Face Time with Stuart Slane, Part Two

[Stuart Slane]

January 10, 2016
Raleigh, North Carolina

Stuart Slane walked backstage in the PNC Arena. Slam was over and he was hustling to beat the post show traffic. He was dressed in his civvies; meaning he had changed out of the green tee and tan shorts he wore as ring gear into identical attire, over which he had on a russet barn jacket. He moved as swiftly as a man of his somatotype could, the duffel bag he had slung over his shoulder bouncing erratically off his pistoning thigh. As Stuart power walked his way towards the stairwell that would take him to the arena’s parking facilities a small sampling of the Fourth Estate moved to cut him off. An attractive redhead in the classic WCF blazer, obviously the on air talent, called out his name.

“Stuart Slane. Stuart! Please, can we get a few words with you?”

The former Scoutmaster stopped and turned to address the scrum, “It will have to be quick.”

She nodded. It took a few moments for her camera man and PA to arrange the shot, and then the interview began.

“This is Jesse Heenan of WCF News, and I’m here live with Wrestling Championship Federation superstar Stuart Slane. Stuart, earlier tonight you made your official return to the ring, defeating the debuting Travis “TNT” Tusk. What are your thoughts on the match itself?”

“It was good. It has been a while since I’ve won.”

Heenan nodded, “April 2014 was your last recorded victory. Now granted, you didn’t compete much between then and now; just a handful of appearances, usually while pretending to be someone else. But all the times you did fight, you lost. Why do you think that was?”

“I wasn’t focused,” Slane said in reply. Attempting to steer the subject to something more positive, he began putting over his opponent, “Another thing about tonight’s match was how impressive Mister Tusk performed. He’s obviously very raw, and not in the best, ahm, ring shape. But the potential is there. I see good things in Travis Tusk’s future.”

Jesse gave a cursory nod, but it was clear she had other topics she’d rather discuss, “You said recently you had come back to WCF to fight for the fans and for the people who need you, whereas before you had greater agendas, including revenge.”

“That is correct.”

“What proof can you offer to the WCF Galaxy that you’re being sincere? Beyond raising three fingers and saying ‘Scout’s Honor?’”

Slane saw the barest of smirks cross Jesse’s fox-faced features. He was being goaded. His right eyelid quivered, but beyond that reflexive ‘tell’ Stuart was able to maintain his composure.

“I’m going to let my actions speak for me, Miss Heenan.”

“That’s probably the best way to go about it,” the woman whose own spectacular dimensions had earned her the nickname “The Figure” adjudged.

Stuart gave no reply beyond an expectant glare. He wanted the interview to be over, but at this point felt he shouldn’t dare mention it. Trying to end it now could be construed as him trying to avoid the media’s scrutiny.

As it was, Jesse only had one more thing to ask, though it didn’t begin as a question, “In a bit of breaking news, your performance tonight has earned you a shot at the Television Championship.”

Slane was surprised by the information, “Really? Well, if what you say is true, then I’m grateful for the chance.”

“The people can always trust me, Stuart,” Heenan assured him in a tone that made it obvious she was again giving the bear a proverbial poke, “My sources are unimpeachable. You’ll be facing Dustin Beaver for the TV Title next week at Slam. Your thoughts?”

“I’m happy. The Television and World Championships are the only two belts I haven’t had a crack at yet, so it’s something new for me.”

“Left off that list is are Tag Team and Trios title, but those omissions are understandable. You never did play well with others.”

It was another dig, but this time Stuart had a comeback, “I’ve pinned World Champions in tag matches, Miss Heenan, so I must have some idea on how to win them,” he replied, “And I was considered a good enough partner to be asked to join the Vapor Kings.”

That last little revelation caught the reporter off guard, “Wait. What?”

“Obviosuly, I turned them down,” Slane smiled as he checked his phone for the time, “Prior commitments. And given the, ahm, extreme differences in personalities that would have been involved in such a grouping of talent, who knows how long it would have even lasted? Still, though, if you’re one to ruminate on the ‘What Might Have Been’, it is interesting to think about.”

Stuart locked his steely blue eyes with the reporter’s, “I’m more interested in the 'Here and Now' as well as 'What Might Be.' Any more questions?”

“Anything you’d like to say to the man you’ll be facing for the Television Title, Dustin Beaver?”

“At this point I’m afraid I don’t know much about him to make a statement. With time, and some research, that is bound to change. From what cursory information I have picked up it seems Mister Beaver is a talented young man who associates with the wrong crowd. In this regard he reminds me of another wrestler I’ve had the pleasure of competing against, one who went on to what will likely amount to a Hall of Fame career. Time will tell if the similarities between the two will continue.”

