Post by Stephen Singh on Sept 16, 2016 18:05:03 GMT -5
Scene opens on a street in Lexington, Kentucky where Slam will be held in a few short days. The street is lined with old, brick buildings as most are in this town. It’s a mature but not dilapidated town; very few of the buildings are unoccupied and almost none are in the disrepair you find in most cities. This entire place seems to exist in some kind of little bubble, insulated from the increasingly frequent and unnerving failures of the country it resides in. Indeed, the sturdy brick buildings are a perfect metaphor for an America of yesteryear: they stand confident and unwavering, bustling and full of life. This town, as America once did, values the grind, the work.
The US took a long, bloody, violent path to its perch atop the world. And then it became lazy; it grew tired of standing guard upon that perch and instead began to rest gingerly on its lapels. Generation after generation passed and each one was further removed from the grind of their beginning; it all happened so incrementally no one even noticed until we began our decline. Lexington still clings to as much of old Americana as it can. And that means clinging to long hours, hard work, and sacrifice. Those are easy things to hold to at the beginning, when you’ve still got that chip on your shoulder and plenty to prove. But the air is thinner at the top of the mountain and the those demands only increase. That’s the challenge for everyone on the way up: internalize the struggle and know that it doesn’t end. Those sacrifices are not a means to an end, they are the end. Be Lexington. Cling to your principles and ideals; be the rock in the stream while the rest erode around you. First, lay your groundwork, create a foundation upon which to build. Make the sacrifices along the long, arduous climb to the top. Embrace the long, grinding path.
Cross-fade to a small, one-way side street. Cars line either side of the road, noses all pointed in the same direction. We “The Superstar” Steven Singh with a brisk gait down the sidewalk. He wears fitted, dark grey pants, a black leather belt, and a blue-white checkered button-up. Over the shirt is a blue sport coat just betraying the musculature of his shoulders and arms accented with a white handkerchief in the pocket. Wayfarer shades and crisp, white boat shoes punctuate the ensemble. He holds his phone in front of him on speaker. His assistant, Erica, is on the other side of the phone call. We pick up mid-conversation.
Singh: So what were the odds then?
Assistant: He only gave us 10 to 1.
Singh: I was OFF THE BOARD and the best you could get was 10 to 1?
Assistant: It was pretty short notice and Byron didn’t wa--
Singh: Hey, hey hey--I’ve got cameras here. I’m not sure bookies want their names blasted all over airwaves. We already learned these guys don’t honor editing requests so we’ve got to be careful what we say when they’re rolling.
Assistant: Yeah but I’m on the phone, they can’t hear me.
Singh: You’re on speaker.
Assistant: Why am I on speaker?
Singh: Why are you on speaker? Do you know how obnoxious it would be for them to hear only half of the conversation? I mean, then I might as well just be talking to myself.
Assistant: I gue--
Singh (interrupting): I mean, that’s not the WORST idea I’ve ever had. Then I wouldn’t be spouting my bookie’s name all over TV.
Assistant: That was an acc--
Singh (interrupting): But then I wouldn’t have anyone to create my classic witty repartee with.
Assistant: Well yo--
Singh (again interrupting): I know, I know, witty is probably a stretch for you. But let’s be optimistic! You’ll figure out how to carry a reasonably entertaining conversation one day.
Assistant: If you wou--
Singh (yes, again): Probably not today. But one day you’ll probably figure it out. Just don’t do it on my clock. I’m not paying you to practice for your eventual Ted Talk on how you were once Assistant to a Golden God.
Assistant: I don’t think--
Singh (c’mon, just let her talk): Right. You don’t think. That’s in your job description. ‘Do not think. Just do as The Superstar says.’ Actually, is that in the WCF Wrestler job description too? ‘Do not think?’
The Superstar pauses and looks at the phone, waiting for an answer from Erica. She hesitates, hoping to avoid getting cut off again and the mere seconds of silence feels like minutes.
Singh: Hello? Are you there?
She sighs.
Assistant: Yeah I’m here. And no, ‘Do Not Think’ is not in the WCF job description to my knowledge.
Singh: Oh because I was really starting to wonder. I’ve now sat through DOZENS of brain-dead dialogue, piss-poor promos, and wildly uninspired in-ring performances. Anyways, you’ve got $10,000 of my money. What are my odds this week?
Assistant: From what I can find, it’s even money.
The Superstar’s eyes pop open and his jaw drops.
Singh: Even money?! I’m still not a favorite to win?! Did everyone see me mastermind my way to a victory last week? And while barely breaking a sweat!
Assistant: Well, Joe Smarts won last week too.
Singh: Wait...what.
Assistant: Joe Smarts won last week.
Singh: The guy who….That guy with downs or whatever?
Assistant: I don’t think he has Down Syndrome.
