Post by Stuart Slane on Jan 31, 2016 17:53:16 GMT -5
Four Days in Slane’s World
Sunday, January 24
Siegal Center
Richmond. Virginia
Wrestling Championship Federation’s current Television Champion, Stuart Slane, watched Snowball back his way out of the ring. Just moments ago the reedy young man had responded on behalf of his friend, Dustin Beaver, after Slane had demanded the former TV Title holder return the belt Stuart had won from him the previous week at Slam. Dustin had attacked his vanquisher post-match and absconded with what he felt was still his property.
Snowball’s message from Beaver: he was keeping physical possession of the belt until Fifteen, WCF’s next Pay Per View event; where he vowed he would defeat Slane and once again become its official owner. Also, that Slane was a stooge, an out of town hired gun brought in by Seth Lerch to take what was rightfully his.
Needless to say, neither of these pronouncements sat well with Stuart. Inwardly he raged as Snowball retreated up the ramp that led offstage. Slane wanted nothing more than to chase down the little pipsqueak, drag him back into the ring, and Knot him Up. Twist Snowball’s scrawny torso so far the wrong way he would be standing on his own neck. He’d get a good pop for it too, at least from some of the crowd; the ones who buy Nerd Smasher merchandise and wear it un-ironically. It would certainly be a better reaction than what he was getting now, which was bemused apathy. The Television Champion’s very public ultimatum had just been no-sold by a geek from his main rival’s camp, and the WCF Galaxy were rapidly losing interest in seeing what he would do about it. And Stuart honestly couldn’t blame them. They were here to see things actually happen in the ring, not stand in unsuspecting witness to a man’s existential struggle over what was right and what was wrong in a sport where murder was an ‘angle’.
So Stuart slipped between the ropes and headed to the back so the arena could be used as a venue for more corporeal conflicts.
“Drunk and Crazy” was playing over the Siegal Center’s speakers now, letting Slane know the show was in commercial. As he made his way to the ramp he saw several in the audience reaching past the padded cordon that separated them from the wrestlers. Stuart, never one to ‘press the flesh’ before, made the tactical decision to do so now; if only to try and save face from what happened earlier.
“Good evening. Thank you for attending tonight’s event,” he told a gentleman in a too snug “Poondock Saints” tee shirt before clasping his hand and shaking it.
“Uh, you’re welcome! Great match!”
Stu nodded and released his grip. Satisfied with his first attempt at fan interaction that wasn’t a polemic against the ills of whoever had at the time earned his pique, he moved onto the second.
“Hello, young man. Enjoy tonight’s show.”
“Yeah! YEAH!! Stuart Slane!”
The man pumped his arm enthusiastically, then curled his fingers into a ball and held it out there. Slane’s smile wavered.
‘Oh, dear. He wants me to do something. What is it called? Give him ‘dab’? No, ‘dap’. How does one ‘dap’? Top of the fist? Or the knuckles?’
“Hey, man, don’t leave me hanging!” the fan cajoled good naturedly.
Stuart gave the gentleman a queasy look before lightly bumping fists, “Yes. Heh. Don’t want to do that. Have a good time tonight. Keep on… trucking.”
“What?”
But by now the TV Champ had shuffled on to the third waiting denizen of the WCF Galaxy.
“And how are you, sir?” Stuart proffered his huge cracked and callused paw.
The fan didn’t take it, “I thought we were done with you?”
Slane withdrew his hand slowly. The fellow went on.
“Tired of you glory hogs coming back and taking up space on the card. Couldn’t give Andre Holmes his moment, could you, Slane? Had to politick your way into a title match.”
Stuart, grim faced, turned on his heel and walked away from his accuser, and the rest of the fans manning the barricade.
“I hope Andre kicks your ass, Scoutmaster!” was the last thing Stu heard before he stepped onto the ramp and walked back to the gorilla position.
Waiting for him behind the curtain was an equally dour Seth Lerch.
“We need to talk,” the owner of Wrestling Championship Federation told Stu before handing off the headset he used to keep in contact with Slam’s announce team.
Stuart wasn’t in much of a talking mood, but complied with his boss’s edict, “What is it, Seth?”
Lerch’s eyes darted back and forth as he surveyed for signs of civilians to their profession. Satisfied the area was clear of marks, he began their ‘shop’ talk, “You’re not over.”
Slane glared at the smaller man, “It’s been three matches.”
“Three matches, including a title win against one of my company’s top heels, who then Pearl Harbored you and ran off with the belt, and is supposedly no-showing tonight after you demanded he give it back. And what’s the end result? A weak pop in a mark town. All that fuel, and nearly zero heat you, Stuart.”
“Give it time, Seth.”
The wrestling wunderkind shook his head, “Time is money, and you know how I feel about wasting that. You’re not connecting with the audience.”
“So what would you have me do, then?” Slane folded his arms across his broad chest.
“Pick a day this week you can fly to Reading. You’re going to see Doc Kaye.”
Reading, Pennsylvania was the world-wide headquarters for Wrestling Championship Federation. It was also where Doctor Fabian Kaye had his practice.
Stu smirked, amused at the very idea, “No. I’m not.”
“You don’t have a choice. Check your contract. WCF can compel you to report for a medical consultation if we feel your performance warrants it.”
“There’s nothing medical about what Doctor Kaye does,” Stuart protested, “He’s your gimmick guru.”
“And also a licensed psychiatrist. So guess what? It counts.”
For a moment Stuart considered how much of a pop Richmond would give him if he dragged Seth out onto the stage and put him in the Knotted Up submission. Not enough to make up for the headaches that would come afterwards, especially since what Lerch was saying was likely true. Stuart pinched the bridge of his nose and gave a sigh of resignation, “Thursday. I’ll be in Reading on Thursday.”
Seth gave his Television Champion the oiliest of grins, “Good call. You always were a smart guy, Stuart. Accept help when it’s offered. No need to be stubborn about this, right?”
“Right.”
“I mean, sure you got Jeff Purse advising you, and he’s great. One of the best faces I ever had working for me. But I’ve been in this business for almost fifteen years, Stu. I know it better than anybody. I know what works, and what needs to be tweaked. And you, mi amigo, need some tweaking.”
Seth ended his pep talk with a good natured punch to Slane’s bicep.
Stuart decided to put a pin in Lerch’s little piece of self-promotional puffery with a pointed question, “Better than anyone? How many times have you lost control of WCF again?”
“One less than the number of times I got it back,” Lerch replied in a tone of triumph.
“That’s mathematically impossible.”
After some mental ciphering that reminded him why he hired accountants to manage the fed’s finances, Lerch gave Stuart a stern look, “Stu, this is more proof you need a trip to Doctor Kaye; no one likes a smarty pants. Be in his office Thursday or be in violation of your contract. My people will make the appointment early; Doc’s going to need the time to get you right.”
The Master of Puppets then grabbed his headset back from one of the sound crew and resumed running his show.
Tuesday, January 26
The camp Stuart Slane runs as “Locomotora Desbocado” whose residents are in fact orphans or children rescued from failed attempts to illegally immigrate to the United States (Check this story out if you care to know more: wcfwrestling.proboards.com/thread/26099/used-write-stuff )
Somewhere in Mexico
(Consider all dialogue translated from the original Spanish)
“Sound your horn, noble Pepito,” Locomotora Desbocado beseeched from behind his mask.
As always, The Runaway Train’s second in command did as he was told; pressing the bugle to his lips and blowing out revelry. Less than a minute was needed for the camp’s residents, all of them children, to exit their tents and into the cool desert morning. With practiced ease they moved into inspection formation: four long rows arranged by height and gender. The youths stood, ramrod straight and silent, waiting for their leader’s personal scrutiny, as he would normally spend half an hour each morning reviewing them from behind the cyclopean circle that dominated his cowl.
“At ease,” Locomotora Desbocado told them.
This change in routine surprised the assembly. Normally they were not allowed to assume parade rest until all 31 had passed muster. Still, they immediately complied.
Their leader began to pace back and forth among them, hands clasped behind his back, only occasionally turning his head to acknowledge them as he passed, “As you know, I have been spending less time here. Pepito and Rosa Marie have been in contact with me, and have let me know how well you have all behaved. I am very… proud of this fact. Bad boys and girls might have used my absence to cause mischief. Or even to try and run away, which could have led to the closing of the camp.”
Suddenly the Train stopped and looked down at one of his charges, “Why did you do this? Why did you stay good?”
The young girl gave an answer she thought he wished to hear, “Because rules are rules, Boss.”
Locomotora Desbocado nodded, “Yes. Rules are rules. But what if the rules changed? What if life here was not so strict? Would you promise still to behave?”
He stepped back and asked them all, “What if I said you no longer had to stay here, if you didn’t want to? Who here would want to leave?”
There was silence in the ranks. He tried again.
“Some of you here have families out in the world. Before, the rules said you could not return to them. That is no longer true. If you wish to go back to your people, to anywhere, I will allow it. I will make it happen.”
Locomotora slowly raised the mask entirely from his face, showing the children who he was for the first time.
“I am proud of what we have built here. And I believe that this place is needed. But, if you feel that life is too hard, or you wish to be, ahm, reunited with your families, I will let you return. I only ask that you don’t tell anyone where the camp is, to protect any that stay behind.”
Stuart put away his disguise by shoving into his jeans’ back pocket, and gave the first order under the new rules of Camp Slane, “Please raise your hand if you want to go home.”
