Post by Stephen Singh on Sept 25, 2016 16:21:02 GMT -5
Scene opens inside of a unit within a gentrified condo complex in the Williamsburg area of Brooklyn. Gentrification. It gets such a bad wrap but is it really that bad? Who decided? Gentrification is evolution, it’s growth, it’s renovation and revival. People don’t knock down perfectly good buildings, if your business is actually successful it’s not going to get displaced. Take care of your neighborhood, of your homes and businesses and each other and gentrification does not exist because it’s not necessary. But it is necessary. There are cities full of dilapidation and deterioration; infrastructures are crumbling, they need replacement by people with a greater sense of responsibility and greater means to act upon it. Detroit wouldn’t be in its death throes if it had been properly gentrified, properly evolved.
Unfortunately the negative connotation is unavoidable. Most people don’t understand that if you’re not growing, you’re dying. Standing still isn’t standing still; it’s moving backwards because the world keeps spinning. Everyone around you is moving forward so if you’re stagnant, you’re moving backwards. Gentrification is a process of forward movement and growth. Cull the weak. Make the neighborhood stronger, make the city stronger. Save it. And let people spit the word “gentrify” out as if it’s poison. Those unable to evolve, to move forward, to adapt; they’re the poison. The poison must be removed if the whole is to survive. Their opinions, their tears, their effort to fight gentrification should’ve been used to care for what they had. They wasted it. They don’t deserve it. So it will be taken from them and built back up, bigger and better than before.
The WCF cries out for gentrification.
The condo itself is sparse, not bare but definitely sparse. In the living room area there’s a light gray Gus*Modern sectional that faces the floor-to-ceiling windows that peer over the East River toward the Brooklyn Bridge. A television is conspicuous in its absence. Two chairs face inward, creating a sharp-cornered but still open living room surrounding a simple two-tiered dark-cappuccino-finished oak coffee table with gold accents. It all sits on an abstractly patterned rug which matches the finish on the high-definition laminate countertop of the island a few feet over in the kitchen area. Appliances are stainless steel, cabinetry is black, an Amazon Echo is the only visible appliance and even that is shoved unceremoniously into a corner. The free-standing island has three stainless steel stools tucked under. Every surface in the place is clean. And to say it’s clean is to say not just that it’s free of dust or crumbs but it’s empty. Everything is so intentionally minimal and scant it’s almost jarring. It looks more like a model home for would-be-buyers to tour than a home.
But it’s The Superstar’s home and it’s just how he wants it. He doesn’t live here, he lives in the ring. This is where he might sleep or eat or fuck but it’s certainly not where he lives. Right now--as it has been since Slam--it’s where he studies. A MacBook is open on the coffee table and the Superstar’s eyes are married to it. Arms crossed, a smirk on his face he makes his notes on last year’s War. He absorbs the movements, the patterns, the recurring situations and opportunities. Though only eleven of last year’s entrants are back for this one, the situations will repeat themselves. Singh has seen it himself after watching War after War after War for the past month. There are entirely predictable and exploitable moments in War year after year. Poring over each annual event three, four, five times allows him to internalize and foresee these moments. To manipulate these moments into HIS moments, HIS glory, HIS success.
It’s the same mental cataloguing he’s been doing watching matches of all the entrants to War XV. That list of entrants seems to keep changing, keep growing. A few old dogs have even come back to show their old tricks. And maybe some new ones. Singh was studying their matches with the greatest fervor as their words were given credence by their recorded history here. Unlike so many of the others he studied, the old guards’ boasts were not without basis, not fully without merit. So he gave to them special attention, special effort, special thought and strategy. Watch enough tape on anyone and there’s always the reassuring refrain: they’re human. Despite what they claim or believe, they are--invariably--human. And humans are never without defect. Find it, learn it, exploit it. The process was always the same but breaking the code of some men required greater time, effort and passion. Three things The Superstar always gave to his craft, to his calling.
Without warning, Singh’s voice cracks the silence.
This is the most important part. This right here. This is the part that everybody wants to skip, the part everybody wants to treat like it doesn’t matter. Everybody wants to cut this corner. Everybody wants to get in front of the camera, shoot their mid-card mouth off, and congratulate themselves with a beer. Or they want to spend all their time in the gym, pushing weights. Strength is a wonderful tool. But a tool in the hands of the unstudied is nothing. I’ll take the stick swung by the studied master over the finest bat swung by a novice. Or they want to spend all their time in the ring, sparring. There is no sparring for this. There is no talent you can find in a gym to emulate what you find in the WCF. And there’s nowhere in the world to emulate what’s coming at War.