Singh: Hard to say, really. He got a win though? I mean, I assumed they were just letting him cut promos as part of a make-a-wish sort of thing but now he’s got a W? His brain cancer must be SO BAD.
Assistant: He doesn’t have brain cancer.
Singh: Assistant, I get it. We don’t know what he has. Whatever it is, I’m just ASSUMING it affects his brain because...well...You’ve heard him talk right? He’s definitely a few cards short of a deck. Or one chromosome in excess of a set. Know what I’m saying?
Assistant: Yes, you’re saying he has Down Syndrome.
Singh: Whoa! Your words not mine. It doesn’t matter though. If the newly reinstated Prez has seen fit to put him across the ring from The Sure Thing we’ve got to assume he does NOT have a mental disability. Yet. If he tags in at the wrong time, I’ll definitely make sure that changes. I drop him one-time on the back of his neck with the Supernova and he’ll be talking through a computer. It’ll be like if Stephen Hawking had the IQ of a potato. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, back to my cash. Take half of that money and put it on my team to win again this week. Send the other half back to Wisconsin.
Assistant: Didn’t you just send some money back there?
Singh: And?
Assistant: Does your family rea--
Singh (interrupting, shouting): GODDAMMIT, ERICA!
He does know her name.
Singh: Do you think I wanted that announced? You think I wanted that word said to me, here, over speaker-phone, on camera? Why do you think I chose to say “send it to Wisconsin” instead of that f*cking F word that you KNOW I hate? Uuuurrrrrghhh…
He grunts his frustration through clenched teeth. He closes his eyes, exhales hard, regains his composure and then continues.
Alright. You’re forgiven. But let’s not make that mistake again. I say send the money, you send it. You don’t ask questions. And you definitely don’t start bringing them up on air.
Assistant: Sorry. Moving on, do you want to see Bates in the hospital or send flowers or something?
Singh: Why would I want to do that?
Assistant: It would be nice. And I’d be willing to be a LOT of people are going to do it. He’s kind of an institution around here.
Singh: Ugh. Fine. Whatever. Send him...Ummmm…
Assistant: Marigolds?
Singh: MariGOLDs! Perfect! Earn that paycheck, Assistant!
Assistant: Card?
Singh: Write: “Try not to die.”
His assistant sighs, audibly disappointed.
Singh: “Also: does this mean the title is vacated?” Perfect. Brief and heartfelt.
Assistant: Right. Anything else? Did you get all the scouting materials on your opponents?
Singh: Yeah, yeah. I’ve watched their promos, dissected their matches and reviewed their bios. It’s not exactly awe-inspiring stuff.
Assistant: Don’t blow them off.
Singh: I don’t blow anyone….
Pause.
Off. But seriously, you know I don’t do that. Day in, day out, only one thing matters: SUCCESS. You don’t get to the top of the mountain by taking steps backwards. Every match, every step matters. So this match, even against these three mooks, matters as much as a title match. Because the faster and more convincingly I tear through these curtain-jerking jabrones, the faster I get to the gold. Now before The Shakespeare of Shoot really starts in on these three, on more thing: did Seth demand Armschlong stop using MY music yet?
Assistant: He hasn’t gotten back to me.
Singh: What?! Well keep on him. That ignoramus CANNOT keep using my music. He makes a mockery of the whole g*ddamn song. “Power.” Like that a**hat knows anything about real power. Whatever. Follow up again with Seth. Anything else?
Assistant: I don’t think so. Have a good promo.
Singh: Good? GOOD?!
The Superstar stops in his tracks, his face souring at her choice of adjective. He pushes the ‘end call’ button.
Ugh. So unsatisfying. You can’t angrily hang up a cellphone. It just doesn’t work.
He puts the phone into a pocket on the inside of his sportcoat. The Superstar buttons the top button only then runs his hands down the fabric, smoothing and straightening it.
Hello again, WCF. It’s the details. That’s the difference between me and all these other mid-level mulkies: the details. That’s where matches are won and lost, where kings are crowned and GODS are made. I button the top and only the top button. NEVER the bottom button. Details. Details like the ones I see when I watch your matches. Joe Smarts, when did you first take control of your match with Winterz? Do you even know? The answer, of course, is when that simpleton went to the top rope; it was when he went high risk. You rushed him and he was in complete control and probably could’ve put you down like the dog you are but instead the idiot goes to the top rope and lets you gain some footing in the match.
Typical. And absolutely the LAST thing you’re going to see The Jack of All Trades doing. I’ll keep it on the mat, where wrestling BELONGS, and work your knees until you can’t take it to the top rope either. Oh and that pretty little Braniac Bomb you used to seal the deal? It’s one hell of a move that you somehow managed to nail while reversing a running knee. A running knee you won’t see yours truly try this week. But don’t worry, Joe Slow, I know how important entertaining the crowd is to you. I’ll be sure to make my effortless extermination of you entirely engrossing.
