Face Time with Stuart Slane, Part One
Jan 10, 2016 16:19:04 GMT -5
Steve Orbit, God King Dune, and 5 more like this
Post by Stuart Slane on Jan 10, 2016 16:19:04 GMT -5
Stuart Slane began his day as he always did; beating revelry by thirty minutes. After deactivating the alarm feature on his phone he shimmied free of his sleeping bag and performed fifty flawless Russian twists. The big man followed that bit of seated calisthenics with a kip up and fifty deep knee bends. He then pressed two scarred fingers against the inside of his wrist to check his pulse. Satisfied with the results of his examination, he put on his shirt, shorts, and hiking boots. The former Scoutmaster snatched up his walkie-talkie and spoke haltingly in Spanish:
“This is the Boss. I am leaving camp. When I return I expect all barracks up and ready for inspection.”
Then he slipped on his Locomotora Desbocado mask and jogged out into the early Mexico morning.
The sun was just nudging its way above the horizon, slowly illuminating the dry flat terrain that surrounded the oasis Stuart had built with his uncompromising vision and thousands of hours of child labor (which may sound harsh, but when you consider the vast number of his charges would likely be dead -or worse- if he had not brought them to the camp, one realizes First World morality doesn’t always apply).
Stuart chugged along; past the rows of burgeoning asparagus stalks, past the paddock where his horse and the flock of goats the camp got its milk and meat from grazed, and past the newly constructed pig pen. A sudden squeal caused the big man’s right eye to twitch reflexively, as it reminded him of yet another burden he had shouldered.
His jog did not take him far; just to the base of the small mesa that occluded the view of his camp from the nearby rail-line. Standing in the shadow of the rock and spitting on his well-callused palms, he then reached out to feel the first set of hand-holds that he would use to begin his climb to the top.
Stuart was about a hundred feet off the ground when his phone got a call. The ring-tone, “Drunk and Crazy” by Mogwai, identified the source, and told Slane he HAD to take it. Making sure both feet were firmly dug into the mesa’s natural cracks and crevices, Stu reached into one of the many pockets of his shorts and fished out his cel.
“Mister Lerch, Good morning!” he bade.
“Yeah, I guess it is where you are. How’s it hanging, Stuart?”
Stu, flush against the side of the flatopped mountain with the phone placed snug between his ear and crooked bull neck, smiled, “Quite well. To what do I owe the pleasure of this conversation?”
“Well, Stuart, I know what a big booster of the company you are-“
Slane’s grin evened out under his mask. That wasn’t remotely true.
“- and how in the past you’ve always said you’d be willing to do anything to help me-“
Stuart was in full frowny face mode now, but for the opposite reason entirely.
“- so I’m calling to see if you would be interested in resigning with WCF.”
Back to smiling, “Yes, sir! It would be an honor.”
“Now, I wouldn’t be able to pay you much; just the standard enhancement talent salary.”
“That’s fine. I’m more than willing to start at the bottom,” Slane said as he gave a peek at the desert floor below him.
“Good, good. There’s just one more thing we need to agree on before moving forward; when you come back, you need to come back as a face.”
Stuart flinched, uncomfortable hearing such kayfabe bending lingo, even if it was spoken by one of the sport’s most successful insiders. But that was not his only objection, “I was always… what you said.”
“No you weren’t. You were a deluded, holier than thou jerk who saw WCF as a laboratory to conduct social engineering experiments in. And that was fine, because back then that’s what we needed. Now, there are half a dozen guys on the roster wanting to do the same thing. I’m up to my neck with self-righteous windbags who wrestle to ‘prove a point’. So we’re going to tweak your gimmick, Stuart. From now on, you will be wearing the white hat for real. You’re the surrogate for all those fans who watch my show hoping someone will stand up to the zealots and get them to shut their yaps.”
“I have always represented what’s right and decent, even if the majority of the WCF Galaxy didn’t believe in what I had to say,” the Man behind the Seven Point Plan objected.
“Well, then, Stuart, you better come up with a way to get them to believe in you, because the next time your music cues up, and you march out from gorilla, I want to hear cheers coming from the audience.”
