Post by Deleted on Jun 14, 2016 15:30:16 GMT -5
[Pan in from a webcam’s low-quality shot. Lester Parish sits away from the viewfinder revealing himself from the chest up. It seems to be an unkempt room with aluminum cans everywhere.]
“There comes a time when the cocoon must shed. Frost knew we couldn’t live within our own walls. Nor could we mend them. I leave my bunker as the darkness has fallen. Everywhere I look seeps another source of evil. And I am no cleanser. Wise men ensconce themselves in steel when the world turns into animals. Be it known that my shell has opened and I am not afraid.”
[Jump cut to a dining table. More aluminum cans fester with jagged lids pried open. Parish walks into frame, swiping them off the table.]
“Living in filth underground changes you. This world has seen so many curses over the years. Accumulated into a number of so-called “plagues.” Leaders cannot control our growing dissent—these storms swelling in the very bowels of WCF. When I accepted the contract offer, I knew all the risks of returning. Concussions, spine problems and rampant drug addictions. Why come back to this dreaded business? Wrestling abandoned me. Moses floated down the Nile: an alien and orphan. Except… he was adopted by royalty. That isn’t real life. Here we sink. We drown while everyone walks around the antlion’s trap. Lifesavers should only be a candy.”
[Cut from static to Parish padlocking a wooden door that might lead to a cellar. He walks back into view with a red jerry can. Gasoline pours from it into a warped trashcan. Parish strikes a match by the screen, illuminating his eyes. ]
“We lock away what the world cannot know about us. Why relive those “Good ole days” when the world still looked blue. Goodbye ’97 you wonderful year. Had you been a wine, gourmands would sniff your essence. Wrestling is a dead sport. It’s deteriorated into compost. Why: Because it grows new wrestlers from its remnants. People are not born that way. Here we learn to survive on our wits. Some might claim “street smarts.” It’s just another denomination.”
[Jump cut to his match dropping into the trashcan. Fire flashes from a pile of VHS tapes. Handwritten labels name matches from across the American South and their arenas.]
“Plastic might refuse my flames. It melts into an unrecognizable pile. Wrestling did that to me. I toiled in this bunker because forgot me. Gimmicks come and go. Our fans drink and eat nachos with processed, orange goop. They want to be entertained. Gladiators… make your oath and die. Be it in the ring or some roach-infested motel. Police then find you in that T-shirt that never sold well, holes in its armpits. Retrieved from pools of saliva and other expectorants. Toxicology labels each drug by percentage. Dead from a broken heart—exploded when you washed down pills with cheap label bourbon. Goodbye wrestling. I’m no longer your monkey.”
[Cut from static to a gross bedroom. Parish faces the viewfinder from his unmade waterbed.]
“Two of you are training today. I know you both dream of the ring. All those lights mesmerize like a starry field, untarnished by luminous pollution. You probably see faces booing you. They want winners. You both budded from that refuse pile. Fungi spores spread from older wrestlers’ boots. Yet you think this will spark a great future. But what if you lose? Failing this match will only feed their hatred. Of course, you can be another heel. Tell them off in vulgar ways. Gesture rudely to them and their bloodthirsty children. I’ve seen men give “a bird” or two to children. This is insanity. Look back at your parents—if possible—and see their eyes. Poe believed the eyes are a window to our soul. Look hard, boys… they aren’t ready for a wrestler. They dread explaining it to friends. Oh, and don’t forget siblings. Their jealous eyes will undo you both.”
[Cut from static to flypaper splayed across the floor and covered in roaches.]
“If you train for a wrestling match, gentlemen, expect failure. I won’t wrestle you. We won’t lock up or exchange strength. Observe these brigands—bugs that tried to cross me while I slept. They planned like roaches. They raided leftovers like roaches. And now they’re dead. Don’t worry though. I’m not another murderer. Venerated champions look down on us because they have star-power—freedom to be anything without penalty. Listen to me boys because I’ve seen our futures. We are fodder for an ugly, untamable mass. Ignore them and all these distractions wrought by a meager salary. Focus on what’s to come. Cults thrive on aimless men. If you cannot protect your own space, never tread into another’s. Be it our Apocalyptic scares or this plague rising, we have more to be afraid of than some wrestling match. But go ahead and be wrestlers if you want. Just remember I told you so when a trap goes snap across your spine.”
[Jump cut back to his bedroom. Parish sets his mask on an old bureau while talking off screen.]