Slowly, one child, the girl Stuart had initially approached, lifted her arm. A few more, emboldened by the Boss’s lack of reaction to this one time treasonous act, followed suit.
Slane was surprised, and somewhat perplexed, with the low number that requested their release from the camp. Perhaps more would opt to leave when they realized he was telling them truth about their new freedom. Or perhaps they chose to stay because they had nowhere else to go, or wherever they had to go was worse than remaining here. He spoke to those who had raised their hands.
“Pepito will ask you for any information you can give us about how to reach your families. We will then begin the process of taking you to them. To the rest of you, I say this: while things here are going to change, there will still be standards in place. There will be routines you must follow; including our usual morning hike.”
Slane slung a snare drum over his shoulder and brandished the two sticks he would use to set the drill’s cadence: quick march, 120 steps a minute.
“Attention! Left face! Move out!”
As Stuart and his remaining charges trudged away in time to the beat he had set for them, Pepito approached the girl who first expressed the wish to leave.
“What is going on?” she asked him softly as he flipped to a clean sheet in his notepad.
“The Boss has a new job now. He can’t spend as much time here anymore.”
“Isn’t he a wrestler?” she checked.
Pepito licked the dull lead tip of his pencil, “He was here a couple of years ago. Then he lost a big match and caused my orphanage to close. But I think now he is working in America. I don’t know. I’m more into MMA.”
One more question from the young girl, “Why did he take off his mask?”
“I guess… he doesn’t need it anymore?” the teenager shrugged.
Which, we shall see, was not entirely true.
Thursday, January 28
WCF Headquarters
Office of Dr. Fabian Kaye
Reading, Pennsylvania
*Stuart Slane is sitting in an over-stuffed chair opposite Dr. Fabian Kaye. Kaye’s a rotund fellow, with a receding mass of grey hair and a salt and pepper mustache. He smiles at Stu.*
Kaye: An honor to finally meet you, sir. I’ve been a big fan of your work.
*Slane nods and crosses one leg over his knee.*
Slane: Thanks.
Kaye: The Scoutmaster identity persona was brilliant. An absolute money maker; well, if you or we had the full rights to it.
Slane: Yes.
Kaye: I read somewhere the Boy Scouts of America received close to $350,000 in royalties from the sales of Scoutmaster merchandise before they forced you to drop the title. How much of that did you get, Stuart?
Slane: None. Absolutely none.
Kaye: Understandable, completely understandable, given it was their intellectual property you were parading around with.
*Slane nodded absently and reached down to tug the cuff of his khakis.*
Kaye: But that demonstrated the importance of a good gimmick, doesn’t it? A strong idea can lead to a strong brand. And that puts eyes on you, and money in everyone’s pocket.
Slane: Aren’t we supposed to be pretending this is some kind of medical consultation?
*Kaye chortled, his ample jowls rippling with each guffaw.*
Kaye: Do you really want to waste time with that? Should I get out my ink blots if you see a mask in them? How about some word association? Let’s try this: mark.
Slane: No, that’s fine. Anything to get this over with.
Kaye: That’s not the attitude you should have, Mister Slane. It should be ‘anything with which to get me over’.
*More chuckling. Dr. Kaye swipes the tablet in his lap a few times and hands it to Stuart.*
Kaye: Some concept art I whipped up for another of WCF’s vanillas. Tell me what you think.
*Stuart looked at a picture of Benjamin Atreyu in a tie-dye shirt and a Rasta stripe tam.*
Kaye: It’s my proposed makeover for our former Head of Talent Relations: “Buffalo Soldier” Bejamin Atreyu.
Slane: He looks ridiculous.
Kaye: Ridiculous, but memorable. Mister Atreyu has all the tools to succeed in WCF except one: notability. Right now he’s just another angry white man in boring dull trunks. But this twist of the paradigm would pay him huge dividends. Why, research indicates those dreadlocks alone increase his “heel factor” by 11.4%.
*It was true, Stuart had to admit. White guys with dreads always seemed so deserving of a good smack. He handed the tablet back to Dr. Kaye.*
Slane: I don’t suppose you have some concept art of me on there?
Kaye: Oh, no, Stuart. I haven’t delved that deep into your persona yet to proper visualize alternatives. However, I do have a few suggestions for you.
*Stuart held up his hands as if he was waiting to catch what the doctor would pitch.*
Kaye: First, your entrance music is terrible. “Conquistador”? What was the reasoning behind that choice?
Slane: The opening guitar riff works as a good stinger to work the crowd. And I thought the lyrics were appropriate.
Kaye: The song is about a man past his prime make his last attempts at relevance while the world sits in judgement of him.
Slane: That’s one interpretation. Mine is more hopeful.
Kaye: It’s horribly melancholy. You should change it.
Slane: No. What else?
Kaye: You need to accessorize your ring gear. A brown duster, maybe. Not black. Too many people wear black.
Slane: I’m not wearing a coat to the ring only to take it off once I get there. It is superfluous and silly.
Kaye: Then the ax handle. Bring that. We could market it. Inflatable ax handles on sale at WCF.com.
Slane: The ax handle only comes out when I feel I need it. It’s not a prop.
Kaye: I have to say, Stuart, you’re not being very helpful.
Slane: Your opinion is noted. Can you sign my waiver so I can go now?
Kaye: I’ll sign it, after you answer me one question. And you have to answer this honestly.
*Stuart leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.*
Slane: Go ahead.
Kaye: Do you want to fail?
Slane: No, of course not.
Kaye: Are you sure? You know Seth wants you to become more marketable. To be a welcome face for the WCF viewer. Yet you are resisting even the simplest of efforts to make it happen.
*Stuart didn’t speak for a while. He stared off, seemingly into space, a thumb and forefinger nervously tugging at his bottom lip.*
Slane: Why would I want to fail?
Kaye: Because if you do, then Seth pulls the plug on his experiment. He’ll tell you you don’t have to be good anymore to work at WCF. He’ll let you turn.
*Kaye continued, not unkindly.*
Kaye: Some people just aren’t born to be the face, Stuart. Some are just natural bad guys.
Slane: No. That’s not me.
Kaye: Well, then, there’s always the third option.
*Slane’s focus was immediately back on the doctor’s placid face. His voice turned angry and accusatory.*
Slane: No. Never. A ‘tweener’? Never.
Kaye: Tweenerdom is a totally acceptable lifestyle choice in today’s wrestling world.
Slane: Not to me. They’re the dirt worst. Flakes, all of them. They’re either too afraid of being booed or too self-conscious to be cheered. They don’t follow the rules of sports combat. They’re opportunistic, craven blights on the sport. Pick a side and stick with it.
Kaye: But think of the advantages. Your next match for example; how easy would it be for you to cheap shot Dustin Beaver during your match? Or attack him beforehand? Beat him down and toss his lifeless body into the ring before the bell has rung. He deserves it, doesn’t he, after what he put you through?
*Stuart shook his head.*
Slane: Deserve’s got nothing to do with it. Rules are rules.
Kaye: But as a tweener you could skirt those rules. Think about it; triple threat matches are No DQ. You could do anything you wanted to Beaver, and it wouldn’t be illegal.
Slane: You’re wrong. It’s a Television Title match. The champion can lose through disqualification.
Kaye: Well, that’s an interesting conundrum, isn’t it? Which stipulation wins out? Even if the referee does DQ you Sunday for taking liberties with either Dustin Beaver or Andre Holmes, you have a rock solid case to bring to Management that you were unfairly stripped of the title.
*The would be protagonist pondered this. The foot on the end of his crossed leg began twitching. Suddenly, Stuart stood and loomed over Dr. Kaye.*
Slane: Is that your official diagnosis, Doctor?
*Fabian had spent a lot of time around a lot of wrestlers, who as a group could be imposing. But Kaye hadn’t felt this level of concern for his own health in years. Not since he suggested Tyler Walker join his proposed Fast Food Nation stable as “Muscle Milkshaker”.*
Kaye: No. No, you’re clear. Let me sign that for you.
*He accepted Slane’s waiver and scribbled his name across the bottom.*
Kaye: And you’ll be good to go. Heh heh. Good luck Sunday, Stuart.
*Slane gave a brief nod in reply and strode out of the office. Past the doctor’s receptionist and the empty waiting area. Through the double glass doors and right into the artificial Double Ds of the President of WCF’s Digital Media Content.*
Lisl Anne: Ah!
Stuart Slane: AHH!
*The two stared at each other. They have history. Too much history to go into now. We’ll save that for another role play where padding is needed (yes, that’s a tit joke).*
Slane: Miss Anne! My apologies.
Anne: Really, Stuart?
*He seemed embarrassed. And nervous. And incredible under the gun. This is what happens when you wait until Sunday to write your character stuff.*
Slane: Of course. I should have been watching where I was going. This isn’t the Indianapolis 500 after all. Heh heh.
Anne: No, not that. You calling me Miss Anne. After all we’ve been through we’re back to that?
*Stuart adjusted his tie.*
Slane: Yes, well, my apologies, Lisl.
*She smiled.*
Anne: Good. Welcome back to WCF, by the way. Staying this time?
Slane: As long as you’ll have me.
Anne: It was never a matter of what we wanted, Stuart. Everyone here knows you’ve got the goods.
*The two stood across from each other nervously. Like first date on your parent’s front porch nervously. Finally Lisl attempted to continue the conversation.*
Anne: I know about your problem. The performance thing.
Slane: My what?! Who told you?!?
Anne: That you’re having a hard time getting the crowd to accept you.
*She cocked one of her well-tended eyebrows.*
Anne: What did you think I meant.
