A Trying and Troubling Night in Corpus Christi

[Headmaster Bernard Core]

November 29, 2015- Corpus Christi, Texas

The voice on the other end of the outgoing message sounds bright and cheerful. There is even something that sounds like a tinge of pride.

“You’ve reached the cell phone of Jeffrey Cornelius, intern for Wrestling Championship Federation. I’m not available to take your call right now, but if you leave your name, number (especially you ladies), and a brief message, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Have a great day!”

Beep!

Core: Jeffrey, this is your father. Where the hell are you? This is the fifteenth time I’ve called your phone. Call me back AS SOON AS YOU GET THIS.

Bernard “Common” Core hangs up his cell phone and sets it down in his locker so he can continue to get dressed.

Tonight was a good night for me. Tonight was a good night for Common Core. Tonight was a good night for America. I’ve put any initial doubts that anyone had about my ability away. Any expectations that anyone had about the wizard and the luchadore power ranger have gone from high to almost non-existent. But I can’t stop here. I can’t rest on my laurels. I must continue. I already have another match for next week; a three way, tag team match. The powers that be here certainly aren’t making it easy for me to spread my message and spread the word about Common Core.

First, it was a six man tag. I had to lead two normal American slackers against a trio of their contemporaries. It was like being surrounded by the students that I encountered during my time as a student teacher.
Tonight, I had to take on two opponents at the same time. Not that I’m complaining. I mean, it was Greybeard and La Gama Blanca, but it’s a little more difficult when they’re coming at you from all sides. It’s like America’s enemies attacking her from both the east and the west. Eventually, America wins, but it takes some adjustments.
And now next week, I partner up with a man who’s taken his name from a 1980s television show against four other formidable, proven opponents.

I’m fighting a war on many fronts here. I’m fighting to prove the superiority of Common Core in the ring and trying to get this school up and running to prove the superiority of Common Core in the classroom. My work saving America will never end.

Core puts his suit jacket on, grabs his personal belongings from his locker and walks around the backstage area one more time looking for Jeff the Intern. He becomes more frustrated every second that he can’t find him. Finally, he spots a production assistant (PA) and inquires about Jeff’s whereabouts.

PA: Yeah, I heard he was down at Kiko’s.

Core: Who is Kiko?

PA: No, Kiko’s is a cantina.

Core: What the hell is a cantina? Speak English!

PA: It’s a Mexican bar.

Core: He’s at a bar?! His twenty-first birthday isn’t until December 29! Where is this “cantina?!”

PA: I don’t know. You’ll have to look it up on your phone.

Core is annoyed by the PA’s lack of help.

Core: Gee, thanks a lot. I can tell you’ve really earned your stripes as a “production assistant.”

Core begins walking away and searching Kiko’s Mexican Restaurant and Cantina on his phone. The PA stares at him and mumbles under his breath “Fuck you.”

About 20 minutes later, Core’s Lincoln Town car pulls up at Kiko’s. His driver opens the back door and as he steps out, he observes the front of the restaurant. It’s actually quite a big place and looks like it came straight out of nineteenth century Mexico. One end of the building is green, almost teal. The other end of the building, where the entrance is, is salmon colored. The neon green lights at the top read

MEXICAN FOOD
RESTAURANT AND CANTINA

However, Core is not impressed. He shakes his head.

What kind of a low-rent place is this? This is where MY son decides to spend his time?

Upon entering the building, Core sees a host of small round tables surrounded by wooden chairs. There are a few customers eating dinner, but not many. It’s late on a Sunday night. As he scans the room for Jeff, the host approaches him.

Host: Hola, señor.

Core does not immediately respond. He looks at the host as if he just insulted his mother.

Core: I know there are a lot of your people in this city, but this city is still in America; and when you’re in my country, you speak English. Do you understand me?

The host is taken aback.

¿Quién es este hijo de puta? ¡Yo le corte de su boca en los testículos! ¿Quién se cree ...

Host: I’m sorry, señor. I mean, sir.

