
But if you want to win, all you need to do is sit back and watch the inevitable occur - me or Wade pinning your dickless partner - then cash in that briefcase of yours and fall on her for another three count.
You ought to be licking your chops right now. You ought to be imagining Sidney Warwick as the sacrificial lamb that he is this week; envisioning her utterly decimated and lying in the center of the ring after having failed in his feeble attempt at competing with me and Moor this Sunday. There will never be an easier route to taking the Title back. And after all, I’d like to think you don’t call yourself Thievin’ Stephen for nothing.
Meanwhile, Sidney - ever the victim - will have had one of the shortest Title reigns in history...and nothing could be more befitting of the Paper Champion she is.
I haven’t forgotten about you, Sidney, forgettable as you are. It’s still hard to fathom that you’re a WAR winner and the reigning World Champ. So far in your career, you’ve yet to impress me. Despite winning the match, you underperformed at WAR, drawing even with the only other who’s in the running for most pathetic WAR winner and World Champ. You underperformed against a lackluster showing by John Rabid at One. You would have lost to half the roster had you been up against them instead, but unfortunately Rabid already had his sights set on greener pastures...if only in his eyes. You’ve underperformed so frequently that I’ve come to realize your best is mediocre at best. And this from our World Champion, someone who, for the life of me, I can’t take seriously.
Time and again you fail to project that you’re on another level. You fail to exhibit any measure of intensity whatsoever. You fail to convey the threat of violence or any sense of impending danger to those you’re up against. These are all basic things a World Champion should be able to do...but you can’t, Sidney, and it’s because you’re not worthy of the Title. You attach the label of crusader and forerunner to your name and compare yourself to Jackie fucking Robinson in a desperate attempt to trick the WCF Faithful into remembering you for more than being the failure that, deep down, you know you’ll always be.
You don’t belong in a WCF ring, Sidney. You’d be better off performing shitty standup at a pretentious hipster comedy club. You’re more at home in a safe space on a college campus protesting fictional racism with forced, passionless tears in your eyes. But this Sunday, you’ll find no safe spaces in the ring. Because when you’re in the ring with me - when you’re in the ring with Wade Moor - you’re in a decidedly unsafe space. And at Slam, nothing you or Stephen Singh do is going to change that.
Nothing.
Just then, his eyes glance off screen, and we cut to a wideshot as Freeman enters the room once more, a look of bewilderment etched on his face as he stares at the ground.
Freeman: It’s the darndest thing…
Dune: What is?
Freeman: I walked Morgana out, we said our goodbyes, then I came back inside...
Dune: I’ll be darned.
Freeman: ...but when I was about halfway down the corridor, I heard a knock at the door behind me. I figured she forgot something - or maybe wanted a goodbye kiss. So I went back, opened it, and it was someone else - some pretty young woman holding a suitcase.
Dune: Who was she?
Freeman: She was the head of the WCF design team. Showed me her credentials and everything. I told her there must be some mistake, we just had the fitting. I told her Morgana came by to do it.
Dune: And?
Freeman’s troubled eyes turn up at Dune.
Freeman: She only has two employees, and Morgana isn’t one of them. Dune...she didn’t know her.
Dune: Wait...well then who was...how did she -
He cuts off, knowing Freeman is just as perplexed as he is. And as a chill creeps up each one’s spine, we cut.
