Post by Dr. Remus Micayle on Jan 4, 2014 23:45:45 GMT -5
Potential threat detected.
- Clown (klau?n): someone who performs in a circus, who wears funny clothes and makeup, and who tries to make people laugh. a rude or stupid person. Probably of Low German origin; akin to Frisian klönneclumsy fellow, Old English clyne lump of metal. First Known Use: 1563
Potential solution found.
- Shotgun (shät-?g?n): a gun with a long barrel that shoots a large number of small metal balls (called buckshot). First known use: 1776
Application of solution in progress.
www.wcfwrestling.com/doctor.remus.micayle/blog/post=1
Hello ladies and gentlemen. I am Doctor Remus Micayle, and yet again, I have succumbed to peer pressure and opened up yet another accursed account in the world of social media.
Apparently, according to certain 'people', owning a Twitter account as well as a blog on WCFWrestling.com will help me become a better wrestler, helping me... connect with the masses. Predictably, I said no. Why should I, of all people, need to mutate to fit into what others think is befitting of a public figure? Granted, I had already done so years ago when I was a fledgling student pursuing my Ph.D., but those days have long past. Wanting to be glorified and praised by the countless fans online is not something the Dr. Remus Micayle of today needs. My ego is not that small.
But sadly, the world does not take kindly to being rejected. Especially so if you are the owner of a multi-billion wrestling organisation. Suffice it to say that I was... 'persuaded' by higher management into doing so. So yes, this is my official website, where everyone in the world can find out more about a genius and his views. As 2014 unfolds, do stay a while, revel a little in the glory that is your current United States Champion, and enjoy my occasional ramblings.
-
So while we are still at the topic of me, allow me to share something fascinating to those of you fans reading this from your basements.
I was at the grocery store a couple of days back when a young lady seemingly in her early twenties approached me. She was rather mousy in appearance - dressed in a pretty white tank top and jeans - with a bright smile on her face. She caught me while I was deciding which brand of cereal to buy, and made the most of that rare opportunity. I still remember that look of reverence and awe on her face, when she spotted yours truly. She spoke to me and did the usual things you muttonheaded primates constantly pester me to do so - a picture, an autograph, a hug so she could post it on Facebook - all of which I of course rejected. After continued attempts, all of which ended in failure, she finally stopped bugging me around the supermarket and shrieked at the top of her lungs. And I have to admit; it was one that resonated in my head despite the fact that I exited the store as quickly as I humanly could.
"Why are you such an a**hole? You aren't like the other WCF superstars I have met!"
Ahem. Why am I not like the other WCF superstars out there? And to top it all off, insulting me!? It's a death sentence if I have ever seen one. You all know I am not one to boast of my academic prowess, but if I were to ask a question of that level while I was in Stanford, I would be the laughingstock of the ENTIRE university. I mean, come on. It probably ranks as one of the inane things I have ever heard in my life, like people actually believing in creationism. Simply doltish!
Firstly, eighty percent of the so-called 'superstars' currently on the roster are quite possibly the bane of mankind, much less a wrestler. Oafs such as George! and Biohazard plague the very halls of our federation with their bumbling ways of life. In the next room, you can join the Southerners Tek, Waylon Cash, Adam Young, and Doc Henry who boorishly argue about who reared the bigger sow while simultaneously downing bottles of liquor by the dozen. Skip a corridor and run into the homicidal likes of Oblivion, Mod Deuce, and Zombie McMorris. Hardly the most inspirational men you can find on earth, if you ask me. If any semblance of my being resembles them, I am in a world of trouble.
Secondly, if I were to be like these aforementioned wrestlers, I would not be standing here today as your WCF United States Champion. Search yourself and try to remember the last time a wrestler made such an immediate impact on the roster. It has indeed been a while since the last time a man won a championship in his debut match, and how fitting indeed that this glorious event occurred at ONE? And speaking of ONE, I have not heard anything from dear Ryan Rhodes ever since our match. I do feel a tad bad. Was my damage to his face irreversible? Did the First Blood match take too much out of the youngling so that he had to retire? Was my bare-fisted punch so powerful that it annihilated any chance of him ever returning to the WCF? Maybe. We might never know.
But that's all all right. The incident with Ryan is all but in the past right now. I have a bigger concern this week. I was in NY over the New Year break when I received a text from management. Checking it out, I presumed that I was booked for a rematch against Ryan, who might have wanted to invoke his right as former champion. Oh it was a match for the United States title indeed, but it wasn't really who I expected to be facing in my first title defense. For those of you who have already heard the news, you know who it is. For those of you who don't, well... you're about to be in for the shock of your life.