Core: That’s better. I’m looking for me son. He’s about 5’6”, dark brown hair, has a goofy looking face…

Host: Oh, yes, yes. He’s at the bar with his friend.

Core: Friend? No, that can’t be him. He doesn’t have any friends.

Host: There are only two people at the bar, sir. One looks like the man you just described.

Core hears yelling coming from another room.

Voice: Awoooooo woo woo!

Laughing follows the odd phrase. Core follows the voices and ends up in the bar. It’s dimly lit and there’s an old Mexican painting of a mariachi band and a woman dancing behind the bar. Sitting at the bar are Jeff and a man with a red headed man who spikes his hair and has a moustache and muttonchops. He’s wearing sunglasses, even though it’s night and it’s dark inside. He’s dressed like he’s ready to take a walk on the boardwalk along the Gulf of Mexico; tank top, nylon shorts, and sandals. Core approaches them. It’s obvious that both men are drunk.

Core: Jeffrey!

Jeff turns around and is surprised by the arrival of his father.

Jeff: DAD!

Core: What the hell are you doing?

Jeff: I’m hanging out with my new friend having a few drinks!

Core: Why are you yelling?

Jeff: I’M YELLING?!

Jeff and his friend laugh.

Jeff: Okay, okay. I’ll whisper.

He laughs again like he just pulled a prank in the middle of class and he doesn’t want the teacher to know.

Core: Jesus Christ.

Jeff: I’m just messing you, Dad. This is my buddy, Mr. Wol….

Wolf Ryder: Hey, man, what did I tell you about calling people “Mister?”

Jeff: Oh, yeah. Fuck that shit! Dad, this is Wolf Ryder.

He points when he says “Wolf” and “Ryder.”

Wolf Ryder: Please to meet you, man.

Wolf Ryder puts out his hand, but Core just stares at him with disdain.

Core: No thanks, I’m good.

Wolf Ryder: Suit yourself, man.

Core: I’m going to ask you again, Jeffrey. What the hell are you doing here?

Jeff: Well, Dad, I wasn’t doing anything else, seeing as I can just skate by on my internship and not have to do anything. Besides I’m twenty-one today!

Wolf Ryder and Jeff cheer and toast their glasses, sending some of their beer splashing down onto the bar.

Core: You’re twenty-one TODAY?

Jeff: Yeah, I know you forgot. It must be hard to remember stuff like that when you’re trying to “save America.”

Jeff and Wolf Ryder laugh. Core is not amused.

Wolf Ryder: Yeah, man. I heard you got those fat stacks. How about using those to get #Beachkrew to give me a world title shot?

Core: You’re a wrestler?

Jeff: Yeah, Wolf is pretty awesome.

Core: Really, because I’ve been wrestling for the WCF for a few weeks now and I haven’t heard one thing about you. I haven’t even seen you wrestle yet.

Wolf Ryder: Yeah, well, that’s not my fault.

Jeff: Yeah. He was awesome. During War XIV he entered at number one and eliminated three people in, like, the first five minutes. What was your total time, Wolfie?

Wolf Ryder: Two hours…

Wolf Ryder is so drunk that he’s having a hard time remembering.

Wolf Ryder: …Seven minutes….and…um…eleventy seconds?

Jeff begins to laugh.

Jeff: Did you say "eleventy?!"

Wolf Ryder: Yeah, man, eleventy! I just made that number up!

Both men keep laughing hysterically.

Jesus Christ. My son is acting like a god damned buffoon.

Core: So if you’re so good, “Wolfie,” why is the first time I’m seeing you in a bar and not in the ring?

Wolf Ryder becomes serious. Well, drunk serious at least.

Wolf Ryder: Because, man, someone drugged me. I was supposed to have this match against Oxycontin and…

Jeff: Occulo.

Wolf Ryder: What?

Jeff: Occulo. You called him Oxycontin.

Wolf Ryder: I did, man?

Jeff: Yeah!

There is a pause before both men burst out laughing again.

Wolf Ryder: Oh, shit. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Is that really a question you have to ask yourself?