Slane: Oh. That. That is why I’m here after all, to see that quack Kaye.
Anne: Fabian isn’t so bad, Stuart. What did he tell you?
Slane: Nothing worthwhile, honestly.
*She nodded.*
Anne: Can I give you a bit of advice then? One ex-performer’s opinion?
*Lisl Anne is a former adult film star Seth Lerch got to run his company’s website. You can look it up.*
Slane: Sure.
Anne: Sometimes, you have to be on even if you don’t feel like it. Even if the motivation to… form that bond isn’t there. That’s when , to make the audience happy, to get them to believe you, you gotta fake it.
*Nervous nods from Stuart. A tug on the collar.*
Slane: Yes. Good recommendation.
Anne: Don’t go overboard with it. You don’t want to be too obvious. But there are little things, a wave to the crowd, slapping an outstretched hand, the old thumbs up. Those small gestures can really change how you’re perceived.
*She lightly brushed her fingers across Slane’s forearm.*
Anne: You were one of the best at working the crowd into a frenzy, Stu. Getting them to hate you without crossing that line into irredeemable monster. Now, you just have to get them on your side. And you can do it. You’re smart, you’re funny, and now it seems like you’ve got the right attitude. The sky’s the limit with you, Stuart Slane. You just have to give the fans an opening, and let them see that goodness.
*Slane rubbed his face and then checked his watch.*
Slane: Thanks for your support.
Anne: Anytime, Stuart. My number hasn’t changed. In the office or at home. Call me if there’s anything you want to discuss.
*Stuart nodded silently and took hold of Lisl’s hand. A quick shake and he walked away, towards the elevator, leaving WCF Headquarters much happier and sure of himself than he entered it.*
Saturday, January 30
Holiday Inn Express Suite #45
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Stuart Slane stayed in his hotel to record his promo. Clad in his workout attire, a white sleeveless tee shirt that accentuated the ranginess of his sun-burnished, simian arms, a green pair of shorts, and white New Balance sneakers, he stood in front of the camera and placed the 12” wooden step on the floor. Then he put his left foot on it, then his right. Then took his left foot off it, then his right. He would repeat this throughout his entire monologue effortlessly and fluidly.
“Tomorrow night is Fifteen. A pay per view unique in Wrestling Championship Federation history, as it honors the entire length and breadth of the company’s existence. Its very name chosen to represent how long WCF has been active, Fifteen is a celebration of everything that has gone on before it. Conceived from the devious but, let’s give credit where credit is due, fecund mind of Seth Lerch, Wrestling Championship Federation grew from a small outlaw promotion to the global phenomenon it is today. When you ask the man on the street to talk about wrestling, what he knows is WCF.”
Left foot up, right foot up. Left foot down, right foot down.
“The card for Fifteen might be the most stacked in company history. Here is a list of just some of the legends who will be competing Sunday: Logan. Gravedigger. Torture. Doc Henry. Adam Young. Bobby Cairo. Jayson Price. Oblivion. Corey Black. Zombie McMorris. Steven Orbit. Dune. Joey Flash. Wade Moor. J-J-J-J-J-J-“
The entire right side of Stuart’s face spasmed as he struggled to spit out the name of his perceived nemesis. Note, his conniption did not alter the tempo of his stationary march in the slightest.
“---onny F-F-F-F-F-Flan. And that’s not including what I expect to be a number of unadvertised surprise appearances from other WCF greats. Fifteen years as a company is a significant milestone, one I’m sure will bring many Prodigal Sons and Daughters home. Add to that list a crop of hungry, talented wrestlers, the rising stars in the WCF Firmament, and that’s a cast of performers as deep as the blue sea The Beach Krew claims to command.”
“As important as the quality of competitors to tomorrow’s event is, Fifteen also boasts a program that should make even the most casual of wrestling fans want to tune in to watch. Nearly every WCF Title will be defended. In one contest, the life of the unborn is literally at stake!”
Sour face from Slane. What’s with WCF and child endangerment? Remember when just slapping a valet was enough to get nuclear heat? Now they’re being threatened with forced Dilation and Curettage. Simpler times, man. Simpler times.
“The Gentleman Rogue is competing in his last match. Creeping Death may creep no more after tonight, if he cannot overcome his… significant challenger. We will witness two decidedly non-virgins attempt to sacrifice the other to an active volcano in order to win the favor of the Hardcore Gods. A new match type, one with World Title implications, will be introduced: Final Destination. Traditionally, the fifteenth anniversary gift is meant to be crystal. And that in a sense is what the WCF Galaxy is receiving Sunday: a clear, bright, multi-faceted construction that represents everything that makes this sport what it is, both the good and the bad.”
More stepping, more selling.
“So what part of this ‘crystal am I? Where in WCF’s latticework do I fit? I have been in and out of Wrestling Championship Federation often the past three plus years. Not quite a legend, though I have faced and beaten some. At my best, I was a ‘name’; someone who made a mark briefly but not deeply, just enough to be remembered by those who were there. At my worst, I was here for the metaphorical cup of coffee: a loss in an opening multi-man clusterfudge that WCF is renowned for. As I have said in the past, the motives for these too brief tenures were spiteful. Hatred for individuals and groups, and eventually for the WCF Galaxy as a whole. But there is another side to hate, and that is love. You hate what hurts you, and you cannot be hurt by something if you consider it unimportant. If it isn’t something you don’t cherish.
“I cherish WCF. Even when I sought to force my views upon it, or when I plotted futilely to destroy it, Wrestling Championship Federation always mattered to me. Working here, testing my limits against the best in the sport, brings me great satisfaction. Before, I was selfish with that feeling. I talked about my Slaneiacs and the citizens of Right America, and how I was fighting for them, but that was not true. Not really. I fought for me. I won for me. The fans’ needs were inconsequential.”
Slane continued his stair-assisted Hokey Pokey .
“This time, this run, is going to be different. Scout’s Honor. I can’t change what has happened, obviously. I can’t take back the aspersions I’ve cast or the corners I’ve cut. And I certainly can’t shift the blame for past ‘bad deeds’ onto a scavenger-themed shoulder devil with a penchant for possession. All I can do is give my word that I am here to compete for you, to win honorably for you when I’m good enough and to lose gracefully when I’m not. My goal is not to lead the march for Stuart Slane, nor is it simply to walk alone. Instead this is going to be a journey we take together, side by side, as step by step we travel through WCF and attempt to add to its glory.”
Step by step. Get it? Get it?
“Currently the best way I have to do honor WCF is through another successful defense of my Television title, one that will lead to me actually holding the title belt. I’m getting that chance at Fifteen, when I face former Champion Dustin Beaver and Number One contender Andre Holmes. Of course, this fight isn’t just an opportunity for myself. If Mister Beaver wins it he recaptures the belt that made him relevant, and can argue my brief time holding the title is just an anomaly to be overlooked in favor of the larger tale that is his reign. For Mister Holmes, it would be the climax to the opening chapter in what I expect will be a long and successful career in WCF. All of us have our stories, and all of them matter. But who among us will get the happy ending? Who wins the Television Championship?”
Stuart jutted a thumb into his barrel chest.
“Me. I’m keeping my title. Let me rephrase that: I’m keeping the title to my title, and taking actual possession of it at Fifteen. Enough’s enough, Mister Beaver. When I win the match the belt will be handed over to me. If it’s not I promise I will put such a whipping on you the only musician you will be able to pass for is Shane MacGowan. Look him up if you need to, young man.”
Go ahead. Google him. It’s not a pretty picture.
“For two weeks you have kept from me what is mine. Something I worked very hard to earn, despite what you may ‘beavlieve’. In fact, I’m going to be one hundred percent straight with you, Dustin. I had to work harder for that Television Title than for the other belts I’ve ever won in WCF. Beating you took more out of me than winning the Internet Title from LA Johnny Stylez; a name you’re probably not familiar with but one of significance nonetheless; and winning the United States Title from Steven Orbit; who you most certainly know. That’s how much effort I had put into our title match at Slam. And when you ran off with that belt like the spoiled child who would take his ball and go home if the game didn’t go his way, it upset me.”
Stu’s right eyelid fluttered slightly.
“And what will upset me more, Mister Beaver, is if after all my work preparing for this match, you again choose to deny me my belt. You do that, and there will be no one in WCF that will save you from me. Not your teeny-bopper sycophants, and not your Beach Krew stablemates. I win my title; you give me what I’m due. Or you’re done. It’s that simple.
“Speaking of simple, I want to address one other side issue going into the Television Title Match at Fifteen, and that’s WCF’s former Assistant Director of Talent Relations, Miss Katherine Phoenix. This week on social media Miss Phoenix has repeatedly claimed she is going to interfere and cost Andre Holmes the match. The motive behind this is unclear to me; from what I’ve gathered Mister Holmes strenuously objected to what he thought were abuses of power Katherine Phoenix claims to have possessed before receiving her pink slip. The reality is I don’t care the cause, only any possible effect. I want this match to be free and clear of any shenanigans. Mister Holmes, Mister Beaver, myself; we deserve a contest that is without controversy. The last thing any of us need is an outcome that again calls into dispute who truly is the Television Champion. Therefore, I am warning Katherine Phoenix: stick your nose into our business and I will punish you so severely you will look back with nostalgia to the days you were Logan’s doormat.”
Stuart’s tread was heavier as he issued his ultimatums to both Beaver and Phoenix, as if his anger over their out of ring monkeyshines was leading him to literally stomp his feet in protest.