Is it Eric Price? The former United States Champion Of The Year in 2013? Or is it Chelsea Black Armstrong? Arguably one of the less fatuous rookies that seem to have sprouted out of nowhere? Or could it even be Roy Speede? Maybe he's returning to the federation where he made his name?
And as it turns out... nope. None of the above whom I'll gladly face in gentlemanly combat.
Instead, against insurmountable odds, against the lottery... I got Mr. Jack UnHappy.
Yes. Jack UnHappy. The clown.
Suffice it to say that I was completely and utterly chagrined at this revelation. This is whom management decides to let me face in my very first title defense? A corpulent, mask-donning, wretched humorist? Disappointing.
To divert from this disappointing competitor for a moment, here's a fun fact about clowns. You might not know this, but in the old days, clowns were often in charge of handling the bulls in the rodeos. As a result, some of them were armed with shotguns, used not as a weapon, but as a tool to cow the studs into submission, much like a firecracker, if you will. But because of this, accidents happen more often than not, and occasionally, there will be one idiotic clown getting a little too close to the blast radius, enjoying a shotgun blast or two in the process.
Okay, back to topic.
But being the rule-abiding employee of good standard that I am, I must no doubt put aside my personal feelings and continue with my job - which ironically, should suit me quite well this time round. If management decides to award Mr. Jack with a championship bout against yours truly, they might just have to prepare a wreath of red poppies to his family. I've seen his matches before. I've seen his work in the ring. But rather unfortunately, they pale in comparison to my own, which should make this match quite the bloodbath.
Oh, don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that Jack is complete garbage. Quite the contrary actually. I'm a fan of how he disassembles his opponents methodically. I admire his focus in inflicting as much punishment as humanly possible before securing the victory. And quite honestly, I applaud his decision to humiliate Jeff Purse in the fashion that he did at ONE. But esteem can only go so far, especially when he's fixed to face me in the squared circle come Slam.
You see, I've faced my fair share of heavyset wrestlers during my travels around the world. In fact, there was this one particular occasion in Japan, when I was wrestling against this one masked fighter by the name of 'Masuku Sa Reta Shib?'. Standing at close to seven and a half feet tall, this ghastly chub must have weighed at least eight hundred pounds. With fists the size of my head, it was the first time in my life I actually doubted if I had the capability to defeat a giant of his size. I remembered what he said, as we touched gloves in the middle of the deplorable ring. And trust me when I say that I will remember it for the rest of my life.
"Hey small-fry, you ready to get your head smashed in?"
I saw red. That look of condescendence and arrogance on his face infuriated me, and there and then, I pledged to myself that no matter what it took, I will destroy him. And destroy him I did. By the end of our dance, the oaf was lying flat on his back, with his face pulverized like hamburger. The Formula was delivered to him - with the assistance of a very helpful folding chair - and he was one very understanding recipient indeed. If he knew what he was in for, he would have probably just given up and went back home. But instead, he got the clobbering of his lifetime and ninety stitches to showcase. Sad, but true story.
I tell this narrative not to showcase my past achievements. Instead, this serves as a warning shot to you, Jack. I know you have the size advantage over me, but that doesn't matter to me at all. If I could take down someone who nearly weighs half a ton, your grubby wag gimmick won't even work on me. As I said, I've got my eye on you Jack. I know that you are at least somewhat decent in the ring, but that will only delay your inevitable defeat at my hands. You want to play the game of strength? We'll see who's the first to crumble. Your knife-edge chops against my clubbing kidney shots. Your improperly named b****slaps against my boxing strikes. You might think that it's a battle of attrition, but I assure you - it'll be anything but.
And if that isn't sufficient for you, we might need to call in the big boys. ONE was different in the sense that the usual no-Disqualification rules were abolished for one night. But ONE has passed, and 2014 is now upon us. The free-for-all guidelines are back in play, and weapons are free once again. You've seen what I've done to Ryan Rhodes, and how he bled like a cow sent to the butcher after our First Blood match. This is going to be my first title defense, and I'm not going to let my championship slide away just like that. Folding chairs, tables, 2 x 4s, barbed wire, fire. Anything that you wish to bring to the fray is my guest. I'll just be turning them on you by the end of the night anyways. I've saw what a desperate man can do with a weapon in hand, and it isn't pretty. Save yourself the pain and just surrender in the ring, will you?
But if I think I know you, you'll do just the opposite of that. Instead of doing the intelligent thing and living to fight another day, Mr. Jack UnHappy will cater to those who still believe in him and try to win the title for the first time in his career. Perhaps he'll even attempt to do some trash talking and post a derisible video online, mocking the Scientist. Or maybe, he might even act out a little skit to ridicule me, telling the world how I have no chance at retaining the championship this Sunday. To that, I say... bah. It's not happening.