Wolf Ryder: Anyway, I was supposed to wrestle Oxyculo. He was the dude that eliminated me in War. But sometime earlier in the day, someone slipped me some pills, and I was fucked up when I got to the ring.

Core: So, someone else drugged you? You didn’t happen to just take the drugs yourself?

Wolf Ryder: No way, man. I am druuuuuuug free. Scout’s honor!

He lifts up the wrong arm and does the peace sign instead of putting three fingers up like the Boy Scouts do.

Core: I see. Jeffrey, let’s go.

Jeff looks disappointed and annoyed. It’s clear that he’s trying to hold in his anger so he won’t have an outburst.

Jeff: Naw. You know what, Dad? I want to stay here and celebrate my birthday with my good friend here. Come on, why don’t you sit down and have a few drinks with us?

Core moves in closer to Jeff and begins to speak lower, in a more aggressive, vicious tone.

Core: I’d rather be caught with my pants down at a trunk stop in the middle of the night than for someone to see me in this dump. You want to celebrate your birthday? I’ll stop somewhere and buy you an ice cream cake.

Jeff slams his beer bottle down. Core is startled by this new act of rage on Jeff’s part.

I’ve never seen him like this.

Jeff: I don’t want fucking ice cream cake! I want to stay here and fucking drink! Why don’t you go bribe somebody and tell me about it five years from now!

Core: Is that what this is all about? You’re in here drinking, feeling sorry for yourself because I’ve been helping you advance?

Jeff: Help me?! You haven’t been helping me! You’ve been lying to me!

Core: Not everyone has a father with the resources that I have. You’re about to graduate college because of me.

Jeff: Oh, you’re right, Dad. I should be thanking you for cheating and bribing people on my way to the top and then failing to tell me until now. I really feel accomplished and loved. You are the worlds’ number one dad! Ladies and gentleman, my dad, the great education activist, Dr. Bernard Cornelius!

Jeff begins to clap. At first it starts off at a normal speed and volume but get slower and louder until he smacks his hands together the loudest one big last time.

Core: I’ve had enough of this. Let’s go.

Core lunges at Jeff but Wolf Ryder jumps in front of him.

Wolf Ryder: He said he’s not going with you, man.

Core: Get out of my way, scumbag.

Core puts his hand on Wolf Ryder’s shoulders to push him away, but Wolf grabs Core’s hands and throws it away from him. Wolf gets right up in Core’s face.

Wolf Ryder: Don’t you ever fucking touch me, motherfucker!

Core looks straight into Wolf Ryder’s eyes. He notices that there’s a look in Wolf’s eyes that wasn’t there one second ago when he thought Wolf was just an ordinary drug addict and alcoholic.

There’s something more to this guy than alcohol is letting on. Let’s see what he’s made of.

Core: You want to go toe to toe with me? Fine, let’s take it outside, then.

Wolf Ryder: I don’t need to go outside. We can do it right in here.

The bartender sees what’s about to go down and runs into the kitchen. Meanwhile, Bernard Core takes off his jacket and places it on the back of a chair.

Core: I know Jeff has already told me alllll about your illustrious career in the WCF, but I don’t think he told you about my background, so let me fill you in. I was an NCAA Division III heavyweight wrestling champion. Did you do that, Wolf?

Wolf: I don’t need none of that amateur bullshit. I’ve been fighting people since I was 14. I’ve been professional for almost a decade, most of that time fighting every type of cocksucker imaginable in seedier places than this.

Core: Well, any time you want to….

Wolf punches Core right in the mouth and knocks him to the floor. Jeff gasps, as he has never seen his father get punched in the face before.

Wolf: Let’s go! Get up, motherfucker!

The bartender comes back out with the kitchen staff. Core leans on his elbows, wipes the blood from off the side of his mouth, and takes a look at the red fluid on his fingers.

Nice hit. But is that all he's got? Is he just some mindless brawler or can he go?

Core gets up and goes for a double leg takedown but Wolf catches him in a front face lock.

