Post by Deleted on Jun 21, 2016 18:59:14 GMT -5
[Open to webcam video feed of Lester Parish holding a small flag from a pencil-sized pole. He waves it in a decelerating figure eight before letting it drop.]
“If I had a moment from the old days we’d be carrying banners down the ramp. Today, the trope belies to those seated anout generations of heroes. A paradigm upheld by that march to Iwo Jima or vanquishing the pirates of Tripoli. We are Americans on the stoop, by our radios and televisions and listening for freedom. They’ll wear their star-spangled shirts whilst drowning in golden lager. Pin aluminum flags to to their lapel as loyal sons of liberty. Will that win the match? No, patriotism—nationalism is just the same. We want this to be a fight of local and away. Football where the good guys are home grown like Idaho potatoes. Victory over outsiders. We held the gates from Carthage and held our triumph riding that three-horse chariot. Lies—all of it.
Why can’t we construct this battle about a son of Syracuse? Can we call him American? Born into Greek immigrants a century ago. Subsisting off a moving/hauling business, all family-owned, which gave him a hardworking limp. Anyone who thinks that is sorely misguided. Allow me to finish the equation since that's gone over their heads. Not one drop of my blood says American or hero, and it does not define what I am in the ring. I frankly don’t care where Trevor came from—nor should you, WCF. His fists are not British fists. There’s no Boxer Rebellion here. It is the stage for two men on separate missions. Trevor wants the title like any fighter. He doesn’t do it for the UK or little Britain. He does it so he can be anointed champion. Anyone calling this national pride sees one color from their Cro-Magnon brain. The compelxity of a battle tends to be less obvious. It comes from a primal rage in the throat and boils the blood. We are fighters that crave a challenge. Everything else is a distraction."
[Static garbles the picture. Everything texturizes to a view of a pantry with an open space. Parish comes into frame, setting a can of navy beans into the gap.]
“From a bunker the world looks bleak. A lack of friends or neighbors pulls a shroud over the horizon. This stale, virulent phage overtakes the room. It spreads like a plague. Poe saw this allegory long before the ring we know today. His story showed how power creates cowards. They think from a high point or reinforced walls that death will never reach them. Oh how wrong were they. It ravished them, infiltrating their masquerade at its highest point. Then, at the revealing hour, the Red Death unveiled itself before sapping them one-by-one. How macabre.
Even now, there are enemies at my gates. I know they want to find this place. Where I’ve consecrated the ground with shriveled cigarettes and barbed wire fencing. Mystery aches at those untold stories. We seek out questions beyond signs that say Do Not Enter because we feel entitled to know. Hands grab for my mask to see what creature dwells underneath. There's only a rotten human behind it you pelt hunters—you pseudo-scientists--you Big Foot beleivers. My bunker is my home. My bunker is a hive of knowledge. A bear will forage, but it also must have a home. Arenas are the wilds, young ones, where the beasts hunt. In this documentary, two come upon an alluring aroma. Be it fish or a fresh carcass;by their natures, they’ll wage combat for that scent. It won't be for the faintest of heart. Blood will spill at Blast. I hope they bring enough bandages.”
[Cut from the static to a brick wall. Parish speaks out of view.]
“Masonry has a special quality. Each brick has its own tale. Each were forged in a kiln by the same mothering heat. As one it looks like refuse. Two suggests a pattern. Three hundred form a wall. And spackle makes it hold together. Have you seen the WCF today? Well, viewer, you have seen a wall in action. Each came from some birthing source. We all came to know air, our needs and ultimately ourselves. How each arrived here is not important. What they do in the wall determines our collective success. One comes from upper New York while the other from England. They form into a wall of unnoticeable pieces. Money works as the adhesive. Except a wall started somewhere from legends past. We see some of prolonged tenure continuing to wrestle. Older champions have ossified into the company’s support structure: its limestone foundation. Fans heroize those founding members from WCF’s inchoate start. We are the wall building up to Babylonian heights: an undefined peak. What clouds we pierce astounds those too cowardly to climb the summit. From the top it looks wonderfully bleak. From the base it's woefully dark. This game, a supersturcture, builds its ranks on promsing heights. Our desire for adoration renews this sickened hegemony, our plague.