“And who is the other man?” Jesse asked reasonably.

For the sake of effect the question will serve as a means to segue to our next scene, which is also out of chronological sequence. I think there’s a general rule against telling a story where one flashback transitions to another (flashierback? flashfurtherback?) but hey, it’s not like we’re getting paid for this.

January 5, 2016
Wherever the Purses Live

Jeff Purse was waiting for Stuart on the porch of his refurbished farmhouse. He was dressed casually but symmetrically, even the strings on his hoodie were set at equal lengths. Stuart, meanwhile, looked uncomfortable in his off the rack (don’t believe that recently leaked Salary and Contract report of WCF Talent; Stu’s paid peanuts) corduroy suit stretched out over his simian physique. Exiting his equally snug rental car (Exhibit B), the ex-Scoutmaster moved to join his fomer rival.

“Good to see you, Stuart,” the younger of the two said as they shook hands, “How’s things?”

“Very well, thank you. Congratulations to you and Mrs. Purse on the birth of your child.”

“Hey, thanks,” the proud father beamed, “Parenthood, man, at first I wasn’t sure… I mean, kids are so unorganized. But Patrick is amazing. Retiring became a lot easier knowing it would give me more time to spend with him.

Slane nodded towards the cane leaning next to the chair Jeff had been sitting in, “How’s your leg?”

“Still healing. The doctors really aren’t sure if there will be any permanent damage,” Jeff had sustained a serious injury at WCF’s marquee Pay Per View, One, against one of his greatest enemies, “Von Liebert got it a hell of a lot worse, though. I think that’ll be the last we ever see of that fucking pygmy.”

“Good.”

Jeff recalled that Stuart and “The Devil’s Right Hand” had history as well, “Didn’t his flunky Legion do a number on you too? Back when you were pretending to be the pig guy?”


“Yes. He ran me over while I was Hog Wilder.”
This is true. You can check the opening segment of the September 13th Slam for all the grisly details.

“Yeah. What was the deal with that whole gimmick anyway? You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who objects to a good pork chop.”

“Quid pro quo. Miss Circe’ Cicero needed a wrestler to promote her Swine Rights agenda; I needed cover to sneak into WCF and destroy it from within.”

“Uh huh. Well, I guess things all worked out for the best, since you’re once again on the WCF payroll. Attempted vehicular homicide notwithstanding.”

There was more to the story, of course. Information that Jeff wasn’t aware of that would refute his observation. But as Stuart didn’t feel it was pertinent to the matter at hand he chose not to discuss it, “Indeed,” was his only reply.

“And you’re back as you. No disguises. No secret agendas.”

“Yes.”

“And you want my help to get over as a good guy.”

“Yes.”

“Cool!” Purse grinned broadly and clapped the other man on the shoulder, “I love a challenge.”

Jeff led his guest to the farmhouse’s dining room for supper. Given both his and Kari’s health issues (her pregnancy had been a difficult one, thanks in no small part to the machinations of Nathan von Liebert), the two had chosen to have the meal catered.

“You prefer a white or dark piece, Stuart?” Kari asked as she opened the box from Popeye’s.

“It doesn’t matter, Mrs. ah, Kendall-Purse?”

The ivory skinned brunette laughed, “It’s just Kari, ok?”

The meal went by quickly, as it became clear Stuart was not one for small talk, and because Popeye’s is mighty good eating. After the plates were cleared and Kari had left to check on Patrick was when the real meat of the gathering would occur.

“I thought about what you asked me on the phone,” Jeff said as he reached across the table to straighten Kari’s placemat, “What it is that really separates the good guys from the bad in wrestling. What determines who gets cheered and who gets booed. Because, really, it’s a good question. This sport is filled with some real pieces of work; people you wouldn’t want to share an elevator with, let alone be your next door neighbor. Yet some of those same men and women are loved by the fans. So why is that?”

“I once believed it was the result of a flaw in their moral upbringing,” Stuart said, still not entirely sure he was wrong.

“Nah. I mean, you’re always going to have some outliers who root for a wrestler because they’re ‘the villain’. But there is a common trait among all performers that get in the good graces of the public regardless of their gimmick,” Jeff went on, “and it’s their actions between the bells. That’s what separates the heels from the faces. The wrestlers who handle their business by actually wrestling get cheered. The ones who try to rig the game with run-ins, beatdowns, and all that other superfluous bullshit get booed. WCF is about a sport. One man against another. Or woman. Or whatever The Incredible Minx turns out being. The clash of ideologies, the politics; that’s padding. The fans will always get behind a competitor who is willing to sacrifice their own well-being just to put on a show. They know this game takes years off a performer’s life, and they appreciate it. They just want to be acknowledged for their support.”