Front face lock? Maybe this guy isn’t full of shit after all.

Core struggles for a few seconds before grabbing Wolf’s arm, twisting it, and sweeping his leg. Wolf falls to hard to the floor. Core takes the arms and puts Wolf in a hammer lock. Wolf struggles to get out of the move.

Wolf Ryder: God damn it! Motherfucker!

Wolf throws an elbow and hits Core right next to his left eye. Core let’s go of the hold and gets to his feet. Wolf gets to his feet as well. The two of them face off. Core gets into a wrestling stance while Wolf tightens his fists. Each of them is waiting for the other to make the first move when Wolf burps a tiny bit. He holds his stomach and crinkles his face. Core stands up straight and looks at Wolf peculiarly. Suddenly, Wolf vomits all over the floor. When he’s finished, he falls over and passes out. Core shakes his head. In his usual fashion, Jeff puts his head down in shame.

Bartender: God damn it, now I have to clean that up.

The host runs into the bar to see what all the commotion was about.

Host: Okay, everybody out!

Core: Get in the car, Jeffrey.

There’s no use in fighting. He wins again. He always does.

As the two men head for the exit, the bartender stops them.

Bartender: They didn’t pay for their drinks.

Core: And they’re not going to tonight! If you’ve got a problem with that, you and I can throw down, too!

The bartender backs off.

Core: I didn’t think so!

Core and Jeff leave the restaurant. The driver goes to open the back door, but Core stops him.

Core: I got it!

Core opens the door, pushes Jeff into the back seat, and sits down next to him.

Core: Drive!

The driver makes his way out of the parking lot. Core smacks Jeff in the back of the head.

Core: What the fuck were you trying to do in there?! Embarrass me?! I hope no one had a god damn cell phone to record all of that shit! What was that in there?! Were you trying to get back at me or something?! Well, guess what! You can’t get back at me! You never will! When it comes down to you vs. me, I always win! You-can’t-beat-me! Never forget that! I-always-win!

Jeff doesn’t say anything. He just stares at the floor. He tries fighting back tears but they come out.

Core: Are you crying? Are you seriously crying right now?

Jeff doesn’t respond. He continues looking at the floor trying his damndest not to cry.

Core: Jesus Christ. Is that the type of person you are, Jeffrey, a crier? Or maybe you’re nothing but a regular drunk like your friend in that bar. Is that what you want to be, falling on the floor next to your own vomit? Because I’ll tell you what, that man seems to have natural wrestling and fighting ability but he’s wasting it on drugs and alcohol. You, on the other hand, have little talent and ability, so you need to stay clean and try to preserve what little you possess!

Jeff stops tearing up. He begins breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, trying to calm himself down.

Core: Maybe the WCF is to blame for your identity crisis. I’ve been noticing that a lot. A lot of people in the WCF try to be something else. No one is ever just who they are. Take one of my opponents for next week’s show, Teo del Sol. Here’s another white American man trying to act like one of those Mexican luchadores. I seriously don’t understand the fascination that some men have with being Mexican. I mean, have they seen Mexico? Jesus, just spending one night in this city has given me enough of a taste of Mexico. I can’t wait to get on the plane back home tomorrow morning.

Jeff: He’s the People’s Champion, Dad.

Core: He’s as much the champion of the people as you are right now. He’s not representing the people of this country, at least. You know why he wears that mask? Because he failed to make it as a wrestler in this country when he was going by the name Teddy Blaze. He was probably afraid that if he came back from Mexico without a mask on, no one would take him seriously and all they’d remember was the failure that he was before he ran away south of the border.

That’s what’s called a lack of character, son. He’s weak. He’s a liar. He has to hide behind that mask in order to win the sympathies of the simpletons that cheer for him every week. If I were him, I would face my problems like a man. I would work harder and train harder than everybody else. I wouldn’t run to Tijuana or wherever the hell he went and learn that flashy jumping off the ropes nonsense that they teach down there. I would go back and improve on my fundamentals instead of trying to improve on the volume of cheers the fans give me. I wouldn’t put on a mask and start going by the name Bernardo del Noche. I’d be myself and become a success as myself. That’s what I’ve been doing my entire life, Jeffrey. I’ve gotten to where I am because I knew who I was and never deviated.