How do we distinguish from a stacking square, one slowly filing into place? Trevor, we win matches and their respect. Then you might win a title for even more. Though I urge you, ponder this between now and Sunday. Think about this conecept: Where will I go in victory? If you answered “up,” congrats because you got it right. Up the wall and into another place. Then you do well and win more titles. Entering this chain is how we begin to see the business function. Your contract says wrestle, entertain and don’t use steroids. Cheaters search out special means like some holy Excalibur that might make them king. We follow certain rules for the purpose of entertainment. I told my opponents last week that we make the gladiator’s salute. They thought different. I showed them what happens if you forget the rules: The business will tear your heart out.”
“We have to be above the game, Mr. Browne. We know the rules here—it's not how Queensbury works. Open fists and don’t be stiff. Here’s how the fight actually works, Trevor. Once you know every rule, you can relearn how to break them. Think of it like computing. Bend the programming to your advantage. Keep your mind off terrible movies. Focus on what I’m telling if you want a chance at defeating me this week. When I saw the wall the first time, my insides regurgitated. Every lie about becoming the best stole that innocent look of a champion. Belts do not define us; on the contrary, we define what the belt represents. Take Blaze for instance. He understands how this game works: Being the best is about knowing how to define the idea of the ceiling. If you train this week on the bags, know that you aren’t punching through to a title shot. You are waging your career on a few claps or explicit chants from the Globe. Do you train to be known a hero or another audacious lie? Reconsider your regimen this week.
Look away from them if you want to rise. People are our foundation, not its actual growth. They're weeds sapping its roots. You cannot rule them by winning a belt, Trevor, you do that by controlling their idea of the champion. I heard booing last week, and it doesn’t affect me. My ears, my eyes—everything shuts them out of view. Some cheered when poor Viceroy split his face open. His blood gained their favor. Don’t feed them—starve them until you have their obedience. I realize what they want is a show. For us to do things they’re incapable of; rubbish, they want us to die. Then take pictures with their phones, posting to Twitter how sad it was that someone expired with crying faces. Don’t let them build the wall Trevor. Evolve from a parasite into a predator. Take your cut of the kill before the pride has their fill. I share nothing—not even the marrow picked from bones. I even hoard the connective tissue. Can you say the same about yourself, Mr. Browne? Are you ready to sever from their control and be your own self? Don’t think in terms of "the business" because that's a trap legends feed from the fans’ mammary glands. They lock onto the teat because they fear losing milk for themselves. So they construct an idea of “Protect the shield” to prolong the wall’s construction.
[Parish reaches under his seat for mason jar of pickles.]
“This is a testament to what I’m saying. Behold this jar of pickles boy, this perfect sample. I caned it myself: cucumbers from my garden, aged in apple cider vinegar from my apple tree, and a jar I made in the foundry downstairs from sand I took from the earth. We cannot be defined by the perks of praise. Benefits last until the well dries up. Mines until their silver veins are stripped clean. What’s left is a runoff you try to make work—like the backwash of bottled Budweiser. If you can subsist without the fans, a title or whatever this business throws down your gullet; Trevor, you might just make it a while in this circus. However, I’m well past that point. I showed the WCF last week what happens if you look for praise. Don’t be the Viceroy, be a real monarch.”
[Fade from static to darkened storage room. Parish yanks the chain of an Edison bulb to reveal a space with empty cardboard boxes and a black leather steam trunk.]