The former WCF World Champion went on, “I mean, there’s other stuff too; don’t back down from a fight, don’t blame others for your losses, don’t start shit but make sure to be there when it ends, don’t tell people what they should want- that’s going to be a hard one for you, Stuart, I know- but everything ties in to what happens between the bells. It’s the wrestler’s actions that matter, not their act.

“It’s going to take a while to get the fans on your side. Most people remember you as a pompous pedantic stick in the mud who gave out Demerit Badges with one hand while stealing hot fries with the other. You tried to ban emoticons from the WCF website, which, yeah; hilarious; but indicative of the larger problem.”

“I still don’t see the issue with my proposal. If one needs a chimerical grouping of punctuation marks in order to clarify their text’s intent, one shouldn’t be writing,” Slane lectured grumpily.

“Right. Sure. Point is, there are big obstacles to you winning the crowd over. But you got some assets. First, you’re a physical freak. Built like a tank, but still quick. And your workrate’s solid. All that fresh air and sunshine did wonders for your cardio.”

“The benefits of clean living, Mister Purse,” Stuart said a bit too smugly.

“Second, you got some good moves in your offense. Sure, it’s all Shuji Kondo’s, but you make it work. The fans will always pop for a nice power spot. Third, despite your ‘Sam the Eagle’ schtick you’re pretty damn funny. I always got a chuckle from the shots you would take at Eric Price and Synn online."

Kari who had just returned to sit between the two men at the table, made an observation, “I always thought half of what you posted was done tongue in cheek anyway; just bulletin board material to hype whatever match you were having.”

“Everything I said and wrote I wholly believed at the time,” Slane assured her with the barest of smiles.

“So, yeah, you got some game,” Jeff claimed, “But if you want the WCF Galaxy to support you, there’s some bad habits you’ll need to break. Namely, everything else you did. Stay away from the bully pulpit. Stop sucking up to Seth-“

“I know that already.”

“Good. Now, here’s the big one:” Jeff Purse’s handsome features became solemn. He leaned forward now when he spoke to Slane, as if what he was trying to say was to remain a secret between them, the two ring warriors, “Don’t give in to The Fear.”

Stuart acted as though he didn’t understand, “I beg your pardon.”

“You know. The Fear. It comes after all the promos have been made, and all the pomp and circumstance passes, and it’s just you and the other guy in the ring. That moment when you wonder if you can beat him straight up. When that urge to go for the short cut, for the cheap shot, in order to win rises up from the reptilian part of the brain and our fight or flight instincts take over. We all feel it. We all wrestle with it. The trick is keeping it from controlling you, making you less of a man. You want to be a good guy, Stuart? You want to be someone the WCF admires? Resist The Fear.”

For a while Stuart didn’t say anything. His emotions were mixed. Part of him resented being lectured on manhood from someone a decade his junior. Who did this little pisher think he was, talking down to Stuart Slane, the one-time “Last Honest Man in Professional Wrestling”? Especially when it came to combat sports? He’d beaten Purse while he was WCF Champion; pinned his scrawny backside for the One. Two. Three.

He remembered every detail of that victory. It was during the 2012 Christmas episode of Slam. The main event of the night- a tag match where he and (coincidentally) Nathan von Liebert faced Purse and his Pantheon stablemate Jay Price- which would end when Stuart charged at Jeff, lifted him up with one arm, and drove him to the mat with his Runaway Slane. It was the biggest win of his career to that point.

And it was one hundred percent tainted, because Stuart had given in to The Fear. He and von Liebert jumped their opponents before the bell. They took liberties during the match, hitting cheap shots when they could. The bitter truth is Jeff probably would have pinned the then-Scoutmaster if Nathan von Liebert hadn’t attacked him illegally and from behind.
Stuart Slane owed his signature win to an ignorant referee and a twisted little troll who made Oblivion seem cuddly in comparison. And it wasn’t as if this had been an isolated incident. His entire record was inflated by these petty, hollow triumphs.

At the time Stuart rationalized his conduct. He claimed he was fighting for something bigger than personal pride. It was about ‘saving WCF from itself’.

But those weren’t the stakes he was competing for currently. Now, it was about giving the WCF Galaxy what it wanted, not what he thought it needed. And according to the young man looking expectantly at him from across his kitchen table, what the fans desired were heroes that let The Fear strike out.

Stuart supposed he could make that pitch.

He finally gave a slow, hesitant nod to his newly minted mentor, “I’ll try.”

Jeff was all smiles again. He leaned back in his chair and rapped the tabletop with his knuckles, “Alright. Now that the heavy stuff is over with, we can move onto the aesthetics. And for that I’m going to turn you over to my former manager,” he nodded to Kari.