People’s Champion. Please. The people need a champion that represents their values. How can the children of this country learn anything meaningful from a man who is too scared to show his face for fear that people might recognize what a loser he is? Is that what children should learn, that if you fail you should just go into hiding? And when you think about it, Jeffrey, what has that mask really done for him? Has it made him the best wrestler that he can be? Take a look at tonight for an answer. He had a match against the World Champion, Wade Moor. It was a non-title match, but if he had won, what would the ramifications have been? A future shot at that title, most likely. And what happened? He-failed. He played to the crowd and tried to please them by taking to the air, not figuring that he was buying the champ time to get up and punch him right in the face. The flashiness, the pandering, the MASK, it’s only going to get Teo del Sol so far before he finally flames out and runs back to Mexico to live out his days wrestling in some rat infested back room, on a card that also includes cockfighting.

I’ll hand it to him, though. He has one person fooled at least: Spencer Adams. He never had a positive male role model in his life; not like you, Jeffrey.

Jeffrey rolls his eyes.

Core: His father never provided him with a moral compass and as a result, he gravitated towards a heretic like Teo del Sol. The two couldn’t be more similar. Just like Teo del Sol lies to America’s children by putting on that silly mask, Spencer Adams lies to America’s children by calling himself “The Antidote.” What kind of antidote is he providing for America? Run away from your problems? Because that’s all he’s done in his life, just like Teo del Sol. Instead of standing up to his father like a man, he ran away. I heard he went to therapy as well to talk about his problems. He’s part of that troubling trend of young people who have to constantly tell people about their problems. Some choose to do it privately in a professional’s office while others choose to rant about how hard their lives are on social medial. Complaining and feeling sorry for yourself are the same no matter which platform you choose. Do people actually fix their problems when they do that? No. They just say the same thing over and over and over again hoping the problem will fix itself. You can’t talk your way out of your problems just like you can’t talk yourself through a victory.

Jeff: You want Spencer Adams to stand up to his father like I was trying to stand up to you tonight?

Core: No. The difference between me and Spencer Adams’ father is that I know what’s best for you, so when you challenge my authority like you did, in a bar no less, you show just what kind of an ungrateful little boy you are and I have to drag you away like you were a five year old in a toy store. At least if Spencer Adams had stood up to his father, he would have been justified. I don’t think Spencer Adams’ dad was trying to do what was best for him or America.

Bullshit.

Core: I’ll pose the same kind of question to you that I posed about Teo del Sol. How has running away been any kind of “antidote” for Spencer Adams, lately? He lost the Tag Team titles with the other member of his little faction. What’s his name?

Jeff: Vic Venable.

Core: Oh, yes, the convict. He lost the titles with that degenerate, failed to win the Trios title when the two of them combined with the masked coward, and lost his third match in a month last week to Raymond Hatcher.

Jeff: Adam Young interfered.

Core starts mocking Jeff.

Core: “Oh, Adam Young interfered. Boo hoo hoo!” I FACED TWO MEN LAST WEEK AND WON! I don’t want to hear that he lost because he had to fend off two men. I succeeded. Why couldn’t he? There’s no excuse. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with you, Jeffrey. You make too many excuses. That’s what’s wrong with America today. Too many people make excuses as to why children can’t succeed in school instead of looking in the mirror and saying “It’s my fault.” Before Teo del Sol ran off to Mexico, he should have asked why he wasn’t succeeding as Teddy Blaze. Before Spencer Adams ran away from his father, he should have asked why his father kept beating the hell out of him. If they had the moral fiber, they both would have answered “It’s my fault.” But they don’t. They go through life making up fables and tall tales about themselves. One puts a mask on, the other says he’s the cure for everyone’s problems. And they expect to win the Tag Team titles at One? I just don’t see it happening. I hope that when I beat the two of them next Sunday, they can look in the mirror, together, as a team, and say to themselves “It’s our fault.”