The Superstar winks to the camera then pulls his phone back out. He checks it for a moment, peers up at a street sign then slips it back inside the jacket. Stopped at an intersection, he continues.
Next up is Jaice Wilds, an “Extreme Aerialist.” Am I saying that right? Extreme? I know it’s spelled without the “e” but is it still pronounced the same? I never did understand that. Why the hell do all you hardcore hacks drop the e? I can only assume it’s for expediency….Or….umm….xpediency I guess? I really can’t believe dropping that one little letter saves you that much time but you do you. And by ‘you do you’ I mean ‘you do exactly what every other no-talent-turd does to try and get over in this business.’ Jump off the top rope, grab the chair or the barbed wire or the barbed wire chair. Punish yourself for the pleasure of the plebeian public. Meanwhile, I’ll be in the center of the ring working with the only tools I need to break another man’s tendons, bones, and will.
The Superstar holds his hands to the camera; larger than expected, with thick, strong fingers and memories of hard work calloused upon them. He drops his hands, taps one finger to his right temple with a smirk and a raise of his eyebrows. The light changes and he enters the street.
I’m not unfamiliar with the blood and the violence and the barbed wire, Jaice Mild. I spent a number of years in the IHWA when I was younger, getting tossed off structures, slammed through buses, and grated by barbed wire. But soon enough I recognized high-flying and hardcore styles for what they are: crutches. They’re crutches for wrestlers either unable or unwilling to put in the work to do what I do. But that’s enough for a lot of you guys. And if you’re placated by your brand of mediocre mayhem then I’m certainly not here to tell you to stop. No, no, no. I’m here to tell you that I’m going to let you fly high, crash hard, and fall loooow. Yes, even lower than your 0 and 2 start.
Do yourself a favor and stop recalling the past and recounting your former feats. They don’t matter here. I can give you a laundry list of what I’ve done to make myself worthy and formidable here. I hope--for your sake--that you’ve done the digging yourself and you could run down the list of bones I’ve left broken in my wake. But it doesn’t matter. If I’m being perfectly honest--and how could I ever really be anything other than perfect--this is the most talented federation I’ve ever seen. Granted, we’ve got a few too many high-flying f*cklets and any number of face-painted-freaks but this place...this place is the only proving ground. The accomplishments here are the only ones that matter. And you? You’ve got a big, fat goose egg. But one of the great things about being in the ring with me? You’ve always got a good chance at 15 Minutes of Fame.
The Superstar stops again, apparently arrived at his destination. It’s a local coffeehouse-restaurant called “SHAKESPEARE AND CO.” He grabs the door handle but pauses before swinging it open and looks at the camera.
What? Too on the nose?
The Golden One holds open the door and gestures for the cameras to go in ahead of him. They do and then scan the interior of the building. Walls painted in bright greens and over-saturated reds clash with the wood-covered ceiling and leather chairs that furnish the rest of the room.
Ugh. Gauche. It looks like a clown threw up in here.
He’s definitely within ear shot of a barista, awaiting his order.
Alright, your coffee better make up for this. What kind of pour over do you use? V60? Chemex? What?
The barista stares blankly back at The Superstar.
C’mon, youngblood, what is it?
The barista leans back and looks down the line, looking for an answer to a question he doesn't even understand. The Superstar sighs loudly and leans forward over the counter to see the going-ons behind the scenes.
Batch brew? That’s it? G*ddamn batch brew and you call yourself a coffeehouse? Fine. Whatever. A large medium roast.
The Superstar hands over a credit card. The barista runs it then hands it back. Singh and the camera crew slide down the counter to wait for his coffee.
Alright. Let’s address the elephant in the room: I’ve got to co-exist with two others this week. I can see why all the feeble-minds out there in the WCF galaxy might anticipate this being a problem for me but fear not my little Stevenites! I am a Jack of ALL Trades and one of those trades is, of course, carrying a bunch of dead weight on my back to victory! I’m not saying that Jay West and El Fuego are dead weight exactly. I’m just saying that worst case scenario, I’ll put the team on my back like I’m Greg Jennings with a broken leg.
But that’s not what I foresee happening. I foresee Jay West being ready to avenge his loss last week. I foresee him wanting to prove to Jaice Milds and Joe Slow who the REAL King of the Sky is. I shared the ring with West last week so I’ve seen his style and I know how to incorporate it flawlessly with my own. Picture this you mooks: I lock in that deep 15 Minutes of Fame heel hook and here comes West off the top with his Terminal Velocity! It could be a thing of such beauty! Such grace! Such a Golden opportunity!
In addendum, I’ve got...now hold on...I want to get this right. It’s important to be respectful of your teammates….
The Superstar pulls his phone out, quickly checks the name and turns back to the camera.