“You want me to pander to them?” Slane was appalled at the suggestion.
“You do what you got to. Shouldn’t be hard. Fans are idiots. They’ll pop for a ham sandwich if it’s presented right. And that reminds me; you’re coming back to the WCF as you. No pigs, no trains, no pirates, no spiders. No stupid disguises.I have so many “Guy Incognitos” on the roster the mask merchandise market is oversaturated. So you’re going commando this time, Stuart. The crowd will know who it’s rooting for.”
“That, uh, may complicate matters, given how the bulk of your audience perceives me.”
“Then figure it out. You’re a capable guy; you earned all those Merit Badges for a reason. Just apply that wherewithal to getting over with the marks.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you. I will do my very best to meet the high expectations you have of me. I won’t let you down.”
“Damn it, Stuart; you’re already screwing up. Don’t be a brownnoser! That’s a stooge move!”
“I was just being polite, si-Seth.”
“To me?! I’m a monster! I was having wrestlers’ kids murdered when Dune was still playing in his sandbox. I’m the mastermind behind the real conspiracy that rules professional wrestling, not that stupid Gang of Fourteen nonsense you made up to blame for all your losses in WCF. I consider Eric Price a close, personal friend. That enough should be proof sucking up to me is out of character for a real ‘good guy’.”
Stuart knew all of Seth’s proffered flaws, of course. He had just chosen to ignore them. But that was then, and this now, “You’re right. A real man of principle would never kowtow to a shiftless, spineless, scabrous blight on the sport like you. He would simply say ‘I appreciate the opportunity, Seth.’”
“That’s better. Contact Melvin in Personnel to schedule your physical and paperwork so we can get you on the card. I’m sure you got the number memorized at this point.”
“I do,” Stuart told Seth before he hung up. For a while WCF's newest rehire kept that position, head canted to one side to hold his phone in place, and clinging to the rocks like a baby possum does to its mother’s belly. Despite the crick in his neck Stuart didn’t mind the awkward stance and setting; he had endured far worse in his life and the solitude gave him time on what to do next. Another chance, a sanctioned chance, to return to the Wrestling Championship Federation, was offered to him; but only under certain conditions. Now, he was expected to more than just win matches. He had to win the WCF Galaxy’s hearts and minds, something he tried, and failed, to do in the past. How was going to do that, given the vast disconnect between him and the average fan?
And just when you think this question would be left unanswered until a later date, and that this scene was going to end on a figurative and literal cliffhanger- if you weeeeiiiiiiiiiiilllllllllllllllllll- Stuart makes a decision. He let go of the side of the mesa with one hand so he can get to his phone. He pressed the screen several times, accessing the device’s email feature to send a message to an address he had acquired while serving as Wrestling Championship Federation’s Virtual Ambassador. It was a request for aid to one of the only men Stuart considered good in the sport (though often misguided). He was also, if you believed Stuart’s own conspiratorially themed accusations, an enemy.
Still, this was another example of “Needs must, when the Devil drives.” If Stuart Slane was to have any kind of a future in the WCF, he would need help from The Future to achieve it.
Cue a Quentin Tarratino Out of Chronological Order Scene Change
Stuart Slane was standing at parade rest in the middle of a regulation wrestling ring, the location of which seemed to be a refurbished barn. On the red, slatted walls behind him hung numerous wrestling related memorabilia: framed posters that advertised the War XI Pay Per View, a replica WCF Hardcore Title, even a blown up publicity photo of the 2012 version of Pantheon (Corey Black, Jeff Purse, Jay Price, and somebody who with the exception of his right hand has been cropped out of the shot). Slane iwas dressed in his new ring gear, which amounts to a dark green tee shirt and a pair of tan carpenter shorts. Also, he sported a black eye. He addressed the audience.
“Greetings, WCF Galaxy. Once again, I am back. This will be my fourth official return to the Wrestling Championship Federation. A significant number, but when compared to the comings and goings of other performers, hardly staggering. And I have certainly never made the effort, as others have, to quit the Choir Invisible to rejoin the sport.”