When we meet in the ring on Sunday, you're not getting off easy. Whether you covet the title or not, you were handed the short end of the stick this week. I treat all my opponents fairly, and you are no exception. The Formula will be applied on your paunchy clown body, and trust me when I say that you won't be standing up after that.
And to all of you fans who are still reading this blog, try and talk some sense into the man. I by nature am a peace lover, and would hate for any unnecessary blood to be shed. It is, after all, for his own good. When I'm in battle, Doctor Remus Micayle is no longer the nice, urbane gentleman willing to distribute knowledge to the muttonheaded. Once the suit comes off, so does the empathy. So, yes, a final warning to you, Mr. Jack. Please just stay at home, because if I see you in the center of that ring at Providence come Sunday... the gloves are coming off. And for all you know... I might just relive history and blast you away with a shotgun, much like your predecessors at the rodeo.
The Second Coming Of Darwin Himself will be unleashed.
And you do not want to face him in the ring.
Cheers to all, and a happy 2014.
Remus Micayle, Ph. D.
*click*
Doctor Remus Micayle pauses for a split second before clicking the 'Send' button. Dressed casually in a simple singlet and track pants with a cup of cocoa positioned near him, he had spent the better part of an hour writing the post. And after a rough scan for any grammatical errors, he had just sent it to WCF.com, ready for the millions of ravenous fans all over the fan to read and devour.
He looks up from the MacBook Pro lying on his lap and glances around his apartment. It's almost magical really. To think that just a year ago, he had still been working the indie circuit and learning the ropes from wrestling schools all over the world. Japan, Israel, Great Britain, Canada... everywhere he went, he had learnt something new and applied it to his ever-evolving style of fighting. And now, in 2014, he's now a certified up-and-comer in the wrestling business. All those years of training had paid off, and now his dream is officially on the way. He'll do anything. ANYTHING... to make sure that he stays on the right track to stardom! He had a great debut, but he wanted MORE. And thankfully, it's all about to begin again on Sunday...
Micayle shakes his head to clear the buzz. He has been awake for quite a while already, and fatigue was soon getting the better of him. Such is the life of a professional wrestler - you train all day, and when you have free time, you got to settle paperwork and connect with the fans via social media. He may have had a successful debut at ONE, but it takes more than just one good night to create a magical career. He wouldn't want to be a flameout, would he? That would make him no different from the hundreds of wrestling hopefuls that have walked the corridors of Wrestling Championship Federation since its inauguration over ten years ago.
His eyebrows raise in surprise as a loud ringing echoes around the empty house, interrupting him from his thought process. It's now two in the morning, and most people have already been asleep. Micayle glances at his iPhone and groans audibly. Of course... whom else could he have expected at this time of the night? He waits for the caller to hang up, but after the ringing continues for several seconds, he exhales a sigh of resignation, and picks it up. Micayle's voice is hoarse and crackly; a side effect of not using it for several hours.
Doctor Remus Micayle: ...Hello?
Hank Brown: Hey there Remus! Happy New Year! Am I catching you at a bad time?
Micayle: It's two in the morning. Are you sure you want me to answer that question? Think about it, genius.
Brown laughs nervously, as he tries to get a grasp on the situation on the other end.
Brown: So... shall I call tomorrow morning instead? I need your comments regarding an article WCF wants to publish on their online website. I saw your blog post being updated, so you know, I thought you were awake and all. I th--
Micayle groans as Brown continues to ramble on. The ever-perky interviewer's getting on his already frayed nerves. A vein twitches prominently in his forehead as the Scientist clutches his hair in annoyance.
Brown: --a really bad day you know? So when I thought that you could help me with this entire interview it would make for a really good work/leisure balance. I had to work on New Year's Day, worst feeling ev--
He sighs once more, before shaking his head to refocus himself. He raises his voice a couple of notches to let himself be heard.
Micayle: Okay, OKAY! Keep with the silence Hank. I'll answer your questions, but make it quick. I've got a lot of things to plan for Sunday's Slam. Plus, you know, I think I need some sleep. It's been a tiring day. So let's make haste. Shoot.
One can almost see the smile on the other side of the line as Micayle finished his sentence.
Brown: All right, I'll try to make it quick. So, first up, congratulations. You won the title in your debut match, any comments about that?
Micayle: Not really. I've said all that I wanted to say the other time. In summary, pay attention, cause this is probably the last time I will be talking about that massacre. Ahem... Ryan was wrong, I was right, he bled out, I showed my might. Now Ryan's gone, and I'm the champ, which I will be, for as long as I like.
A brief silence follows.
Micayle: There. I even made it into a rhyme for you to include in your article. Chop chop, next question.