“Some might argue I am over-reacting. That outside interference and bad sportsmanship is just part of the life I have chosen. But what I’m fighting for Sunday matters a great deal to me. Fifteen might be the biggest stage of my career. Bigger than One. And this Television Title matters as much to me, if not more, than either of the belts I’ve previously won; despite the fact that I had strong, memorable reigns with both the Internet and United States belts. Why is it so important? Because defending the Television Title is the best possible means I have of repairing my damaged reputation as a competitor. It will compel me to perform at my very best every week to keep it. It will be the vehicle that drives me, forces me to put it all on the line every single Slam and Pay Per View. As Television Champion I will always have to be prepared. I will have to take on newcomers getting their first look at the possible prize to the fed and old hands grasping for the relevance championship gold brings. In the past I have said many times it’s the champion that makes the title, and not the other way around. I still believe that. However, the conditions that come with wearing the TV Belt will mold me into the wrestler I should always have been. One who fights for the right things the right way.”
Dramatic pause. The only sound that can be heard is the tromp tromp tromp of Slane’s footsteps.
“It’s not going to be easy. I know this. At Fifteen I will be facing two very skilled, very determined opponents. Dustin Beaver and Andre Holmes are going to take me to my limit. They are going to test me more than almost any other challenger I’ve faced as a champion. And that is a list that includes names like the talented termagant Ana Valentine and Hall of Famer Skyler Striker. Mister Beaver, Mister Holmes: despite our differences I do have respect for what you can do in the ring. However, I am still your better, and after we face off at Fifteen I will still be champion.
Stuart addressed the Number One Contender to his title directly.
“Andre Holmes. You may be considered the underdog in this contest, but you are also clearly the fan favorite. The fresh faced rookie who became eligible for the Television Title by doing what a wrestler is supposed to do: win his matches. You are 6-1 since coming to WCF, an impressive tally for anyone. However, the devil is in the details, and looking at who you faced and under what circumstances you faced them I can say with some authority you are not as good as your record. Your career here started as almost everyone’s has: in a multi-man contest against two other relative unknowns. You won that match, but given the quality of your opponents and the total lack of effort put in by one of them, I don’t know how much such a victory is worth. Same thing with your second bout against Pantheon fan boy Dexter Ratcliffe, who I’m convinced only wrestled in WCF because he liked rubbing shoulders and sharing coffee cakes with Corey Black, and not out of any sense of wanting to win anything. After that match you competed at One in the Torneo Cibernetico where I feel, even though you were eliminated, you had a strong showing, as you were the last man standing on your team and were only outclassed by the “uncommon” talents of Bernard Core.
“Next up is the match that made you Number One Contender for the TV Title, where you defeated Lucious Starr. Again, somewhat impressive, but it’s a match you should have won. “Hades’ Avenger”, while he has potential, is not on your level, and he is certainly not on mine. His lack of focus and stamina hurts his chances of moving up the WCF ladder, as does his seeming lack of regard towards, you know, actually trying to win his matches. See Victory #5 for you, where you happened to lucky enough to be on the team that had Bonnie Blue on your side and the self-proclaimed shirker of duty Lucious Starr on the other. Before that, you and Mister Starr defeated Dag Riddick and Jordan “Punkin” Caliban in a tag team match, which might have meant something if the gourd Mister Caliban claims is his head was actually in the game."
Stuart, still stepping, holds up a single finger as if he himself objects to the running down of Andre Holmes’s record.
“But wait; Holmes’s supporters are no doubt objecting; what about his most recent match? What about his win against two thirds of the Trios Champions, the Sentinels? A win where he was without his scheduled tag team partner, Dustin Beaver, who no showed the contest? You can’t diminish that accomplishment.”
Slane shrugged and tapped the edge of his orbit cavity.
“Watch me. I’m afraid your signature win is something of a forgery, Mister Holmes. That might not be a nice thing to say, but it’s the truth. Howard Black and Occulo took it easy on you that night. Maybe they felt sympathy as you were fighting by yourself, or perhaps they thought losing one match where they had the numbers advantage would better sell their upcoming contest against Dune where the stipulations are identical. Understandable, perhaps: there’s a reason you don’t see many matches where the good guys outnumber the bad, and teasing discord between Mister Black and Occulo does put an entirely different spin on the feud’s story.”
Wink wink.
“So yes, Mister Holmes, while it was nice of the Sentinels to give you the rub, I don’t think they did you any favors. Because believe me, sir, most of the people in WCF are not so accommodating. I’m certainly not. I’ve worked too hard, and respect the rules of the game too much, to coddle anyone for the sake of making something ‘look good’. In WCF, wins and losses matter. You want to move up the card? You want to the booker’s attention? Especially now, when the level of talent is as high as I’ve ever seen it, you don’t give anyone a break. That’s the lesson Misters Black and Occulo should have been trying to teach you in your match.
“I know it sounds like I’m talking down to you, Mister Holmes. But honestly, from a talent level, that’s exactly the relative positions we’re in. You’re good, there’s no denying that; and you’ve done your job, which is going out there and competing as hard as you can against the opponents Seth chooses for you. But there comes a point when skill trumps effort, and that’s my advantage over you. Your performances are often sloppy and lack the power necessary to overcome a truly capable, truly committed opponent. That’s me. That’s what I am. I’m stronger than you, my reach is far greater, and unlike you I know what it takes to win championships here in WCF. As much as I would prefer to Knot Dustin Beaver Up to keep the Television Title do not think for one moment I will overlook the opportunity to put the same hold on you. Whatever it takes to win this match the right way is the way I’m going to do it. And afterwards, Mister Holmes, whether it’s you I beat or Mister Beaver, I do plan on seeking you out and shaking your hand. You’re off to a great start here in WCF, and you will no doubt be a champion someday. But it won’t be at my expense. “
Stuart’s somewhat casual delivery turned severe as he addressed his second challenger.
“On to you; Dustin Beaver. Everything I’ve said about you previously holds true today. You’re still a grinder, or what this business calls a ‘solid hand’. You’re still a stooge for that “Harmony Korine meets David Lynch meets HP Lovecraft” mess of a super stable The Beach Krew. How else can you explain going back on your vow not to attend Slam last week? That was you in the schmoz at the end of the show, wasn’t it? Maybe an alien shapeshifter? Or did they hire a look-a-like, a Justin Bieber impersonator impersonator? I hope that was it. I hope I wasn’t naive enough to take you at your word, only to lose out on the chance to give you your receipt a week early. You know what I’m talking about, right? The Beach Bois filled you in on the wrestling lingo? When you attack a man without cause, you should expect a receipt. And that’s what’s coming to you at Fifteen.”
“There are some new matters to discuss. Points you and your proxy Snowball made that I’m going to address. First is that I’m some puppet of Seth Lerch’s, and that he used me to unfairly take the belt off of you. Nonsense. I’m my own man, doing my own thing for those who are my responsibility. Not Seth’s. Not some water-logged homage to Degeneration X. Me, and the people that count on me. The truth is, Mister Beaver, Seth Lerch needs me more than I need him. There is a lack of stand up guys in this place; people who will, literally, stand up to the cretins this company employs. That’s why I’m here now. To get in your face, and tell you that your act just doesn’t cut it anymore. Complaining about unfair matches and undeserving challengers, that weak patter needs to stop. You want to know why? Because you explicitly asked for it. You told Seth you wanted competition, that you deserved tougher challenges. And Lerch gave it to you: a six man tag match against Livewire, Joey Flash, and Bonnie Blue. And what happened, Mister Beaver, when you were given this opportunity? You lost. Sure, you got to keep your belt thanks to your Beach Krew stablemate eating the pin for you, but you lost. It was strong attempt, and there’s no shame in losing to a team with that pedigree, but the fact was your chance to prove yourself came up short.”
“This is what happened next. Seth decided it was time to take the training wheels off your title run. He gave you some more competition; someone he knew could beat you. Me. Didn’t matter how many matches I had had. Seth knows me. He knows, at my best, I can go toe to toe with anyone in this company. You, however, seemed unaware. I’m willing to bet part of the blame falls on The Beach Krew. One of them, or perhaps all of them, got in your ear and told you, ‘This guy’s a stiff. He doesn’t have what it takes to make it in OUR WCF. You will destroy him.’ And, stooge that you are, you beavlieved it. You fell for that siren song. You actually complained you had to face me, and that you’d have to carry me to a good match. That’s not how things turned out, is it? No. What happened was I took everything you had and still beat you. I kicked out of your Bass Drop, muscled out of your Beaver to Belly suplex, and pinned you with the Slane Slam. You lost. You lost your title. Say Bon Voyage to the SeaV Champion. ”
“The same thing is going to happen at Fifteen, Mister Beaver. You know what I’m capable of now, but that understanding isn’t going to be enough. I’m still your superior in the ring. Bigger. Stronger. Tougher. And just as motivated as you. You think I want to lose the Television Title after all this? You think I am going to give up what I already won but never got a chance to possess? No. No chance. You had your time with the belt, Mister Beaver, and it was commendable. But it’s over. At Fifteen, any claim you had to my title will become null and void. Hopefully it will be you I get to pin to make that happen, but if not, Andre Holmes will do. I’m not so arrogant that I feel I can ‘call my shot’. ”
Stuart stopped his stepping and checked his pulse through his carotid artery. He smiled.
“One of the most useful things to come out of Harvard. My calculations put my Fitness Rating as ‘Excellent’. Just like my chances for winning at Fifteen. I’ll see you Sunday, gentlemen. Be prepared.”