“Preparations are underway for a massive counterstrike. Sunday will begin the turn of a lasting tide pervading WCF. Last week was a taste of my ability. People might call it “extreme” or “ruthless” what I did to those men. Years ago, they said the same about Ox Baker. He feared no man in the ring and took any challenger. More so, he told the world to hate him for everything he did. Ox fed off their hatred, playing the villain of an old-timey program. He did even after causing an accidental death of his opponent. I like to think he knew the difference between winning the crowd and playing them. I will never pander to what they want. If they scream for blood, then I will pardon my foe. If they cheer my foe on—I shall rightfully disembowel them. Nothing they can do or say changes my game plan. It makes us believe that we have a place in the ring. There is no pedestal worthwhile that I cannot build myself. Goodness all, I never even use our locker rooms. My arrival and ring entrance are minutes apart—as is my departure. I’ve bided my time for this moment. Now my plan has come into fruition. Winning at Blast sets the timetable into action. Look upon this trunk, mindless bricks, here inlies my cure to this growing blight. Lerch and this business corrupt us into seeing our place in that rising wall. He tried to spackle us into its ranks by talent, character and adoration. Here’s my solution…”
[Parish opens the trunk to reveal a sledgehammer. Footage gets jumpy from Parish carrying it between rooms. It drops hard, creating garbled feedback. When the video stabilizes, viewers see an angled shot of parish in front of the brick wall. It looks out of place and bears no weight, as if placed in the center of a room. Parish demolishes the wall over the course of two minutes, yelling the names of every wrestler ever to hold the World Championship. He towers over the video feed with the hammer in hand.]
“We cannot become another of the wall, Trevor. We shalln't be another casualty of the business, venerated and beloved for the bodies we’ve destroyed. Let this be a lesson to you and all fawning over the idea of a golden belt. Accessories only make you shine in light. When the ring goes dark and the lights switch off, it goes dim. That luster of greatness fades into the weekly grind. Maybe your name crosses a Facebook post or some watercooler chat. The result is always a hunk of gold to tell you what to be. When I defeat you, Mr. Browne, I step closer to correcting our flawed design. Chinks in the armor forged throughout our weekly training. These cracks worsen over time. Ignoring a cavity will eventually shatter the tooth. I aim to fix these flaws in this company. Here’s an entirely new mission statement for all dreaming of a golden win. First, we detach from the barbarians at the gates. We cannot let a crowd define us. Secondly, I propose a day without champions, without titles to show who we are. Work is work and a belt doesn't define that. We're products of our own effort, Trevor, be a producer not some lamprey clinging from the idea of this TV Title. An object somehow capitalized in proper—as if that allows it to be a real thing. Belts are just another avenue to the heavens.
WCF, hear my final decree. When I win the title shot, and go on to take this title away from whomever wins this weekend, I will not wear it. I will throw it in that steam trunk and hold it backstage. Why you ask? Because it corrupts men. I realize now that I must win it to take it away from those addicted to power. Those who build themselves up that proverbial wall—this rubble I destroyed! It’s join or perish in this parish, and my will does not waver. It will never extinguish. One-by-one I will take these titles and place them in infernal incubation. A musty demise to the idea of a championship belt. Don’t cry because I’m saving you from this delusion. And since no one will listen I must use the canvas of Trevor Browne. My theses will be 99 strikes to his pummeled face. Wittenberg will see my deeds and know that I speak the truth. People will sit there in silence while medics wheel my opponent from the ring. Pitiful monsters, you’ll watch this gruesome dismantling of a man looking for recognition. Brit or American, he only strives to be loved because his father never did. Another steer running through the slaughterhouse. And every one of you obese gawkers will feast on this fledgling. A succulent cut of veal.
Trevor, do not listen to them. Hear me roar if I must, but here’s the truth. If you look for a title to define your work, you’ll only join the wall. Like Babel, it will ascend forever. At the end of the tale, the people did not find the God of creation. They endured a demonstration of our cruelest natural force: harsh gravity. This rubble is your future; unless, you strive to be yourself. One understands more than I do. Let a craven brood survive when the plague entangles this world. Where will you be, Trevor? Even this bunker cannot stop his awesome infection.
