Post by Stephen Singh on Sept 11, 2016 16:39:14 GMT -5
SCENE 1
Scene opens inside of a professional wrestling gym; it’s aged but not dilapidated. Golden rays of early morning sun pour in through the small windows on the garage style doors on the far wall. The air is thick; the sweat of ambition and stench of failure bead up together and wet every surface in the place. The heavy bags, the free weights, the machines, the benches are all covered in a layer of moisture. There’s no air conditioning but large industrial fans whir, moving the air around just enough to differentiate the gym from the inside of a perspiring coffin.
Lights are turned down other than a few above the ring which takes up the center space of the warehouse-style gym. The only three men putting in work at this hour are inside the ring having a handicap match. Outside the ring on a steel folding chair sits a red-haired 20 something woman. She’s short but her presence is large; her milky skin appealingly contrasts with her blue romper and bright red hair. She sits legs crossed, gold earrings swaying ever so slightly as she types away dutifully on a laptop, ignoring the action in the ring.
Inside the ring, the two men on a team appear in the neighborhood of 6’2” and 220 lbs; they’re both wearing wind pants, cross trainers and shirts that read “3rd St Gym,” one with the sleeves cut off and the other a standard t-shirt. The solo competitor is wearing snug, MMA-style shorts, no shirt and a wry smile throughout the exhibition. The back of his shorts read The Golden One; this is “Superstar” Steven Singh. His opponent with the t-shirt is currently stuck in a tree of woe in the corner while he drops Sleeveless with a brainbuster. Without a moment’s rest, Singh slides out of the ring where T-shirt is hung in the tree of woe and from the floor, Singh wrenches back hard on the neck of his opponent.
T-shirt: Uugggghhhh…..
Sleeveless(getting to his feet after the brainbuster): C’mon man, break it after a four count.
Singh: I don’t hear a count and I definitely don’t see a referee.
Steve pulls back harder on his opponent’s neck. His sleeveless sparring partner runs and suicide dives through the middle rope towards Singh. Singh drops the hold just in time to use the diving man’s moment against him in a side belly-to-belly out onto the floor. Singh pops up and brushes dirt off his shoulder.
Singh: Why? Why do a move called the suicide dive? It’s right there in the title; YOU die, not me.
The Superstar hops back into the ring and takes T-shirt down from the tree of woe. His body hits the mat with a thud. Singh slaps on a top wristlock, his back to where Sleeveless slowly recovers on the outside of the ring. T-Shirt begins to make his way back to his feet while Sleeveless is up on the apron. Looking to break the hold, Sleeveless springboards off the top rope with a knee aimed directly at the back of the head of Singh who apparently has eyes in the back of his head. SSS spins himself and T-Shirt around and the leaping knee lands squarely on the jaw of his opponent. T-Shirt’s knees buckle and he’s a pile on the mat. Sleeveless is back up and rushes The Superstar who drops to the mat,Sleeveless bounces off the ropes and comes back with a flying lariat. Singh finally hits the mat. Outside the ring, the woman stops typing for a moment and looks up at the ring.
Singh slaps the mat and gets back to his feet. One-handed throat chop to his opponent who clutches his neck and turns around. The woman begins slowly typing again but keeps her eyes trained on the action. Before Singh can follow up with another shot, T-shirt pops the back of his head with a flying forearm. A kick to the gut doubles over Singh and the duo from the 3rd Street Gym have him set up for a spiked piledriver. As they hoist Singh’s legs up HE donkey kicks T-shirt away then falls to all fours. Sleeveless goes for a standard piledriver but SSS slams the back of his head up and into Sleeveless’ crotch.
Sleeveless: OOF!
As Sleeveless rolls out of the ring to recover his partner takes exception from the other side of the ring.
T-shirt: C’mon, mayne. A low blow? We're just sparring.
The smile disappears from The Superstar’s face. The observing redhead returns her full attention to the laptop and begins clacking away at the keys again.
Singh: Spoken like a true loser. You see, pleeb, there IS no sparring, there is no practice….
T-shirt bullrushes The Golden One and tries to land a kick to the gut. Singh catches it and downs his opponent with a nasty dragon screw leg whip. Singh rolls through, holding the leg and standing his opponent back up.
Singh: The whole world's a stage so somebody is ALWAYS watching. No matter what, I’ve always got a three-man-audience to answer to: me, myself and I.
Superstar ducks an attempted enziguri then quickly torques T-Shirt’s knee with a deep, nasty heel hook he calls the 15 Minutes of Fame.
Singh: So you see, only a know-nothing, do-nothing, brain-dead LOSER would refer to any time inside this ring as “sparring…”
The knee is wrenched tighter, T-Shirt taps out and SSS smiles but doesn’t release the hold. Outside the ring, Sleeveless finally gathers himself. Hearing a groan from his friend and livid at how this “sparring” is turning out he grabs a steel folding chair from under the ring. Singh sees the his livid opponent, lets go of the 15 Minutes and pops to his feet. Sleeveless slides in and tries to decapitate SSS with a baseball swing with that chair in hand; The Superstar ducks the chair, steps behind and hoists him onto his shoulders. The foe drops the chair and Singh drops the foe with an inverted DVD he calls The Supernova. Sleeveless is out cold, T-Shirt is clutching his knee. A million dollar smile spreads across his face as he steps calmly out of the ring.
T-Shirt: F*ck you, man!
Singh: I didn’t break any bones, I didn’t even tear a single one of your ligaments. Instead, I did you a favor and taught you to take your training a little more seriously. Maybe next time it would help if one of you grab the chair right away. I mean...probably not. But anything is possible!
As Singh approaches the female observer she claps the laptop shut and slips it into her oversized purse.
Woman: Wonderful, another gym you won’t be welcome back to.
Singh: Oh come on, just tell the owner things got a little out of hand and ask him what the “clean up” cost is. You know the drill.
Woman: Those ARE the owners, Steve.
Singh: THOSE are the owners?
His eyebrows jump in disbelief and he glances back at the downed duo in the ring, trying to make sense of it.
Singh: Trust fund, silver spooned little philistines without enough respect for the sport. They don’t deserve this place and they certainly don’t deserve ME as a patron.
Woman: You’ve got to train somewhere.
Singh: Wait, what’s your title again? I think I forgot. Could you remind me?
Woman: Assista-
Singh(interrupting): Ahh! That’s right! You’re my ASSISTANT. Which, I believe, is defined as “One who should shut her mouth and avoid telling THE SUPERSTAR what he’s ‘got’ to do.” Is that the definition?
He pauses for a moment then turns his head and puts a finger to his ear. She doesn’t respond but she’s visibly unamused.
Singh: Alright, you’re not sure. Put that on your list: “look up definition of assistant.” Then, I don’t know, maybe get it tattooed on the inside of your ass since that’s where you head spends most of its time. Let’s move on. What’s the word on the WCF?