El fuego del infierno eterno silenciso. I think I got it. Or is it Silencio? Isn’t it silencio in Spanish? No me importa. Todo suave, hombre. All that matters is that this guy brings it. And judging from his pedigree, that should not be an issue. Sounds like he came up through the backyard wrestling scene which plenty of people might scoff at. But not the Picasso of Pontification; guys that came up in the backyard are all heart. They’re chasing the dream, they’re full of vigor and passion and maximum effort at all times. Plus, apparently he doesn’t talk. That’s like...a PERFECT partner! Somebody that just lets The Shakespeare of Shoot do his talking? What more could I want?!
So go ahead and be skeptical of my ability to play well with others, question my talent for teamwork and my penchant for partnership. That’s more than understandable. But I value one thing above all else: SUCCESS. There is NOTHING more important than chalking up another victory and continuing my ascent up that Golden ladder of success. This week that means whether these other two are at the top of their game or if I’m putting in work for three: I’ll be doing whatever it takes to stomp out Jaice, Joe and, of course, Bruno. You don’t think I forgot about you, did you Armschlong?
Barista: Here ya go!
An all-too chipper barista interrupts the previously perfect flow of the promo and hands The Superstar his coffee. Excited for his daily caffeine, The Superstar takes a big swig of the still-steaming brew.
PFFFFT!
He spits it out, spraying it across the floor, countertop and nearby table.
This is shit. I can only assume you’re literally serving diarrhea in a cup. I don’t even understand how it can be this bad unless you shoved every single bean up your ass before you brewed this. Did you do that? Did you shove the beans up your narrow ass?
The barista meekly shakes his head.
Maybe you should've, it couldn't have possibly made it worse. Take this back and dispose of it. I can’t condone even pouring this down the drain; the drain will either disintegrate or kill itself. Also, please never serve this to anyone ever again. Quit your job, make sure this place gets closed down. Maybe burn it down, I don’t know. This is the most offensive thing I’ve tasted since I ate out Bruno Armstrong’s mother. Please...get this out of my presence. Now.
The Superstar shoves the mug back across the counter. He smacks his lips and rolls his tongue around a bit, struggling to get the taste out of his mouth.
I hope you didn’t think I forgot about you, Armstrong. Even if I had, I’m sure that coffee would’ve reminded me. You see, just like you this place is pretending to be something it’s not. It’s feigning artisanal quality and care. It’s professing and pretending to be of a certain quality when, in fact, it’s a garbage fire. Just like you. You’re tatted up to pretend to be a knight and you don tights to pretend to be a wrestler. But you’re neither; you’re a no-talent, dimwit dullard who isn’t fit to share MY ring. So yeah that coffee left me with feelings similar to the ones I get after watching you promo, wrestle or just generally exist: disgust, disappointment, and revulsion. I watched what you had to say to me last time with bated breath, your history lesson was absolutely riveting. I mean, you’re educating the masses on where Dr. Spock comes from. Really useful, top shelf stuff. Maybe you should be a guest lecture in Cliff of Doom’s pathetic high school class he’s teaching.
But let me teach you a little lesson on a few of the reasons I’m The Golden One since you seemed so confused. Now it’s not just that I’ve been one of the most sought after commodities in the world ever since I was discovered--but that’s true. And it’s not just that I bring women great excitement and pleasure--but that’s true too. No, no, no. See gold is both malleable and ductile. With your little interest in blacksmithing you should be aware of such things. I easily change and bend and adapt to whatever situation I’m in. Ductile: “able to be deformed without losing toughness.” So stretch me thin, put me in whatever sort of situation you want and I don’t lose any of my value, any of my toughness, any of my skills or abilities. But even if you didn’t know that stuff last week--unless that blacksmith stuff is, as I suspect it might be, just bullshit--even if you didn’t know that stuff last week, you know now.
You took your cheap shot, spearing me before the bell even rang. But I adapted to your dishonor, I still handled the business I came out there to do. I have no problem with you taking a shot at me before the bell, that’s just fine. I’ll adapt to whatever the situation calls for, just as I said. What I do have a problem with is your hyped up hypocrisy, talking about honor. HONOR?! You steal MY theme music, physically attack me before the match but fancy yourself clad with honor?! I knew you were delusional but I assumed it was the cute, Don Quixote lovable idiot type of delusional. Not the gay-bashing, closet-homosexual hypocrite type of delusional.
So cling to your fairy tales, Armschlong. Stick to the myths of days gone past to comfort you while you look in the mirror and have to consider that you’re not the honorable, iron warrior you think you are. Take solace in the words written hundreds of years ago. Keep your head in the sand you sad little obsolete ostrich. It’s safe there. That way you at least don’t have to watch the tape from last week where your head bounces off the concrete floor because your vanity, your need for a top-rope attention-grab, your DISHONOR came back to bite you in the ass.