“Really?” Slane turned his attention to the woman seated to his left, “How are you going to help me?”

“With what Jeff said earlier: the pomp and circumstance.”

The setting and character dynamic shifts. Kari has brought Stuart to her “home office” (essentially a reading room with her personal computer) while Jeff tended to their colicky son. No bet on which Purse has a tougher time with their respective charges.

Kari sat with her back to her work station, iPad nestled in her lap. She began her spiel , “A wrestler’s entrance is extremely important. The music, the taunts, the pyro, the whole shebang. It’s how he or she introduces themselves to the audience, so all of it should reflect the performer’s, uh, persona. Since our goal is to present you as someone more fan friendly, we need to come up with a routine to convey that.”

Stuart nodded, “Of course. I do have certain, ah, budgetary limits, however.”

“How limited?”

He gave Kari a number, prompting her to delete a few lines on her tablet.

“So we’re going to keep the ballyhoo to a minimum. To be honest, it doesn’t really fit you anyway. You live in the woods. You make your own soap. Spartan stuff. Makes sense for you not to have a lot of bells and whistles accompanying your arrival. Let’s focus on your song. What musicians do you like, Stuart?”

“None, really. I can’t say I’m a fan.”

“You’re not a fan of music?!?”

“No. I find it distracting.”

Kari stared at him as if he had just sprouted a second head, “Didn’t the Scouts do songs around the campfire? ‘Row Row Row Your Boat’? Stuff like that?”

“Rounds. Yes. We did those. There was also a Music Merit Badge which I easily obtained. However, that does not mean I especially enjoy listening to it.”

For a while neither person in the room spoke.

“Are you going to call me a ‘square’ now?” Stuart asked defensively.

“Of course not,” there was a pause, “You know, it doesn’t have to be contemporary music. Maybe what they’d play during marching?”

“That would be martial music, and again, no, it never appealed to me.”

The young woman decided to try a different tack, “Okay, how about this: what kind of emotion would you like the song to convey? What imagery? What’s the message?”

Stu gave it some thought, “I would like something that tells the audience that I am aware of my past, and that I am aware that they are aware of my past, but that I have come back to try and make…. changes, before it’s too late,” he gave the young woman a look that was almost plaintive, “Does that make sense?”

She nodded, “Yes. I think I can work with that.”

“Also, the lyrics should contain no profanity, “

“Of course not.”

“Or anything that could be construed as a double entendre’.”

“I’ll do my best, Stuart, but you know the kind of dirty minds that follow WCF,” Kari grinned, “To them anything can be twisted into something sexual.”

“Yes,” he grunted disapprovingly, but there was a small smile on his face, which he quickly covered by steepling his fingers in front of his chin and mouth.

Kari had a question about something Slane had said earlier, which she had held off asking out of concern of offending the man. Now, though, she took the risk, “Do you worry it’s too late, Stuart?”

“For some things, I know it is,” he answered simply, “Nothing regarding wrestling, though. That can be fixed with the appropriate pomp and circumstance.”

“Right, right. But you know, if there’s ever a time you want to talk to someone about the other things, there are people out there who can help with that.”

“I am aware.”

“I don’t think I’m betraying any confidences when I tell you Jeff has seen a therapist.”

Slane gave a curt nod and slouched slightly in his seat, his long arms draped atop its rests.

“She’s quite good. Doctor Montgomery even worked with Jonny F- whoah.“

Stuart’s reaction to ALMOST hearing the name of his perceived nemesis was alarming. The right side of his face spasmed. His fingers curled suddenly and violently, gouging into the wicker of his chair. Stuart gave a sheepish glance down at the damage his fit had caused.

“My apologies.”

“It’s ok, Stuart.”

“I can repair the damage. One of my Merit Badges is in Rushwork.”

“Beg pardon?”

Slane picked flinders of bamboo from under his nails, “Well, Basket Weaving technically,” he clarified, “but with the proper materials it would be no problem to fix this. How much wax do you have on hand?”

Kari sighed, “Stuart, let’s forget about the chair for now. Your entrance routine can wait too, since we won’t be able to choreograph it until a song is chosen. So that leaves your gear and the video for your 'Tron. What do you want to wrestle in, Stuart?"

“Not a singlet,” he told her, “I wore them after the Scoutmaster General took away my uniform, and found them very uncomfortable.

“Plus they make the guy wearing them look like an oversized toddler,” Jeff Purse decreed as he entered the room. He noted the crushed armrests of Slane’s chair. Casting a sidelong glance to his bride, who gave a brief shake of her head to assure him whatever led to the damage it was nothing worth discussing now. Satisfied, he went on with his anti-singlet screed, “It’s like a onesie for jocks; just butt-ugly.”