“I am not bound to this mask. It saves me from the reality of another, dirty ring. A fine segue to those trapped inside a roped prison. That beloved “squared circle” serving as an heirloom for wrestling families. Enough about the scum. Whom did they muster from those workout gyms this week? Oh yes, it came in twos. How do you like that development, boys? We’re crumbs scraped from the bag’s bottom. Do you feel like a winner now? Have you made into the big leagues yet and wrestled with top talent? Come on, you both should be laughing. No, you should be concerned. Understand that wrestling forks at a fickle path: You pass or disappear.”
[Jump cut to Parish sitting sit front of the camera.]
“Now that you see the stakes, let’s get intimate, shall we? In one corner… we present the Viceroy, Vic for short. He comes to us from the American heartland. I don’t who this rebel is, but he probably plays a big game. We like showmen around here. Jump into those glass tubes Vic. Do an elbow drop through the announcers table. Well party on my brother. One question because I get the first crack at you. Why be the impersonator? Couldn’t cut it as the King, so you became his viceroy. You already put yourself in second place. Viceroys might have a special place in your heart, Vic, but they aren’t deadly. They’re good at pretending and I’m no etymologist. I can’t pick one out from a swarm of monarchs. But at least you fit in somewhere albeit as a lie. Or do you want us to think you’re violent, dangerous or in some way threatening? You like fighting. That gets a few points from my side of things. You saw through all of those technical wrestlers with Olympic precision. Truth is no one earns a 10.0 on every dive. One splash cuts the score in half. Fans will boo you off the stage. Fighters don’t bother with skill or technique: We throw blows until the other guy drops. Go ahead and hit the bags tonight.
One might presume you’re a real party animal, Vic. Every company needs an animal, and every band a Keith Moon. Maybe you hit the bar like god’s gift from nature. Give rounds out to every 6+ waiting for some shmuck to buy their next drink. How’s the club going these days? Do you keep with the trends: neon, DJs mixing beats to songs composed entirely of bass? Or do you try and keep those coke-infused ’80s alive? Let me tell you about that stuff, Vic, steer clear. We did “lines” off anything that moved in the ’90s. You’re on a dark path my friend. You should worry about what happens outside those ropes. I’m not talking about a slippery slope. No, I’m talking about those bodies police scrape off pavement. Overdoses in a bathroom where everyone’s too afraid or intoxicated to help. Go above these substances. Live without our social poisons. I’ll personally give you hatchet and watch you hack that bar to pieces.
Vic, if not for yourself, do it for the fans. Think how they’ll cry when the news breaks. How we’ll find you dead on shag carpet, drowned by your own, noxious bile. If you can overcome your sinful life, perhaps you can focus on the ring ahead of you. Get your dukes out Vic because the fight is still on. In truth, I think you’re the only threat here. People say you’re rather scrappy. We all like tough guys, an undeterred pugilist. My fists ache for a show. Don’t look to the crowd; this isn’t Rocky. I intend on leaving you broken in that ring. Keep to your training: Lift those kettle bells and do a thousand squats. You aren’t training for a match, Vic. This is combat.
Now to Dee Norm the minor, the small and feisty. Size determines style. So you spring off the ropes and make death-defying leaps onto the concrete floor below. I’ve seen dozens of careless men leap that way. Do you know where they are now? Well that’s harder to explain, but it always involves pill bottles. They only rise from their wheelchair when reaching for a can of condensed soup. At least you’ll have time to write new jokes—and I expect to hear some good ones. Sorry if that precipice is little high up for you. How about I lay it down in laymen’s terms: Don’t pick a fight with me John Stockton, or else here comes the Mailman’s elbow. I have no qualms concussing someone. Nor do I care if you land wrong on your ankle, or even your chicken neck. Norm the normal—another “highflyer” with an acrobatic game. A dime to the dozen; more so next to the average nickel or quarter. Take the week off. Get back on the trampolines and practice those backflips, Echo. I’m declaring a no fly zone.”
[Cut from static to a masked Parish sitting on a tri-colored lawn chair. An Airstream trailer shines from over his shoulder. He gestures to a metal hatch buried in a mixed patch of dirt and grass.]