Yeah, you definitely don’t need to review the tape. Because our little shindig this week is going to end the same way: with my hand raised and your head hung low. And there’s only two things you can do about it, like it...or love it.
The Superstar smirks then walks towards and past the camera. Fade to black.
The US took a long, bloody, violent path to its perch atop the world. And then it became lazy; it grew tired of standing guard upon that perch and instead began to rest gingerly on its lapels. Generation after generation passed and each one was further removed from the grind of their beginning; it all happened so incrementally no one even noticed until we began our decline. Lexington still clings to as much of old Americana as it can. And that means clinging to long hours, hard work, and sacrifice. Those are easy things to hold to at the beginning, when you’ve still got that chip on your shoulder and plenty to prove. But the air is thinner at the top of the mountain and the those demands only increase. That’s the challenge for everyone on the way up: internalize the struggle and know that it doesn’t end. Those sacrifices are not a means to an end, they are the end. Be Lexington. Cling to your principles and ideals; be the rock in the stream while the rest erode around you. First, lay your groundwork, create a foundation upon which to build. Make the sacrifices along the long, arduous climb to the top. Embrace the long, grinding path.
Cross-fade to a small, one-way side street. Cars line either side of the road, noses all pointed in the same direction. We “The Superstar” Steven Singh with a brisk gait down the sidewalk. He wears fitted, dark grey pants, a black leather belt, and a blue-white checkered button-up. Over the shirt is a blue sport coat just betraying the musculature of his shoulders and arms accented with a white handkerchief in the pocket. Wayfarer shades and crisp, white boat shoes punctuate the ensemble. He holds his phone in front of him on speaker. His assistant, Erica, is on the other side of the phone call. We pick up mid-conversation.
Singh: So what were the odds then?
Assistant: He only gave us 10 to 1.
Singh: I was OFF THE BOARD and the best you could get was 10 to 1?
Assistant: It was pretty short notice and Byron didn’t wa--
Singh: Hey, hey hey--I’ve got cameras here. I’m not sure bookies want their names blasted all over airwaves. We already learned these guys don’t honor editing requests so we’ve got to be careful what we say when they’re rolling.
Assistant: Yeah but I’m on the phone, they can’t hear me.
Singh: You’re on speaker.
Assistant: Why am I on speaker?
Singh: Why are you on speaker? Do you know how obnoxious it would be for them to hear only half of the conversation? I mean, then I might as well just be talking to myself.
Assistant: I gue--
Singh (interrupting): I mean, that’s not the WORST idea I’ve ever had. Then I wouldn’t be spouting my bookie’s name all over TV.
Assistant: That was an acc--
Singh (interrupting): But then I wouldn’t have anyone to create my classic witty repartee with.
Assistant: Well yo--
Singh (again interrupting): I know, I know, witty is probably a stretch for you. But let’s be optimistic! You’ll figure out how to carry a reasonably entertaining conversation one day.
Assistant: If you wou--
Singh (yes, again): Probably not today. But one day you’ll probably figure it out. Just don’t do it on my clock. I’m not paying you to practice for your eventual Ted Talk on how you were once Assistant to a Golden God.
Assistant: I don’t think--
Singh (c’mon, just let her talk): Right. You don’t think. That’s in your job description. ‘Do not think. Just do as The Superstar says.’ Actually, is that in the WCF Wrestler job description too? ‘Do not think?’
The Superstar pauses and looks at the phone, waiting for an answer from Erica. She hesitates, hoping to avoid getting cut off again and the mere seconds of silence feels like minutes.
Singh: Hello? Are you there?
She sighs.
Assistant: Yeah I’m here. And no, ‘Do Not Think’ is not in the WCF job description to my knowledge.
Singh: Oh because I was really starting to wonder. I’ve now sat through DOZENS of brain-dead dialogue, piss-poor promos, and wildly uninspired in-ring performances. Anyways, you’ve got $10,000 of my money. What are my odds this week?
Assistant: From what I can find, it’s even money.
The Superstar’s eyes pop open and his jaw drops.
Singh: Even money?! I’m still not a favorite to win?! Did everyone see me mastermind my way to a victory last week? And while barely breaking a sweat!
Assistant: Well, Joe Smarts won last week too.
Singh: Wait...what.
Assistant: Joe Smarts won last week.
Singh: The guy who….That guy with downs or whatever?
Assistant: I don’t think he has Down Syndrome.
Singh: Hard to say, really. He got a win though? I mean, I assumed they were just letting him cut promos as part of a make-a-wish sort of thing but now he’s got a W? His brain cancer must be SO BAD.
Assistant: He doesn’t have brain cancer.