Letting out a large sigh, she closes her eyes, and recomposes herself. She’s not unaccustomed to the verbal abuse.
Assistant: Good news; you’re booked!
Singh: Tremendous!
Assistant: Bad news; you’re opening the card with three other first-timers.
Singh: Ugh. Disappointing but expected I suppose. I assume you’ve gathered what you can on the mooks?
His assistant nods.
Singh: Wonderful. Since we've got the crew here now, why don't I go ahead and cut a little introductory promo. You know, give ‘em a little taste of my Golden Gab. Then after I go over whatever info you've gathered on the three stooges I'm going to trounce on Sunday, the crew can come back another day for something with a bit more substance.
Assistant: That's a great idea and all, Steve, but...they can't do that.
Singh: What the hell do you mean they can't do that?
Assistant: They're only sending a crew once a week for each competitor.
Singh: What?! I thought this was the big time! You've got the Shakespeare of Shoot and you're telling him it's ONCE A WEEK?
Assistant: Yeah, I'd assume it's budget cuts or something. I mean, the economy isn't great…
Singh: Thanks, Obama.
The Superstar huffs and runs his fingers through his hair. He sighs and calm returns to his face.
Singh: Alright, it doesn't matter. I've got to shower up but let's finish this at Blue Bottle Coffee. Bring the laptop so I can be wowed by your research and I'll tear into these three nobodies off the cuff. You guys (he points towards the camera) get over there, get set up and I'll bring the heat. Clean your ears and prepare for the my euphonic eulogy of the WCF.
SCENE 2
Exterior shot of a street in Williamsburg. Late morning and the air has a crisp warmth; the kind that conjures thoughts of a wasted Summer and a looming Fall. People walk, mostly in two’s, mostly happy. Or mostly seeming that way. Who is really what they mostly seem? An uber zips by full of trust fund kids who overpaid for their jeans to look distressed, worn. That’s today. Pay a little extra to give the impression of wear and tear. One corner up a city bus tiredly exhales to a stop. There’s the actual distress, the actual struggle, the earned wear and tear. The city bus is full of stories and life and challenge and passion and joy and tragedy. But this borough is full of people who feign the grind; who’ve never spent an afternoon packed into a putrid public bus. The camera closes in on the glass-fronted Blue Bottle Coffee shop.
Inside the coffee shop the assistant stands, a coffee in one hand and an americano in the other. She cranes her neck back and forth looking for a spot to sit. The shop is small and the line is long; the tables are all small and full. The camera shoots from a corner across the store, as out of the way as possible. The Assistant approaches a man alone on his laptop at a table on the other side of the room and pleads with him. She gestures towards the camera and the man shakes his head. He points towards the empty chair and shrugs; she looks around again and then plops her purse down on the spot. She sets the americano down on that side of the table. Never on schedule but always on time, The Superstar strides through the front door and immediately sees his Assistant. He yells to her across the store as he approaches.
Singh: Where the hell’s the camera crew?
She points behind him and he turns to face the camera. He signals follow him and the camera jostles its way towards the table. The cameraman frames up the three of them, in tight enough to get the full dialogue now. Singh has his hands on his hips.
Singh: This is the best you could do? A table shared with some ninny nobody? I’m supposed to cut a promo with this mook three feet from my face? No offense, guy.
Man: How is th--
Singh: It doesn’t matter. I’ll make due. I always do. When life gives you lemons, paint that shit gold, right?!
Man: Is that an Atmosphere album?
Singh: Hey look at the big brain on Brett!
Man: It’s Brad.
Singh: I don’t care what your name is, Brad, it was a quote from a movie.
Man: Yeah, I know. It’s Brad.
Singh: Nooo-oooo….it’s Pulp Fiction. Now, get off my table.
Brad: Yeah I know it’s Pulp Fiction. But the name is Brad.
Singh: Right, your name’s Brad. That’s what I’m saying; what the hell are you hearing? Whatever. Doesn’t matter. You’re wasting the magic hour; get off my table.
Brad: I was here first and I’m working. I told Erica she could have that seat but if I knew--
Singh: Who the hell is Erica?
The patron, whose name is definitely not Brad, nods towards the assistant. With a perplexed look, The Superstar glances up at her.
Singh: Your name is Erica?
Erica: Yeah.
Singh: Since when?
Erica: Since always.
Singh: Nah. That’s an ugly chick’s name. You’re not an Erica.
Erica: My birth certificate disagrees.
Singh: Your birth certificate does not sign your checks. So….you’re not Erica.
Erica: So you sign my checks but you don’t know my name? Because my name is definitely on those checks.
Singh: Are you sure? I feel like I’ve just been writing “Assistant” on them. Or “ass” for the sake of brevity and...well...obvious reasons.
Erica: Whatever. Well if I’m not Erica, what’s my name?
Singh: Not sure. Let’s just stick with Assistant for now.
Assistant: I don’t get a name?
Singh: Assistant is a great name. Most surnames were originally derived from whatever job you had anyways. So Assistant is absolutely apropos.
Assistant: Whatever.
Singh: That’s the spirit! Now since Brad is being so rude, we’re going to have to do the best with what we’ve got.
Steven scoops the purse out of the seat and tosses it to Assistant who somehow manages not to spill her coffee. He whistles and signals the camera crew to come closer, directing them to the corner facing him.
Singh: Alright now frame up tight. Assistant, take a step back; make sure you’re not in my shot. And if Brad is in my shot, God help me...Okay…we good to go?
The man looks up from his laptop, sighs and goes back to scribbling notes down on his legal pad. The camera frames tightly around Singh. The Superstar takes a long, meditated drink from his americano. He sets it down and looks directly in the camera; he puts three fingers up, two, one….
Singh: Congratulations, WCF! You’re in the presence of “The Superstar” Steven Singh and I’d like to be the FIRST to welcome you to the new Golden Era of WCF! I’ve come to usher in a new beginning, a brand new start, a radical reprieve from repetition! After a long hiatus, I am set to return to the squared circle and I’ve done you all the absolute honor of choosing to piss all over the competition here in the WCF! A Golden Era of Golden Showers for all you goons and grunts! Huzzah! I should clarify. That’s metaphor. I’m speaking figuratively.
He repeats the word, slowly sounding out the syllables.
FIG...YER...A...TIV...LEE. That means I’m not being literal. I figured I should make that bit crystal clear for everybody in the back since it seems the art of articulation is absolutely absent in some of your minds. It’s highly likely that somebody has made similar comments or threats and then...you know...actually dropped trou and pissed on people.
From out of frame, his table partner can’t quell an “eww.”
I know it’s gross, Brad. But that’s not the half of it! Earlier this week, I’m pretty sure some dude boned a corpse. NECROPHILIA. Same dude MAY have also imbibed some human remains.