So the relentless research, the infinite inquiry, the ENDLESS examination is how one comes to master a trade. The studying, the obsessing, the dissection isn’t sexy enough for most to truly embrace as a part of the wrestler’s grind. And that’s fine. It’s more than fine actually, it simply provides me with yet another advantage once inside the ring. Since I debuted, I’ve been versing myself in the minutiae of everyone here because I knew I’d eventually be facing everyone here on my rocket ship to the top of this heap. As luck would have it, I’m going to step into the ring with the majority of you mooks sooner rather than later. WHAT A glorious DAY!
Seriously, when I got official word that I was going to War Lil Superstar went from twelve to six in a nanosecond. I very nearly called the doctor because I was lugging around a diamond-hard-dangler for like six hours. Luckily I avoided my co-pay by calling Bruno Armstrong’s mom and letting her do what she does best…
The Superstar trails off and gives a wink to the camera.
You know, talk about her ogre-brained offspring with such pride that it depresses the living shit out of anyone she’s talking to as they consider, “Her biggest achievement is queefing out a guy whose biggest achievement is whatever his morning bowel movement produced?” It’s IMPOSSIBLE to keep an erection around that middle-america, working-for-the-weekend, sad-sack shit.
And also I f*cked her.
So WCF, know that I’m absolutely ecstatic about my position heading into War. I’ve got no friends, no allies, and no expectations. In fact, I don’t think I’ve garnered one single mention by any of my cuckolded competitors so far. This is just as I’d expect from the ignoramuses that make up the locker room here, heads too far up their own asses to see a SUPERNOVA bearing down on them. Keep your heads in the sand long enough and I’ll put a boot in your ass. That’s the difference between me and the rest of these all-talk-turdpoles, my confidence is borne out of work. It’s borne out of the tens of thousands of hours I’ve spent in the gym. It’s borne out of my unrelenting observation of every match on every card. It’s borne out of the fact my god-given-gifts and superior genetics are one thing; but my obsession with success is another. I eat, sleep, breathe and shit victory. You brain-dead-dullards eat, drink, and piss away your lives, your skills, your opportunities. Not me. Not The Golden God with the Gift of Gab. No, no, no. I am the Trash Talk Tolstoy because I know that wrestling matches--that any fight, truly--is a chess match. And search no more, because you’ve found Bobby F’n Fischer, Garry Kasparov, and IBM’s Watson all rolled into one. Yeah that’s good. The Watson of Wrestling. Alexa, email Assistant.
Alexa: What would you like it to say?
The Watson of Wrestling. Another gem, right?
Alexa: Ready to send?
Fire away.
Alexa: I don’t understand.
Yes, send it.
Alexa: Okay, sending.
Your grasp of the English language is on par with the majority of the WCF, Alexa. This is not a compliment.
Alexa: I don’t understand.
Right. Neither do they. Which is exactly why it’s my responsibility to enlighten the effeminate imbeciles. Let’s begin at the beginning….
The Superstar leans back, interlocks his fingers and pushes his palms out away from him with a stretch. Before he can begin at the beginning there’s a knock.
Come on.
The door swings open. It’s a well-dressed, black male. He’s donning a light blue button-up shirt tucked into charcoal dress slacks separated by a black leather belt. His head is shaved on either side but is left slightly longer on the top, tufting up with a slight curl. A wide smile precedes a booming, joyful voice.
Man: What’s the haps, caps?!
Singh: Your timing, as per the usual, Byron, is impeccable.
This was Byron, Singh’s bookie previously unintentionally shouted-out on WCF air by the Assistant. He was nearly dressed for Wall Street, not for collecting debts and taking bets. He tosses a manila envelope to the Superstar, still sitting on the couch.
Byron: Yeah everybody says that when I come to pay ‘em. When I come to collect, it seems like it’s NEVER a good time.
Singh: I certainly have no idea what you’re saying; that’s not a problem I’ve ever had.
Byron: Right. Well it feels like you only bet on sure things.
Singh: THE Sure Thing. I always bet on The Sure Thing.
Byron: That’s why I thought you’d be letting that 5K ride, Sure Thing. I mean, where’s all that confidence?
Singh: Delusion is not in my nature, Byron. There’s too many people that are going to be watching too many people’s backs in that event to make that kind of a bet a Sure Thing. And I don’t make bets to lose. I don’t do ANYTHING to lose. You know that.