“Why do we do it? Why do we take part in a profession that slowly destroys our bodies and strains our connection with the outside world? As I have currently made the significant decision to no longer speak for others, I can’t provide you with a comprehensive answer to that question. However, I can give you my reasons, which have changed over the years.”
“When I first joined Wrestling Championship Federation it was because I saw it as a platform to promote my particular Weltanschauung. I am a man of strong opinions, and at the time I believed others should share them, whether they wanted to or not. My proposed changes to the WCF Culture were either ignored or ridiculed. Still, I achieved some level of success here; capturing both the Internet and United States Titles in my first six months with the organization. Thanks to my in-ring prowess and my rivalry with certain… factions in the company, I was well on my way to becoming a main event player in this, the biggest wrestling promotion on Earth.”
The look of pride on Stu's face vanished.
“Then I was beaten. Twice. By Jay “Not Quite Yet Mister Every Title” Price. This was the clone of Mister Price, by the way; not the current model. Regardless, the losses were crushing. I was stripped of the United States Championship and worse, my rank by the Scoutmaster General himself. Tucking my tail between my legs I left WCF.”
“But I could not stay away.”
“Time and time again I returned, sometimes with my identity concealed, other times not. However, each of my attempts always had the same motive: payback. I formulated sinister, sometimes quite byzantine plots to destroy either part or all of the WCF, none of which obviously panned out. I know now the stars of the WCF Galaxy shine too bright to ever be distinguished. Not even Eric Price when he was running the place could dim its luster.”
“So why, then, have I returned, if not for vengeance?”
Slane paused and rubbed the back of his neck nervously.
“Money is a reason. I may no longer be a Scoutmaster, but I shall always remain a leader of men. And women. And now livestock I suppose. Such responsibilities carry a literal price tag and, contrary to what others may say online, WCF talent does not get paid in cookies.”
“There is another, more amorphous, factor that compels me to play the role of Prodigal Son. Something I never thought I would affect me when I first decided to become part of this world out of a sense or moral obligation.”
“I like the fight. The contest among those who make up the wrestling community, when it is at its best, has a purity, a primality, to it unlike anything else I have ever taken part of. And I’m not just talking about when I have had the fortune to win my matches. My greatest losses still brought moments of joy that I never had outside of a wrestling ring. Even as a two time National Pinewood Derby Champion.”
Stuart paused, and quickly attempted to correct a significant sin of omission.
“And of course there’s my children. Yes. Very proud of them all.”
Another awkward gap.
“With wrestling, however, it was a different kind of thrill. I have always been one who enjoyed the rigors of physical activity, but in the WCF I have been constantly taken to my ‘forest hewn, mountain forged’ limits. Never a fan of the sport as a spectator, I grew to appreciate it once joining its fraternity.”
“Which brings me to my next point: appreciating the WCF fans themselves. In the past, my relationship with you has been strained. To be blunt, I viewed most of the audience as lost sheep in need of tending. And I chose the most adversarial and condescending means of bringing you into the fold, when I was not ignoring you outright. I was-“
Slane’s right eyelid fluttered slightly.
“-wrong to comport myself in such a manner. My prior actions were in violation of Scout Laws Three through Six as well as Eight. That’s being Helpful, Friendly, Courteous, Kind, and Cheerful, for those of you who did not serve. “
Stuart rubbed his chin, as he struggled with what to say next, his eyes occasionally straying away from the camera’s own gaze.
“I apologize for these past errors in judgment. Not for my beliefs, which are largely unchanged, but for my continued attempts to foist those beliefs on you. That is not my role as a wrestler. That is not what you come to see. You come to watch us compete. So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to fight for you. And for me and those out there who rely on me. Hopefully, that will be enough.”
The big man's tone shifted again, to one more convivial as he began to sell his upcoming match.