Sunday, January 24
Siegal Center
Richmond. Virginia
Wrestling Championship Federation’s current Television Champion, Stuart Slane, watched Snowball back his way out of the ring. Just moments ago the reedy young man had responded on behalf of his friend, Dustin Beaver, after Slane had demanded the former TV Title holder return the belt Stuart had won from him the previous week at Slam. Dustin had attacked his vanquisher post-match and absconded with what he felt was still his property.
Snowball’s message from Beaver: he was keeping physical possession of the belt until Fifteen, WCF’s next Pay Per View event; where he vowed he would defeat Slane and once again become its official owner. Also, that Slane was a stooge, an out of town hired gun brought in by Seth Lerch to take what was rightfully his.
Needless to say, neither of these pronouncements sat well with Stuart. Inwardly he raged as Snowball retreated up the ramp that led offstage. Slane wanted nothing more than to chase down the little pipsqueak, drag him back into the ring, and Knot him Up. Twist Snowball’s scrawny torso so far the wrong way he would be standing on his own neck. He’d get a good pop for it too, at least from some of the crowd; the ones who buy Nerd Smasher merchandise and wear it un-ironically. It would certainly be a better reaction than what he was getting now, which was bemused apathy. The Television Champion’s very public ultimatum had just been no-sold by a geek from his main rival’s camp, and the WCF Galaxy were rapidly losing interest in seeing what he would do about it. And Stuart honestly couldn’t blame them. They were here to see things actually happen in the ring, not stand in unsuspecting witness to a man’s existential struggle over what was right and what was wrong in a sport where murder was an ‘angle’.
So Stuart slipped between the ropes and headed to the back so the arena could be used as a venue for more corporeal conflicts.
“Drunk and Crazy” was playing over the Siegal Center’s speakers now, letting Slane know the show was in commercial. As he made his way to the ramp he saw several in the audience reaching past the padded cordon that separated them from the wrestlers. Stuart, never one to ‘press the flesh’ before, made the tactical decision to do so now; if only to try and save face from what happened earlier.
“Good evening. Thank you for attending tonight’s event,” he told a gentleman in a too snug “Poondock Saints” tee shirt before clasping his hand and shaking it.
“Uh, you’re welcome! Great match!”
Stu nodded and released his grip. Satisfied with his first attempt at fan interaction that wasn’t a polemic against the ills of whoever had at the time earned his pique, he moved onto the second.
“Hello, young man. Enjoy tonight’s show.”
“Yeah! YEAH!! Stuart Slane!”
The man pumped his arm enthusiastically, then curled his fingers into a ball and held it out there. Slane’s smile wavered.
‘Oh, dear. He wants me to do something. What is it called? Give him ‘dab’? No, ‘dap’. How does one ‘dap’? Top of the fist? Or the knuckles?’
“Hey, man, don’t leave me hanging!” the fan cajoled good naturedly.
Stuart gave the gentleman a queasy look before lightly bumping fists, “Yes. Heh. Don’t want to do that. Have a good time tonight. Keep on… trucking.”
“What?”
But by now the TV Champ had shuffled on to the third waiting denizen of the WCF Galaxy.
“And how are you, sir?” Stuart proffered his huge cracked and callused paw.
The fan didn’t take it, “I thought we were done with you?”
Slane withdrew his hand slowly. The fellow went on.
“Tired of you glory hogs coming back and taking up space on the card. Couldn’t give Andre Holmes his moment, could you, Slane? Had to politick your way into a title match.”
Stuart, grim faced, turned on his heel and walked away from his accuser, and the rest of the fans manning the barricade.
“I hope Andre kicks your ass, Scoutmaster!” was the last thing Stu heard before he stepped onto the ramp and walked back to the gorilla position.
Waiting for him behind the curtain was an equally dour Seth Lerch.
“We need to talk,” the owner of Wrestling Championship Federation told Stu before handing off the headset he used to keep in contact with Slam’s announce team.
Stuart wasn’t in much of a talking mood, but complied with his boss’s edict, “What is it, Seth?”
Lerch’s eyes darted back and forth as he surveyed for signs of civilians to their profession. Satisfied the area was clear of marks, he began their ‘shop’ talk, “You’re not over.”
Slane glared at the smaller man, “It’s been three matches.”
“Three matches, including a title win against one of my company’s top heels, who then Pearl Harbored you and ran off with the belt, and is supposedly no-showing tonight after you demanded he give it back. And what’s the end result? A weak pop in a mark town. All that fuel, and nearly zero heat you, Stuart.”
“Give it time, Seth.”
The wrestling wunderkind shook his head, “Time is money, and you know how I feel about wasting that. You’re not connecting with the audience.”
“So what would you have me do, then?” Slane folded his arms across his broad chest.
“Pick a day this week you can fly to Reading. You’re going to see Doc Kaye.”
Reading, Pennsylvania was the world-wide headquarters for Wrestling Championship Federation. It was also where Doctor Fabian Kaye had his practice.
Stu smirked, amused at the very idea, “No. I’m not.”
“You don’t have a choice. Check your contract. WCF can compel you to report for a medical consultation if we feel your performance warrants it.”
“There’s nothing medical about what Doctor Kaye does,” Stuart protested, “He’s your gimmick guru.”
“And also a licensed psychiatrist. So guess what? It counts.”
For a moment Stuart considered how much of a pop Richmond would give him if he dragged Seth out onto the stage and put him in the Knotted Up submission. Not enough to make up for the headaches that would come afterwards, especially since what Lerch was saying was likely true. Stuart pinched the bridge of his nose and gave a sigh of resignation, “Thursday. I’ll be in Reading on Thursday.”
Seth gave his Television Champion the oiliest of grins, “Good call. You always were a smart guy, Stuart. Accept help when it’s offered. No need to be stubborn about this, right?”
“Right.”
“I mean, sure you got Jeff Purse advising you, and he’s great. One of the best faces I ever had working for me. But I’ve been in this business for almost fifteen years, Stu. I know it better than anybody. I know what works, and what needs to be tweaked. And you, mi amigo, need some tweaking.”
Seth ended his pep talk with a good natured punch to Slane’s bicep.
Stuart decided to put a pin in Lerch’s little piece of self-promotional puffery with a pointed question, “Better than anyone? How many times have you lost control of WCF again?”
“One less than the number of times I got it back,” Lerch replied in a tone of triumph.
“That’s mathematically impossible.”
After some mental ciphering that reminded him why he hired accountants to manage the fed’s finances, Lerch gave Stuart a stern look, “Stu, this is more proof you need a trip to Doctor Kaye; no one likes a smarty pants. Be in his office Thursday or be in violation of your contract. My people will make the appointment early; Doc’s going to need the time to get you right.”
The Master of Puppets then grabbed his headset back from one of the sound crew and resumed running his show.
Tuesday, January 26
The camp Stuart Slane runs as “Locomotora Desbocado” whose residents are in fact orphans or children rescued from failed attempts to illegally immigrate to the United States (Check this story out if you care to know more: wcfwrestling.proboards.com/thread/26099/used-write-stuff )
Somewhere in Mexico
(Consider all dialogue translated from the original Spanish)
“Sound your horn, noble Pepito,” Locomotora Desbocado beseeched from behind his mask.
As always, The Runaway Train’s second in command did as he was told; pressing the bugle to his lips and blowing out revelry. Less than a minute was needed for the camp’s residents, all of them children, to exit their tents and into the cool desert morning. With practiced ease they moved into inspection formation: four long rows arranged by height and gender. The youths stood, ramrod straight and silent, waiting for their leader’s personal scrutiny, as he would normally spend half an hour each morning reviewing them from behind the cyclopean circle that dominated his cowl.
“At ease,” Locomotora Desbocado told them.
This change in routine surprised the assembly. Normally they were not allowed to assume parade rest until all 31 had passed muster. Still, they immediately complied.
Their leader began to pace back and forth among them, hands clasped behind his back, only occasionally turning his head to acknowledge them as he passed, “As you know, I have been spending less time here. Pepito and Rosa Marie have been in contact with me, and have let me know how well you have all behaved. I am very… proud of this fact. Bad boys and girls might have used my absence to cause mischief. Or even to try and run away, which could have led to the closing of the camp.”
Suddenly the Train stopped and looked down at one of his charges, “Why did you do this? Why did you stay good?”
The young girl gave an answer she thought he wished to hear, “Because rules are rules, Boss.”
Locomotora Desbocado nodded, “Yes. Rules are rules. But what if the rules changed? What if life here was not so strict? Would you promise still to behave?”
He stepped back and asked them all, “What if I said you no longer had to stay here, if you didn’t want to? Who here would want to leave?”
There was silence in the ranks. He tried again.
“Some of you here have families out in the world. Before, the rules said you could not return to them. That is no longer true. If you wish to go back to your people, to anywhere, I will allow it. I will make it happen.”
Locomotora slowly raised the mask entirely from his face, showing the children who he was for the first time.
“I am proud of what we have built here. And I believe that this place is needed. But, if you feel that life is too hard, or you wish to be, ahm, reunited with your families, I will let you return. I only ask that you don’t tell anyone where the camp is, to protect any that stay behind.”
Stuart put away his disguise by shoving into his jeans’ back pocket, and gave the first order under the new rules of Camp Slane, “Please raise your hand if you want to go home.”
Slowly, one child, the girl Stuart had initially approached, lifted her arm. A few more, emboldened by the Boss’s lack of reaction to this one time treasonous act, followed suit.