The Superstar pauses. It feels wrong to say out loud that it’s not a foregone conclusion that he’ll win. He bristled at hearing it out of his own mouth; it’s uncomfortable and unfamiliar.
Singh: What are my odds?
Byron: Same as all the other new guys.
The Superstar lunges forward, hands on knees, and snaps his neck around to stare in disbelief at his bad-news-bringing bookie.
Singh: What the hell did you just say?
Byron: Hey man, Bovada always does it this way. Anybody on that “New Roster” gets the same odds.
Singh: Which are what?
Byron sighs and reaches into his pocket for a phone. He pulls out a stool, plops down and hunts through his phone.
Byron: Man, I ain’t come over here to work.
Singh: First of all, speak like you have two brain cells to rub together when you’re in my presence. Second of all, I know why you came over here. You came over here because you LOVED hearing Assistant say your name during my promo a week ago and decided you wanted more air time.
Byron: Oh you’re here to judge about people wanting air time?
Singh: No but I’m here to tell you that you’re not going to siphon off MY air time. You want some shine, hit the gym and sign a contract.
Byron: Hard pass, bruh. I got two jobs already.
Singh: Yeah and announcing yourself as a bookie on television is bound to relieve you of one of them.
Byron: Nobody gives a shit man, I told you. Public defenders are the lowest of the low and we get treated like it. And paid like it. If they think I can afford to be a self-respecting black man in NYC on their salary…..Sheeeeeeit.
Singh: Quit then. You’re a public servant. Is that you want with your life? Servitude? In the name of pathetic public peons?
Byron: I believe everybody deserves a proper defense, mayne.
Singh: I believe you’re a f*cking idiot then. Stick with your dead-end job and your dead-end life. I can’t believe I wasted the breath to try and get you out of the gutter. Now what are my odds at?
Byron: Damn, dude. Chill. The odds for anyone on the “new roster” is +10,000.
Singh: Anyone. The odds for anyone on the new roster. Ugh. My odds are the same as Shortbus Joe Smarts.
Byron: Yup.
Singh: And King of the Kooks, Jay West.
Byron: Yeah, dude.
Singh: And Jaice “Why Even Bother” Wilds?
Byron: Anybody on the new rost--
Singh: I heard what you said. I just needed to reiterate it. It’s ri-godamn-diculous. I’ve beaten all those curtain-jerking-jagweeds. I fully expect my odds to be long but the same as these no-talent ass-clowns? It’s an offense unlike any other.
Byron: Well?
Singh: Well what? Don’t just say ‘well?’ as though it’s a complete thought. That’s not a sentence. Formulate a complete thought and then verbalize it to me. One-word grunt-speak is for Jason Cash promos; it has no place here.
Byron: You cold, Steve.
Singh: I’m on goddamned fire, Byron.
Byron: I meant, WELL are you going to put the money where that loud mouth is or what?
Singh: You two-bit bookie bitch, I know you did not come to MY condo during MY promo to comment on the metaphorical volume of MY verbage. Because that type of transgression will get you the boot post haste.
Byron <meekly>: The…..Bates boot?
Singh: You’re one brave baboon, you know that? But I’ll tell you what, at 100 to 1?
The Superstar opens the envelope and snatches a rubber-banded stack. They swish as he counts it out onto the coffee table...22...23...24….
Singh: There. Five hundred on me to win War.
Byron: That’s what I’m talkin’ about! The Superstar, comin through!
The bookie grabs the stack, shoves it in his leather messenger-style bag and make a note in his phone.
Singh: Yeah, keep that in your man-purse, George Costanza. Now the reason I earlier said your timing was so impeccable was the fact that I was preparing to provide some of my so-called competition that verbal violence that you can only get from the Picasso of Pontification.
Byron: Dope, man. Do it up.
Singh: You pull that list of erring entrants back up on your phone and list them off one by one. Then I’ll take the air out of their little head-in-clouds day dream with a few well-placed punctuations. Got it?
The Superstar snaps his fingers and orders the camera to face him as he sits on the couch. The camera bumbles into its new spot, focusing in on the Superstar. Byron is just barely in the left of the frame.
Byron: For real doe? I’m so hype for this.
Singh: Your enthusiasm is unbecoming.
Byron: I don’t care, bruh! I’m assisting the Human Promo Machine! I’m basically a WCF Superstar!