Brown: Umm... fantastic! Thanks for being so cooperative... I guess? Next, your first title defense is scheduled for this Sunday against Mr. Jack UnHappy. I know you talked about him and your past experiences with bigger wrestlers in your blog post just now, but I just want to know more in depth. Do you have a strategy to take him on? And if so, what is it?
Micayle: Look, like it or not, Jack UnHappy is someone who knows what he is actually doing in the ring. That is far more than what I can say for people like Jorge Diaz, Tyler Walker, or Jordan Caliban. He's big and he will hit hard. All I have to do is to catch him off-guard and take away his footing. And when those calves of his are incapacitated... well, the game is pretty much set. All I need to do then is to choose between knocking him unconscious for the pinfall or locking him into a submission for him to tap out. Pretty easy really, if you ask me.
Scribbling is heard on the other end of the line, before Hank speaks again.
Brown: Interesting. Mr. Jack UnHappy has already posted a promo regarding the match, comparing you to former World Champion Jeff Purse and claiming that he'll defeat you. What do you have to say about that?
Micayle: Pure overconfidence from his part there Hank. The empty vessels always make the most noise, and the sandwich-guzzling dingbat I'll be going up against has definitely created his fair share of hubbub. I'll take the comparison with Jeff Purse as a compliment, given the fact that he has had considerable success thus far in the business. But truth be told... if I had debuted along with Jeff all those years ago, he'll probably have left the federation in frustration. Those titles he won would have went to me instead. The majority of the roster doesn't stand a chance against me.
Brown: Wow, harsh words.
Micayle: The truth always is, Hank. I am my own man, and am nothing but my own man. Jeff Purse may be a Triple Crown champion and a pseudo-legend in his own right, but as you know, he fell in battle against Jack. I don't plan on doing that this Sunday. In fact, I'll show the non-believers why is it that Doctor Remus Micayle will be a face they will remember for a long time. Jack will merely be the first one to understand why. Trust me.
The WCF interviewer harrumphs loudly.
Brown: Nice, nice... Okay, last one for now. I know it's late, so let's cut it short here. You've been talking about this for a while, from your Twitter hash tags, to your blog, to even an on-air promo during Wednesday Night Slam. I am sure the rest of the roster, as well as the fans worldwide are extremely curious... what on earth is #TeamScience?
Micayle chuckles humorlessly.
Micayle: Ahh... I predicted this would come out. Can't wait till Sunday, can you? Never mind, a sneak preview I shall grant onto you then. #TeamScience is a project that I've just started not too long ago Hank. Ever since I've won the United States championship, I realised that as the title representative, I hold a responsibility to educate those in our fair nation. Given your community college education, you probably don't know this, but the United States is a country split in half on almost every major issue there is. From healthcare, to tax rebates, to gun control, there is no end to the arguments in court.
Micayle: I for one cannot stand to see this continue anymore. The only way for this country to reunify is for everyone to realise the truth. And as the United States champion of the WCF, I now have a large platform to share the correct lessons and values with our viewers. Bit by bit, one person at a time, I'll teach them about what is right.
The Scientist sniffs dismissively.
Micayle: But that's all I shall share for now. Of all people, perhaps you ought to pay attention to what I can teach on Sunday. You can probably learn a thing or two. But oh, this is the last question, is it not?
Brown: Yes it i--
Micayle rudely interrupts Hank before he can finish talking.
Micayle: Excellent. Send me a soft copy of the article once you're done writing it. Goodnight.
And before the WCF interviewer could get in another word, the conversation is over. Without even trying to listen for a further response, The Perspicacious One hung up the call, satisfied that the interview has already concluded.
It's Sunday. And Slam is about to begin in less than twelve hours. The area around the Dunkin' Donuts Center has already been decorated with WCF memorabilia, where a small crowd is slowly assembling around. From where his car is parked, Micayle could easily spot at least half a dozen concession stands set up around the arena. Everything is being sold. From WCF tees in a variety of colours and designs, to carefully crafted key chains and posters of wrestlers, to even the occasional life-size figurine of a certain legend, it's like a wrestling geek's haven. It's truly commercialism at its peak. And judging by the number of people already buying merchandise, the sales team is about to make a huge profit here in Rhode Island - it's not even noon yet!
The Scientist lets out a chuckle to himself. The fans aren't the only ones excited for tonight's event. He will be annihilating a fat clown by the name of Jack UnHappy, and after that match, he'll be introducing the WCF faithful to a world of knowledge and euphoria. One that without him, they might not even dare to dream about ever happening in their sad, forlorn lives. But being the gracious intellectual with a heart of gold, he'll lower himself to their standards, and attempt to re-educate them about life.
#TeamScience will be happening.
And it starts at Slam tonight.