Singh: Assistant, I get it. We don’t know what he has. Whatever it is, I’m just ASSUMING it affects his brain because...well...You’ve heard him talk right? He’s definitely a few cards short of a deck. Or one chromosome in excess of a set. Know what I’m saying?
Assistant: Yes, you’re saying he has Down Syndrome.
Singh: Whoa! Your words not mine. It doesn’t matter though. If the newly reinstated Prez has seen fit to put him across the ring from The Sure Thing we’ve got to assume he does NOT have a mental disability. Yet. If he tags in at the wrong time, I’ll definitely make sure that changes. I drop him one-time on the back of his neck with the Supernova and he’ll be talking through a computer. It’ll be like if Stephen Hawking had the IQ of a potato. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, back to my cash. Take half of that money and put it on my team to win again this week. Send the other half back to Wisconsin.
Assistant: Didn’t you just send some money back there?
Singh: And?
Assistant: Does your family rea--
Singh (interrupting, shouting): GODDAMMIT, ERICA!
He does know her name.
Singh: Do you think I wanted that announced? You think I wanted that word said to me, here, over speaker-phone, on camera? Why do you think I chose to say “send it to Wisconsin” instead of that f*cking F word that you KNOW I hate? Uuuurrrrrghhh…
He grunts his frustration through clenched teeth. He closes his eyes, exhales hard, regains his composure and then continues.
Alright. You’re forgiven. But let’s not make that mistake again. I say send the money, you send it. You don’t ask questions. And you definitely don’t start bringing them up on air.
Assistant: Sorry. Moving on, do you want to see Bates in the hospital or send flowers or something?
Singh: Why would I want to do that?
Assistant: It would be nice. And I’d be willing to be a LOT of people are going to do it. He’s kind of an institution around here.
Singh: Ugh. Fine. Whatever. Send him...Ummmm…
Assistant: Marigolds?
Singh: MariGOLDs! Perfect! Earn that paycheck, Assistant!
Assistant: Card?
Singh: Write: “Try not to die.”
His assistant sighs, audibly disappointed.
Singh: “Also: does this mean the title is vacated?” Perfect. Brief and heartfelt.
Assistant: Right. Anything else? Did you get all the scouting materials on your opponents?
Singh: Yeah, yeah. I’ve watched their promos, dissected their matches and reviewed their bios. It’s not exactly awe-inspiring stuff.
Assistant: Don’t blow them off.
Singh: I don’t blow anyone….
Pause.
Off. But seriously, you know I don’t do that. Day in, day out, only one thing matters: SUCCESS. You don’t get to the top of the mountain by taking steps backwards. Every match, every step matters. So this match, even against these three mooks, matters as much as a title match. Because the faster and more convincingly I tear through these curtain-jerking jabrones, the faster I get to the gold. Now before The Shakespeare of Shoot really starts in on these three, on more thing: did Seth demand Armschlong stop using MY music yet?
Assistant: He hasn’t gotten back to me.
Singh: What?! Well keep on him. That ignoramus CANNOT keep using my music. He makes a mockery of the whole g*ddamn song. “Power.” Like that a**hat knows anything about real power. Whatever. Follow up again with Seth. Anything else?
Assistant: I don’t think so. Have a good promo.
Singh: Good? GOOD?!
The Superstar stops in his tracks, his face souring at her choice of adjective. He pushes the ‘end call’ button.
Ugh. So unsatisfying. You can’t angrily hang up a cellphone. It just doesn’t work.
He puts the phone into a pocket on the inside of his sportcoat. The Superstar buttons the top button only then runs his hands down the fabric, smoothing and straightening it.
Hello again, WCF. It’s the details. That’s the difference between me and all these other mid-level mulkies: the details. That’s where matches are won and lost, where kings are crowned and GODS are made. I button the top and only the top button. NEVER the bottom button. Details. Details like the ones I see when I watch your matches. Joe Smarts, when did you first take control of your match with Winterz? Do you even know? The answer, of course, is when that simpleton went to the top rope; it was when he went high risk. You rushed him and he was in complete control and probably could’ve put you down like the dog you are but instead the idiot goes to the top rope and lets you gain some footing in the match.
Typical. And absolutely the LAST thing you’re going to see The Jack of All Trades doing. I’ll keep it on the mat, where wrestling BELONGS, and work your knees until you can’t take it to the top rope either. Oh and that pretty little Braniac Bomb you used to seal the deal? It’s one hell of a move that you somehow managed to nail while reversing a running knee. A running knee you won’t see yours truly try this week. But don’t worry, Joe Slow, I know how important entertaining the crowd is to you. I’ll be sure to make my effortless extermination of you entirely engrossing.
The Superstar winks to the camera then pulls his phone back out. He checks it for a moment, peers up at a street sign then slips it back inside the jacket. Stopped at an intersection, he continues.