A few different nearby patrons guffaw.
It’s not me guys, these mooks are CRAZY. Sh*t, I’m pretty sure there’s an ACTUAL SERIAL KILLER that’s allowed to wrestle. What?! HE’S A SERIAL KILLER, SOMEONE GET HIM OUT OF HERE! I digress. Back to the lecture at hand.
My love of language and my gift of Golden Gab will likely be derided by the lesser-minded. They won’t understand half of what I say and even less of what I mean. And that’s okay; that’s their loss to be honest. Shit, a lot of people didn’t “get” Picasso. So I won’t be surprised if we’ve got masses sleeping on the Picasso of Pontification. Ooo...That’s new. Write that one down, Assistant.
Assistant (off-screen): Okay. Got it. What about that one from earlier? Shakespeare of...Something…
Singh: Shoot! The Shakespeare of Shoot! And yes, take that one down too. You shouldn’t have to ask, the instruction is simple: when I drop a brand new genius gem, you write it down. So that pen should be scribbling just about non-stop.
Assistant: I use the laptop to docu--
Singh: C’mon Assistant! What the hell did I just say about figurative language! Everything I say doesn’t necessarily mean what it means. But I definitely mean to say everything I say. You know what I mean?
Anyways, WCF, my vocabulary, my diction, my syntax, my speech itself should help you understand how I handle my business inside the ring. I’m a technician. Precision is the name of my game. Why do I say “pontificate” instead of “talk?” PRECISION. The words I use are chosen purposefully and meticulously; they are arrows piercing a bullseye of meaning. And THAT is how I wrestle. Every move I make, everything that takes place inside that squared circle is cold, calculated and exact. Everything I do is to maximize my success and minimize yours.
Are mistakes made? Are there gaffes? LOSSES even? Of course there are. That’s unavoidable. But there’s no need to take unnecessary, incalculable risks. I work with and within my own strengths and limitations. The road to victory is not the prettiest, it’s not the quickest, it’s the most sure-footed. And that is where I walk, that is how I do battle: sure-footed and confidently grinding my opponent into the mat until they tap out, pass out, or get knocked out. The formula changes opponent to opponent and even moment to moment within a match but rest assured that the results are always the same. That’s why I’m The Sure Thing, Steven Singh.
From off-screen, not-Brad groans.
Singh: Oh you’re too good for a rhyming moniker, Brad? You hipster a**hat. Assistant! What’s the first mook’s name?
Assistant: “The King” Jay West.
From frame right a piece of paper is slid in front of Steve. He reads it in silence for a moment then a smile spreads across his face.
Singh: This is exactly what I was talking about! This guy! A man who boasts of being the ‘King of the Sky’ will be made a PEASANT on the mat. Jay West, your tendencies all lead to self-inflicted punishment, damage to your body that I don’t even have to do. Springboards, somersaults, diving maneuvers. Great. Wonderful. Do it. Rule the sky; you’re cleared for take off. Unfortunately, it’s never the take off that causes problems: it’s the landing. And you’re going to be landing on an empty mat as I roll out of the way or maybe onto a well timed knee lift or maybe I won’t even wait for your landing. Maybe while you’re climbing the ropes for a moonsault...while your back is turned and you’re imagining the heights of glory and flying through the air to wow the crowd...I clip your wings with a Supernova.
High flyers. Ugh. They shouldn’t even be allowed to call themselves wrestlers much less be allowed to try and stand toe to toe with a technician like yours truly. What else is this a**flap’s deal, Assistant?
Assistant: Well it looks like he’s been pretty active on twitter this week.
Singh: What?
Assistant: Twitter; it’s a social media where you can--
Singh: I know what it is, Assistant! C’mon! But you’re telling me he’s been twitting this week? Before his match? Before he’s even cut a proper promo?
Assistant: Yeah, it seems like the WCF encourages it.
Singh: No.
Assistant: No?
Singh: No, I’m not going to twit.
Assistant: Tweet.
Singh: That either. I’m The Shakespeare of Shoot and The Surest Thing in the Ring; my venom and vitriol is not to be contained within one hundred and forty characters.
Assistant: Well I can't make you but they really encourage it. It might even be an obligation in your provisional contract so I’d highly suggest it if you want to stay on the right side of the brass.
Singh: Ugh. Fine. Whatever. I’ll sign up later I gue--
Assistant: I actually already registered you.
Singh: Well look at you! What a proactive Patti! Color me impressed. Fine, hand me the laptop and I’ll do SOMETHING.
Assistant: The battery’s dead.
Singh: One step forward two back, huh? Here.
The Superstar reaches just off camera and seizes Brad’s laptop. He hands it to Assistant. The camera pulls back to re-frame the three of them into the shot.
Brad: What the hell?
Singh: Chill, Brad. I just need this for a minute. Now log me in and I’ll do my contractually obligated Internet-bullsh*t diligence. So anyways, that’s how your night on Slam is going to go, West. You’re going to be grounded and then pounded by The Superstar. Even if you’re the best high-flyer who’s ever lived, by definition you leave yourself in greater danger and exposed to greater risks than I ever would. And I will anticipate your arrogance and then exploit your exuberance until you’re staring up at those lights wishing you’d never laced up your boots in the first place.
Assistant: Here you go, just type your tweet right in there….
Singh: I know where to type it!
Without a moment’s hesitation the Superstar types up a message. The Assistant leans over and reads it.
Assistant: That’s great. What a positive attitude.
Singh: Number one: don’t read over my shoulder. Number two: I’m not here to be positive and I sure as hell am not here to worry about my twitter feed. But if it’s in my contract, there, I took care of it. Now just for the sake of discussion, why don’t you show me what the three stooges have been saying all week on here.
The Superstar hands the laptop back to his Assistant who begins pulling up back and forth between Bruno Armstrong and Jay West from earlier this week.
Brad: Erica, what are you doing? Give me my laptop back.
Singh: First of all, her name is Assistant. I’m pretty sure we’ve been over that. And if you used her name, maybe she’d actually listen to you. It’s kind of misogynist to just call her “Erica” because you decided that’s her name. And be patient about the laptop! It’s just a few more minutes and you can have it back for whatever drudgery and bullsh*t ‘work’ you’re pretending is more fulfilling than just a weekly paycheck to keep your pathetic existence afloat for another seven days.
Not-brad leans back into his chair, sighs loudly, and folds his arms. Singh’s assistant, Erica, has pulled up the conversations between Bruno Armstrong and Jay West from earlier this week; she hands the laptop back to Steven along with the scouting sheet on Bruno “Iron” Armstrong. His eyebrows turns upward in the middle, disappointed in what he’s reading. His eyes grow wide and he lets out a big sigh before turning his attention back to the camera.
Singh: Alright. Back to it. How’s the framing? Is it still tight? Just me right?
The camera shakes back and forth for no.
