Post by Stuart Slane on Jun 5, 2016 14:53:30 GMT -5
May 29, 2016
Reading, Pennsylvania
Backstage at the Santander Arena
Moments after the Slane/Alpine WCF Classic Tournament Match
“Are you out of your mind?!” Stuart Slane put down the young woman he had been carrying over his shoulder. He then reached down to remove the pig mask she wore.
“No!” she wrapped her hands around Slane’s thick wrist and struggled to keep her disguise in place. Stuart was surprised at the strength behind that grip, and soon realized he’d risk injuring the person if he continued. He decided to try to reason with her.
“Miss Cicero, the mask is pointless. Everyone who has been paying attention will know your identity.”
“You will address me as Sow Reaper!” she replied bluntly.
The forcefulness of the pronouncement combined with Slane’s confusion. He considered the swine rights activist’s new nom de guerre for several moments before finally grasping its play on words.
“I suppose that makes sense on the printed page,” the big man adjudged as he released his hold on the mask’s wig. ‘Sow’ adjusted her façade so she could see out of it. Glaring up at Slane, she put her hands on her hips.
“Why did you stop me from liberating Percy Micro?”
“Because I was trying to keep you from getting hurt. Brent Alpine might be a colossal flake, but the man is physically dangerous. It took all I had to defeat him earlier.”
“With my help,” the woman in the pink cat suit noted smugly.
The declaration incensed Slane, “Your interference was as much a surprise to me as it was to him. It’s not my fault he lacked the preparedness for my pin attempt.”
Sow guffawed loudly, causing huge snorts of air to blast noisily from latex proboscis like some half-flaccid Whoopie Cushion, “Unlike you, who’s always ‘prepared’, right?”
Throwing his own catchphrase back in his face evaporated the last of Stuart’s sense of chivalry. He snagged the mask again and ripped it free of Circe’s head.
“Ow!” the young woman cried out, as several strands of her real hair were yanked away as well.
Slane was unsympathetic. He threw ‘Sow Reaper’s’ visage against the wall and then rounded to confront its former wearer, “You have taken what can turn out to be one of the greatest moments of my career and tarnished it. My enemies now have more ammunition to use against me in their attempts to prove to the WCF Galaxy I am a dishonorable man.”
“Soooo melodramatic,” Circe rolled her eyes archly.
“Says the woman who waited for the middle of a nationally televised match to attempt to abduct a pig.”
There was a pause. Finally Circe had no choice but to agree, “Ok, that’s fair. But I am trying to galvanize a revolution. Theatrics should be expected from me.”
She bent down to retrieve her mask. For the first time Stuart noticed the pink pleather catsuit she wore had the traditional curlicue pig’s tail grafted to it. His right eyelid fluttered by reflex.
“Miss Cicero, I am going to need you to make a statement that I had no involvement in your scheme to steal Percy Micro.”
“I’ll post it on my blog. Well, Sow Reaper’s blog,” she promise while studying her disguise in the classic “Alas Poor Yorick” pose.
“And you will need to apologize to Mister Alpine and his coterie,” Stuart added, smiling uneasily at a lighting technician who passed them in the hallway. The man, wanted no part of the sweaty six foot six inch giant or his apparent fetishes, quickly went about his business.
“Never.”
“Miss Cicero-“
“Did you see what they did to poor Percy? They pimped him out! They subjected him to terrible, horrible sexual molestations against his will!” Circe referenced Brent Alpine’s promo from earlier in the week, “It was grotesque.”
“Miss Cicero, you do realize the protests that were made during that, ah, incident were coming from the human Percy Micro serves as a proxy for?!” Slane was incredulous.
“I am well versed in Sus body language and linguistics, Stuart. I can tell when they’re distressed.”
“And I have a Merit Badge in Animal Husbandry, Miss Cicero, and know when beasts are simply just being true to their natures!”
Circe was appalled, “Are you saying Percy was asking for it? I thought you were enlightened enough to know not to blame the victim, Stuart.”
