Post by Deleted on Mar 6, 2013 16:59:24 GMT -5
After the March 3 Slam
Scoutmaster Stuart Slane is gingerly making his way out of the Colorado Springs’s World Arena having just lost his rematch against Jay Price for the United States Championship. A stunned look remains plastered on his face as he limps through the bowels of the facility. Slane hasn’t even bothered to change out of his ring gear. The tan short sleeve button up shirt is stained with his sweat. His sash hangs limply from his right shoulder, and his scoutmaster hat rests awkwardly atop his head. With great effort, he pushes open a set of double doors that leads to the outside, and one of the arena’s many parking lots.
“Hello, Stuart.”
Slane looks up and sees an old man similarly attired to himself, except his sash is covered with many more merit badges. For some reason he’s also wearing a cape made of animal pelts. And pants, because shorts are undignified. Several other men in scout uniforms, including the individual he caught up in a snare weeks ago (see “Macramania” for details on that encounter) flank the elder gent.
“Who are you people?” he asks warily, not sure what to expect.
The old man smiles, “I’m the Scoutmaster General, Stuart.”
Stu’s eyes widen. The Scoutmaster General. The office that, if legend were true, has secretly guided the Boy Scouts of America for decades. By reflex Slane drops to one knee and genuflects, “Sir…I had no idea that you were here. My humblest apol-“
“Ah ah ah,” the General holds up his hands as if he knew the gesture would stop Slane’s groveling, “No time for that. Let me just do what I have to do and we both can be on our way. Stuart, I’ve been watching you for a while. Ever since you got drummed out of the Scouts and started wrestling here in the WCF. In our name. Using our uniform. Our music. And our other licensed properties. That was bad form, son. Originally I was just going to have my lawyers file an injunction to keep you for doing it, but then, despite all odds, you actually started winning. Sure, you acted like an ass and a bully, but you were making a name for yourself in this sport. So I held off. Had my boys monitor you, to see if it would be worth it to keep you around as a sort of ‘off the books’ representative of my organization. When you won the United States Title, I was pleased as punch. I was willing to overlook your eccentricities, your ‘Right America’ noise, while you held it.”
Slane feels his heart sink in his chest.
“But you aren’t United States Champion anymore, are you Stuart?”
The big man doesn’t respond.
“Do it,” the Scoutmaster General tells the man standing nearest to him.
The minion marched up to Slane, “Get up,” he ordered.
Stuart rose.
Grabbing Slane by the sash, he tears it off him. He does the same to Stuart’s neckerchief, and the patches that decorated his shirt. This last act leaves his sleeves in tatters. Finally he swipes Stuart’s hat and staves in the crown of it by slamming it over his knee. Taking the ruined garments he moves back to the rest of the severe looking group.
The Scoutmaster General speaks, “Stuart Slane, you are hereby EXCOMMUNICATED from the Boy Scouts of America, now and forever, in perpetuity. There will be no reprieve or reconsideration. If you in any way make any attempt to associate yourself with the organization again, the consequences will be severe. Do you understand, son?”
Stuart Slane nods dully.
“Good. Now go.”
The Scoutmaster General turns his back on Slane. One by one, his followers do the same.
Stuart stares at them a while. He wipes at his face, fighting back tears. His shoulders slump, and he reaches down to pick up his duffel bag. Slowly, the ex-Scoutmaster limps away, down the steps and towards the nearly empty parking lot. Not one of the men who accosted Slane watch him go. They continue to stand, at attention, for a good long time, as Slane slowly hobbles across the dark and open area, his big frame growing ever smaller, ever fainter, until it disappears into the night. Out of the viewer’s vision, and the Wrestling Championship Federation as well.