Singh: Come on, pull in. Get these other two OUT OF MY FRAME. They’re ruining the aesthetic.
The camera re-frames into a tight one-shot on Singh again. He counts down with his fingers once more, 3….2….1…
Singh: Children. Apparently, that’s two thirds of who they’ve put me in the ring with on Sunday. G*ddamn children. I shouldn’t be surprised by internet idiocy any more. I should know that these man-babies get behind a screen and a keyboard and just start click-clack-clucking about the first thing that comes to their tiny little minds. And surprise, surprise it’s barely intelligible rubbish.
Bruno “Iron” Armstrong. According to your little profile here, I would’ve assumed you were above this. I didn’t think you’d be the type to get sucked into a hashtagged, online-shouting match over spears. I wanted more from you. I wanted a formidable opponent. But I should’ve known better. Looks like you’re another who considers himself a “king.” Great. Well you two royal a**holes can jockey over that moniker all you want but allow me to paraphrase Frank Ocean: what’s a king to a Golden God?
To counter your all-too predictable and likely response of what’s a god to a non-believer: A GOD. My skill set, my unassailable prowess, my status as The Golden God is not predicated upon faith: it depends upon my own blood, sweat and tears. It’s predicated upon my ten plus years in combat sports. It’s predicated upon the fact that I will out work, out think, and out maneuver you. I WILLED myself out of the gutter and into greatness. Listen to the lyrics when I step out from behind that curtain: “The system’s broken and I go nuthin to lose….I embody every characteristic of the egotistic...He knows he’s so fuckin gifted.” A proper theme is important. It can speak volumes about the man on his way to the ring. What uninspired little diddy do you come out to, Armstrong? I’m assuming it’s some Nickelback-level trashfire…
The Superstar looks down at the paper. His eyes pop wide and his mouth turns up in disgust. His cool disappears and he’s livid.
Did you know about this? Why did you not tell me about this?
Assistant: I was going to--
Singh: You were going to what? You were going to tell me but then you decided you’d rather let me find out on-camera? Mid-promo? Are you trying to make me look like one of these other no-talent f*cklets?
Assistant: No, I just--
Singh: You just screwed the pooch. That’s what you just did. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Contact the front office to have him change it. I had it first.
Assistant: Umm...it actually appears his contract may’ve been official first.
The Superstar slams his fist on the table. His espresso and the laptop both make a small hop.
Singh: FINE! Whatever. Screw it. Theme music doesn’t matter anyways. It literally means nothing. Edit out that other sh*t I said. I was just riffing. It’s fine. Whatever. Armstrong! Apparently you don’t mind making a ‘show’ out of putting down your opponents? Great! Grand! Wonderful! Another small-thinking self-endangering ignoramus for me to abuse. Take an extra second to gloat, go ahead and strike a pose. That extra split second you give me to catch my breath...to stalk...to plot. THAT will be your failure, your downfall. Be brave, hop on that top rope for your Vambrace Lariat just don’t be surprised when on your way down I slap on that triangle choke and give you a look at all the Bright Lights.
Brad: Can I get my laptop back now?
Assistant: Um...not yet, Brad. There’s one more thing.
Erica leans over the computer in front of The Superstar and pulls something else up. As she does, her top falls away from her body, exposing her chest just a bit more than previously. Brad believes he catches a glimpse unnoticed.
Singh: Brad, what the hell did I tell you about your misogyny? This is a young, professional, beautiful woman.
Assistant: <surprised>: Umm...thanks, Steve?
Singh: And yes, she probably dresses like this for the express purpose of garnering attention from dirty hipsters like you. And yes, she knew exactly what she was doing when she leaned over the table. And yes, her breasts are something to behold. And something to be held. But be better than that! Rise above her feminine wiles! Do not succumb to the sexy! You’re better than that!
Steve pauses and squints at Brad.
Nevermind, no you’re not. Those are probably the only breasts you’ll see this month. So go for it, I guess.
Erica rolls her eyes and turns the laptop back towards The Superstar. He reads again and cocks his head slightly, not sure what to make of whatever he’s reading.
Singh: So this is the last one, right? Drakkein? Is this a joke? I mean...he thinks he’s...a dragon?
The assistant shrugs.
And that name. Even George R.R. would’ve rejected a name that lazy! ‘We need to name another dragon...How about Drakkein? Are you kidding? That’s terrible! Way too on the nose! How Drogon? Yeah that’s fine I guess...At least it’s better than Drakkein.’ Come on...Is this guy for real?
Assistant: You mean….like is he a real dragon?
Singh: No, that’s not what I mean! I hate to break this to you, Assistant, but Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, dragons….THEY ARE NOT REAL.
Assistant: Well the locker room sure seems to think--
Singh: They think what? That he’s a dragon?
Assistant: Maybe? I guess I'm not sure about that. But they definitely think he’s the favorite to win.
Singh: Oh they do?
Assistant: Yeah. This guy has a TON of buzz coming in.
Singh: Buzz doesn’t win matches. And who gives two squirts what the locker room thinks.
Assistant: He’s also the odds-on-favorite in Vegas.
Singh: What are my odds?
Assistant: umm...you’re off the board.
Singh: WHAT?!
Assistant: You’re off the board. Apparently it was partially attributed to your lack of presence on social media a--
Singh(interrupting): Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Find somebody to take the bet and put a grand on me to win. That’ll make Slam even sweeter.
Regardless of the sheer idiocy of your name and apparent belief that you’re a dragon, it seems that you’re a dangerous man. It seems you’re the man to beat, the man to watch, the man riding that hype train right into Sunday. And that’s fine...because no matter what you wear to the ring, no matter your appearance, no matter what bedtime stories you’ve been told, you are a man. You’re a man with bones that break and ligaments that tear. You’re a man who uses the crutch of a fantasy to navigate the real world. That’s fine for you. Whatever you need to do. But unfortunately, that won’t help you on Sunday, inside the real world, inside that ring, in MY world. I’m a man who spends his every waking moment plotting, obsessing over what’s going to happen inside that ring, in the real world. So put on your wings, don your mask, and even spit your mist. I’m going to do the same thing I do everyday--lace up my wrestling boots and methodically, systematically, mercilessly destroy the MAN placed across from.
The Superstar slams the laptop shut.
Brad: Hey!
Singh: Jesus Brad! Chill out! I’m finishing up here....
Make sure you’re paying attention at Slam, WCF. You’ve all spent the whole week sleeping on me so I hope you’re well rested because this Sunday you’re going to get a wake up call from The Superstar himself. I’m going to ground the King of the Sky, rust the Iron and snuff out the Dragon. I am the Jack of All Trades and the Master of One. I am the Master of that squared circle and this Sunday you’ll all bear witness to the dawning of the Golden Era of the WCF. And there’s only two things any of you can do about it: like it….OR LOVE IT.