It finally dawned on Stuart how ridiculous the conversation had become. Throwing up his hands in resigned defeat, he turned on his heel and walked back towards the locker room without saying another word to his life’s newest complication.
Circe Cicero chewed her nail coyly as she watched him retreat.
June 3, 2016
Reading, Pennsylvania
WCF Tower’s Cafeteria
Fajita Friday
Jeff Purse approached the lunch table with his tray, “I got the pork; can I still sit here?”
Stuart Slane smirked and cleared a spot for the younger man. The top of the table was covered with various papers, folders, and photographs, “Of course, of course. Thank you for coming.”
“Hey, you’re still my protégé, right? You need my help; I’m there. No questions asked.”
Months ago, Stuart had approached Jeff asking for his help to become more accepted by the WCF Galaxy. The former and perhaps Future World Champion agreed, and was instrumental in changing how Slane viewed pro wrestling and his place in it. Then, Purse had been sidelined by injury. Now, like Stuart, he was part of the WCF Classic. This would be the first time the pair truly talked since Jeff’s return to active competition.
“I appreciate you taking time out to meet with me,” Slane said, “Given the stakes of your match this week.”
This Sunday at Slam Purse would be fighting for Wrestling Championship Federation’s World Title. If Jeff was anxious he did not show it. He shrugged.
“No problem,” Jeff began to compulsively straighten the papers on the table, “I mean, he may be the God of Enlightenment now, with a new attitude and everything, but’s still Oblivion. I’ve pinned him before, and will again Sunday.”
“I think you will too, but be careful. We’ve both seen the kind of havoc that man can wreak in the ring,” Stuart noted as he took a sip of his sweet tea, “I’m just happy the belt is off Logan. Hopefully that loss will put an end to The Family’s nonsense, and someone with integrity has the chance to own the title.”
“Yeah, the WCF Classic field is pretty solid. Logan’s gone, Riddick’s gone, Sarah Twilight’s gone, thank Christ. Other than that goof Nathan Chambers, I can’t say anybody who’s left would make a terrible champion.”
Stuart Slane, who was one of the remaining participants in the tournament, smiled, “Pretty much my thoughts as well.”
“Of course, I’m still winning the Classic, after I beat Blivs for the championship Sunday,” Purse noted between bites of his fajita.
“I hope to have something to say about that when Blast rolls around,” Stuart said jovially. The two had faced before in tag matches, back during when Jeff was WCF Champion and Slane still wore the rank of Scoutmaster, with each man owning a pinfall victory over the other. If everything went the way both wanted it, the Finals of the WCF Classic would be the tie-breaker.
“Yep. But enough about that. You wanted my input on this Hue World Order mess, right?” Jeff said.
“Yes. I am in the process of compiling a list of possible suspects who may be behind this current attempt to frame me. I was hoping to go over the list with you and get your thoughts.”
Jeff grinned, “Your list, I’m not on it, am I?”
“Well, no.”
“Because back in the day you said I was part of the Gang of Fourteen,” Purse continued to needle the older man.
“Yes, well, that was… an error on my part,” Stuart said hurriedly, “In fact… Jeff, you are one of the few people I feel I can trust in this situation.”
Jeff seemed moved by the confession, “Well, I appreciate that, Stu. Really. Who is on your list then?”
Stuart grimly picked up a manila folder and opened it. Several 8x10 promotional pictures were held inside. Despite the man’s previous claims of bias against ballyhoo, he would display each suspect’s photo to Jeff as he introduced them:
“My prime candidate for chief conspirator. Seth Lerch has told me in the past he thought my, ahem, change in persona was a failure, and wanted me to turn. So he does have motive. And as the owner of WCF, with all of his resources at his disposal he would certainly have the means and opportunity to set up such a clandestine operation.”
Jeff nodded, “Yeah, it’s possible. Only, it’s just, I don’t see Seth as being so clever about it. Getting a bunch of jobbers to harass you, and then to have them say you hired them for a sympathy pop… it’s too complicated for Lerch. If he wanted to frame you he’d just plant drugs in your bag or something. Have you talked to him about it?”