“I was thinking of wrestling in my hiking shorts and a tee shirt,” Stuart told them, “Keep it simple, as you said earlier.”

“Good idea,” Kari agreed, “You wouldn’t happen to have your gear with you?”

“In my car. Why?”

“I’d like to record some stuff for your ‘Tron. Footage of you in action. You can’t use your old footage, obviously.”

This was true, but, “How?” Slane asked.

“We got video equipment here, Stu. And a regulation ring out in the barn,” Jeff said, “I probably filmed half of my promos there.”

“That’s all well and good, but, I’m not sure what you plan to record.”

“You tossing some scrub around the ring,” Purse said while producing a cell phone from his jeans.

“Who?”

“We got a guy,” Kari told him, “Local kid Jeff worked with to shake off the ring rust. Chris Mooney.”

“And you’re calling him now?”

“Sure, it’s Tuesday night, so I doubt he’s got a gig. Even if he did, Chris’s thirsty. He wants in the WCF bad. He’ll do anything to suck up to me.”

“And me,” Kari added with a slight smirk.

The two men stared at her.

“What? Even as a mom I still turn heads.”

More bemused staring.

“Have you seen what giving birth has done to my boobs?” she asked, gesturing to her chest with her hands, fingers splayed wide to accentuate their increased… circumference.

Slane switched his focus to the wedding picture on the wall. Jeff made an exasperated sound as he dialed Mooney’s number.

“When you’re working with this guy, feel free to drop him on his head a few times,” Purse muttered to his protégé’.

Within an hour all the necessary preparations had been made. Stuart, Jeff, and Kari opened up the barn and had the ring ready for filming. All that was left was to meet the jobber.

Stuart sized up his sparring partner for the night. Chris “Money Shot” Mooney was six foot four, probably 240 pounds, with most of it muscle. He couldn’t have been older than 20, almost half Slane’s age. He stripped off his “Money Shot” tee shirt to reveal a tattoo- a dollar sign superimposed over a bullseye- etched onto his broad chest. The kid noted Stuart’s attention and smirked.

“Kari said to take it easy on you. That’s cool.”

“No,” Slane replied, shaking his head, “That’s not what I want. Give me your best, Mister Mooney. I assure you I can take it.”

“Thought this was about letting you get your spots in to record for your new ‘Tron?” the young buck asked, jerking his head in the direction of the cameras set up outside the ring, “I mean, that’s what I’m getting paid for.”

Letting him? Inwardly Stuart seethed, “Whatever you’re given for a regular match, I’ll cover the difference.”

“There’s no referee, though.”

Now it was Slane’s turn to sneer, “I’ll follow the rules. Scout’s honor.”

Money Shot shrugged and assumed a combat position.

“Ring the bell,” Slane said over his shoulder to the spectators behind him.

“Why?” Kari, bewildered, asked.

But Jeff knew why. Taking his cane he leaned over to where the prop bell hung on the wall and struck it twice.

Ding! Ding!

Stuart went to lock up with him, but the smaller man floated behind and cinched his arms around Slane’s waist to bring him down. He positioned himself for a front chancery, but Stuart pushed Mooney away and stumbled to his feet.
With good speed for his size, Mooney lunged forward and scored a double leg takedown. Slane tried to kick him away, but his opponent grabbed his leg by the ankle and twisted, forcing Stuart onto his stomach. Money Shot then drove his heel into the back of Stu’s knee repeatedly.

From her spot at ringside Kari and Jeff watched with different levels of consternation.

“You men are so pig-headed,” she said to her husband.

The former WCF champ raised his hand in mock protest, “Hey, not me. And ‘pig-headed’ was Slane’s last gimmick. Or the one before. He’s had so many we’re not supposed to know about I lose track.”

Mooney got back to a vertical base and continued to work over Stuart’s leg, stomping on it as the big man tried to sit up. Mooney knocked him flat with a mule kick, and then followed that up with a jumping elbow drop. Lateral press for a cover, but Slane kicked out with authority, launching Money Shot a good yard across the ring.

Lumbering to his feet, Stuart went after Mooney, who tried chop blocking Slane’s already game leg. The former US Champion was able to spin out of the way. Then, even though he was off balance, the former United States Champion reached down and deadlifted Mooney for a bear hug. He pressed his clasped fists roughly into the younger man’s lower back, mashing his own abdomen into his. Money Shot finally managed to get an arm free and smash Stuart in the face with it, his elbow catching him square in the eye.