- Clown (klau?n): someone who performs in a circus, who wears funny clothes and makeup, and who tries to make people laugh. a rude or stupid person. Probably of Low German origin; akin to Frisian klönneclumsy fellow, Old English clyne lump of metal. First Known Use: 1563
Potential solution found.
- Shotgun (shät-?g?n): a gun with a long barrel that shoots a large number of small metal balls (called buckshot). First known use: 1776
Application of solution in progress.
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www.wcfwrestling.com/doctor.remus.micayle/blog/post=1
Hello ladies and gentlemen. I am Doctor Remus Micayle, and yet again, I have succumbed to peer pressure and opened up yet another accursed account in the world of social media.
Apparently, according to certain 'people', owning a Twitter account as well as a blog on WCFWrestling.com will help me become a better wrestler, helping me... connect with the masses. Predictably, I said no. Why should I, of all people, need to mutate to fit into what others think is befitting of a public figure? Granted, I had already done so years ago when I was a fledgling student pursuing my Ph.D., but those days have long past. Wanting to be glorified and praised by the countless fans online is not something the Dr. Remus Micayle of today needs. My ego is not that small.
But sadly, the world does not take kindly to being rejected. Especially so if you are the owner of a multi-billion wrestling organisation. Suffice it to say that I was... 'persuaded' by higher management into doing so. So yes, this is my official website, where everyone in the world can find out more about a genius and his views. As 2014 unfolds, do stay a while, revel a little in the glory that is your current United States Champion, and enjoy my occasional ramblings.
-
So while we are still at the topic of me, allow me to share something fascinating to those of you fans reading this from your basements.
I was at the grocery store a couple of days back when a young lady seemingly in her early twenties approached me. She was rather mousy in appearance - dressed in a pretty white tank top and jeans - with a bright smile on her face. She caught me while I was deciding which brand of cereal to buy, and made the most of that rare opportunity. I still remember that look of reverence and awe on her face, when she spotted yours truly. She spoke to me and did the usual things you muttonheaded primates constantly pester me to do so - a picture, an autograph, a hug so she could post it on Facebook - all of which I of course rejected. After continued attempts, all of which ended in failure, she finally stopped bugging me around the supermarket and shrieked at the top of her lungs. And I have to admit; it was one that resonated in my head despite the fact that I exited the store as quickly as I humanly could.
"Why are you such an a**hole? You aren't like the other WCF superstars I have met!"
Ahem. Why am I not like the other WCF superstars out there? And to top it all off, insulting me!? It's a death sentence if I have ever seen one. You all know I am not one to boast of my academic prowess, but if I were to ask a question of that level while I was in Stanford, I would be the laughingstock of the ENTIRE university. I mean, come on. It probably ranks as one of the inane things I have ever heard in my life, like people actually believing in creationism. Simply doltish!
Firstly, eighty percent of the so-called 'superstars' currently on the roster are quite possibly the bane of mankind, much less a wrestler. Oafs such as George! and Biohazard plague the very halls of our federation with their bumbling ways of life. In the next room, you can join the Southerners Tek, Waylon Cash, Adam Young, and Doc Henry who boorishly argue about who reared the bigger sow while simultaneously downing bottles of liquor by the dozen. Skip a corridor and run into the homicidal likes of Oblivion, Mod Deuce, and Zombie McMorris. Hardly the most inspirational men you can find on earth, if you ask me. If any semblance of my being resembles them, I am in a world of trouble.
Secondly, if I were to be like these aforementioned wrestlers, I would not be standing here today as your WCF United States Champion. Search yourself and try to remember the last time a wrestler made such an immediate impact on the roster. It has indeed been a while since the last time a man won a championship in his debut match, and how fitting indeed that this glorious event occurred at ONE? And speaking of ONE, I have not heard anything from dear Ryan Rhodes ever since our match. I do feel a tad bad. Was my damage to his face irreversible? Did the First Blood match take too much out of the youngling so that he had to retire? Was my bare-fisted punch so powerful that it annihilated any chance of him ever returning to the WCF? Maybe. We might never know.
But that's all all right. The incident with Ryan is all but in the past right now. I have a bigger concern this week. I was in NY over the New Year break when I received a text from management. Checking it out, I presumed that I was booked for a rematch against Ryan, who might have wanted to invoke his right as former champion. Oh it was a match for the United States title indeed, but it wasn't really who I expected to be facing in my first title defense. For those of you who have already heard the news, you know who it is. For those of you who don't, well... you're about to be in for the shock of your life.
Is it Eric Price? The former United States Champion Of The Year in 2013? Or is it Chelsea Black Armstrong? Arguably one of the less fatuous rookies that seem to have sprouted out of nowhere? Or could it even be Roy Speede? Maybe he's returning to the federation where he made his name?