“No, I have not spoken to anyone,” Stuart shook his head, “My investigation is only in the preliminary stages. I will not begin formal inquiries until next week.”
Slane produced another picture:
“Dr Fabian Kaye,” Slane identified the man with the Magnum mustache, “Months ago, he and I had a disagreement concerning about wrestling alignments. I felt people could change their natures if they made the effort. He said for some us such transformation was impossible, and implied I was an example of this. He could have concocted this plan to prove his point.”
“So you think WCF’s gimmick guru set you up because he wanted to show that some wrestlers are natural faces or heels? That’s kind of a wacky motive, but he is a psychiatrist, right? They’re open to all kinds of weird shit, especially when it comes to what they consider ‘therapy’. My own shrink had more issues than I did. I think she might have been a nymphomaniac; always trying to get me in the clinch.”
“Yes, well,” Slane quickly steered the subject back towards less ribald waters, “I think Dr. Kaye certainly has motive, and perhaps opportunity, since he is an executive with the company. I’m just unsure if he has the resources. In some ways he is the polar opposite of this man in terms of his candidacy as a suspect: the Scoutmaster General.”
“The who now?” Jeff was nonplussed as he studied the picture Stuart had presented.
“The Scoutmaster General is an elected office chosen by a congress that includes the BSA’s Chief Scout Executive, the members of the National Executive Board, the heads of the organization’s four Impact Divisions, and selected members of the five Regional Councils. Once selected the Scoutmaster General holds the position for life, and is considered the de facto head of the Boy Scouts of America.”
“So, he’s like the Pope, only in short pants,” Jeff adjudged, “Why would this guy want to frame you?”
“I can think of no reason. He’s responsible for excommunicating me from the Scouts after I lost the United States Title to Jayson Price, though. And, he is one of the few people who would have had knowledge to the checks I am accused of using to pay off the Hue World Order.”
“How would he have those?”
The big man squirmed awkwardly in his seat, “That account was something I set up when I was still a part of the BSA. I used it to, uh, re-appropriate funds earmarked for troop operations.”
Jeff was non-plussed by the confession, so Slane elaborated.
“I embezzled from the Boy Scouts and… built bomb shelters with the money.”
“What?!”
“I thought I was doing the right thing! The shelters weren’t just for me, they were for my men. I felt constructing a safeguard against nuclear annihilation was a better allocation of resources than pinewood for race cars and yarn for macramé’.”
Jeff nodded, though it was clear he was unconvinced, “Did you at least pay them back?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
The two drank and ate in silence for a moment, “So you see, that’s what I meant earlier about the Scoutmaster. He is only one who knows about the account, which I thought was closed, while also having the means to mastermind the conspiracy against me.”
“The Scoutmaster General has the means to put together a conspiracy?” Jeff felt like he was falling further down the metaphoric rabbit hole with each of Slane’s new pronouncements.
But Stuart was dead serious, “Yes. The Scoutmaster General is a powerful and dangerous man, Jeffrey. If he is the one responsible for my current plight, it will be difficult to bring him to justice.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about the Scoutmaster General, Stuart. You have any other suspects?”
“Just one,” Slane withdrew the final photograph from its folder and slid it towards Jeff.
“Oh, come on!” Jeff protested, albeit good naturedly, “Eric Price? We haven’t seen that guy in WCF for years. What possible reason would he have to mess with you now?”
“He’s pure evil.”
“Besides that.”
Slane shrugged, “I admit he has none. But, as I said, the sheer depravity of the man warrants his placement on the list.”
Purse finished the last of his lunch and neatly organized the objects on his tray, “If you say so, Stu. I noticed there is one name missing from your list; someone I think deserves consideration: the pig lady.”
“Circe Cicero?” the big man seemed to find the idea dubious, “What reason would she have?”
“She’s crazy. And because you used to be her minion as Hog Wilder, and maybe she wants you back in that gimmick,” Purse replied, “If she ruins your reputation with the fans, she might think she has a better chance of bringing you back in the fold. Or herd, or whatever you call a group of pigs.”