With a grunt Slane released the hold and stumbled away. Mooney lunged, hitting a chop block and, once Stuart was down, got into position for a kneebar. He trapped Stu’s leg between his own and straightened it. Then, keeping it in place with his arms, he used his hips to apply the necessary torque to hyperextend the joint.

“Give up?” Mooney asked as he continued to bend Stu’s leg into a configuration Mother Nature never intended.

Stuart shook his head no, but the reality was he was in a bad spot. The kid was doing real damage to him. Pain shot up the length of his leg from his twisted meniscus, and his vision was becoming hampered by his now swollen eye. Worst of all, Stuart was feeling The Fear. He could lose this “match” that he had so pompously agreed upon. Tap out to a nobody who had been brought here for the express purpose of making Stu look good. Now “Money Shot” Mooney would be the one eager to show the WCF Galaxy this footage. He’d be the one using it for his ‘Tron.

‘Probably his plan all along,’ Stu thought to himself, ‘Goad me into a real fight and make me look bad in front of the Purses. The elbow shot was likely deliberate too. So give him a receipt. Some literal Lex- talionis. One good poke to the eye will break the hold. Way we’re positioned Jeff and Kari won’t see it. Cameras might not even pick it up. Or the groin. Hit the punk right in his gimmick. That’ll do the job.’

His mind racing, his body wracked with pain, Stuart Slane struggled to make a decision. The one he chose saw him use every ounce of his significant strength to bend his caught leg enough so he could triangle it with the other. Next he shifted his own body to get his knee on the ground and himself on top of Mooney. Hooking Money Shot’s head with his arm he slapped on a crossface and squeezed until Mooney had no choice but the break the hold.

“Alright,” Jeff said at ringside, nodding in approval.

Kari didn’t seem quite as satisfied, “This is a waste of time.”

“No fear, my dear; I think this is almost over.”

It didn’t seem likely at first, given how long it took for both men to stand. But when Mooney charged at Slane only to be stopped short by an uppercut that nearly snapped his head free and clear of his shoulders did Purse’s prediction seem accurate.

Stuart whipped Mooney into the ropes, tossed him high into the air on the rebound, and sent him crashing to the canvass with a powerslam. Immediately he herked Mooney’s limp body up into the pumphandle position for a gutbuster across his uninjured leg. He then stomped to one corner of the ring, turned back to the heap of a man he left behind, and waited.

“I hear the train a comin’, it’s rollin’ round the bend,” Jeff sang in his best Johnny Cash voice, foreshadowing what was to happen next.

Mooney stood. Slane charged. Mooney was hauled up and then planted by 270 pounds of runaway Slane.

“I want to thank you, Mister Mooney,” Stuart said as he loomed over his foe, “For your time and effort. You’ve helped us so much tonight.”

Slane reached down and hauled the young man to his feet. Stu propped Mooney up until he had regained enough of his bearings to stand on his own.

“S’cool,” he mumbled, swaying listlessly in front of him, “Glad to help.”

“There is just one more thing to take care of,” Stuart’s bruised face twisted into a smirk, “My ‘money shot’.”

Mooney was thrown to the ropes again, caught in a half nelson on the comeback, lifted to Slane’s shoulders, spun and then dropped hard to the mat.

“Done,” Jeff said, giving the ring bell two more strikes with his cane to officially end the unofficial match.

Stuart again helped Mooney to his feet and out of the ring. After he was paid for his trouble and sent on his way, the remaining trio huddled around Jeff’s laptop to watch what was filmed.

“Good stuff. I think we got everything we need,” Kari stated.

“Make sure to delete the parts where Mooney was kicking Stu’s ass,” Jeff gave the big man a grin, “What was that all about?”

“He caught me unaware. It won’t happen again,” Stu, holding an ice bag over his wounded eye, retorted glumly. He gestured at the cameras, “Would you mind if we keep these up? I’d like to record my promo this week’s (which is really last week’s) Slam.”

Kari was surprised with the request, “You sure you’re ready for it?”

“Yes. Tonight’s events have left me quite focused. I know exactly what I would like to say.”

“What about your eye?” Jeff asked, pointing out Slane’s purpled peeper.

“It’s fine. Doesn’t hurt.”

“You want some make up to cover it?”

Stuart moved the cold pack away from his face and smiled, “No. No need to hide my blemishes at this point.”

January 16, 2016
Raleigh, North Carolina

Stuart Slane was sitting on a bench inside an empty locker room; hunched forward slightly, legs spread, elbows on knees, hands clasped in front of him. He looked up and spoke directly to the camera.