And as it turns out... nope. None of the above whom I'll gladly face in gentlemanly combat.
Instead, against insurmountable odds, against the lottery... I got Mr. Jack UnHappy.
Yes. Jack UnHappy. The clown.
Suffice it to say that I was completely and utterly chagrined at this revelation. This is whom management decides to let me face in my very first title defense? A corpulent, mask-donning, wretched humorist? Disappointing.
To divert from this disappointing competitor for a moment, here's a fun fact about clowns. You might not know this, but in the old days, clowns were often in charge of handling the bulls in the rodeos. As a result, some of them were armed with shotguns, used not as a weapon, but as a tool to cow the studs into submission, much like a firecracker, if you will. But because of this, accidents happen more often than not, and occasionally, there will be one idiotic clown getting a little too close to the blast radius, enjoying a shotgun blast or two in the process.
Okay, back to topic.
But being the rule-abiding employee of good standard that I am, I must no doubt put aside my personal feelings and continue with my job - which ironically, should suit me quite well this time round. If management decides to award Mr. Jack with a championship bout against yours truly, they might just have to prepare a wreath of red poppies to his family. I've seen his matches before. I've seen his work in the ring. But rather unfortunately, they pale in comparison to my own, which should make this match quite the bloodbath.
Oh, don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that Jack is complete garbage. Quite the contrary actually. I'm a fan of how he disassembles his opponents methodically. I admire his focus in inflicting as much punishment as humanly possible before securing the victory. And quite honestly, I applaud his decision to humiliate Jeff Purse in the fashion that he did at ONE. But esteem can only go so far, especially when he's fixed to face me in the squared circle come Slam.
You see, I've faced my fair share of heavyset wrestlers during my travels around the world. In fact, there was this one particular occasion in Japan, when I was wrestling against this one masked fighter by the name of 'Masuku Sa Reta Shib?'. Standing at close to seven and a half feet tall, this ghastly chub must have weighed at least eight hundred pounds. With fists the size of my head, it was the first time in my life I actually doubted if I had the capability to defeat a giant of his size. I remembered what he said, as we touched gloves in the middle of the deplorable ring. And trust me when I say that I will remember it for the rest of my life.
"Hey small-fry, you ready to get your head smashed in?"
I saw red. That look of condescendence and arrogance on his face infuriated me, and there and then, I pledged to myself that no matter what it took, I will destroy him. And destroy him I did. By the end of our dance, the oaf was lying flat on his back, with his face pulverized like hamburger. The Formula was delivered to him - with the assistance of a very helpful folding chair - and he was one very understanding recipient indeed. If he knew what he was in for, he would have probably just given up and went back home. But instead, he got the clobbering of his lifetime and ninety stitches to showcase. Sad, but true story.
I tell this narrative not to showcase my past achievements. Instead, this serves as a warning shot to you, Jack. I know you have the size advantage over me, but that doesn't matter to me at all. If I could take down someone who nearly weighs half a ton, your grubby wag gimmick won't even work on me. As I said, I've got my eye on you Jack. I know that you are at least somewhat decent in the ring, but that will only delay your inevitable defeat at my hands. You want to play the game of strength? We'll see who's the first to crumble. Your knife-edge chops against my clubbing kidney shots. Your improperly named b****slaps against my boxing strikes. You might think that it's a battle of attrition, but I assure you - it'll be anything but.
And if that isn't sufficient for you, we might need to call in the big boys. ONE was different in the sense that the usual no-Disqualification rules were abolished for one night. But ONE has passed, and 2014 is now upon us. The free-for-all guidelines are back in play, and weapons are free once again. You've seen what I've done to Ryan Rhodes, and how he bled like a cow sent to the butcher after our First Blood match. This is going to be my first title defense, and I'm not going to let my championship slide away just like that. Folding chairs, tables, 2 x 4s, barbed wire, fire. Anything that you wish to bring to the fray is my guest. I'll just be turning them on you by the end of the night anyways. I've saw what a desperate man can do with a weapon in hand, and it isn't pretty. Save yourself the pain and just surrender in the ring, will you?
But if I think I know you, you'll do just the opposite of that. Instead of doing the intelligent thing and living to fight another day, Mr. Jack UnHappy will cater to those who still believe in him and try to win the title for the first time in his career. Perhaps he'll even attempt to do some trash talking and post a derisible video online, mocking the Scientist. Or maybe, he might even act out a little skit to ridicule me, telling the world how I have no chance at retaining the championship this Sunday. To that, I say... bah. It's not happening.
When we meet in the ring on Sunday, you're not getting off easy. Whether you covet the title or not, you were handed the short end of the stick this week. I treat all my opponents fairly, and you are no exception. The Formula will be applied on your paunchy clown body, and trust me when I say that you won't be standing up after that.