Singh: There is only ONE Superstar in the WCF galaxy. You might now be considered a “WCF Personality.” Or more realistically, WCF Personality-adjace. Now let’s start their euphonic eulogy…
Byron: Drake style, we starting at the bottom--
Singh: No. Absolutely not.
Byron: What?
Singh: You’re not making references and allusions.
Byron: Bu--
Singh: And if you do, don’t call it out. Just make the reference. Avoid the temptation of dumbing it down for these dimwits despite their definite need for the same. Got it? Now let’s go, B.
Byron: Damn dude, you got rules about rules.
Singh: Golden Rules.
Byron: Alright, alright. New additions first: JNJ and Little Tornado.
Singh: JNJ Music Factory, you’re already guilty of the greatest sin you can commit: being boring as f*ck. You’re the personification of beige wallpaper man; no one really notices you’re here and those who do, definitely don’t care. You fights in jeans and Nikes chumpstain? Take some pride in the performance man. Have some class, some showmanship, some...Aw nevermind, you’ll last ten minutes and then maybe two weeks after. Just try not to get your neck broken.
Tornadoes are forces of nature, they’re perfect microcosms of nature’s potential for random and unforgiving destruction. Lil Tornado sounds more a guy trying to sell his shitty mix tape out the back of his ‘93 Camry. I’m not worried about this twister in the slightest but I WOULD suggest that you click your heels three times lil Dorothy, lest you find yourself in the middle of the ring at War chanting “no place like home….no place like home…”
Byron: El Fuego Del Infierno Eterno Silenciso.
Singh: Shorten that g*damn name, man. Just go by SILENCISO since I didn’t hear a peep out of you in the lead up to our tag match that I had to carry your dead weight through last week. And for that, you seven pound sack of excrement, The Superstar will punish you. Be ready to change your name for the eighty third time after War: El Fuego Del Infierno Eterno Que Fue Extinguido Por El SuperEstrella!
Byron: Speaking of your tag partners, Jay West.
Singh: Great segue, Byron! You’re a regular Michael Cole!
Byron: That’s not a compliment, man.
Singh: Obviously! Thanks for playing! Anyways, Jay West: you’re welcome for that W last week. You really impressed a lot of people during that match. People said there was no way you could somehow be MORE useless than you were the week prior when I pinned you. But you did it! You beat the odds! You hit one move--which was brilliantly set up by me--and then disappeared. That was it. I expect yet another embarrassingly quick vanishing act from you at War, Criss Angel! POOF!
Byron: How about the other two, Joe Smarts and Jaice Wilds?
Singh: Well we were already privy to yet another riveting promo from modern-day Albert Einstein, Joe Smarts. Please, please, PLEASE don’t put us in the ring at the same time, Seth. I’m really starting to feel guilty about beating the holy hell out of the human personification of the shortbus. Congrats on what appeared to be your first ever work out though man. I can’t wait to see how it turns out--I’m hoping it was a brain aneurism!
Jaice Wilds, you’re a half a step up from these other brain dead dipshits so congrats on that. You’re like the valedictorian of the special ed school. Last promo I heard from you included some braggadocio about you not even knowing what your next move is. THAT IS NOT A SELLING POINT. NOT KNOWING WHAT YOU’RE GOING TO DO NEXT DOES NOT CONVINCE ME YOU’RE GOING TO WIN. IT CONVINCES ME THAT YOU’RE A BUMBLING HALF WIT WHO STUMBLEF*CKS BACKWARDS INTO A WIN PERIODICALLY. So I guess, if that’s what you’re going for….Great work?
Byron: Straight fire, Supe.
Singh: Supe?
Byron: Yeah, like short for Superstar.
Singh: You short on time?
Byron: Nah bu--
Singh: Say the whole name, then.
Byron: You picky as hell. Alright, Koola and Zoey Ryback.
Singh: Zoey Ryback: the Daughter that Destruction should’ve aborted. I’m sure you’re going to tell us all that you’re more than just another Hardcore Ho with no REAL skills in the ring. I’m sure you’re going to pretend that giving up nearly a foot and around a hundred pounds won’t matter because you do “whatever it takes.” And I’m sure that after you get trounced at War you’re just going to crawl back into whatever virgin-lined cosplay cave you crawled out of. You will not be missed.
Koola, the man who is one letter away from the cutest little animal in the whole kingdom. At least you set the bar nice and low for yourself with a name like that, Koala, so that when a dude who’s six foot five and two eighty comes out you’ve exceeded expectations for the two minutes before you actually have to wrestle. Once you do step foot in MY ring, though, I know that facade will come crumbling down and you’ll be the grand disappointment your parents always knew you were. Steer clear or I’m going to shove a eucalyptus tree up your ass.