“My first chance comes this Sunday, January 10th at the PNC Arena in Raliegh, North Carolina. There, I am scheduled to face a man I believe is having his true debut in WCF: Travis “TNT” Tusk. I don’t know much about Mister Tusk personally, other than what his profile from WCF.com states. He is not an especially impressive physical specimen. Being eight inches taller and almost one hundred pounds heavier than he is, I have a definite size and power advantage. Our levels of experience are similarly disparate. In my career I have won the Internet and United States Titles, and pinned World Champions, in contrast to my opponent, who from what I can tell hasn’t wrestled competitively since high school."
"Looks and prior accomplishments aren’t everything, of course. One of the greatest wrestlers I ever faced was a young man named Kid Phantasm, and he looked about as impressive as your average Subway counter server. And of course there are the numerous female wrestlers in the WCF who manage to succeed despite being at a distinct physical disadvantage due to our species’ natural dimorphism between the sexes. A scale can’t measure technique, or ring awareness, or heart. Those traits only can be judged between the ropes, and Mister Tusk gets his chance to do that Sunday.”
“And that’s how it should be. Wrestling is as its best when it’s simple. There is some irony that my first match is against a man with a fascination with 80s culture, since it was during that era when wrestling best typified the trope. The biggest feud of that time, perhaps of ALL time, started when one man ripped off another’s shirt and chain. Now, we have wrestlers killing their rival’s children to get heat. So much for keeping things in perspective.”
Slane shook his head before breaking into a slight smile. He spoke directly to his upcoming challenger.
“Let’s not focus on the negative, though. This Sunday, Mister Tusk, we each have a chance to demonstrate our abilities; to show we belong here in WCF. I believe we will both do just that. However, I also believe that I will win our contest. My strength and pedigree will trump what you bring to this fight. Even so, I expect it to be a good match, and that once it’s over, either way; we can congratulate each other for our efforts.”
Stuart motioned for the camera to cut, and frowned once it had. Inwardly, he worried he had come across as too earnest, or worse, too insincere with his promo. And then there was the match itself; he was preparing to take part in a classic ‘David versus Goliath’ story as Goliath. And everyone knows no one roots for Goliath.
Was Seth deliberately trying to sabotage him through this match? Or was he testing him, checking to see if would keep his promise to ‘play the face’ even when the majority of the fans in attendance would likely be cheering for the plucky nostalgia act?
“What’s wrong?” said a voice on the other side of the camera.
Slane gave a shrug, “Nothing.”
“You sure? We can do another take, if you weren’t happy with it.”
“No, the promo was fine. As good as it was going to get,” Slane reasoned, as he ruminated if the same was true of himself as well.
“This is the Boss. I am leaving camp. When I return I expect all barracks up and ready for inspection.”
Then he slipped on his Locomotora Desbocado mask and jogged out into the early Mexico morning.
The sun was just nudging its way above the horizon, slowly illuminating the dry flat terrain that surrounded the oasis Stuart had built with his uncompromising vision and thousands of hours of child labor (which may sound harsh, but when you consider the vast number of his charges would likely be dead -or worse- if he had not brought them to the camp, one realizes First World morality doesn’t always apply).
Stuart chugged along; past the rows of burgeoning asparagus stalks, past the paddock where his horse and the flock of goats the camp got its milk and meat from grazed, and past the newly constructed pig pen. A sudden squeal caused the big man’s right eye to twitch reflexively, as it reminded him of yet another burden he had shouldered.
His jog did not take him far; just to the base of the small mesa that occluded the view of his camp from the nearby rail-line. Standing in the shadow of the rock and spitting on his well-callused palms, he then reached out to feel the first set of hand-holds that he would use to begin his climb to the top.
Stuart was about a hundred feet off the ground when his phone got a call. The ring-tone, “Drunk and Crazy” by Mogwai, identified the source, and told Slane he HAD to take it. Making sure both feet were firmly dug into the mesa’s natural cracks and crevices, Stu reached into one of the many pockets of his shorts and fished out his cel.
“Mister Lerch, Good morning!” he bade.
“Yeah, I guess it is where you are. How’s it hanging, Stuart?”
Stu, flush against the side of the flatopped mountain with the phone placed snug between his ear and crooked bull neck, smiled, “Quite well. To what do I owe the pleasure of this conversation?”