And to all of you fans who are still reading this blog, try and talk some sense into the man. I by nature am a peace lover, and would hate for any unnecessary blood to be shed. It is, after all, for his own good. When I'm in battle, Doctor Remus Micayle is no longer the nice, urbane gentleman willing to distribute knowledge to the muttonheaded. Once the suit comes off, so does the empathy. So, yes, a final warning to you, Mr. Jack. Please just stay at home, because if I see you in the center of that ring at Providence come Sunday... the gloves are coming off. And for all you know... I might just relive history and blast you away with a shotgun, much like your predecessors at the rodeo.
The Second Coming Of Darwin Himself will be unleashed.
And you do not want to face him in the ring.
Cheers to all, and a happy 2014.
Remus Micayle, Ph. D.
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Scene: Remus Micayle's apartment, New York City, New York, USA (Thursday, 0200hrs, 2nd January 2014)
*click*
Doctor Remus Micayle pauses for a split second before clicking the 'Send' button. Dressed casually in a simple singlet and track pants with a cup of cocoa positioned near him, he had spent the better part of an hour writing the post. And after a rough scan for any grammatical errors, he had just sent it to WCF.com, ready for the millions of ravenous fans all over the fan to read and devour.
He looks up from the MacBook Pro lying on his lap and glances around his apartment. It's almost magical really. To think that just a year ago, he had still been working the indie circuit and learning the ropes from wrestling schools all over the world. Japan, Israel, Great Britain, Canada... everywhere he went, he had learnt something new and applied it to his ever-evolving style of fighting. And now, in 2014, he's now a certified up-and-comer in the wrestling business. All those years of training had paid off, and now his dream is officially on the way. He'll do anything. ANYTHING... to make sure that he stays on the right track to stardom! He had a great debut, but he wanted MORE. And thankfully, it's all about to begin again on Sunday...
Micayle shakes his head to clear the buzz. He has been awake for quite a while already, and fatigue was soon getting the better of him. Such is the life of a professional wrestler - you train all day, and when you have free time, you got to settle paperwork and connect with the fans via social media. He may have had a successful debut at ONE, but it takes more than just one good night to create a magical career. He wouldn't want to be a flameout, would he? That would make him no different from the hundreds of wrestling hopefuls that have walked the corridors of Wrestling Championship Federation since its inauguration over ten years ago.
His eyebrows raise in surprise as a loud ringing echoes around the empty house, interrupting him from his thought process. It's now two in the morning, and most people have already been asleep. Micayle glances at his iPhone and groans audibly. Of course... whom else could he have expected at this time of the night? He waits for the caller to hang up, but after the ringing continues for several seconds, he exhales a sigh of resignation, and picks it up. Micayle's voice is hoarse and crackly; a side effect of not using it for several hours.
Doctor Remus Micayle: ...Hello?
Hank Brown: Hey there Remus! Happy New Year! Am I catching you at a bad time?
Micayle: It's two in the morning. Are you sure you want me to answer that question? Think about it, genius.
Brown laughs nervously, as he tries to get a grasp on the situation on the other end.
Brown: So... shall I call tomorrow morning instead? I need your comments regarding an article WCF wants to publish on their online website. I saw your blog post being updated, so you know, I thought you were awake and all. I th--
Micayle groans as Brown continues to ramble on. The ever-perky interviewer's getting on his already frayed nerves. A vein twitches prominently in his forehead as the Scientist clutches his hair in annoyance.
Brown: --a really bad day you know? So when I thought that you could help me with this entire interview it would make for a really good work/leisure balance. I had to work on New Year's Day, worst feeling ev--
He sighs once more, before shaking his head to refocus himself. He raises his voice a couple of notches to let himself be heard.
Micayle: Okay, OKAY! Keep with the silence Hank. I'll answer your questions, but make it quick. I've got a lot of things to plan for Sunday's Slam. Plus, you know, I think I need some sleep. It's been a tiring day. So let's make haste. Shoot.
One can almost see the smile on the other side of the line as Micayle finished his sentence.
Brown: All right, I'll try to make it quick. So, first up, congratulations. You won the title in your debut match, any comments about that?
Micayle: Not really. I've said all that I wanted to say the other time. In summary, pay attention, cause this is probably the last time I will be talking about that massacre. Ahem... Ryan was wrong, I was right, he bled out, I showed my might. Now Ryan's gone, and I'm the champ, which I will be, for as long as I like.
A brief silence follows.
Micayle: There. I even made it into a rhyme for you to include in your article. Chop chop, next question.