“The people of North Carolina are once again hosting the Wrestling Championship Federation, as Slam will be broadcast for the second Sunday in a row from the PNC Arena. Last week, I earned my first WCF victory in a long time. That win now gives me the opportunity to face Dustin Beaver for the Television Championship. Back to the current champion in a minute; first, I want to talk about the belt itself.”

“The TV Title has been around since WCF first opened 15 years ago. Like the Hardcore and United States belts, it’s considered a mid-card championship, one not quite as prestigious as the World Title, but still significant enough to qualify as one possible facet to WCF’s “Triple Crown”. Many observers feel the TV Title has evolved into the second most important championship in the promotion; the reason being unlike the other belts it must be defended weekly. Usually fought over by newcomers, winning and keeping the Television Title around your waist has become one of the most surefire methods of proving yourself to the WCF Galaxy. John Gable made his name by defending the Television Title longer than anyone. Then rookie wrestler Joey Flash caught everyone’s attention with his reign. A dominant Television Champion will see his stock rise rapidly, the reason being that every week he has to be at his best, because being less than that means the prestige, and pressure, that comes from wearing WCF Gold is gone. There is no “build” to a Television Championship Match, for the simple reason that there are no pauses between defenses. No breaks. No off weeks or tune up matches. Being TV Champion is all about being ready to defend it every Sunday night. It’s all about being prepared.”

Stuart smiles after delivering a variation on his old catchphrase.

“That’s why I want it. Holding any belt in WCF is a privilege, and can become more than that if you personally strive to make the belt matter. This is my intent. Winning the Television Title would be my opportunity to put to rest some grumblings going on behind the scenes here in the Wrestling Championship Federation. Allow me to explain.”

“There has been a recent influx of old WCF performers returning to active competition. I qualify as part of this group, though in all honesty I have hardly reached the same level of stardom most of the others have. And I’m not saying this out of any false sense of modesty. There’s no shame in admitting your accomplishments don’t yet measure up to Robert Cairo’s, or Benjamin Atreyu’s, or Steven Orbit’s. However, I have digressed.”

“These WCF homecomings have soured the moods of some of the men and women who were already part of the roster; not so much out of concern for their place on the card, but more because they feel the wrestlers who have come back are being coddled. They’re not being put in matches their pedigrees would seem to warrant. I empathize somewhat. Back during my WCF salad days I felt similar disdain towards those returning veterans. To me they were undeserving Johnny and Judy Come Latelies who came back to the company feeling it should treat them as though they never left; that they should be rewarded despite their absence. My own United States Championship reign was affected by this, as my last two defenses were against Ana Valentine and Skyler Stryker, two wrestlers who fit this admittedly distorted designation. The good news, for me at least, was I had the chance to face these supposed false idols and demonstrate to them this Wrestling Championship Federation was no longer theirs, but mine. Now, some on the current roster wants to be able to do the same.”

“A chance for that comes Sunday, because that’s when I’m facing one of the company’s brightest young stars, Dustin Beaver, for the Television Title. He’s had a good run with the belt, holding it for over two months against other WCF superstars with lengths of tenure equivalent to his own. In fact, when I looked over the list of challengers Mister Beaver has defeated, there was only one name on it that I myself had faced: company constant Adam Young. So not only is Dustin Beaver part of WCF’s ‘New Blood’; he’s been wrestling almost exclusively among his own kind. And he’s been winning, or at least retaining. That all changes this coming Slam. Mister Beaver’s extended victory march through his fellow rookies ends when he fights me, and loses. This is a guarantee.”

Slane sits up on the bench and smiles.

“Now, I don’t think it will be easy. Mister Beaver is driven to compete. He is a grinder, willing to put in the effort to succeed. And of course he has the support of The Beach Krew, WCF’s latest in a long line of super stables. For those reasons, for his high flying ring style, and for his boy band good looks, I once alluded that Dustin Beaver was comparable to another wrestler I’m familiar with: former WCF World Champion Jeff Purse. However, those similarities are superficial. In the end there is a key difference between the two men, and not coincidentally it’s the same one that separates Mister Beaver from the man he was once paid to impersonate: real talent.”

“Dustin Beaver is nothing special. He is pedestrian in almost every way. Not a thing he does stand out, nothing he does excites. Mister Beaver is a cipher, a drone. He works hard, and is willing to follow orders, which is no doubt why The Beach Krew places such importance in keeping him around. Mister Thuggin, Mister Moor, Mister Holmes, Mister Rabid; whoever is in charge of the group this particular week, all of them recognize the value in having a minion who is capable, but not quite capable enough so that he gets it in his head to strike out on his own. Having Dustin Beaver on board helps Beach Krew maintain its stranglehold on the WCF titles, which in turn keeps the nautical themed New World Order afloat.”