Byron : Whathca got for Brian Paine and Kidd Krazzy?
Singh: Well for Kidd Krazzzzzzzy I’ve got a few recommendations. First of all, you need more Z’s. Way more Z’s. For example, the name Kid Krazy sucks. The name Kid Krazzy? That’s kind of cool. But the name Kid Krazzzzzzzzy?! THAT IS KID IS UNF*CKWITHABLE. Next recommendation, eat a goddamn sandwich. I’ve passed kidney stones that weigh more than you. Just kidding, kidney stones are for old fat dudes and alcoholic losers like your dead uncle. Final recommendation: give you up your dreams, let your drunk brother drive you home next time and hopefully you’re both put out of my misery.
Brian Paine you round mound with the face of a Bassett Hound. The buzz in back says that you might actual be able to bring it. Good, great, grand! I don’t want to be the only one listed under the “new roster” heading who lasts more than five minutes; it would make me look bad by pure association. But if it turns out the rumors aren’t true and the only thing you ‘bring’ is a tub of cookies into bed every night, then I will gladly make your cottage-cheese-ass tap out at War. And Punisher? Change the nickname. I mean, I know you can’t lose that prison-quality tattoo you’ve got but ‘Punisher’ is fruit hanging too low for even me.
Byron: Whatchou mean, Superstar?
The Superstar Sighs.
Singh: The only punishment he inflicts is if we have to sit through one of his promos.
Byron: Oh I ge--
Singh: The Punisher nickname was originally given to him by his mattress for it wept upon his arrival nightly.
Byron: Yeah I see--
Singh: Dick Punisher.
Byron: Point made. Can we move on?
Singh: PLEASE.
The bookie scrolls on his phone.
Byron: How bout some of these other dudes? Guys with more juice than you. Like Adrian Archer.
Singh: That Magnificent Assturd is the most watered down version of The Golden One imaginable.
Byron: I don’t think he’s going by that any more. Didn’t you see his promos?
Singh: I thought so but I think my audio must have been malfunctioning.
Byron: How so?
Singh: He was on the screen but it just sounded like one prolonged fart. It was as though somebody had foolishly finally gone back to Chipotle, contracted that stomach bug again, and then I was just listening to the aftermath while Archer was on screen for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes I’m never going to get back. Twenty minutes of my life that he wasted. Just like he wastes his breath on guys he can’t lace the boots of, and just like he’s wasting a roster spot here in the Dub.
But yeah, I had the misfortune of seeing his so-called promos. One of them was titled “War Just Got A Hell Of A Lot More Interesting..” right? The ellipses there indicate that it was shortened from its original title: “War Just Got A Hell of a Lot More Interesting But my Promos Stayed Painfully Boring!” Another moniker change, a new attitude, a new him. He’s been here two fart-lengths and can’t keep his eye on the prize; he can’t decide exactly what he wants or who he is. Hopefully at War I get to help him figure out exactly what he is: another f*cklet lining up for 15 Minutes of Fame with The Superstar.
Byron: #Beholdingmydickinyomouth.
Singh: Byron, I told you this is my time. You’re just supposed to lob these softballs over the plate while I Big Papi them over the wall. But I’m going to give you a pass based on your wordplay and the fact that Archer is a human dumpster fire.
Byron: ‘Preciate it. “The Hebrew Hammer” Serujah.
Singh: Is this serious? I mean, is she for real? I….I guess I just don’t get it? And that, my little Stevenites, is a very rare admission from the Watson of Wrestling. But I do not, for one second, understand this broad. She’s here to….hump us all? How do you hump someone to victory? I...I don’t get it. I understand WHY she’s here--she’s a crazy nymphomaniac who loves sweaty dudes and wants to touch them. Fine, whatever. You sound like a pubescent middle schooler’s wildly unrealistic hope for what a woman is actually like but fine. That’s fine. What I don’t get is HOW you lust your way to victory? Do I just get so bored with your mind-numbingly juvenile persona that I leave the ring and you win by count out? Maybe that’s it? Keep me informed, please.
Byron: Alex Winterz.
Singh: Ah yes, such a promising young talent. Alex Winterz, holder of victories over...Wait. Wait a second. He lost to Joe Smarts.
There’s a long pause as Byron waits on the Superstar to continue. He doesn’t.