The Superstar smiles wide at the camera. The scene fades to black.
Scene opens inside of a professional wrestling gym; it’s aged but not dilapidated. Golden rays of early morning sun pour in through the small windows on the garage style doors on the far wall. The air is thick; the sweat of ambition and stench of failure bead up together and wet every surface in the place. The heavy bags, the free weights, the machines, the benches are all covered in a layer of moisture. There’s no air conditioning but large industrial fans whir, moving the air around just enough to differentiate the gym from the inside of a perspiring coffin.
Lights are turned down other than a few above the ring which takes up the center space of the warehouse-style gym. The only three men putting in work at this hour are inside the ring having a handicap match. Outside the ring on a steel folding chair sits a red-haired 20 something woman. She’s short but her presence is large; her milky skin appealingly contrasts with her blue romper and bright red hair. She sits legs crossed, gold earrings swaying ever so slightly as she types away dutifully on a laptop, ignoring the action in the ring.
Inside the ring, the two men on a team appear in the neighborhood of 6’2” and 220 lbs; they’re both wearing wind pants, cross trainers and shirts that read “3rd St Gym,” one with the sleeves cut off and the other a standard t-shirt. The solo competitor is wearing snug, MMA-style shorts, no shirt and a wry smile throughout the exhibition. The back of his shorts read The Golden One; this is “Superstar” Steven Singh. His opponent with the t-shirt is currently stuck in a tree of woe in the corner while he drops Sleeveless with a brainbuster. Without a moment’s rest, Singh slides out of the ring where T-shirt is hung in the tree of woe and from the floor, Singh wrenches back hard on the neck of his opponent.
T-shirt: Uugggghhhh…..
Sleeveless(getting to his feet after the brainbuster): C’mon man, break it after a four count.
Singh: I don’t hear a count and I definitely don’t see a referee.
Steve pulls back harder on his opponent’s neck. His sleeveless sparring partner runs and suicide dives through the middle rope towards Singh. Singh drops the hold just in time to use the diving man’s moment against him in a side belly-to-belly out onto the floor. Singh pops up and brushes dirt off his shoulder.
Singh: Why? Why do a move called the suicide dive? It’s right there in the title; YOU die, not me.
The Superstar hops back into the ring and takes T-shirt down from the tree of woe. His body hits the mat with a thud. Singh slaps on a top wristlock, his back to where Sleeveless slowly recovers on the outside of the ring. T-Shirt begins to make his way back to his feet while Sleeveless is up on the apron. Looking to break the hold, Sleeveless springboards off the top rope with a knee aimed directly at the back of the head of Singh who apparently has eyes in the back of his head. SSS spins himself and T-Shirt around and the leaping knee lands squarely on the jaw of his opponent. T-Shirt’s knees buckle and he’s a pile on the mat. Sleeveless is back up and rushes The Superstar who drops to the mat,Sleeveless bounces off the ropes and comes back with a flying lariat. Singh finally hits the mat. Outside the ring, the woman stops typing for a moment and looks up at the ring.
Singh slaps the mat and gets back to his feet. One-handed throat chop to his opponent who clutches his neck and turns around. The woman begins slowly typing again but keeps her eyes trained on the action. Before Singh can follow up with another shot, T-shirt pops the back of his head with a flying forearm. A kick to the gut doubles over Singh and the duo from the 3rd Street Gym have him set up for a spiked piledriver. As they hoist Singh’s legs up HE donkey kicks T-shirt away then falls to all fours. Sleeveless goes for a standard piledriver but SSS slams the back of his head up and into Sleeveless’ crotch.
Sleeveless: OOF!
As Sleeveless rolls out of the ring to recover his partner takes exception from the other side of the ring.
T-shirt: C’mon, mayne. A low blow? We're just sparring.
The smile disappears from The Superstar’s face. The observing redhead returns her full attention to the laptop and begins clacking away at the keys again.
Singh: Spoken like a true loser. You see, pleeb, there IS no sparring, there is no practice….
T-shirt bullrushes The Golden One and tries to land a kick to the gut. Singh catches it and downs his opponent with a nasty dragon screw leg whip. Singh rolls through, holding the leg and standing his opponent back up.
Singh: The whole world's a stage so somebody is ALWAYS watching. No matter what, I’ve always got a three-man-audience to answer to: me, myself and I.
Superstar ducks an attempted enziguri then quickly torques T-Shirt’s knee with a deep, nasty heel hook he calls the 15 Minutes of Fame.
Singh: So you see, only a know-nothing, do-nothing, brain-dead LOSER would refer to any time inside this ring as “sparring…”
The knee is wrenched tighter, T-Shirt taps out and SSS smiles but doesn’t release the hold. Outside the ring, Sleeveless finally gathers himself. Hearing a groan from his friend and livid at how this “sparring” is turning out he grabs a steel folding chair from under the ring. Singh sees the his livid opponent, lets go of the 15 Minutes and pops to his feet. Sleeveless slides in and tries to decapitate SSS with a baseball swing with that chair in hand; The Superstar ducks the chair, steps behind and hoists him onto his shoulders. The foe drops the chair and Singh drops the foe with an inverted DVD he calls The Supernova. Sleeveless is out cold, T-Shirt is clutching his knee. A million dollar smile spreads across his face as he steps calmly out of the ring.
T-Shirt: F*ck you, man!
Singh: I didn’t break any bones, I didn’t even tear a single one of your ligaments. Instead, I did you a favor and taught you to take your training a little more seriously. Maybe next time it would help if one of you grab the chair right away. I mean...probably not. But anything is possible!
As Singh approaches the female observer she claps the laptop shut and slips it into her oversized purse.
Woman: Wonderful, another gym you won’t be welcome back to.
Singh: Oh come on, just tell the owner things got a little out of hand and ask him what the “clean up” cost is. You know the drill.
Woman: Those ARE the owners, Steve.
Singh: THOSE are the owners?
His eyebrows jump in disbelief and he glances back at the downed duo in the ring, trying to make sense of it.
Singh: Trust fund, silver spooned little philistines without enough respect for the sport. They don’t deserve this place and they certainly don’t deserve ME as a patron.
Woman: You’ve got to train somewhere.
Singh: Wait, what’s your title again? I think I forgot. Could you remind me?
Woman: Assista-
Singh(interrupting): Ahh! That’s right! You’re my ASSISTANT. Which, I believe, is defined as “One who should shut her mouth and avoid telling THE SUPERSTAR what he’s ‘got’ to do.” Is that the definition?
He pauses for a moment then turns his head and puts a finger to his ear. She doesn’t respond but she’s visibly unamused.
Singh: Alright, you’re not sure. Put that on your list: “look up definition of assistant.” Then, I don’t know, maybe get it tattooed on the inside of your ass since that’s where you head spends most of its time. Let’s move on. What’s the word on the WCF?