“Well, Stuart, I know what a big booster of the company you are-“
Slane’s grin evened out under his mask. That wasn’t remotely true.
“- and how in the past you’ve always said you’d be willing to do anything to help me-“
Stuart was in full frowny face mode now, but for the opposite reason entirely.
“- so I’m calling to see if you would be interested in resigning with WCF.”
Back to smiling, “Yes, sir! It would be an honor.”
“Now, I wouldn’t be able to pay you much; just the standard enhancement talent salary.”
“That’s fine. I’m more than willing to start at the bottom,” Slane said as he gave a peek at the desert floor below him.
“Good, good. There’s just one more thing we need to agree on before moving forward; when you come back, you need to come back as a face.”
Stuart flinched, uncomfortable hearing such kayfabe bending lingo, even if it was spoken by one of the sport’s most successful insiders. But that was not his only objection, “I was always… what you said.”
“No you weren’t. You were a deluded, holier than thou jerk who saw WCF as a laboratory to conduct social engineering experiments in. And that was fine, because back then that’s what we needed. Now, there are half a dozen guys on the roster wanting to do the same thing. I’m up to my neck with self-righteous windbags who wrestle to ‘prove a point’. So we’re going to tweak your gimmick, Stuart. From now on, you will be wearing the white hat for real. You’re the surrogate for all those fans who watch my show hoping someone will stand up to the zealots and get them to shut their yaps.”
“I have always represented what’s right and decent, even if the majority of the WCF Galaxy didn’t believe in what I had to say,” the Man behind the Seven Point Plan objected.
“Well, then, Stuart, you better come up with a way to get them to believe in you, because the next time your music cues up, and you march out from gorilla, I want to hear cheers coming from the audience.”
“You want me to pander to them?” Slane was appalled at the suggestion.
“You do what you got to. Shouldn’t be hard. Fans are idiots. They’ll pop for a ham sandwich if it’s presented right. And that reminds me; you’re coming back to the WCF as you. No pigs, no trains, no pirates, no spiders. No stupid disguises.I have so many “Guy Incognitos” on the roster the mask merchandise market is oversaturated. So you’re going commando this time, Stuart. The crowd will know who it’s rooting for.”
“That, uh, may complicate matters, given how the bulk of your audience perceives me.”
“Then figure it out. You’re a capable guy; you earned all those Merit Badges for a reason. Just apply that wherewithal to getting over with the marks.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you. I will do my very best to meet the high expectations you have of me. I won’t let you down.”
“Damn it, Stuart; you’re already screwing up. Don’t be a brownnoser! That’s a stooge move!”
“I was just being polite, si-Seth.”
“To me?! I’m a monster! I was having wrestlers’ kids murdered when Dune was still playing in his sandbox. I’m the mastermind behind the real conspiracy that rules professional wrestling, not that stupid Gang of Fourteen nonsense you made up to blame for all your losses in WCF. I consider Eric Price a close, personal friend. That enough should be proof sucking up to me is out of character for a real ‘good guy’.”
Stuart knew all of Seth’s proffered flaws, of course. He had just chosen to ignore them. But that was then, and this now, “You’re right. A real man of principle would never kowtow to a shiftless, spineless, scabrous blight on the sport like you. He would simply say ‘I appreciate the opportunity, Seth.’”
“That’s better. Contact Melvin in Personnel to schedule your physical and paperwork so we can get you on the card. I’m sure you got the number memorized at this point.”
“I do,” Stuart told Seth before he hung up. For a while WCF's newest rehire kept that position, head canted to one side to hold his phone in place, and clinging to the rocks like a baby possum does to its mother’s belly. Despite the crick in his neck Stuart didn’t mind the awkward stance and setting; he had endured far worse in his life and the solitude gave him time on what to do next. Another chance, a sanctioned chance, to return to the Wrestling Championship Federation, was offered to him; but only under certain conditions. Now, he was expected to more than just win matches. He had to win the WCF Galaxy’s hearts and minds, something he tried, and failed, to do in the past. How was going to do that, given the vast disconnect between him and the average fan?