Byron: And…
Singh: And nothing. I don’t have to say anything else. He lost to the make-a-wish wanker. I don’t need to say anything else; nothing I could conjure up would be more embarrassing or insulting than that simple fact. Next.
Byron: Cool, Real Deal Jason O’Neal.
Singh: Another promising young flame already burning out early. The brass really seemed to have hope for this one, but every time they put him in the ring against anybody who can do more than tie their own shoes, he’s looking up at the lights. If you worked half as hard as you b*tched about being ‘punished’ by being on the low card, maybe you could move all the way up to get a TV Title shot! But you’d probably whiff on that too...Oh wait, that already happened, didn’t it, Misdeal? But go ahead and brag about the alleged ratings you bring and these exaggerated eyeballs that are only on your promos and your matches. Brag about being runner up in that TV title match. SECOND. You know what being SECOND entitles you to? JACK SHIT. Stop touting it like it means anything other than FIRST LOSER. You’re embarrassing yourself and annoying the rest of us. You literally advertise yourself as an international drug lord, take part in murders and bring a WCF camera along for the ride. THEN you accuse Cliff of Douche and Master Bates of spending six figures to stage their promos? Pot, you just keep telling that kettle what color it is. Stay at the bottom of the card where you belong. Stay down there whining and crying about not getting your shot. I’m going to enjoy using the top of your head as a stepping stone as I keep my head down, collect wins, and make my way to the top of this food chain.
Byron: Dion Necurat.
Singh: Dion Neucrat.
Byron: Necurat.
Singh: Nuke Rat? Like he snitches on nuclear programs?
Byron: Necurat.
Singh: Newcrap? Like his new crap is just as bad as his old crap?
Byron: Necurat.
Singh: Baccarat? Like the game of chance with absolutely no skill involved?
Byron: No, it’s Nec...ur…..at.
Singh: Maybe. But I think Dion Baccarat is more accurate. Because with him there’s absolutely no skill involved and if anything good comes out of him, it’s got to be luck. He’s another deluded would-be-warrior, pretending he was born in the wrong time period. He’s at least partially correct; he’s going to wish he was never born in the same generation as The Jack of All Trades, Master of One. You better pray to The Golden God that you’re in the ring the same time as your newfound cohorts so you can at least get a snowball’s chance in hell at lasting more than five minutes.
Byron pulls up a list of the War entrants listed by their team affiliations.
Byron: Baccarat is dope though, fun game for real. While we’re on the Brotherhood, how about Damian Kaine?
Singh: Archer’s alliance-hopping ex-sidekick. This midcard mulkie was at least smart enough to grab back-up for the big War; he joined up with the Brotherhood just in time. Just in time, that is, for this One Man Maelstrom to tear through the whole lot of you. Strike at a chain’s weakest point to break it; that means everybody will be setting sights right on you, Danity Kaine. You’ve done nothing but jump from coat tail to coat tail in your brief time here. That’s not entirely fair, I guess. You’ve also begun to lose your mind. Just like every other unoriginal, unintelligent, urine-soaked unclef*cker in the back.
Let’s stay on topic here. Psychopomp: the newest pushed-too-fast f*ckchop trying to wedge his way into the main event. Kudos to you, it looks like you hitched your dilapidated, barely-functioning wagon--er, moped--to the right guys at the right time. Unfortunately for you, it’s not enough. Your happy-go-lucky, power of pathetic positivity personality has no place in War. It’s perfect for roasting s’mores with the gang at Camp, it’ll even get you a bullshit, right-place right-time pinfall over a shadow of the man that’s supposed to be world champ. It will NOT, however, get you anything but TAPPED OUT when you’re in the ring with The Superstar.
And finally, their fearful leader. The People’s Chump. Kevin Bitchup. Now here’s a man worth my breath. Here’s a man with an actual list of accomplishments and a little bit of gold. Granted, it’s the most meaningless tire-fire of a championship in the federation but it’s something! And you lug around that acrid accolade with such pride! That’s how I know you’re not going to be the kind of great you want to be here, Bitchup. You take pride in being the People’s Champion. The People are idiots. They’re braindead sheep nodding along with whatever the last commercial told them to buy into. You’re just their mook of the month. Enjoy it. You’re going nowhere in War, with or without your Brotherhood of Misfit Toys. Your obsession with Bates and proving that you’re on Tubby’s level will cost you. In your heart of hearts, KB, you know the same thing I do: The Creeping Death is coming for busted-up Bates. And then when the title picture re-frames itself to exclude that excrement, you can just nuzzle up right next to him and finally get a shot at proving whatever the hell you’re trying to prove by beating him. Good for you. You deserve it. You’ve busted your ass to get up where you belong: right to the top of that PPV midcard! Just don’t close down that little day camp you’re running, you’re going to need that extra income when the WCF Sheeple finally wake up and realize you don’t belong within eyeshot of any main events.