“If I had a moment from the old days we’d be carrying banners down the ramp. Today, the trope belies to those seated anout generations of heroes. A paradigm upheld by that march to Iwo Jima or vanquishing the pirates of Tripoli. We are Americans on the stoop, by our radios and televisions and listening for freedom. They’ll wear their star-spangled shirts whilst drowning in golden lager. Pin aluminum flags to to their lapel as loyal sons of liberty. Will that win the match? No, patriotism—nationalism is just the same. We want this to be a fight of local and away. Football where the good guys are home grown like Idaho potatoes. Victory over outsiders. We held the gates from Carthage and held our triumph riding that three-horse chariot. Lies—all of it.
Why can’t we construct this battle about a son of Syracuse? Can we call him American? Born into Greek immigrants a century ago. Subsisting off a moving/hauling business, all family-owned, which gave him a hardworking limp. Anyone who thinks that is sorely misguided. Allow me to finish the equation since that's gone over their heads. Not one drop of my blood says American or hero, and it does not define what I am in the ring. I frankly don’t care where Trevor came from—nor should you, WCF. His fists are not British fists. There’s no Boxer Rebellion here. It is the stage for two men on separate missions. Trevor wants the title like any fighter. He doesn’t do it for the UK or little Britain. He does it so he can be anointed champion. Anyone calling this national pride sees one color from their Cro-Magnon brain. The compelxity of a battle tends to be less obvious. It comes from a primal rage in the throat and boils the blood. We are fighters that crave a challenge. Everything else is a distraction."
[Static garbles the picture. Everything texturizes to a view of a pantry with an open space. Parish comes into frame, setting a can of navy beans into the gap.]
“From a bunker the world looks bleak. A lack of friends or neighbors pulls a shroud over the horizon. This stale, virulent phage overtakes the room. It spreads like a plague. Poe saw this allegory long before the ring we know today. His story showed how power creates cowards. They think from a high point or reinforced walls that death will never reach them. Oh how wrong were they. It ravished them, infiltrating their masquerade at its highest point. Then, at the revealing hour, the Red Death unveiled itself before sapping them one-by-one. How macabre.
Even now, there are enemies at my gates. I know they want to find this place. Where I’ve consecrated the ground with shriveled cigarettes and barbed wire fencing. Mystery aches at those untold stories. We seek out questions beyond signs that say Do Not Enter because we feel entitled to know. Hands grab for my mask to see what creature dwells underneath. There's only a rotten human behind it you pelt hunters—you pseudo-scientists--you Big Foot beleivers. My bunker is my home. My bunker is a hive of knowledge. A bear will forage, but it also must have a home. Arenas are the wilds, young ones, where the beasts hunt. In this documentary, two come upon an alluring aroma. Be it fish or a fresh carcass;by their natures, they’ll wage combat for that scent. It won't be for the faintest of heart. Blood will spill at Blast. I hope they bring enough bandages.”
[Cut from the static to a brick wall. Parish speaks out of view.]
“Masonry has a special quality. Each brick has its own tale. Each were forged in a kiln by the same mothering heat. As one it looks like refuse. Two suggests a pattern. Three hundred form a wall. And spackle makes it hold together. Have you seen the WCF today? Well, viewer, you have seen a wall in action. Each came from some birthing source. We all came to know air, our needs and ultimately ourselves. How each arrived here is not important. What they do in the wall determines our collective success. One comes from upper New York while the other from England. They form into a wall of unnoticeable pieces. Money works as the adhesive. Except a wall started somewhere from legends past. We see some of prolonged tenure continuing to wrestle. Older champions have ossified into the company’s support structure: its limestone foundation. Fans heroize those founding members from WCF’s inchoate start. We are the wall building up to Babylonian heights: an undefined peak. What clouds we pierce astounds those too cowardly to climb the summit. From the top it looks wonderfully bleak. From the base it's woefully dark. This game, a supersturcture, builds its ranks on promsing heights. Our desire for adoration renews this sickened hegemony, our plague.