Next up is Jaice Wilds, an “Extreme Aerialist.” Am I saying that right? Extreme? I know it’s spelled without the “e” but is it still pronounced the same? I never did understand that. Why the hell do all you hardcore hacks drop the e? I can only assume it’s for expediency….Or….umm….xpediency I guess? I really can’t believe dropping that one little letter saves you that much time but you do you. And by ‘you do you’ I mean ‘you do exactly what every other no-talent-turd does to try and get over in this business.’ Jump off the top rope, grab the chair or the barbed wire or the barbed wire chair. Punish yourself for the pleasure of the plebeian public. Meanwhile, I’ll be in the center of the ring working with the only tools I need to break another man’s tendons, bones, and will.
The Superstar holds his hands to the camera; larger than expected, with thick, strong fingers and memories of hard work calloused upon them. He drops his hands, taps one finger to his right temple with a smirk and a raise of his eyebrows. The light changes and he enters the street.
I’m not unfamiliar with the blood and the violence and the barbed wire, Jaice Mild. I spent a number of years in the IHWA when I was younger, getting tossed off structures, slammed through buses, and grated by barbed wire. But soon enough I recognized high-flying and hardcore styles for what they are: crutches. They’re crutches for wrestlers either unable or unwilling to put in the work to do what I do. But that’s enough for a lot of you guys. And if you’re placated by your brand of mediocre mayhem then I’m certainly not here to tell you to stop. No, no, no. I’m here to tell you that I’m going to let you fly high, crash hard, and fall loooow. Yes, even lower than your 0 and 2 start.
Do yourself a favor and stop recalling the past and recounting your former feats. They don’t matter here. I can give you a laundry list of what I’ve done to make myself worthy and formidable here. I hope--for your sake--that you’ve done the digging yourself and you could run down the list of bones I’ve left broken in my wake. But it doesn’t matter. If I’m being perfectly honest--and how could I ever really be anything other than perfect--this is the most talented federation I’ve ever seen. Granted, we’ve got a few too many high-flying f*cklets and any number of face-painted-freaks but this place...this place is the only proving ground. The accomplishments here are the only ones that matter. And you? You’ve got a big, fat goose egg. But one of the great things about being in the ring with me? You’ve always got a good chance at 15 Minutes of Fame.
The Superstar stops again, apparently arrived at his destination. It’s a local coffeehouse-restaurant called “SHAKESPEARE AND CO.” He grabs the door handle but pauses before swinging it open and looks at the camera.
What? Too on the nose?
The Golden One holds open the door and gestures for the cameras to go in ahead of him. They do and then scan the interior of the building. Walls painted in bright greens and over-saturated reds clash with the wood-covered ceiling and leather chairs that furnish the rest of the room.
Ugh. Gauche. It looks like a clown threw up in here.
He’s definitely within ear shot of a barista, awaiting his order.
Alright, your coffee better make up for this. What kind of pour over do you use? V60? Chemex? What?
The barista stares blankly back at The Superstar.
C’mon, youngblood, what is it?
The barista leans back and looks down the line, looking for an answer to a question he doesn't even understand. The Superstar sighs loudly and leans forward over the counter to see the going-ons behind the scenes.
Batch brew? That’s it? G*ddamn batch brew and you call yourself a coffeehouse? Fine. Whatever. A large medium roast.
The Superstar hands over a credit card. The barista runs it then hands it back. Singh and the camera crew slide down the counter to wait for his coffee.
Alright. Let’s address the elephant in the room: I’ve got to co-exist with two others this week. I can see why all the feeble-minds out there in the WCF galaxy might anticipate this being a problem for me but fear not my little Stevenites! I am a Jack of ALL Trades and one of those trades is, of course, carrying a bunch of dead weight on my back to victory! I’m not saying that Jay West and El Fuego are dead weight exactly. I’m just saying that worst case scenario, I’ll put the team on my back like I’m Greg Jennings with a broken leg.
But that’s not what I foresee happening. I foresee Jay West being ready to avenge his loss last week. I foresee him wanting to prove to Jaice Milds and Joe Slow who the REAL King of the Sky is. I shared the ring with West last week so I’ve seen his style and I know how to incorporate it flawlessly with my own. Picture this you mooks: I lock in that deep 15 Minutes of Fame heel hook and here comes West off the top with his Terminal Velocity! It could be a thing of such beauty! Such grace! Such a Golden opportunity!
In addendum, I’ve got...now hold on...I want to get this right. It’s important to be respectful of your teammates….
The Superstar pulls his phone out, quickly checks the name and turns back to the camera.