And just when you think this question would be left unanswered until a later date, and that this scene was going to end on a figurative and literal cliffhanger- if you weeeeiiiiiiiiiiilllllllllllllllllll- Stuart makes a decision. He let go of the side of the mesa with one hand so he can get to his phone. He pressed the screen several times, accessing the device’s email feature to send a message to an address he had acquired while serving as Wrestling Championship Federation’s Virtual Ambassador. It was a request for aid to one of the only men Stuart considered good in the sport (though often misguided). He was also, if you believed Stuart’s own conspiratorially themed accusations, an enemy.
Still, this was another example of “Needs must, when the Devil drives.” If Stuart Slane was to have any kind of a future in the WCF, he would need help from The Future to achieve it.
Cue a Quentin Tarratino Out of Chronological Order Scene Change
Stuart Slane was standing at parade rest in the middle of a regulation wrestling ring, the location of which seemed to be a refurbished barn. On the red, slatted walls behind him hung numerous wrestling related memorabilia: framed posters that advertised the War XI Pay Per View, a replica WCF Hardcore Title, even a blown up publicity photo of the 2012 version of Pantheon (Corey Black, Jeff Purse, Jay Price, and somebody who with the exception of his right hand has been cropped out of the shot). Slane iwas dressed in his new ring gear, which amounts to a dark green tee shirt and a pair of tan carpenter shorts. Also, he sported a black eye. He addressed the audience.
“Greetings, WCF Galaxy. Once again, I am back. This will be my fourth official return to the Wrestling Championship Federation. A significant number, but when compared to the comings and goings of other performers, hardly staggering. And I have certainly never made the effort, as others have, to quit the Choir Invisible to rejoin the sport.”
“Why do we do it? Why do we take part in a profession that slowly destroys our bodies and strains our connection with the outside world? As I have currently made the significant decision to no longer speak for others, I can’t provide you with a comprehensive answer to that question. However, I can give you my reasons, which have changed over the years.”
“When I first joined Wrestling Championship Federation it was because I saw it as a platform to promote my particular Weltanschauung. I am a man of strong opinions, and at the time I believed others should share them, whether they wanted to or not. My proposed changes to the WCF Culture were either ignored or ridiculed. Still, I achieved some level of success here; capturing both the Internet and United States Titles in my first six months with the organization. Thanks to my in-ring prowess and my rivalry with certain… factions in the company, I was well on my way to becoming a main event player in this, the biggest wrestling promotion on Earth.”
The look of pride on Stu's face vanished.
“Then I was beaten. Twice. By Jay “Not Quite Yet Mister Every Title” Price. This was the clone of Mister Price, by the way; not the current model. Regardless, the losses were crushing. I was stripped of the United States Championship and worse, my rank by the Scoutmaster General himself. Tucking my tail between my legs I left WCF.”
“But I could not stay away.”
“Time and time again I returned, sometimes with my identity concealed, other times not. However, each of my attempts always had the same motive: payback. I formulated sinister, sometimes quite byzantine plots to destroy either part or all of the WCF, none of which obviously panned out. I know now the stars of the WCF Galaxy shine too bright to ever be distinguished. Not even Eric Price when he was running the place could dim its luster.”
“So why, then, have I returned, if not for vengeance?”
Slane paused and rubbed the back of his neck nervously.
“Money is a reason. I may no longer be a Scoutmaster, but I shall always remain a leader of men. And women. And now livestock I suppose. Such responsibilities carry a literal price tag and, contrary to what others may say online, WCF talent does not get paid in cookies.”
“There is another, more amorphous, factor that compels me to play the role of Prodigal Son. Something I never thought I would affect me when I first decided to become part of this world out of a sense or moral obligation.”
“I like the fight. The contest among those who make up the wrestling community, when it is at its best, has a purity, a primality, to it unlike anything else I have ever taken part of. And I’m not just talking about when I have had the fortune to win my matches. My greatest losses still brought moments of joy that I never had outside of a wrestling ring. Even as a two time National Pinewood Derby Champion.”
Stuart paused, and quickly attempted to correct a significant sin of omission.