The Superstar stands and stretches towards the ceiling. He ever-so briefly has his head leave the frame. As he walks towards the refrigerator, the camera man clearly struggles to keep it properly framed. The Superstar opens the fridge and reaches in, we’re unable to see its contents at the current angle.
Singh: All this shooting has me parched. Can I get you something, Byron?
Byron: Beer?
Singh: You know I don’t have that.
The Superstar pulls out a bottle of water and opens it.
Byron: Just checking, mayne. You’ve been betting more and more lately so--
Singh: So what? So I must be drinking? So I must lack a modicum of control over any of my basest desires? My weaknesses? I’ve been betting more but gambling less, if you catch my meaning. I bet only on myself, on The Sure Thing. I’m a factory whose product is SUCCESS. Alcohol has no place as an input.
Byron: Good for you man, one day at a time and all that.
Singh: Shut the hell up, Byron. There are not twelve steps here, there is one. I see weakness, I eliminate it. I cull weakness even from my own person. That was a weakness and it no longer exists to deter me, to poison this Superstar system. And I’ll be doing the same thing at War. Culling the weak and eliminating the unworthy. Now who else is on that list, let’s keep the magic going here.
The Superstar pops himself up onto the island, glugs the water down his throat as Byron reads from his phone.
Byron: Let’s stick with the teams. Zero Tolerance.
Singh: Yes, the simpletons named after exactly what I have for their pathetic promos: ZERO TOLERANCE. I try, I really do try. I like to listen to everybody else try and string more than four words together into some type of coherence. But these guys? Good god, these guys are UNWATCHABLE. And they’re constantly butthurt over being compared to the Insane Clown Pussies? I can’t believe people keep drawing that comparison either! I mean, all you do is paint your face so no one has to get a clean look at the hideousness...and wear sweet jerseys in hopes to hide your dough-boy bodies...and generally act like low-brow bus station stooges who don’t belong in a wrestling ring. But you’re right, you guys have almost nothing in common with ICP.
Salem Shepard, ironically the most lost of this little flock of sheep. This plastic-poon-pounding plebeian finally has a proper, flesh-and-blood woman in his life! Rejoice, rejoice! And on top of that, he’s hobnobbing with higher-ups like Tubby himself. That’s the way to do it, Salem, if you can’t get proper recognition for you and your boys by yourselves, just latch onto an already-established star for one of the biggest events of the year! I’m sure your new Nightmare Before Christmas bride will be so proud.
Onto Crazy J: he suffered a loss and therefore has a new, more dangerous attitude! He’s done fighting the voices! He’s embracing them! You thought he was crazy before?! NOW HE’S REALLY CRAZY! You sure, mulkie? Because when you and your whole crew does their J-O-B at War, where are you going to go from there? Are you going to get really extra, double crazy? Maybe spell it with a K like that newbie jabrone? You want the rest of us to stop laughing at you? You want to be taken seriously? The answer isn’t kidnapping and voices. It’s this: take yourself seriously. You can’t control yourself, you can’t control your voices, you can’t control that ring.
Byron: Yo, I think you’ve got them backwards.
Singh: I don’t care.
Byron: You sure?
Singh: Oh I’m sure I don’t care. Let’s move onto Jason Cash. At least this guy isn’t a cookie cutter copy of ICP. He’s just a cookie cutter copy of every beer-swilling, redneck nobody in the south. He’s proud to be the alcoholic boyfriend of the WCF. He’s a deadbeat heading to a dead-end and no one’s even going to remember why he was here in the first place. Enjoy the little influx of cash you’ve got and causing distress to your octogenarian neighbors. It’s the most feathers you’re going to ruffle around here because everyone else takes this craft seriously enough to know that you’re just another dimwit who’s here playing around, having a good ol’ time like a good ol’ boy. War will not be a good time, Cash, it’s going to be a proof positive that a prehab puta like you doesn’t belong in MY ring.
Byron: CJ Phoenix and Jordan Ciserano.