El fuego del infierno eterno silenciso. I think I got it. Or is it Silencio? Isn’t it silencio in Spanish? No me importa. Todo suave, hombre. All that matters is that this guy brings it. And judging from his pedigree, that should not be an issue. Sounds like he came up through the backyard wrestling scene which plenty of people might scoff at. But not the Picasso of Pontification; guys that came up in the backyard are all heart. They’re chasing the dream, they’re full of vigor and passion and maximum effort at all times. Plus, apparently he doesn’t talk. That’s like...a PERFECT partner! Somebody that just lets The Shakespeare of Shoot do his talking? What more could I want?!
So go ahead and be skeptical of my ability to play well with others, question my talent for teamwork and my penchant for partnership. That’s more than understandable. But I value one thing above all else: SUCCESS. There is NOTHING more important than chalking up another victory and continuing my ascent up that Golden ladder of success. This week that means whether these other two are at the top of their game or if I’m putting in work for three: I’ll be doing whatever it takes to stomp out Jaice, Joe and, of course, Bruno. You don’t think I forgot about you, did you Armschlong?
Barista: Here ya go!
An all-too chipper barista interrupts the previously perfect flow of the promo and hands The Superstar his coffee. Excited for his daily caffeine, The Superstar takes a big swig of the still-steaming brew.
PFFFFT!
He spits it out, spraying it across the floor, countertop and nearby table.
This is shit. I can only assume you’re literally serving diarrhea in a cup. I don’t even understand how it can be this bad unless you shoved every single bean up your ass before you brewed this. Did you do that? Did you shove the beans up your narrow ass?
The barista meekly shakes his head.
Maybe you should've, it couldn't have possibly made it worse. Take this back and dispose of it. I can’t condone even pouring this down the drain; the drain will either disintegrate or kill itself. Also, please never serve this to anyone ever again. Quit your job, make sure this place gets closed down. Maybe burn it down, I don’t know. This is the most offensive thing I’ve tasted since I ate out Bruno Armstrong’s mother. Please...get this out of my presence. Now.
The Superstar shoves the mug back across the counter. He smacks his lips and rolls his tongue around a bit, struggling to get the taste out of his mouth.
I hope you didn’t think I forgot about you, Armstrong. Even if I had, I’m sure that coffee would’ve reminded me. You see, just like you this place is pretending to be something it’s not. It’s feigning artisanal quality and care. It’s professing and pretending to be of a certain quality when, in fact, it’s a garbage fire. Just like you. You’re tatted up to pretend to be a knight and you don tights to pretend to be a wrestler. But you’re neither; you’re a no-talent, dimwit dullard who isn’t fit to share MY ring. So yeah that coffee left me with feelings similar to the ones I get after watching you promo, wrestle or just generally exist: disgust, disappointment, and revulsion. I watched what you had to say to me last time with bated breath, your history lesson was absolutely riveting. I mean, you’re educating the masses on where Dr. Spock comes from. Really useful, top shelf stuff. Maybe you should be a guest lecture in Cliff of Doom’s pathetic high school class he’s teaching.
But let me teach you a little lesson on a few of the reasons I’m The Golden One since you seemed so confused. Now it’s not just that I’ve been one of the most sought after commodities in the world ever since I was discovered--but that’s true. And it’s not just that I bring women great excitement and pleasure--but that’s true too. No, no, no. See gold is both malleable and ductile. With your little interest in blacksmithing you should be aware of such things. I easily change and bend and adapt to whatever situation I’m in. Ductile: “able to be deformed without losing toughness.” So stretch me thin, put me in whatever sort of situation you want and I don’t lose any of my value, any of my toughness, any of my skills or abilities. But even if you didn’t know that stuff last week--unless that blacksmith stuff is, as I suspect it might be, just bullshit--even if you didn’t know that stuff last week, you know now.
You took your cheap shot, spearing me before the bell even rang. But I adapted to your dishonor, I still handled the business I came out there to do. I have no problem with you taking a shot at me before the bell, that’s just fine. I’ll adapt to whatever the situation calls for, just as I said. What I do have a problem with is your hyped up hypocrisy, talking about honor. HONOR?! You steal MY theme music, physically attack me before the match but fancy yourself clad with honor?! I knew you were delusional but I assumed it was the cute, Don Quixote lovable idiot type of delusional. Not the gay-bashing, closet-homosexual hypocrite type of delusional.
So cling to your fairy tales, Armschlong. Stick to the myths of days gone past to comfort you while you look in the mirror and have to consider that you’re not the honorable, iron warrior you think you are. Take solace in the words written hundreds of years ago. Keep your head in the sand you sad little obsolete ostrich. It’s safe there. That way you at least don’t have to watch the tape from last week where your head bounces off the concrete floor because your vanity, your need for a top-rope attention-grab, your DISHONOR came back to bite you in the ass.
Yeah, you definitely don’t need to review the tape. Because our little shindig this week is going to end the same way: with my hand raised and your head hung low. And there’s only two things you can do about it, like it...or love it.
The Superstar smirks then walks towards and past the camera. Fade to black.