“A drove,” Stuart said distractedly, as he pondered what his ally had told him, “That does make sense. Why didn’t I see that myself?”
“Chauvinism, maybe? No offense, Stu, but you’re kind of an old fashioned guy. Maybe you didn’t think Circe’ was capable of manipulating you like that.”
“Perhaps, perhaps you’re right Jeffrey. You have given me much to consider. Thank you,” Slane checked his watch, “I need to go. I have a promo to cut for Sunday.”
“Yeah, I need to spend some time in the studio too. Still putting stuff together though.”
Stuart gathered up the papers and photos that he felt were essential to clearing his name and shoveled them into his messenger bag. He then stood, “Are you free afterwards? I’m heading to the gym for some speed drills, and could use your help there as well.”
“Sure. Text me when you’re done with your thing.”
That was how the two went their separate ways.
June 3, 2016
Reading, Pennsylvania
WCF Tower
“The Shooting Gallery”
Stuart Slane stood in his ring gear in front of a large representation of the WCF logo. He began to speak.
“I have a match this Sunday which on paper appears meaningless to me. In it, I am partnered with two of the other finalists of the WCF Classic: Nathan Chambers and James Chevalier. Our opponents have nothing in common other than the fact all won their matches last week. But Zombie McMorris, Teddy Blaze, and Wayne Hammon have to a lot to gain from this match. A victory against three of the four men slated to compete for the WCF World Championship at Blast gives them a valid claim to a future title shot somewhere down the line. Meanwhile, for myself, Mister Chambers, and Mister Chevalier, this match carries more risk than reward. We could get injured, which would affect our performance during the title fight if not force us to miss it altogether. It’s also possible that by putting forward our maximum effort we might reveal something; some tell or flaw in our fight game that could be exploited later.”
“I don’t care about any of that. My one concern Sunday is winning. I want to be the one earning my team the victory at Slam, whether they appreciate it or not. Because that’s what a champion does. He or she fights as hard as they can no matter what the stakes are to the contest. A champion should want to win all their matches because all their matches matter. That’s how you build a legacy in WCF; by being consistent. By being dependable. Our last champion was the exact opposite of that. Now the Wrestling Championship Federation has the chance to correct its course, and to have at the top of its card someone who can be relied on to deliver winning performances week in and week out; not just when he or she has to. That’s my strategy; win leading up to Blast, win at Blast, and defend the WCF Title against all comers after Blast.”
“I should not be the only one following this game plan. Everyone on the roster should. These are turbulent times for WCF; and with that uncertainty can come opportunity. Careers can be made, or rehabilitated in the weeks ahead by those willing to do the work. Nathan Chambers, for all his bluster, seems content to let this match be decided by his obstinacy. I can think of no other reason why he continues to assert he can win on his own without any assistance from me of Mr. Chevalier. Make no mistake, he’s not overconfident when he makes those claims, nor is he being deluded; he is resigned, happy to take the loss now and save his best efforts for the WCF Classic Final. “The Game” James Chevalier has demonstrated more ambition than Mister Chambers, but even he has stated on social media if the self- described “Perfection” continues his churlish behavior he has no problem accepting defeat. That’s not true of me. I want to win this match, and I know I can’t do it alone. It will take all three of us to beat our opponents Sunday night at Slam, working together as a team. Teddy Blaze is the People’s Champion, and has held that belt longer than anyone at this point. The same is true of Zombie McMorris and the Internet Title. And while Wayne Hammon has not yet won a championship in WCF, “Freezer Burn” did earn a guaranteed shot for any title besides the World. He’s capable. All the men I’m facing Sunday are.”
“Mister McMorris, Mister Blaze, and Mister Hammon are all competent. They should be motivated. I hope they are. I want them at the top of their game Sunday. Because beating them at their best is the only way I can prove I’m better. I said earlier that on paper this match appears meaningless to me. That’s why these things are settled in the ring. This match matters because it’s one more chance for me to prove I am the top wrestler in it, and the one who most deserves to be WCF World Champion.”