A masked buffoon, a delusional medicine man, and an everyday criminal. These are the men who call themselves The People’s Choice. These are the men who people mistakenly look up to. These are the men who are making my task at reforming America much harder. I’m going to have to really change the way people think when I finally vanquish them from the WCF and the world. I will be the people’s choice because they’ll have no other choice but to look up to me.

Jeff: You know you’re not just facing them, right? You have to face Zombie McMorris and Punkin, too.

Core: Jeffrey, do you think I’m an idiot? I know exactly who my opponents are. I’ll tell you what; it certainly hasn’t been made easy for me these first three weeks here in the WCF. First a six man tag, then a three way, and now a three way tag match. I think I’m being tested to see if I have what it takes to make it in the WCF. But you know what? It wasn’t easy for Lincoln to keep the country together during the Civil War. It wasn’t easy for FDR, a man with a disability no less, to fight off the forces of Fascism.

You’re a fascist.

Core: No, I have to prove myself against the forces of evil in the WCF if I want the people to believe me and think the way I want them to think. Hell, if anyone needs to be reformed more, it’s probably the other two opponents I’ll have. I called Venable a degenerate before, but look at McMorris! He’s everything wrong with America all rolled into one. Look here:

All he cares about are women of ill repute and cocaine! He wants to bed the type of women that end up having crack babies, children who lose as soon as they come out of the womb. How are children like that going to be educated? The answer is that they won’t. They’ll be left on the sidelines of society where they should be. But to “ZMAC,” “that’s just cool, man. As long as I get to snort cocaine off some big fake breasts, I don’t care. I’m just thinking about what pleases me.”

Americans think too much about what pleases themselves instead of doing what’s right for themselves and their country. JFK said “Ask not what your country can do for you- ask what you can do for your country.” Americans have flipped that around. All they ask is what their country can do for them. That’s because they’re so consumed with pleasing themselves and having this “me, me, gimme, gimme” kind of attitude. They want to have their dessert before their vegetables. They’d rather get welfare before they get off their ass and make a buck on their own. I’ve seen America’s schools. The kids walk around with the newest cell phone and $200 pairs of sneakers, yet they can’t read. The parents should expect more from their children before they shower them with lavish material things. But they probably grew up that way, too. They probably grew up with parents that didn’t care one bit about how they performed in school. They just gave them what they wanted regardless of the work they put in to improving their lives.

McMorris is a product of this kind of selfish mentality. No one put it into his head that there is a greater thing in the world than himself. Well, I take that back. He thinks cocaine and hookers are pretty great, but those are the wrong things to put on a pedestal. Service to your country is greater. The Common Core Learning Standards are greater. Trying to get a fix, whether it’s for drugs or sex, is the lowest form of pleasure that one can derive.

He has no regard for human life. He has no regard for his own life. He thinks he’s immortal. Americans think that about themselves, too. Look at all the obese people driving around on their mobility scooters. I think I’ve seen more in this state than any other. These people shove deadly amounts of sugar, salt, carbohydrates, and chemicals into their bodies without thinking that they might be killing themselves with the slow death of fast food. By the time they figure that out, the doctor has already told them that they have hypertension, high blood pressure, and diabetes. Then they have to take medicine the rest of their life or they’re just one more cheeseburger from the grave.

Jeff: But he’s the Hardcore Champion. Don’t you think that kind of mentality has served him pretty well?