Letting out a large sigh, she closes her eyes, and recomposes herself. She’s not unaccustomed to the verbal abuse.
Assistant: Good news; you’re booked!
Singh: Tremendous!
Assistant: Bad news; you’re opening the card with three other first-timers.
Singh: Ugh. Disappointing but expected I suppose. I assume you’ve gathered what you can on the mooks?
His assistant nods.
Singh: Wonderful. Since we've got the crew here now, why don't I go ahead and cut a little introductory promo. You know, give ‘em a little taste of my Golden Gab. Then after I go over whatever info you've gathered on the three stooges I'm going to trounce on Sunday, the crew can come back another day for something with a bit more substance.
Assistant: That's a great idea and all, Steve, but...they can't do that.
Singh: What the hell do you mean they can't do that?
Assistant: They're only sending a crew once a week for each competitor.
Singh: What?! I thought this was the big time! You've got the Shakespeare of Shoot and you're telling him it's ONCE A WEEK?
Assistant: Yeah, I'd assume it's budget cuts or something. I mean, the economy isn't great…
Singh: Thanks, Obama.
The Superstar huffs and runs his fingers through his hair. He sighs and calm returns to his face.
Singh: Alright, it doesn't matter. I've got to shower up but let's finish this at Blue Bottle Coffee. Bring the laptop so I can be wowed by your research and I'll tear into these three nobodies off the cuff. You guys (he points towards the camera) get over there, get set up and I'll bring the heat. Clean your ears and prepare for the my euphonic eulogy of the WCF.
SCENE 2
Exterior shot of a street in Williamsburg. Late morning and the air has a crisp warmth; the kind that conjures thoughts of a wasted Summer and a looming Fall. People walk, mostly in two’s, mostly happy. Or mostly seeming that way. Who is really what they mostly seem? An uber zips by full of trust fund kids who overpaid for their jeans to look distressed, worn. That’s today. Pay a little extra to give the impression of wear and tear. One corner up a city bus tiredly exhales to a stop. There’s the actual distress, the actual struggle, the earned wear and tear. The city bus is full of stories and life and challenge and passion and joy and tragedy. But this borough is full of people who feign the grind; who’ve never spent an afternoon packed into a putrid public bus. The camera closes in on the glass-fronted Blue Bottle Coffee shop.
Inside the coffee shop the assistant stands, a coffee in one hand and an americano in the other. She cranes her neck back and forth looking for a spot to sit. The shop is small and the line is long; the tables are all small and full. The camera shoots from a corner across the store, as out of the way as possible. The Assistant approaches a man alone on his laptop at a table on the other side of the room and pleads with him. She gestures towards the camera and the man shakes his head. He points towards the empty chair and shrugs; she looks around again and then plops her purse down on the spot. She sets the americano down on that side of the table. Never on schedule but always on time, The Superstar strides through the front door and immediately sees his Assistant. He yells to her across the store as he approaches.
Singh: Where the hell’s the camera crew?
She points behind him and he turns to face the camera. He signals follow him and the camera jostles its way towards the table. The cameraman frames up the three of them, in tight enough to get the full dialogue now. Singh has his hands on his hips.
Singh: This is the best you could do? A table shared with some ninny nobody? I’m supposed to cut a promo with this mook three feet from my face? No offense, guy.
Man: How is th--
Singh: It doesn’t matter. I’ll make due. I always do. When life gives you lemons, paint that shit gold, right?!
Man: Is that an Atmosphere album?
Singh: Hey look at the big brain on Brett!
Man: It’s Brad.
Singh: I don’t care what your name is, Brad, it was a quote from a movie.
Man: Yeah, I know. It’s Brad.
Singh: Nooo-oooo….it’s Pulp Fiction. Now, get off my table.
Brad: Yeah I know it’s Pulp Fiction. But the name is Brad.
Singh: Right, your name’s Brad. That’s what I’m saying; what the hell are you hearing? Whatever. Doesn’t matter. You’re wasting the magic hour; get off my table.
Brad: I was here first and I’m working. I told Erica she could have that seat but if I knew--
Singh: Who the hell is Erica?
The patron, whose name is definitely not Brad, nods towards the assistant. With a perplexed look, The Superstar glances up at her.
Singh: Your name is Erica?
Erica: Yeah.
Singh: Since when?
Erica: Since always.
Singh: Nah. That’s an ugly chick’s name. You’re not an Erica.
Erica: My birth certificate disagrees.
Singh: Your birth certificate does not sign your checks. So….you’re not Erica.
Erica: So you sign my checks but you don’t know my name? Because my name is definitely on those checks.
Singh: Are you sure? I feel like I’ve just been writing “Assistant” on them. Or “ass” for the sake of brevity and...well...obvious reasons.
Erica: Whatever. Well if I’m not Erica, what’s my name?
Singh: Not sure. Let’s just stick with Assistant for now.
Assistant: I don’t get a name?
Singh: Assistant is a great name. Most surnames were originally derived from whatever job you had anyways. So Assistant is absolutely apropos.
Assistant: Whatever.
Singh: That’s the spirit! Now since Brad is being so rude, we’re going to have to do the best with what we’ve got.
Steven scoops the purse out of the seat and tosses it to Assistant who somehow manages not to spill her coffee. He whistles and signals the camera crew to come closer, directing them to the corner facing him.
Singh: Alright now frame up tight. Assistant, take a step back; make sure you’re not in my shot. And if Brad is in my shot, God help me...Okay…we good to go?
The man looks up from his laptop, sighs and goes back to scribbling notes down on his legal pad. The camera frames tightly around Singh. The Superstar takes a long, meditated drink from his americano. He sets it down and looks directly in the camera; he puts three fingers up, two, one….
Singh: Congratulations, WCF! You’re in the presence of “The Superstar” Steven Singh and I’d like to be the FIRST to welcome you to the new Golden Era of WCF! I’ve come to usher in a new beginning, a brand new start, a radical reprieve from repetition! After a long hiatus, I am set to return to the squared circle and I’ve done you all the absolute honor of choosing to piss all over the competition here in the WCF! A Golden Era of Golden Showers for all you goons and grunts! Huzzah! I should clarify. That’s metaphor. I’m speaking figuratively.
He repeats the word, slowly sounding out the syllables.
FIG...YER...A...TIV...LEE. That means I’m not being literal. I figured I should make that bit crystal clear for everybody in the back since it seems the art of articulation is absolutely absent in some of your minds. It’s highly likely that somebody has made similar comments or threats and then...you know...actually dropped trou and pissed on people.
From out of frame, his table partner can’t quell an “eww.”
I know it’s gross, Brad. But that’s not the half of it! Earlier this week, I’m pretty sure some dude boned a corpse. NECROPHILIA. Same dude MAY have also imbibed some human remains.
A few different nearby patrons guffaw.