“WCF… the lockdown has been lifted. I see now that society has entered a state of entropy. My vision of the world shall revive. Fans avert your troubled stares. This video should be our final transmission. However, my hands are bound here. People call matches like this the first of many steppingstones to victory. That’s false: I would have to look down with each step over the stream. This match feels more like a bridge—no, an overpass. I’ll speed over it and the cars below without looking back. There are more evils to expose in this company. Hate me or pretend to love me. I don’t care what you think. You’ve signed two men over to my hands for demolition because you seek entertainment. I am not your dancing ape. Two men will suffer and have their dreams of golden belts ravished before a national TV audience. Each you should be ashamed. My lesson plan will continue in the subsequent weeks. We will unfold the lies told by all of these escaped patients, these professed murderers. Those corporate heads hiding behind a dying business. You all feed the lichens. Let them grow on rocks or armory buildings for your local VFW. Wrestling’s immortality is your fault. You mummify us into forgotten, bedridden deities.”
[Jump cut to Parish leaning over a chain-link fence.]
“When I agreed to return to wrestling, I saw a chance to change things. I’m a problem solver. We break ground every day for new buildings. In the same dirt they tilled from the land, I will plant new trees. Your faces are slobbering—I can sense them now. Dimwitted comebacks blasting over Twitter. If only that plebian newspaper actually helped you proletariats. All of you squawking birds posting those factory-cut GIF files. Listen to me. Let me be your conduit. I will find the truth every week until I have this place under control. Not as it leader, but as a balancer.”
[He turns the viewfinder towards an antique steam trunk.]
“That is where I will bury them—one block of gold at a time. Champions rebuild the columns of Rome. They impress like the Colossus of Rhodes, yet enslave like the pyramids. I must crush two men and thrash them like your savior in his father’s temple. Evoke whatever history pleases you most, poor little audience. Giants beg your favor inside that ring. I will one day destroy it and everything it has done in the name of wrestling. Dee Norm and the fluttering viceroy, pay close attention. My reentrance into the sport did not come by coincidence. I came here to stymy this company’s devolution. To be a beacon of enlightenment. Call me whatever vulgar word comes across your mind. I won’t be listening. After this transmission, my airwaves go silent. Talk all you want in the coming days—sound has no grip in this vacuum they have created. This ring has no pedestal. It has but one glaring purpose: to bury us all one way or another. My name is Lester Parish, look on my works, Ye Mighty, and despair.”
[Static cuts from that scene to the iconic that Indian Head from early TV test patterns.]
“There comes a time when the cocoon must shed. Frost knew we couldn’t live within our own walls. Nor could we mend them. I leave my bunker as the darkness has fallen. Everywhere I look seeps another source of evil. And I am no cleanser. Wise men ensconce themselves in steel when the world turns into animals. Be it known that my shell has opened and I am not afraid.”
[Jump cut to a dining table. More aluminum cans fester with jagged lids pried open. Parish walks into frame, swiping them off the table.]
“Living in filth underground changes you. This world has seen so many curses over the years. Accumulated into a number of so-called “plagues.” Leaders cannot control our growing dissent—these storms swelling in the very bowels of WCF. When I accepted the contract offer, I knew all the risks of returning. Concussions, spine problems and rampant drug addictions. Why come back to this dreaded business? Wrestling abandoned me. Moses floated down the Nile: an alien and orphan. Except… he was adopted by royalty. That isn’t real life. Here we sink. We drown while everyone walks around the antlion’s trap. Lifesavers should only be a candy.”
[Cut from static to Parish padlocking a wooden door that might lead to a cellar. He walks back into view with a red jerry can. Gasoline pours from it into a warped trashcan. Parish strikes a match by the screen, illuminating his eyes. ]
“We lock away what the world cannot know about us. Why relive those “Good ole days” when the world still looked blue. Goodbye ’97 you wonderful year. Had you been a wine, gourmands would sniff your essence. Wrestling is a dead sport. It’s deteriorated into compost. Why: Because it grows new wrestlers from its remnants. People are not born that way. Here we learn to survive on our wits. Some might claim “street smarts.” It’s just another denomination.”
[Jump cut to his match dropping into the trashcan. Fire flashes from a pile of VHS tapes. Handwritten labels name matches from across the American South and their arenas.]