How do we distinguish from a stacking square, one slowly filing into place? Trevor, we win matches and their respect. Then you might win a title for even more. Though I urge you, ponder this between now and Sunday. Think about this conecept: Where will I go in victory? If you answered “up,” congrats because you got it right. Up the wall and into another place. Then you do well and win more titles. Entering this chain is how we begin to see the business function. Your contract says wrestle, entertain and don’t use steroids. Cheaters search out special means like some holy Excalibur that might make them king. We follow certain rules for the purpose of entertainment. I told my opponents last week that we make the gladiator’s salute. They thought different. I showed them what happens if you forget the rules: The business will tear your heart out.”
“We have to be above the game, Mr. Browne. We know the rules here—it's not how Queensbury works. Open fists and don’t be stiff. Here’s how the fight actually works, Trevor. Once you know every rule, you can relearn how to break them. Think of it like computing. Bend the programming to your advantage. Keep your mind off terrible movies. Focus on what I’m telling if you want a chance at defeating me this week. When I saw the wall the first time, my insides regurgitated. Every lie about becoming the best stole that innocent look of a champion. Belts do not define us; on the contrary, we define what the belt represents. Take Blaze for instance. He understands how this game works: Being the best is about knowing how to define the idea of the ceiling. If you train this week on the bags, know that you aren’t punching through to a title shot. You are waging your career on a few claps or explicit chants from the Globe. Do you train to be known a hero or another audacious lie? Reconsider your regimen this week.
Look away from them if you want to rise. People are our foundation, not its actual growth. They're weeds sapping its roots. You cannot rule them by winning a belt, Trevor, you do that by controlling their idea of the champion. I heard booing last week, and it doesn’t affect me. My ears, my eyes—everything shuts them out of view. Some cheered when poor Viceroy split his face open. His blood gained their favor. Don’t feed them—starve them until you have their obedience. I realize what they want is a show. For us to do things they’re incapable of; rubbish, they want us to die. Then take pictures with their phones, posting to Twitter how sad it was that someone expired with crying faces. Don’t let them build the wall Trevor. Evolve from a parasite into a predator. Take your cut of the kill before the pride has their fill. I share nothing—not even the marrow picked from bones. I even hoard the connective tissue. Can you say the same about yourself, Mr. Browne? Are you ready to sever from their control and be your own self? Don’t think in terms of "the business" because that's a trap legends feed from the fans’ mammary glands. They lock onto the teat because they fear losing milk for themselves. So they construct an idea of “Protect the shield” to prolong the wall’s construction.
[Parish reaches under his seat for mason jar of pickles.]
“This is a testament to what I’m saying. Behold this jar of pickles boy, this perfect sample. I caned it myself: cucumbers from my garden, aged in apple cider vinegar from my apple tree, and a jar I made in the foundry downstairs from sand I took from the earth. We cannot be defined by the perks of praise. Benefits last until the well dries up. Mines until their silver veins are stripped clean. What’s left is a runoff you try to make work—like the backwash of bottled Budweiser. If you can subsist without the fans, a title or whatever this business throws down your gullet; Trevor, you might just make it a while in this circus. However, I’m well past that point. I showed the WCF last week what happens if you look for praise. Don’t be the Viceroy, be a real monarch.”
[Fade from static to darkened storage room. Parish yanks the chain of an Edison bulb to reveal a space with empty cardboard boxes and a black leather steam trunk.]