Core: Hardcore? That trash kind of wrestling? It may serve him well in the short term, but in the long run, it won’t last. The crazy things he does to his body are going to shorten his career by a whole hell of a lot. Why are people like him into these base kinds of things? It’s like when Jerry Springer was big. People were into that sort of crash TV style for a time, but eventually people got tired of seeing hicks who have sexual relations with their siblings throwing high heel shoes at each other and moved on. Remember when Marilyn Manson was on MTV parading himself around in women’s lingerie? People were into his style of music for a while, but eventually the shock wore off and they started paying attention to someone else. Look at the millions of reality TV shows there are. People watch the perverse lives of weirdoes in this country, whether it’s midget families, obese five year olds who take part in beauty pageants, celebrity families with transgender fathers, or polygamist Mormons. Americans sit in front of their TVs and watch these freak shows promote their odd ways of life, but eventually the appeal goes away.

People will tire of Zombie McMorris and his hardcore style eventually. Some things in this world are tried and true. If Zombie McMorris wanted to get mileage out of his career and truly be one of the greats, he would have learned the fundamentals like me. I don’t need to use light bulbs and canes and chairs to be successful. He could try to use all the weapons on me that he wants, but my natural ability trumps weapons any day of the week. Wrestling is about proving your dominance over another by using the body that you were born with. You have to mold and craft your body to make it superior to all others. Zombie McMorris isn’t improving himself. He’s regressing, slowly but surely, and eventually, he’ll flame out.

Jeff: He has wrestling moves, too, Dad. And he isn’t just the Hardcore Champion. He’s the Internet Champion, too.

Core: Jeffrey, do you have an answer for everything I have to say tonight? Maybe you should listen for once instead of thinking that you know everything. God, if I can’t get my own son to listen to me, how am I supposed to get America to listen to me?

No one wants to listen to you, you son of a bitch.

Core: First of all, I wouldn’t be proud to call myself the Internet Champion. The Internet was invented to act as another resource by which people could learn. What has it become? One big, never ending entertainment center! Instead of trying to improve America’s problems, people use the Internet for funny cat videos and pornography. Yes, those things will help educate our youth or fix our deficit. At least I want to be the champion of something that was once great and something that can be great again, the United States! However, if I were the Internet Champion, I would rename it the Information Technology Championship. Hopefully, I would inspire this country to steer the information superhighway back to its intentional use and it could be used to better people, not warp their minds.

In regards to his “wrestling moves,” I understand that he has them, son, but do you think he’s perfected them like I have my own? I imagine not. He’s too busy thinking of how he can use a toaster to smash someone’s brains in. He’d rather hurt a man by putting him through a table rather than applying a headlock or an armbar. That’s the easy way out. He’s like someone who collects unemployment or these disputatious McDonald’s employees who want $15 an hour for serving French fries instead of striving to do better by getting promoted or, gasp, working a second job! He doesn’t take pride in what he does. He just wants the rewards instead of doing the real work.

Hell, he doesn’t even take pride in the way he looks. He walks around in a ripped pair of jeans. He might as well be wearing them around his ass like the wannabe thugs that pollute America’s hallways every day. Your appearance tells people what you want them to think about you. The America’s people present themselves these days tells the world what they think about us. We’re lazy, apathetic, unhealthy, uneducated, and weak. That’s why America’s in the position that it’s in today. That’s why Russia is laughing at us and terrorists are putting fear into us. They look at us and say “These people are fools. We could take advantage of them all we want!”

I walk down to the ring in a simply pair of black trunks and black boots. My hair is combed and parted neatly and my body is in peak physical shape. When people see me, they don’t laugh and mock me. They see a serious man who is doing serious work. No one thinks that I’m anything less than what I truly am.

When I see Zombie McMorris, I think of a bag of dirt, because that’s all he is. He takes America’s worst characteristics and pins them to himself like they were badges of honor. He’s the cesspool by which America’s refuse pours into.

At least he’s partnering up with Punkin, an Irishman, instead of some impressionable young American that he can negatively influence. They should call that team Wasteland. One guy is the waste of America while the other guy is the waste of Ireland. I have to hand it to Punkin, though. At least he’s a real foreigner with a mask on instead of a guy pretending to be a foreigner by putting on a mask.

When I look at Punkin, though, I see that the fake American disease of having a mental illness has carried over into The Emerald Isle.

Jeff: Having a mental disease is fake?