“Plastic might refuse my flames. It melts into an unrecognizable pile. Wrestling did that to me. I toiled in this bunker because forgot me. Gimmicks come and go. Our fans drink and eat nachos with processed, orange goop. They want to be entertained. Gladiators… make your oath and die. Be it in the ring or some roach-infested motel. Police then find you in that T-shirt that never sold well, holes in its armpits. Retrieved from pools of saliva and other expectorants. Toxicology labels each drug by percentage. Dead from a broken heart—exploded when you washed down pills with cheap label bourbon. Goodbye wrestling. I’m no longer your monkey.”
[Cut from static to a gross bedroom. Parish faces the viewfinder from his unmade waterbed.]
“Two of you are training today. I know you both dream of the ring. All those lights mesmerize like a starry field, untarnished by luminous pollution. You probably see faces booing you. They want winners. You both budded from that refuse pile. Fungi spores spread from older wrestlers’ boots. Yet you think this will spark a great future. But what if you lose? Failing this match will only feed their hatred. Of course, you can be another heel. Tell them off in vulgar ways. Gesture rudely to them and their bloodthirsty children. I’ve seen men give “a bird” or two to children. This is insanity. Look back at your parents—if possible—and see their eyes. Poe believed the eyes are a window to our soul. Look hard, boys… they aren’t ready for a wrestler. They dread explaining it to friends. Oh, and don’t forget siblings. Their jealous eyes will undo you both.”
[Cut from static to flypaper splayed across the floor and covered in roaches.]
“If you train for a wrestling match, gentlemen, expect failure. I won’t wrestle you. We won’t lock up or exchange strength. Observe these brigands—bugs that tried to cross me while I slept. They planned like roaches. They raided leftovers like roaches. And now they’re dead. Don’t worry though. I’m not another murderer. Venerated champions look down on us because they have star-power—freedom to be anything without penalty. Listen to me boys because I’ve seen our futures. We are fodder for an ugly, untamable mass. Ignore them and all these distractions wrought by a meager salary. Focus on what’s to come. Cults thrive on aimless men. If you cannot protect your own space, never tread into another’s. Be it our Apocalyptic scares or this plague rising, we have more to be afraid of than some wrestling match. But go ahead and be wrestlers if you want. Just remember I told you so when a trap goes snap across your spine.”
[Jump cut back to his bedroom. Parish sets his mask on an old bureau while talking off screen.]
“I am not bound to this mask. It saves me from the reality of another, dirty ring. A fine segue to those trapped inside a roped prison. That beloved “squared circle” serving as an heirloom for wrestling families. Enough about the scum. Whom did they muster from those workout gyms this week? Oh yes, it came in twos. How do you like that development, boys? We’re crumbs scraped from the bag’s bottom. Do you feel like a winner now? Have you made into the big leagues yet and wrestled with top talent? Come on, you both should be laughing. No, you should be concerned. Understand that wrestling forks at a fickle path: You pass or disappear.”
[Jump cut to Parish sitting sit front of the camera.]
“Now that you see the stakes, let’s get intimate, shall we? In one corner… we present the Viceroy, Vic for short. He comes to us from the American heartland. I don’t who this rebel is, but he probably plays a big game. We like showmen around here. Jump into those glass tubes Vic. Do an elbow drop through the announcers table. Well party on my brother. One question because I get the first crack at you. Why be the impersonator? Couldn’t cut it as the King, so you became his viceroy. You already put yourself in second place. Viceroys might have a special place in your heart, Vic, but they aren’t deadly. They’re good at pretending and I’m no etymologist. I can’t pick one out from a swarm of monarchs. But at least you fit in somewhere albeit as a lie. Or do you want us to think you’re violent, dangerous or in some way threatening? You like fighting. That gets a few points from my side of things. You saw through all of those technical wrestlers with Olympic precision. Truth is no one earns a 10.0 on every dive. One splash cuts the score in half. Fans will boo you off the stage. Fighters don’t bother with skill or technique: We throw blows until the other guy drops. Go ahead and hit the bags tonight.
One might presume you’re a real party animal, Vic. Every company needs an animal, and every band a Keith Moon. Maybe you hit the bar like god’s gift from nature. Give rounds out to every 6+ waiting for some shmuck to buy their next drink. How’s the club going these days? Do you keep with the trends: neon, DJs mixing beats to songs composed entirely of bass? Or do you try and keep those coke-infused ’80s alive? Let me tell you about that stuff, Vic, steer clear. We did “lines” off anything that moved in the ’90s. You’re on a dark path my friend. You should worry about what happens outside those ropes. I’m not talking about a slippery slope. No, I’m talking about those bodies police scrape off pavement. Overdoses in a bathroom where everyone’s too afraid or intoxicated to help. Go above these substances. Live without our social poisons. I’ll personally give you hatchet and watch you hack that bar to pieces.