“And of course there’s my children. Yes. Very proud of them all.”
Another awkward gap.
“With wrestling, however, it was a different kind of thrill. I have always been one who enjoyed the rigors of physical activity, but in the WCF I have been constantly taken to my ‘forest hewn, mountain forged’ limits. Never a fan of the sport as a spectator, I grew to appreciate it once joining its fraternity.”
“Which brings me to my next point: appreciating the WCF fans themselves. In the past, my relationship with you has been strained. To be blunt, I viewed most of the audience as lost sheep in need of tending. And I chose the most adversarial and condescending means of bringing you into the fold, when I was not ignoring you outright. I was-“
Slane’s right eyelid fluttered slightly.
“-wrong to comport myself in such a manner. My prior actions were in violation of Scout Laws Three through Six as well as Eight. That’s being Helpful, Friendly, Courteous, Kind, and Cheerful, for those of you who did not serve. “
Stuart rubbed his chin, as he struggled with what to say next, his eyes occasionally straying away from the camera’s own gaze.
“I apologize for these past errors in judgment. Not for my beliefs, which are largely unchanged, but for my continued attempts to foist those beliefs on you. That is not my role as a wrestler. That is not what you come to see. You come to watch us compete. So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to fight for you. And for me and those out there who rely on me. Hopefully, that will be enough.”
The big man's tone shifted again, to one more convivial as he began to sell his upcoming match.
“My first chance comes this Sunday, January 10th at the PNC Arena in Raliegh, North Carolina. There, I am scheduled to face a man I believe is having his true debut in WCF: Travis “TNT” Tusk. I don’t know much about Mister Tusk personally, other than what his profile from WCF.com states. He is not an especially impressive physical specimen. Being eight inches taller and almost one hundred pounds heavier than he is, I have a definite size and power advantage. Our levels of experience are similarly disparate. In my career I have won the Internet and United States Titles, and pinned World Champions, in contrast to my opponent, who from what I can tell hasn’t wrestled competitively since high school."
"Looks and prior accomplishments aren’t everything, of course. One of the greatest wrestlers I ever faced was a young man named Kid Phantasm, and he looked about as impressive as your average Subway counter server. And of course there are the numerous female wrestlers in the WCF who manage to succeed despite being at a distinct physical disadvantage due to our species’ natural dimorphism between the sexes. A scale can’t measure technique, or ring awareness, or heart. Those traits only can be judged between the ropes, and Mister Tusk gets his chance to do that Sunday.”
“And that’s how it should be. Wrestling is as its best when it’s simple. There is some irony that my first match is against a man with a fascination with 80s culture, since it was during that era when wrestling best typified the trope. The biggest feud of that time, perhaps of ALL time, started when one man ripped off another’s shirt and chain. Now, we have wrestlers killing their rival’s children to get heat. So much for keeping things in perspective.”
Slane shook his head before breaking into a slight smile. He spoke directly to his upcoming challenger.
“Let’s not focus on the negative, though. This Sunday, Mister Tusk, we each have a chance to demonstrate our abilities; to show we belong here in WCF. I believe we will both do just that. However, I also believe that I will win our contest. My strength and pedigree will trump what you bring to this fight. Even so, I expect it to be a good match, and that once it’s over, either way; we can congratulate each other for our efforts.”
Stuart motioned for the camera to cut, and frowned once it had. Inwardly, he worried he had come across as too earnest, or worse, too insincere with his promo. And then there was the match itself; he was preparing to take part in a classic ‘David versus Goliath’ story as Goliath. And everyone knows no one roots for Goliath.
Was Seth deliberately trying to sabotage him through this match? Or was he testing him, checking to see if would keep his promise to ‘play the face’ even when the majority of the fans in attendance would likely be cheering for the plucky nostalgia act?
“What’s wrong?” said a voice on the other side of the camera.
Slane gave a shrug, “Nothing.”
“You sure? We can do another take, if you weren’t happy with it.”
“No, the promo was fine. As good as it was going to get,” Slane reasoned, as he ruminated if the same was true of himself as well.