“Now, I’m sure there are some Beavlievers out there who take offense at what I’ve said about our current TV Champion. ‘He hasn’t been pinned since October!’ ‘He’s held the title for two months!’”

When Stuart offered up these rhetorical counter arguments, his voice became high-pitched, strident, and disturbingly girlish. Perhaps Slane earned a Mimicry Merit Badge among his many others. Regardless, when he continues his promo it is in his normal tone.

“All true, of course. I can’t take those accomplishments away from Mister Beaver. What I can do, however, is cast a critical eye on them. And when that’s done? You realize that Dustin Beaver’s reign isn’t so impressive.”

“Let’s start with who Mister Beaver took the Television Title from: Andre Jenson. He’s a skilled opponent, and a creative performer, but not one of exceptional stamina. His focus on wrestling, as well, seems erratic. I suppose part of the blame falls on the fact the magician was once possessed by an alien entity out destroy WCF superstar and violator of the Novikov Self-consistency Principle, Bonnie Blue. More on her later.”

“WCF is legendary for its quirky booking. One example of this is Seth’s policy of occasionally having single’s titles defended in tag matches. I’ve never quite understood the logic behind this. All the title holder has to do to retain his belt is avoid being pinned or submitted. There is no incentive for him to try and win, just survive. It’s comparable to the old adage about running from away a bear; you don’t have to be faster than it, only faster than the slowest person you’re with. Meanwhile, one of the champion’s opponents can put in the performance of the night, can dominate the match and win it almost single-handedly, but as long as it is not the champion himself staring up at the lights at the end he keeps the title. Needless to say, these matches are usually a mess, and also, unsurprisingly, the champion usually remains so once the match is over.”

“Why is this relevant? Because three of Dustin Beaver’s defenses have been tag matches, two of which his team lost. The third? Mister Beaver didn’t even earn the victory for his side; his partner Occulo did. More on him later as well. The point I’m trying to make is this: in nearly half of Dustin Beaver’s title defenses he has been a complete non-factor to the point either he didn’t prevent his team from losing or it was his partner that did the heavy work to win the match. That’s not dominance, that’s… attendance. That’s just showing up and staying out of the way; hardly the qualities of a true champion.”

“Who else? Mister Beaver defeated La Gama Blanca and Celeste to keep the Television Title. These two wrestlers clearly had potential but lacked the drive to beat someone with Mister Beaver’s work ethic. So I’ll give him those. He dominated the Mini-Estrella and the buxom black widow. That leaves the aforementioned Bonnie Blue and Occulo; Mister Beaver’s signature wins while Television champion. Both Miss Blue and ah, Mister Occulo are excellent competitors. Perhaps unsurprisingly, just like her ancestor Johnny Reb, Bonnie Blue has a style that is flawless in its execution. There aren’t many in WCF I would rather watch perform their craft than her. And Occulo has proven to be quite formidable with his understanding of his opponents and what makes them tick. Quite frankly, I’m shocked Dustin Beaver pinned either of them. So how did he do it?”

Stuart shrugged.

“It goes back to what I said earlier. Dustin Beaver is a grinder. He does what’s needed to come out on top in his matches. Whether it’s putting in time at the gym or following Beach Krew’s orders, he’s up for it. Bonnie Blue and Occulo, they’re amazing talents, and fun to watch. The stories they tell in the ring are fantastic. But in this sport a good workhorse is always going to beat a good show horse. And while Mister Beaver’s technique isn’t anything special, it’s good enough to get him past the stylish Bonnie Blue and Occulo.”

“But not me. He’ll lose to me. I’m not like Miss Blue or Occulo. They’re Errol Flynn swordplay. I’m an axe splitting your sternum. There’s nothing graceful or stylish about how I conduct my business in the ring. It’s about brute force with me, and I have plenty to spare. I focus on the body - punch it, kick it, slam it, stretch it- to wear my opponent down. Chest, back, stomach- all those big, easy targets; I work them over. I do this until the person’s entire torso becomes one big bruise, and it hurts to even draw a breath, and all they want to do is curl into a ball just ride the beating out. That’s when I put them on their belly and get them Knotted Up. If I’ve done my job right the match doesn’t go much longer than that.”

“This is my strategy for beating you, Dustin Beaver: tan your already badly tattooed hide and then make you tap out. I think that’s what the fans want too. They’re tired of a second rate champion holding one of WCF’s most important belts; and I know they’d love to see The Beach Krew as a whole brought down a peg or two. I doubt I’m the WCF Galaxy’s first choice to be the next Television Champion, but for the moment I’m the best hope they’ve got. I’m winning tomorrow night, young man, and taking your title. Sunday, Beavlief becomes Beavgrief , at least for you."