Vic, if not for yourself, do it for the fans. Think how they’ll cry when the news breaks. How we’ll find you dead on shag carpet, drowned by your own, noxious bile. If you can overcome your sinful life, perhaps you can focus on the ring ahead of you. Get your dukes out Vic because the fight is still on. In truth, I think you’re the only threat here. People say you’re rather scrappy. We all like tough guys, an undeterred pugilist. My fists ache for a show. Don’t look to the crowd; this isn’t Rocky. I intend on leaving you broken in that ring. Keep to your training: Lift those kettle bells and do a thousand squats. You aren’t training for a match, Vic. This is combat.
Now to Dee Norm the minor, the small and feisty. Size determines style. So you spring off the ropes and make death-defying leaps onto the concrete floor below. I’ve seen dozens of careless men leap that way. Do you know where they are now? Well that’s harder to explain, but it always involves pill bottles. They only rise from their wheelchair when reaching for a can of condensed soup. At least you’ll have time to write new jokes—and I expect to hear some good ones. Sorry if that precipice is little high up for you. How about I lay it down in laymen’s terms: Don’t pick a fight with me John Stockton, or else here comes the Mailman’s elbow. I have no qualms concussing someone. Nor do I care if you land wrong on your ankle, or even your chicken neck. Norm the normal—another “highflyer” with an acrobatic game. A dime to the dozen; more so next to the average nickel or quarter. Take the week off. Get back on the trampolines and practice those backflips, Echo. I’m declaring a no fly zone.”
[Cut from static to a masked Parish sitting on a tri-colored lawn chair. An Airstream trailer shines from over his shoulder. He gestures to a metal hatch buried in a mixed patch of dirt and grass.]
“WCF… the lockdown has been lifted. I see now that society has entered a state of entropy. My vision of the world shall revive. Fans avert your troubled stares. This video should be our final transmission. However, my hands are bound here. People call matches like this the first of many steppingstones to victory. That’s false: I would have to look down with each step over the stream. This match feels more like a bridge—no, an overpass. I’ll speed over it and the cars below without looking back. There are more evils to expose in this company. Hate me or pretend to love me. I don’t care what you think. You’ve signed two men over to my hands for demolition because you seek entertainment. I am not your dancing ape. Two men will suffer and have their dreams of golden belts ravished before a national TV audience. Each you should be ashamed. My lesson plan will continue in the subsequent weeks. We will unfold the lies told by all of these escaped patients, these professed murderers. Those corporate heads hiding behind a dying business. You all feed the lichens. Let them grow on rocks or armory buildings for your local VFW. Wrestling’s immortality is your fault. You mummify us into forgotten, bedridden deities.”
[Jump cut to Parish leaning over a chain-link fence.]
“When I agreed to return to wrestling, I saw a chance to change things. I’m a problem solver. We break ground every day for new buildings. In the same dirt they tilled from the land, I will plant new trees. Your faces are slobbering—I can sense them now. Dimwitted comebacks blasting over Twitter. If only that plebian newspaper actually helped you proletariats. All of you squawking birds posting those factory-cut GIF files. Listen to me. Let me be your conduit. I will find the truth every week until I have this place under control. Not as it leader, but as a balancer.”
[He turns the viewfinder towards an antique steam trunk.]
“That is where I will bury them—one block of gold at a time. Champions rebuild the columns of Rome. They impress like the Colossus of Rhodes, yet enslave like the pyramids. I must crush two men and thrash them like your savior in his father’s temple. Evoke whatever history pleases you most, poor little audience. Giants beg your favor inside that ring. I will one day destroy it and everything it has done in the name of wrestling. Dee Norm and the fluttering viceroy, pay close attention. My reentrance into the sport did not come by coincidence. I came here to stymy this company’s devolution. To be a beacon of enlightenment. Call me whatever vulgar word comes across your mind. I won’t be listening. After this transmission, my airwaves go silent. Talk all you want in the coming days—sound has no grip in this vacuum they have created. This ring has no pedestal. It has but one glaring purpose: to bury us all one way or another. My name is Lester Parish, look on my works, Ye Mighty, and despair.”
[Static cuts from that scene to the iconic that Indian Head from early TV test patterns.]