Brown: Umm... fantastic! Thanks for being so cooperative... I guess? Next, your first title defense is scheduled for this Sunday against Mr. Jack UnHappy. I know you talked about him and your past experiences with bigger wrestlers in your blog post just now, but I just want to know more in depth. Do you have a strategy to take him on? And if so, what is it?
Micayle: Look, like it or not, Jack UnHappy is someone who knows what he is actually doing in the ring. That is far more than what I can say for people like Jorge Diaz, Tyler Walker, or Jordan Caliban. He's big and he will hit hard. All I have to do is to catch him off-guard and take away his footing. And when those calves of his are incapacitated... well, the game is pretty much set. All I need to do then is to choose between knocking him unconscious for the pinfall or locking him into a submission for him to tap out. Pretty easy really, if you ask me.
Scribbling is heard on the other end of the line, before Hank speaks again.
Brown: Interesting. Mr. Jack UnHappy has already posted a promo regarding the match, comparing you to former World Champion Jeff Purse and claiming that he'll defeat you. What do you have to say about that?
Micayle: Pure overconfidence from his part there Hank. The empty vessels always make the most noise, and the sandwich-guzzling dingbat I'll be going up against has definitely created his fair share of hubbub. I'll take the comparison with Jeff Purse as a compliment, given the fact that he has had considerable success thus far in the business. But truth be told... if I had debuted along with Jeff all those years ago, he'll probably have left the federation in frustration. Those titles he won would have went to me instead. The majority of the roster doesn't stand a chance against me.
Brown: Wow, harsh words.
Micayle: The truth always is, Hank. I am my own man, and am nothing but my own man. Jeff Purse may be a Triple Crown champion and a pseudo-legend in his own right, but as you know, he fell in battle against Jack. I don't plan on doing that this Sunday. In fact, I'll show the non-believers why is it that Doctor Remus Micayle will be a face they will remember for a long time. Jack will merely be the first one to understand why. Trust me.
The WCF interviewer harrumphs loudly.
Brown: Nice, nice... Okay, last one for now. I know it's late, so let's cut it short here. You've been talking about this for a while, from your Twitter hash tags, to your blog, to even an on-air promo during Wednesday Night Slam. I am sure the rest of the roster, as well as the fans worldwide are extremely curious... what on earth is #TeamScience?
Micayle chuckles humorlessly.
Micayle: Ahh... I predicted this would come out. Can't wait till Sunday, can you? Never mind, a sneak preview I shall grant onto you then. #TeamScience is a project that I've just started not too long ago Hank. Ever since I've won the United States championship, I realised that as the title representative, I hold a responsibility to educate those in our fair nation. Given your community college education, you probably don't know this, but the United States is a country split in half on almost every major issue there is. From healthcare, to tax rebates, to gun control, there is no end to the arguments in court.
Micayle: I for one cannot stand to see this continue anymore. The only way for this country to reunify is for everyone to realise the truth. And as the United States champion of the WCF, I now have a large platform to share the correct lessons and values with our viewers. Bit by bit, one person at a time, I'll teach them about what is right.
The Scientist sniffs dismissively.
Micayle: But that's all I shall share for now. Of all people, perhaps you ought to pay attention to what I can teach on Sunday. You can probably learn a thing or two. But oh, this is the last question, is it not?
Brown: Yes it i--
Micayle rudely interrupts Hank before he can finish talking.
Micayle: Excellent. Send me a soft copy of the article once you're done writing it. Goodnight.
And before the WCF interviewer could get in another word, the conversation is over. Without even trying to listen for a further response, The Perspicacious One hung up the call, satisfied that the interview has already concluded.
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Scene: Dunkin' Donuts Center, Providence, Rhode Island, USA (Sunday, 1000hrs, 5th January 2014)
It's Sunday. And Slam is about to begin in less than twelve hours. The area around the Dunkin' Donuts Center has already been decorated with WCF memorabilia, where a small crowd is slowly assembling around. From where his car is parked, Micayle could easily spot at least half a dozen concession stands set up around the arena. Everything is being sold. From WCF tees in a variety of colours and designs, to carefully crafted key chains and posters of wrestlers, to even the occasional life-size figurine of a certain legend, it's like a wrestling geek's haven. It's truly commercialism at its peak. And judging by the number of people already buying merchandise, the sales team is about to make a huge profit here in Rhode Island - it's not even noon yet!
The Scientist lets out a chuckle to himself. The fans aren't the only ones excited for tonight's event. He will be annihilating a fat clown by the name of Jack UnHappy, and after that match, he'll be introducing the WCF faithful to a world of knowledge and euphoria. One that without him, they might not even dare to dream about ever happening in their sad, forlorn lives. But being the gracious intellectual with a heart of gold, he'll lower himself to their standards, and attempt to re-educate them about life.
#TeamScience will be happening.
And it starts at Slam tonight.