Slane was surprised, and somewhat perplexed, with the low number that requested their release from the camp. Perhaps more would opt to leave when they realized he was telling them truth about their new freedom. Or perhaps they chose to stay because they had nowhere else to go, or wherever they had to go was worse than remaining here. He spoke to those who had raised their hands.
“Pepito will ask you for any information you can give us about how to reach your families. We will then begin the process of taking you to them. To the rest of you, I say this: while things here are going to change, there will still be standards in place. There will be routines you must follow; including our usual morning hike.”
Slane slung a snare drum over his shoulder and brandished the two sticks he would use to set the drill’s cadence: quick march, 120 steps a minute.
“Attention! Left face! Move out!”
As Stuart and his remaining charges trudged away in time to the beat he had set for them, Pepito approached the girl who first expressed the wish to leave.
“What is going on?” she asked him softly as he flipped to a clean sheet in his notepad.
“The Boss has a new job now. He can’t spend as much time here anymore.”
“Isn’t he a wrestler?” she checked.
Pepito licked the dull lead tip of his pencil, “He was here a couple of years ago. Then he lost a big match and caused my orphanage to close. But I think now he is working in America. I don’t know. I’m more into MMA.”
One more question from the young girl, “Why did he take off his mask?”
“I guess… he doesn’t need it anymore?” the teenager shrugged.
Which, we shall see, was not entirely true.
Thursday, January 28
WCF Headquarters
Office of Dr. Fabian Kaye
Reading, Pennsylvania
*Stuart Slane is sitting in an over-stuffed chair opposite Dr. Fabian Kaye. Kaye’s a rotund fellow, with a receding mass of grey hair and a salt and pepper mustache. He smiles at Stu.*
Kaye: An honor to finally meet you, sir. I’ve been a big fan of your work.
*Slane nods and crosses one leg over his knee.*
Slane: Thanks.
Kaye: The Scoutmaster identity persona was brilliant. An absolute money maker; well, if you or we had the full rights to it.
Slane: Yes.
Kaye: I read somewhere the Boy Scouts of America received close to $350,000 in royalties from the sales of Scoutmaster merchandise before they forced you to drop the title. How much of that did you get, Stuart?
Slane: None. Absolutely none.
Kaye: Understandable, completely understandable, given it was their intellectual property you were parading around with.
*Slane nodded absently and reached down to tug the cuff of his khakis.*
Kaye: But that demonstrated the importance of a good gimmick, doesn’t it? A strong idea can lead to a strong brand. And that puts eyes on you, and money in everyone’s pocket.
Slane: Aren’t we supposed to be pretending this is some kind of medical consultation?
*Kaye chortled, his ample jowls rippling with each guffaw.*
Kaye: Do you really want to waste time with that? Should I get out my ink blots if you see a mask in them? How about some word association? Let’s try this: mark.
Slane: No, that’s fine. Anything to get this over with.
Kaye: That’s not the attitude you should have, Mister Slane. It should be ‘anything with which to get me over’.
*More chuckling. Dr. Kaye swipes the tablet in his lap a few times and hands it to Stuart.*
Kaye: Some concept art I whipped up for another of WCF’s vanillas. Tell me what you think.
*Stuart looked at a picture of Benjamin Atreyu in a tie-dye shirt and a Rasta stripe tam.*
Kaye: It’s my proposed makeover for our former Head of Talent Relations: “Buffalo Soldier” Bejamin Atreyu.
Slane: He looks ridiculous.
Kaye: Ridiculous, but memorable. Mister Atreyu has all the tools to succeed in WCF except one: notability. Right now he’s just another angry white man in boring dull trunks. But this twist of the paradigm would pay him huge dividends. Why, research indicates those dreadlocks alone increase his “heel factor” by 11.4%.
*It was true, Stuart had to admit. White guys with dreads always seemed so deserving of a good smack. He handed the tablet back to Dr. Kaye.*
Slane: I don’t suppose you have some concept art of me on there?
Kaye: Oh, no, Stuart. I haven’t delved that deep into your persona yet to proper visualize alternatives. However, I do have a few suggestions for you.
*Stuart held up his hands as if he was waiting to catch what the doctor would pitch.*
Kaye: First, your entrance music is terrible. “Conquistador”? What was the reasoning behind that choice?
Slane: The opening guitar riff works as a good stinger to work the crowd. And I thought the lyrics were appropriate.
Kaye: The song is about a man past his prime make his last attempts at relevance while the world sits in judgement of him.
Slane: That’s one interpretation. Mine is more hopeful.
Kaye: It’s horribly melancholy. You should change it.
Slane: No. What else?
Kaye: You need to accessorize your ring gear. A brown duster, maybe. Not black. Too many people wear black.
Slane: I’m not wearing a coat to the ring only to take it off once I get there. It is superfluous and silly.
Kaye: Then the ax handle. Bring that. We could market it. Inflatable ax handles on sale at WCF.com.
Slane: The ax handle only comes out when I feel I need it. It’s not a prop.
Kaye: I have to say, Stuart, you’re not being very helpful.
Slane: Your opinion is noted. Can you sign my waiver so I can go now?
Kaye: I’ll sign it, after you answer me one question. And you have to answer this honestly.
*Stuart leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.*
Slane: Go ahead.
Kaye: Do you want to fail?
Slane: No, of course not.
Kaye: Are you sure? You know Seth wants you to become more marketable. To be a welcome face for the WCF viewer. Yet you are resisting even the simplest of efforts to make it happen.
*Stuart didn’t speak for a while. He stared off, seemingly into space, a thumb and forefinger nervously tugging at his bottom lip.*
Slane: Why would I want to fail?
Kaye: Because if you do, then Seth pulls the plug on his experiment. He’ll tell you you don’t have to be good anymore to work at WCF. He’ll let you turn.
*Kaye continued, not unkindly.*
Kaye: Some people just aren’t born to be the face, Stuart. Some are just natural bad guys.
Slane: No. That’s not me.
Kaye: Well, then, there’s always the third option.
*Slane’s focus was immediately back on the doctor’s placid face. His voice turned angry and accusatory.*
Slane: No. Never. A ‘tweener’? Never.
Kaye: Tweenerdom is a totally acceptable lifestyle choice in today’s wrestling world.
Slane: Not to me. They’re the dirt worst. Flakes, all of them. They’re either too afraid of being booed or too self-conscious to be cheered. They don’t follow the rules of sports combat. They’re opportunistic, craven blights on the sport. Pick a side and stick with it.
Kaye: But think of the advantages. Your next match for example; how easy would it be for you to cheap shot Dustin Beaver during your match? Or attack him beforehand? Beat him down and toss his lifeless body into the ring before the bell has rung. He deserves it, doesn’t he, after what he put you through?
*Stuart shook his head.*
Slane: Deserve’s got nothing to do with it. Rules are rules.
Kaye: But as a tweener you could skirt those rules. Think about it; triple threat matches are No DQ. You could do anything you wanted to Beaver, and it wouldn’t be illegal.
Slane: You’re wrong. It’s a Television Title match. The champion can lose through disqualification.
Kaye: Well, that’s an interesting conundrum, isn’t it? Which stipulation wins out? Even if the referee does DQ you Sunday for taking liberties with either Dustin Beaver or Andre Holmes, you have a rock solid case to bring to Management that you were unfairly stripped of the title.
*The would be protagonist pondered this. The foot on the end of his crossed leg began twitching. Suddenly, Stuart stood and loomed over Dr. Kaye.*
Slane: Is that your official diagnosis, Doctor?
*Fabian had spent a lot of time around a lot of wrestlers, who as a group could be imposing. But Kaye hadn’t felt this level of concern for his own health in years. Not since he suggested Tyler Walker join his proposed Fast Food Nation stable as “Muscle Milkshaker”.*
Kaye: No. No, you’re clear. Let me sign that for you.
*He accepted Slane’s waiver and scribbled his name across the bottom.*
Kaye: And you’ll be good to go. Heh heh. Good luck Sunday, Stuart.
*Slane gave a brief nod in reply and strode out of the office. Past the doctor’s receptionist and the empty waiting area. Through the double glass doors and right into the artificial Double Ds of the President of WCF’s Digital Media Content.*
Lisl Anne: Ah!
Stuart Slane: AHH!
*The two stared at each other. They have history. Too much history to go into now. We’ll save that for another role play where padding is needed (yes, that’s a tit joke).*
Slane: Miss Anne! My apologies.
Anne: Really, Stuart?
*He seemed embarrassed. And nervous. And incredible under the gun. This is what happens when you wait until Sunday to write your character stuff.*
Slane: Of course. I should have been watching where I was going. This isn’t the Indianapolis 500 after all. Heh heh.
Anne: No, not that. You calling me Miss Anne. After all we’ve been through we’re back to that?
*Stuart adjusted his tie.*
Slane: Yes, well, my apologies, Lisl.
*She smiled.*
Anne: Good. Welcome back to WCF, by the way. Staying this time?
Slane: As long as you’ll have me.
Anne: It was never a matter of what we wanted, Stuart. Everyone here knows you’ve got the goods.
*The two stood across from each other nervously. Like first date on your parent’s front porch nervously. Finally Lisl attempted to continue the conversation.*
Anne: I know about your problem. The performance thing.
Slane: My what?! Who told you?!?
Anne: That you’re having a hard time getting the crowd to accept you.
*She cocked one of her well-tended eyebrows.*
Anne: What did you think I meant.