Core: Well, yours isn’t. But most people in this country claim to have mental issues because they can’t face their own problems. I think it’s really just a cry for attention. Instead of fixing their problems, they make up some kind of problem with their brain and go “Oh, well, I’ve got a disease. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

Jeff gives up and lays his head back. Core doesn’t notice and just keeps droning on.

Core: Where does Punkin say he’s from? “The deepest recesses of a broken young man's mind?” If you’re of sound mind enough to say that your mind is broken, then it probably isn’t broken. Again, it’s probably an excuse for some deficiency he has in his life. He was probably a crack baby. Have you ever seen him? He can’t stay still for two seconds. Maybe he’s on drugs now and he goes through withdrawal whenever he gets into the ring. Maybe that’s why he talks to himself and trips over himself when he walks down the aisle. Or why he shadow boxes his own armor. Or the fact that he wears armor in the first place, like it’s the year 1000. His mind is broken because he broke it with drugs! Or hell, it could be booze, too, being an Irishman and all.

And again, look at his appearance. A grotesque mask. A ripped T-shirt. This man came to America to wrestle, and this is how he chooses to represent himself? I guess I can’t blame him. He comes from an island that just can’t seem to get its act together. The Catholics and the Protestants have spent over 200 years fighting each other! Some favor Northern Ireland’s ties to Great Britain and others want it to end. Make up your minds! At least when we had our Civil War, it only lasted five years and there was a clear decision by the end of the fight. The Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland and their factions and supporters have gone back and forth, from violence to treaties to more violence to more treaties. It’s no wonder that Punkin has no structure in his life. The island that bore him has no structure either.

Besides, America would never put one part of its country in a position to be subjugated by another country. When we wanted to get rid of Great Britain, we did. America needs to get back to that same position of strength that we’ve shown so many times in the past. But at least we have a history of that strength. All Ireland has ever had is a history of fractiousness.

I’m going to use Punkin’s instability, whether real, imagined, drug induced, or all of the above, to my advantage. I am everything Punkin is not. I’m stable. I’m disciplined. I’m strong. Punkin’s never faced anyone like me before and he doesn’t know how to face anyone like me. I will not be rattled by his franticness. The mask doesn’t scare me. I will go into an encounter with him like I’ve gone into every encounter, whether it was on the wrestling mats or standing toe to toe with those god damned teachers unions. I will be cool, calm, collected, and level headed. I will have an objective with clear goals and a clear way to achieve those goals. My objective is to win. My methods will be the suplexes that I’ve mastered and perfected over time. They will include holds to wear the body down, submissions to make body parts scream in torture, and power moves to show the strength and brilliance of my body. Punkin has no such confidence in himself. He doesn’t have the grace by which I exude in the ring. Ireland went through The Troubles for thirty years. Punkin is going to go through the troubles as long as he’s in the ring with me next Sunday.

He takes a deep breath and looks out the window.

Core: I know I’ve been talking a lot, Jeffrey, but I want you to see the difference between what I want you to be and the person you were trying to be tonight. What you were trying to be was like what my four opponents this weekend are like: fake and perverse. You are my son, and you will not embarrass me like that again. You are a Cornelius, and when you earn it and learn to live by the principles of Common Core, I will bestow upon you the name of Core. Until then, you will be brought to bear the life for which I am planning out for you. I’m not doing it because I hate you, son. In fact, I think I’ve done a better job being your father tonight then I have the last twenty-one years of your life. I’ve let you slip for too long. Not anymore, son, not anymore. You are going to be someone that I can be proud. Do you understand? Son? Do you understand? Hey, are you listening to me?!

He looks over to Jeff to find him sleeping. He shakes his head in disappointment.

You’ve been sleeping for too long, son. Now it’s time to wake up and be a man for once in your pathetic, god damned life.

He looks back out the window and ponders.

Wolf Ryder. What the hell happened to you? What path were you on before drugs and alcohol got a hold on your life? How did you lose your way?

He ponders some more as the car drives through the streets of Corpus Christi on this trying, troubling night.