“Preparations are underway for a massive counterstrike. Sunday will begin the turn of a lasting tide pervading WCF. Last week was a taste of my ability. People might call it “extreme” or “ruthless” what I did to those men. Years ago, they said the same about Ox Baker. He feared no man in the ring and took any challenger. More so, he told the world to hate him for everything he did. Ox fed off their hatred, playing the villain of an old-timey program. He did even after causing an accidental death of his opponent. I like to think he knew the difference between winning the crowd and playing them. I will never pander to what they want. If they scream for blood, then I will pardon my foe. If they cheer my foe on—I shall rightfully disembowel them. Nothing they can do or say changes my game plan. It makes us believe that we have a place in the ring. There is no pedestal worthwhile that I cannot build myself. Goodness all, I never even use our locker rooms. My arrival and ring entrance are minutes apart—as is my departure. I’ve bided my time for this moment. Now my plan has come into fruition. Winning at Blast sets the timetable into action. Look upon this trunk, mindless bricks, here inlies my cure to this growing blight. Lerch and this business corrupt us into seeing our place in that rising wall. He tried to spackle us into its ranks by talent, character and adoration. Here’s my solution…”
[Parish opens the trunk to reveal a sledgehammer. Footage gets jumpy from Parish carrying it between rooms. It drops hard, creating garbled feedback. When the video stabilizes, viewers see an angled shot of parish in front of the brick wall. It looks out of place and bears no weight, as if placed in the center of a room. Parish demolishes the wall over the course of two minutes, yelling the names of every wrestler ever to hold the World Championship. He towers over the video feed with the hammer in hand.]
“We cannot become another of the wall, Trevor. We shalln't be another casualty of the business, venerated and beloved for the bodies we’ve destroyed. Let this be a lesson to you and all fawning over the idea of a golden belt. Accessories only make you shine in light. When the ring goes dark and the lights switch off, it goes dim. That luster of greatness fades into the weekly grind. Maybe your name crosses a Facebook post or some watercooler chat. The result is always a hunk of gold to tell you what to be. When I defeat you, Mr. Browne, I step closer to correcting our flawed design. Chinks in the armor forged throughout our weekly training. These cracks worsen over time. Ignoring a cavity will eventually shatter the tooth. I aim to fix these flaws in this company. Here’s an entirely new mission statement for all dreaming of a golden win. First, we detach from the barbarians at the gates. We cannot let a crowd define us. Secondly, I propose a day without champions, without titles to show who we are. Work is work and a belt doesn't define that. We're products of our own effort, Trevor, be a producer not some lamprey clinging from the idea of this TV Title. An object somehow capitalized in proper—as if that allows it to be a real thing. Belts are just another avenue to the heavens.
WCF, hear my final decree. When I win the title shot, and go on to take this title away from whomever wins this weekend, I will not wear it. I will throw it in that steam trunk and hold it backstage. Why you ask? Because it corrupts men. I realize now that I must win it to take it away from those addicted to power. Those who build themselves up that proverbial wall—this rubble I destroyed! It’s join or perish in this parish, and my will does not waver. It will never extinguish. One-by-one I will take these titles and place them in infernal incubation. A musty demise to the idea of a championship belt. Don’t cry because I’m saving you from this delusion. And since no one will listen I must use the canvas of Trevor Browne. My theses will be 99 strikes to his pummeled face. Wittenberg will see my deeds and know that I speak the truth. People will sit there in silence while medics wheel my opponent from the ring. Pitiful monsters, you’ll watch this gruesome dismantling of a man looking for recognition. Brit or American, he only strives to be loved because his father never did. Another steer running through the slaughterhouse. And every one of you obese gawkers will feast on this fledgling. A succulent cut of veal.
Trevor, do not listen to them. Hear me roar if I must, but here’s the truth. If you look for a title to define your work, you’ll only join the wall. Like Babel, it will ascend forever. At the end of the tale, the people did not find the God of creation. They endured a demonstration of our cruelest natural force: harsh gravity. This rubble is your future; unless, you strive to be yourself. One understands more than I do. Let a craven brood survive when the plague entangles this world. Where will you be, Trevor? Even this bunker cannot stop his awesome infection.