Slane: Oh. That. That is why I’m here after all, to see that quack Kaye.
Anne: Fabian isn’t so bad, Stuart. What did he tell you?
Slane: Nothing worthwhile, honestly.
*She nodded.*
Anne: Can I give you a bit of advice then? One ex-performer’s opinion?
*Lisl Anne is a former adult film star Seth Lerch got to run his company’s website. You can look it up.*
Slane: Sure.
Anne: Sometimes, you have to be on even if you don’t feel like it. Even if the motivation to… form that bond isn’t there. That’s when , to make the audience happy, to get them to believe you, you gotta fake it.
*Nervous nods from Stuart. A tug on the collar.*
Slane: Yes. Good recommendation.
Anne: Don’t go overboard with it. You don’t want to be too obvious. But there are little things, a wave to the crowd, slapping an outstretched hand, the old thumbs up. Those small gestures can really change how you’re perceived.
*She lightly brushed her fingers across Slane’s forearm.*
Anne: You were one of the best at working the crowd into a frenzy, Stu. Getting them to hate you without crossing that line into irredeemable monster. Now, you just have to get them on your side. And you can do it. You’re smart, you’re funny, and now it seems like you’ve got the right attitude. The sky’s the limit with you, Stuart Slane. You just have to give the fans an opening, and let them see that goodness.
*Slane rubbed his face and then checked his watch.*
Slane: Thanks for your support.
Anne: Anytime, Stuart. My number hasn’t changed. In the office or at home. Call me if there’s anything you want to discuss.
*Stuart nodded silently and took hold of Lisl’s hand. A quick shake and he walked away, towards the elevator, leaving WCF Headquarters much happier and sure of himself than he entered it.*
Saturday, January 30
Holiday Inn Express Suite #45
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Stuart Slane stayed in his hotel to record his promo. Clad in his workout attire, a white sleeveless tee shirt that accentuated the ranginess of his sun-burnished, simian arms, a green pair of shorts, and white New Balance sneakers, he stood in front of the camera and placed the 12” wooden step on the floor. Then he put his left foot on it, then his right. Then took his left foot off it, then his right. He would repeat this throughout his entire monologue effortlessly and fluidly.
“Tomorrow night is Fifteen. A pay per view unique in Wrestling Championship Federation history, as it honors the entire length and breadth of the company’s existence. Its very name chosen to represent how long WCF has been active, Fifteen is a celebration of everything that has gone on before it. Conceived from the devious but, let’s give credit where credit is due, fecund mind of Seth Lerch, Wrestling Championship Federation grew from a small outlaw promotion to the global phenomenon it is today. When you ask the man on the street to talk about wrestling, what he knows is WCF.”
Left foot up, right foot up. Left foot down, right foot down.
“The card for Fifteen might be the most stacked in company history. Here is a list of just some of the legends who will be competing Sunday: Logan. Gravedigger. Torture. Doc Henry. Adam Young. Bobby Cairo. Jayson Price. Oblivion. Corey Black. Zombie McMorris. Steven Orbit. Dune. Joey Flash. Wade Moor. J-J-J-J-J-J-“
The entire right side of Stuart’s face spasmed as he struggled to spit out the name of his perceived nemesis. Note, his conniption did not alter the tempo of his stationary march in the slightest.
“---onny F-F-F-F-F-Flan. And that’s not including what I expect to be a number of unadvertised surprise appearances from other WCF greats. Fifteen years as a company is a significant milestone, one I’m sure will bring many Prodigal Sons and Daughters home. Add to that list a crop of hungry, talented wrestlers, the rising stars in the WCF Firmament, and that’s a cast of performers as deep as the blue sea The Beach Krew claims to command.”
“As important as the quality of competitors to tomorrow’s event is, Fifteen also boasts a program that should make even the most casual of wrestling fans want to tune in to watch. Nearly every WCF Title will be defended. In one contest, the life of the unborn is literally at stake!”
Sour face from Slane. What’s with WCF and child endangerment? Remember when just slapping a valet was enough to get nuclear heat? Now they’re being threatened with forced Dilation and Curettage. Simpler times, man. Simpler times.
“The Gentleman Rogue is competing in his last match. Creeping Death may creep no more after tonight, if he cannot overcome his… significant challenger. We will witness two decidedly non-virgins attempt to sacrifice the other to an active volcano in order to win the favor of the Hardcore Gods. A new match type, one with World Title implications, will be introduced: Final Destination. Traditionally, the fifteenth anniversary gift is meant to be crystal. And that in a sense is what the WCF Galaxy is receiving Sunday: a clear, bright, multi-faceted construction that represents everything that makes this sport what it is, both the good and the bad.”
More stepping, more selling.
“So what part of this ‘crystal am I? Where in WCF’s latticework do I fit? I have been in and out of Wrestling Championship Federation often the past three plus years. Not quite a legend, though I have faced and beaten some. At my best, I was a ‘name’; someone who made a mark briefly but not deeply, just enough to be remembered by those who were there. At my worst, I was here for the metaphorical cup of coffee: a loss in an opening multi-man clusterfudge that WCF is renowned for. As I have said in the past, the motives for these too brief tenures were spiteful. Hatred for individuals and groups, and eventually for the WCF Galaxy as a whole. But there is another side to hate, and that is love. You hate what hurts you, and you cannot be hurt by something if you consider it unimportant. If it isn’t something you don’t cherish.
“I cherish WCF. Even when I sought to force my views upon it, or when I plotted futilely to destroy it, Wrestling Championship Federation always mattered to me. Working here, testing my limits against the best in the sport, brings me great satisfaction. Before, I was selfish with that feeling. I talked about my Slaneiacs and the citizens of Right America, and how I was fighting for them, but that was not true. Not really. I fought for me. I won for me. The fans’ needs were inconsequential.”
Slane continued his stair-assisted Hokey Pokey .
“This time, this run, is going to be different. Scout’s Honor. I can’t change what has happened, obviously. I can’t take back the aspersions I’ve cast or the corners I’ve cut. And I certainly can’t shift the blame for past ‘bad deeds’ onto a scavenger-themed shoulder devil with a penchant for possession. All I can do is give my word that I am here to compete for you, to win honorably for you when I’m good enough and to lose gracefully when I’m not. My goal is not to lead the march for Stuart Slane, nor is it simply to walk alone. Instead this is going to be a journey we take together, side by side, as step by step we travel through WCF and attempt to add to its glory.”
Step by step. Get it? Get it?
“Currently the best way I have to do honor WCF is through another successful defense of my Television title, one that will lead to me actually holding the title belt. I’m getting that chance at Fifteen, when I face former Champion Dustin Beaver and Number One contender Andre Holmes. Of course, this fight isn’t just an opportunity for myself. If Mister Beaver wins it he recaptures the belt that made him relevant, and can argue my brief time holding the title is just an anomaly to be overlooked in favor of the larger tale that is his reign. For Mister Holmes, it would be the climax to the opening chapter in what I expect will be a long and successful career in WCF. All of us have our stories, and all of them matter. But who among us will get the happy ending? Who wins the Television Championship?”
Stuart jutted a thumb into his barrel chest.
“Me. I’m keeping my title. Let me rephrase that: I’m keeping the title to my title, and taking actual possession of it at Fifteen. Enough’s enough, Mister Beaver. When I win the match the belt will be handed over to me. If it’s not I promise I will put such a whipping on you the only musician you will be able to pass for is Shane MacGowan. Look him up if you need to, young man.”
Go ahead. Google him. It’s not a pretty picture.
“For two weeks you have kept from me what is mine. Something I worked very hard to earn, despite what you may ‘beavlieve’. In fact, I’m going to be one hundred percent straight with you, Dustin. I had to work harder for that Television Title than for the other belts I’ve ever won in WCF. Beating you took more out of me than winning the Internet Title from LA Johnny Stylez; a name you’re probably not familiar with but one of significance nonetheless; and winning the United States Title from Steven Orbit; who you most certainly know. That’s how much effort I had put into our title match at Slam. And when you ran off with that belt like the spoiled child who would take his ball and go home if the game didn’t go his way, it upset me.”
Stu’s right eyelid fluttered slightly.
“And what will upset me more, Mister Beaver, is if after all my work preparing for this match, you again choose to deny me my belt. You do that, and there will be no one in WCF that will save you from me. Not your teeny-bopper sycophants, and not your Beach Krew stablemates. I win my title; you give me what I’m due. Or you’re done. It’s that simple.
“Speaking of simple, I want to address one other side issue going into the Television Title Match at Fifteen, and that’s WCF’s former Assistant Director of Talent Relations, Miss Katherine Phoenix. This week on social media Miss Phoenix has repeatedly claimed she is going to interfere and cost Andre Holmes the match. The motive behind this is unclear to me; from what I’ve gathered Mister Holmes strenuously objected to what he thought were abuses of power Katherine Phoenix claims to have possessed before receiving her pink slip. The reality is I don’t care the cause, only any possible effect. I want this match to be free and clear of any shenanigans. Mister Holmes, Mister Beaver, myself; we deserve a contest that is without controversy. The last thing any of us need is an outcome that again calls into dispute who truly is the Television Champion. Therefore, I am warning Katherine Phoenix: stick your nose into our business and I will punish you so severely you will look back with nostalgia to the days you were Logan’s doormat.”
Stuart’s tread was heavier as he issued his ultimatums to both Beaver and Phoenix, as if his anger over their out of ring monkeyshines was leading him to literally stomp his feet in protest.