It’s not me guys, these mooks are CRAZY. Sh*t, I’m pretty sure there’s an ACTUAL SERIAL KILLER that’s allowed to wrestle. What?! HE’S A SERIAL KILLER, SOMEONE GET HIM OUT OF HERE! I digress. Back to the lecture at hand.
My love of language and my gift of Golden Gab will likely be derided by the lesser-minded. They won’t understand half of what I say and even less of what I mean. And that’s okay; that’s their loss to be honest. Shit, a lot of people didn’t “get” Picasso. So I won’t be surprised if we’ve got masses sleeping on the Picasso of Pontification. Ooo...That’s new. Write that one down, Assistant.
Assistant (off-screen): Okay. Got it. What about that one from earlier? Shakespeare of...Something…
Singh: Shoot! The Shakespeare of Shoot! And yes, take that one down too. You shouldn’t have to ask, the instruction is simple: when I drop a brand new genius gem, you write it down. So that pen should be scribbling just about non-stop.
Assistant: I use the laptop to docu--
Singh: C’mon Assistant! What the hell did I just say about figurative language! Everything I say doesn’t necessarily mean what it means. But I definitely mean to say everything I say. You know what I mean?
Anyways, WCF, my vocabulary, my diction, my syntax, my speech itself should help you understand how I handle my business inside the ring. I’m a technician. Precision is the name of my game. Why do I say “pontificate” instead of “talk?” PRECISION. The words I use are chosen purposefully and meticulously; they are arrows piercing a bullseye of meaning. And THAT is how I wrestle. Every move I make, everything that takes place inside that squared circle is cold, calculated and exact. Everything I do is to maximize my success and minimize yours.
Are mistakes made? Are there gaffes? LOSSES even? Of course there are. That’s unavoidable. But there’s no need to take unnecessary, incalculable risks. I work with and within my own strengths and limitations. The road to victory is not the prettiest, it’s not the quickest, it’s the most sure-footed. And that is where I walk, that is how I do battle: sure-footed and confidently grinding my opponent into the mat until they tap out, pass out, or get knocked out. The formula changes opponent to opponent and even moment to moment within a match but rest assured that the results are always the same. That’s why I’m The Sure Thing, Steven Singh.
From off-screen, not-Brad groans.
Singh: Oh you’re too good for a rhyming moniker, Brad? You hipster a**hat. Assistant! What’s the first mook’s name?
Assistant: “The King” Jay West.
From frame right a piece of paper is slid in front of Steve. He reads it in silence for a moment then a smile spreads across his face.
Singh: This is exactly what I was talking about! This guy! A man who boasts of being the ‘King of the Sky’ will be made a PEASANT on the mat. Jay West, your tendencies all lead to self-inflicted punishment, damage to your body that I don’t even have to do. Springboards, somersaults, diving maneuvers. Great. Wonderful. Do it. Rule the sky; you’re cleared for take off. Unfortunately, it’s never the take off that causes problems: it’s the landing. And you’re going to be landing on an empty mat as I roll out of the way or maybe onto a well timed knee lift or maybe I won’t even wait for your landing. Maybe while you’re climbing the ropes for a moonsault...while your back is turned and you’re imagining the heights of glory and flying through the air to wow the crowd...I clip your wings with a Supernova.
High flyers. Ugh. They shouldn’t even be allowed to call themselves wrestlers much less be allowed to try and stand toe to toe with a technician like yours truly. What else is this a**flap’s deal, Assistant?
Assistant: Well it looks like he’s been pretty active on twitter this week.
Singh: What?
Assistant: Twitter; it’s a social media where you can--
Singh: I know what it is, Assistant! C’mon! But you’re telling me he’s been twitting this week? Before his match? Before he’s even cut a proper promo?
Assistant: Yeah, it seems like the WCF encourages it.
Singh: No.
Assistant: No?
Singh: No, I’m not going to twit.
Assistant: Tweet.
Singh: That either. I’m The Shakespeare of Shoot and The Surest Thing in the Ring; my venom and vitriol is not to be contained within one hundred and forty characters.
Assistant: Well I can't make you but they really encourage it. It might even be an obligation in your provisional contract so I’d highly suggest it if you want to stay on the right side of the brass.
Singh: Ugh. Fine. Whatever. I’ll sign up later I gue--
Assistant: I actually already registered you.
Singh: Well look at you! What a proactive Patti! Color me impressed. Fine, hand me the laptop and I’ll do SOMETHING.
Assistant: The battery’s dead.
Singh: One step forward two back, huh? Here.
The Superstar reaches just off camera and seizes Brad’s laptop. He hands it to Assistant. The camera pulls back to re-frame the three of them into the shot.
Brad: What the hell?
Singh: Chill, Brad. I just need this for a minute. Now log me in and I’ll do my contractually obligated Internet-bullsh*t diligence. So anyways, that’s how your night on Slam is going to go, West. You’re going to be grounded and then pounded by The Superstar. Even if you’re the best high-flyer who’s ever lived, by definition you leave yourself in greater danger and exposed to greater risks than I ever would. And I will anticipate your arrogance and then exploit your exuberance until you’re staring up at those lights wishing you’d never laced up your boots in the first place.
Assistant: Here you go, just type your tweet right in there….
Singh: I know where to type it!
Without a moment’s hesitation the Superstar types up a message. The Assistant leans over and reads it.
Assistant: That’s great. What a positive attitude.
Singh: Number one: don’t read over my shoulder. Number two: I’m not here to be positive and I sure as hell am not here to worry about my twitter feed. But if it’s in my contract, there, I took care of it. Now just for the sake of discussion, why don’t you show me what the three stooges have been saying all week on here.
The Superstar hands the laptop back to his Assistant who begins pulling up back and forth between Bruno Armstrong and Jay West from earlier this week.
Brad: Erica, what are you doing? Give me my laptop back.
Singh: First of all, her name is Assistant. I’m pretty sure we’ve been over that. And if you used her name, maybe she’d actually listen to you. It’s kind of misogynist to just call her “Erica” because you decided that’s her name. And be patient about the laptop! It’s just a few more minutes and you can have it back for whatever drudgery and bullsh*t ‘work’ you’re pretending is more fulfilling than just a weekly paycheck to keep your pathetic existence afloat for another seven days.
Not-brad leans back into his chair, sighs loudly, and folds his arms. Singh’s assistant, Erica, has pulled up the conversations between Bruno Armstrong and Jay West from earlier this week; she hands the laptop back to Steven along with the scouting sheet on Bruno “Iron” Armstrong. His eyebrows turns upward in the middle, disappointed in what he’s reading. His eyes grow wide and he lets out a big sigh before turning his attention back to the camera.
Singh: Alright. Back to it. How’s the framing? Is it still tight? Just me right?
The camera shakes back and forth for no.
Singh: Come on, pull in. Get these other two OUT OF MY FRAME. They’re ruining the aesthetic.