“Some might argue I am over-reacting. That outside interference and bad sportsmanship is just part of the life I have chosen. But what I’m fighting for Sunday matters a great deal to me. Fifteen might be the biggest stage of my career. Bigger than One. And this Television Title matters as much to me, if not more, than either of the belts I’ve previously won; despite the fact that I had strong, memorable reigns with both the Internet and United States belts. Why is it so important? Because defending the Television Title is the best possible means I have of repairing my damaged reputation as a competitor. It will compel me to perform at my very best every week to keep it. It will be the vehicle that drives me, forces me to put it all on the line every single Slam and Pay Per View. As Television Champion I will always have to be prepared. I will have to take on newcomers getting their first look at the possible prize to the fed and old hands grasping for the relevance championship gold brings. In the past I have said many times it’s the champion that makes the title, and not the other way around. I still believe that. However, the conditions that come with wearing the TV Belt will mold me into the wrestler I should always have been. One who fights for the right things the right way.”
Dramatic pause. The only sound that can be heard is the tromp tromp tromp of Slane’s footsteps.
“It’s not going to be easy. I know this. At Fifteen I will be facing two very skilled, very determined opponents. Dustin Beaver and Andre Holmes are going to take me to my limit. They are going to test me more than almost any other challenger I’ve faced as a champion. And that is a list that includes names like the talented termagant Ana Valentine and Hall of Famer Skyler Striker. Mister Beaver, Mister Holmes: despite our differences I do have respect for what you can do in the ring. However, I am still your better, and after we face off at Fifteen I will still be champion.
Stuart addressed the Number One Contender to his title directly.
“Andre Holmes. You may be considered the underdog in this contest, but you are also clearly the fan favorite. The fresh faced rookie who became eligible for the Television Title by doing what a wrestler is supposed to do: win his matches. You are 6-1 since coming to WCF, an impressive tally for anyone. However, the devil is in the details, and looking at who you faced and under what circumstances you faced them I can say with some authority you are not as good as your record. Your career here started as almost everyone’s has: in a multi-man contest against two other relative unknowns. You won that match, but given the quality of your opponents and the total lack of effort put in by one of them, I don’t know how much such a victory is worth. Same thing with your second bout against Pantheon fan boy Dexter Ratcliffe, who I’m convinced only wrestled in WCF because he liked rubbing shoulders and sharing coffee cakes with Corey Black, and not out of any sense of wanting to win anything. After that match you competed at One in the Torneo Cibernetico where I feel, even though you were eliminated, you had a strong showing, as you were the last man standing on your team and were only outclassed by the “uncommon” talents of Bernard Core.
“Next up is the match that made you Number One Contender for the TV Title, where you defeated Lucious Starr. Again, somewhat impressive, but it’s a match you should have won. “Hades’ Avenger”, while he has potential, is not on your level, and he is certainly not on mine. His lack of focus and stamina hurts his chances of moving up the WCF ladder, as does his seeming lack of regard towards, you know, actually trying to win his matches. See Victory #5 for you, where you happened to lucky enough to be on the team that had Bonnie Blue on your side and the self-proclaimed shirker of duty Lucious Starr on the other. Before that, you and Mister Starr defeated Dag Riddick and Jordan “Punkin” Caliban in a tag team match, which might have meant something if the gourd Mister Caliban claims is his head was actually in the game."
Stuart, still stepping, holds up a single finger as if he himself objects to the running down of Andre Holmes’s record.
“But wait; Holmes’s supporters are no doubt objecting; what about his most recent match? What about his win against two thirds of the Trios Champions, the Sentinels? A win where he was without his scheduled tag team partner, Dustin Beaver, who no showed the contest? You can’t diminish that accomplishment.”
Slane shrugged and tapped the edge of his orbit cavity.
“Watch me. I’m afraid your signature win is something of a forgery, Mister Holmes. That might not be a nice thing to say, but it’s the truth. Howard Black and Occulo took it easy on you that night. Maybe they felt sympathy as you were fighting by yourself, or perhaps they thought losing one match where they had the numbers advantage would better sell their upcoming contest against Dune where the stipulations are identical. Understandable, perhaps: there’s a reason you don’t see many matches where the good guys outnumber the bad, and teasing discord between Mister Black and Occulo does put an entirely different spin on the feud’s story.”
Wink wink.
“So yes, Mister Holmes, while it was nice of the Sentinels to give you the rub, I don’t think they did you any favors. Because believe me, sir, most of the people in WCF are not so accommodating. I’m certainly not. I’ve worked too hard, and respect the rules of the game too much, to coddle anyone for the sake of making something ‘look good’. In WCF, wins and losses matter. You want to move up the card? You want to the booker’s attention? Especially now, when the level of talent is as high as I’ve ever seen it, you don’t give anyone a break. That’s the lesson Misters Black and Occulo should have been trying to teach you in your match.
“I know it sounds like I’m talking down to you, Mister Holmes. But honestly, from a talent level, that’s exactly the relative positions we’re in. You’re good, there’s no denying that; and you’ve done your job, which is going out there and competing as hard as you can against the opponents Seth chooses for you. But there comes a point when skill trumps effort, and that’s my advantage over you. Your performances are often sloppy and lack the power necessary to overcome a truly capable, truly committed opponent. That’s me. That’s what I am. I’m stronger than you, my reach is far greater, and unlike you I know what it takes to win championships here in WCF. As much as I would prefer to Knot Dustin Beaver Up to keep the Television Title do not think for one moment I will overlook the opportunity to put the same hold on you. Whatever it takes to win this match the right way is the way I’m going to do it. And afterwards, Mister Holmes, whether it’s you I beat or Mister Beaver, I do plan on seeking you out and shaking your hand. You’re off to a great start here in WCF, and you will no doubt be a champion someday. But it won’t be at my expense. “
Stuart’s somewhat casual delivery turned severe as he addressed his second challenger.
“On to you; Dustin Beaver. Everything I’ve said about you previously holds true today. You’re still a grinder, or what this business calls a ‘solid hand’. You’re still a stooge for that “Harmony Korine meets David Lynch meets HP Lovecraft” mess of a super stable The Beach Krew. How else can you explain going back on your vow not to attend Slam last week? That was you in the schmoz at the end of the show, wasn’t it? Maybe an alien shapeshifter? Or did they hire a look-a-like, a Justin Bieber impersonator impersonator? I hope that was it. I hope I wasn’t naive enough to take you at your word, only to lose out on the chance to give you your receipt a week early. You know what I’m talking about, right? The Beach Bois filled you in on the wrestling lingo? When you attack a man without cause, you should expect a receipt. And that’s what’s coming to you at Fifteen.”
“There are some new matters to discuss. Points you and your proxy Snowball made that I’m going to address. First is that I’m some puppet of Seth Lerch’s, and that he used me to unfairly take the belt off of you. Nonsense. I’m my own man, doing my own thing for those who are my responsibility. Not Seth’s. Not some water-logged homage to Degeneration X. Me, and the people that count on me. The truth is, Mister Beaver, Seth Lerch needs me more than I need him. There is a lack of stand up guys in this place; people who will, literally, stand up to the cretins this company employs. That’s why I’m here now. To get in your face, and tell you that your act just doesn’t cut it anymore. Complaining about unfair matches and undeserving challengers, that weak patter needs to stop. You want to know why? Because you explicitly asked for it. You told Seth you wanted competition, that you deserved tougher challenges. And Lerch gave it to you: a six man tag match against Livewire, Joey Flash, and Bonnie Blue. And what happened, Mister Beaver, when you were given this opportunity? You lost. Sure, you got to keep your belt thanks to your Beach Krew stablemate eating the pin for you, but you lost. It was strong attempt, and there’s no shame in losing to a team with that pedigree, but the fact was your chance to prove yourself came up short.”
“This is what happened next. Seth decided it was time to take the training wheels off your title run. He gave you some more competition; someone he knew could beat you. Me. Didn’t matter how many matches I had had. Seth knows me. He knows, at my best, I can go toe to toe with anyone in this company. You, however, seemed unaware. I’m willing to bet part of the blame falls on The Beach Krew. One of them, or perhaps all of them, got in your ear and told you, ‘This guy’s a stiff. He doesn’t have what it takes to make it in OUR WCF. You will destroy him.’ And, stooge that you are, you beavlieved it. You fell for that siren song. You actually complained you had to face me, and that you’d have to carry me to a good match. That’s not how things turned out, is it? No. What happened was I took everything you had and still beat you. I kicked out of your Bass Drop, muscled out of your Beaver to Belly suplex, and pinned you with the Slane Slam. You lost. You lost your title. Say Bon Voyage to the SeaV Champion. ”
“The same thing is going to happen at Fifteen, Mister Beaver. You know what I’m capable of now, but that understanding isn’t going to be enough. I’m still your superior in the ring. Bigger. Stronger. Tougher. And just as motivated as you. You think I want to lose the Television Title after all this? You think I am going to give up what I already won but never got a chance to possess? No. No chance. You had your time with the belt, Mister Beaver, and it was commendable. But it’s over. At Fifteen, any claim you had to my title will become null and void. Hopefully it will be you I get to pin to make that happen, but if not, Andre Holmes will do. I’m not so arrogant that I feel I can ‘call my shot’. ”
Stuart stopped his stepping and checked his pulse through his carotid artery. He smiled.
“One of the most useful things to come out of Harvard. My calculations put my Fitness Rating as ‘Excellent’. Just like my chances for winning at Fifteen. I’ll see you Sunday, gentlemen. Be prepared.”