The camera re-frames into a tight one-shot on Singh again. He counts down with his fingers once more, 3….2….1…
Singh: Children. Apparently, that’s two thirds of who they’ve put me in the ring with on Sunday. G*ddamn children. I shouldn’t be surprised by internet idiocy any more. I should know that these man-babies get behind a screen and a keyboard and just start click-clack-clucking about the first thing that comes to their tiny little minds. And surprise, surprise it’s barely intelligible rubbish.
Bruno “Iron” Armstrong. According to your little profile here, I would’ve assumed you were above this. I didn’t think you’d be the type to get sucked into a hashtagged, online-shouting match over spears. I wanted more from you. I wanted a formidable opponent. But I should’ve known better. Looks like you’re another who considers himself a “king.” Great. Well you two royal a**holes can jockey over that moniker all you want but allow me to paraphrase Frank Ocean: what’s a king to a Golden God?
To counter your all-too predictable and likely response of what’s a god to a non-believer: A GOD. My skill set, my unassailable prowess, my status as The Golden God is not predicated upon faith: it depends upon my own blood, sweat and tears. It’s predicated upon my ten plus years in combat sports. It’s predicated upon the fact that I will out work, out think, and out maneuver you. I WILLED myself out of the gutter and into greatness. Listen to the lyrics when I step out from behind that curtain: “The system’s broken and I go nuthin to lose….I embody every characteristic of the egotistic...He knows he’s so fuckin gifted.” A proper theme is important. It can speak volumes about the man on his way to the ring. What uninspired little diddy do you come out to, Armstrong? I’m assuming it’s some Nickelback-level trashfire…
The Superstar looks down at the paper. His eyes pop wide and his mouth turns up in disgust. His cool disappears and he’s livid.
Did you know about this? Why did you not tell me about this?
Assistant: I was going to--
Singh: You were going to what? You were going to tell me but then you decided you’d rather let me find out on-camera? Mid-promo? Are you trying to make me look like one of these other no-talent f*cklets?
Assistant: No, I just--
Singh: You just screwed the pooch. That’s what you just did. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Contact the front office to have him change it. I had it first.
Assistant: Umm...it actually appears his contract may’ve been official first.
The Superstar slams his fist on the table. His espresso and the laptop both make a small hop.
Singh: FINE! Whatever. Screw it. Theme music doesn’t matter anyways. It literally means nothing. Edit out that other sh*t I said. I was just riffing. It’s fine. Whatever. Armstrong! Apparently you don’t mind making a ‘show’ out of putting down your opponents? Great! Grand! Wonderful! Another small-thinking self-endangering ignoramus for me to abuse. Take an extra second to gloat, go ahead and strike a pose. That extra split second you give me to catch my breath...to stalk...to plot. THAT will be your failure, your downfall. Be brave, hop on that top rope for your Vambrace Lariat just don’t be surprised when on your way down I slap on that triangle choke and give you a look at all the Bright Lights.
Brad: Can I get my laptop back now?
Assistant: Um...not yet, Brad. There’s one more thing.
Erica leans over the computer in front of The Superstar and pulls something else up. As she does, her top falls away from her body, exposing her chest just a bit more than previously. Brad believes he catches a glimpse unnoticed.
Singh: Brad, what the hell did I tell you about your misogyny? This is a young, professional, beautiful woman.
Assistant: <surprised>: Umm...thanks, Steve?
Singh: And yes, she probably dresses like this for the express purpose of garnering attention from dirty hipsters like you. And yes, she knew exactly what she was doing when she leaned over the table. And yes, her breasts are something to behold. And something to be held. But be better than that! Rise above her feminine wiles! Do not succumb to the sexy! You’re better than that!
Steve pauses and squints at Brad.
Nevermind, no you’re not. Those are probably the only breasts you’ll see this month. So go for it, I guess.
Erica rolls her eyes and turns the laptop back towards The Superstar. He reads again and cocks his head slightly, not sure what to make of whatever he’s reading.
Singh: So this is the last one, right? Drakkein? Is this a joke? I mean...he thinks he’s...a dragon?
The assistant shrugs.
And that name. Even George R.R. would’ve rejected a name that lazy! ‘We need to name another dragon...How about Drakkein? Are you kidding? That’s terrible! Way too on the nose! How Drogon? Yeah that’s fine I guess...At least it’s better than Drakkein.’ Come on...Is this guy for real?
Assistant: You mean….like is he a real dragon?
Singh: No, that’s not what I mean! I hate to break this to you, Assistant, but Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, dragons….THEY ARE NOT REAL.
Assistant: Well the locker room sure seems to think--
Singh: They think what? That he’s a dragon?
Assistant: Maybe? I guess I'm not sure about that. But they definitely think he’s the favorite to win.
Singh: Oh they do?
Assistant: Yeah. This guy has a TON of buzz coming in.
Singh: Buzz doesn’t win matches. And who gives two squirts what the locker room thinks.
Assistant: He’s also the odds-on-favorite in Vegas.
Singh: What are my odds?
Assistant: umm...you’re off the board.
Singh: WHAT?!
Assistant: You’re off the board. Apparently it was partially attributed to your lack of presence on social media a--
Singh(interrupting): Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Find somebody to take the bet and put a grand on me to win. That’ll make Slam even sweeter.
Regardless of the sheer idiocy of your name and apparent belief that you’re a dragon, it seems that you’re a dangerous man. It seems you’re the man to beat, the man to watch, the man riding that hype train right into Sunday. And that’s fine...because no matter what you wear to the ring, no matter your appearance, no matter what bedtime stories you’ve been told, you are a man. You’re a man with bones that break and ligaments that tear. You’re a man who uses the crutch of a fantasy to navigate the real world. That’s fine for you. Whatever you need to do. But unfortunately, that won’t help you on Sunday, inside the real world, inside that ring, in MY world. I’m a man who spends his every waking moment plotting, obsessing over what’s going to happen inside that ring, in the real world. So put on your wings, don your mask, and even spit your mist. I’m going to do the same thing I do everyday--lace up my wrestling boots and methodically, systematically, mercilessly destroy the MAN placed across from.
The Superstar slams the laptop shut.
Brad: Hey!
Singh: Jesus Brad! Chill out! I’m finishing up here....
Make sure you’re paying attention at Slam, WCF. You’ve all spent the whole week sleeping on me so I hope you’re well rested because this Sunday you’re going to get a wake up call from The Superstar himself. I’m going to ground the King of the Sky, rust the Iron and snuff out the Dragon. I am the Jack of All Trades and the Master of One. I am the Master of that squared circle and this Sunday you’ll all bear witness to the dawning of the Golden Era of the WCF. And there’s only two things any of you can do about it: like it….OR LOVE IT.
The Superstar smiles wide at the camera. The scene fades to black.