Singh: Another couple of false hopes for the WCF. Another couple of no-personality, charisma-less kooks. Ciserano, I’d say everyone is excited that you’re back in the WCF after your hiatus but...well...Call me George Washington, because I cannot tell a lie. No one gives a shit you’re back. The wins you’ve racked up so far are as insignificant as your history here with a stable I haven’t heard on the lips of a single other person in back. I checked that last promo where you really picked apart Mikey Ex’s match. You’re so generic you should be sold at Aldi’s. And a superkick for your finisher? Wow. How could I ever possibly imagine a way to deal with that? Oh wait, I’ll deal with it the same way I deal with the OTHER FIFTEEN duds who have it as their “finisher.” Sorry, Jordan, Steven just jumped over Jumpman.
Now second-place in this Mr. Personality contest from hell is BJ Phoenix. Some cardboard cutout version of a champion who holds press conferences bragging about a grand desire to hold his illustrious Alpha title for 92 days. Remind me again, champ, just how many times you’ve defended that title since you won it? I can’t imagine you’d forget any of those title defenses...because there’s nothing to forget! You’re just another pretender to a title you don’t deserve. You want to make that Alpha Title mean something for all those that hold it after you? Be a man and actually DEFEND IT. Or keep hiding in tag matches against guys who would pummel you one-on-one. War: another chance for BJ Phoenix to avoid defending his title while still attempt to prop up his stock by standing within arm’s distance of the federation’s REAL champs. I’m glad you’re a Phoenix because if you cross me at War, I’m going to turn you to ash. I’ll wait for you to rise again so that you can drop that Alpha Title to somebody deserving--somebody a bit more Golden.
Byron: Superstar Steven Singh: Alpha Champion. It’s got a ring, bruh.
Singh: Of course it does. Gold always goes well with yours truly. Now that’s it for tonight, man. I’ve got more studying to do.
Byron: Studying?
Singh: Yes, Byron, studying. Do you think I’m just spouting off here? Do you not realize the hours upon hours I’m putting in to know each and one of these philistines inside and out? No, you probably don’t. Because you’ve never put that kind of work into anything in your entire life. Just like half the roster here. You leave your potential unfulfilled and opt to coast on whatever god-given talents you may or may not have. That’s how you top out as a low-level bookie and public defender.
Byron: Damn dude, this is how you talk to your boys?
Singh: You’re not ‘my boy.’ You’re my bookie. You take my wagers and then pay me when they’re right. Speaking of which…
The Superstar goes back over to the table and grabs the envelope still containing $4500. He quickly counts out another $500 and shoves it in Byron’s breast pocket.
Put that on me too. After giving these know-nothing numbskulls the lexical lashing they deserved, I’m feeling even better about my chances.
Byron: Oh yeah? You feeling pretty good?
Singh: I’m feeling GOLDEN. Now get the hell out. I’ve got more work to do.
Scene fades to black.
Unfortunately the negative connotation is unavoidable. Most people don’t understand that if you’re not growing, you’re dying. Standing still isn’t standing still; it’s moving backwards because the world keeps spinning. Everyone around you is moving forward so if you’re stagnant, you’re moving backwards. Gentrification is a process of forward movement and growth. Cull the weak. Make the neighborhood stronger, make the city stronger. Save it. And let people spit the word “gentrify” out as if it’s poison. Those unable to evolve, to move forward, to adapt; they’re the poison. The poison must be removed if the whole is to survive. Their opinions, their tears, their effort to fight gentrification should’ve been used to care for what they had. They wasted it. They don’t deserve it. So it will be taken from them and built back up, bigger and better than before.
The WCF cries out for gentrification.
The condo itself is sparse, not bare but definitely sparse. In the living room area there’s a light gray Gus*Modern sectional that faces the floor-to-ceiling windows that peer over the East River toward the Brooklyn Bridge. A television is conspicuous in its absence. Two chairs face inward, creating a sharp-cornered but still open living room surrounding a simple two-tiered dark-cappuccino-finished oak coffee table with gold accents. It all sits on an abstractly patterned rug which matches the finish on the high-definition laminate countertop of the island a few feet over in the kitchen area. Appliances are stainless steel, cabinetry is black, an Amazon Echo is the only visible appliance and even that is shoved unceremoniously into a corner. The free-standing island has three stainless steel stools tucked under. Every surface in the place is clean. And to say it’s clean is to say not just that it’s free of dust or crumbs but it’s empty. Everything is so intentionally minimal and scant it’s almost jarring. It looks more like a model home for would-be-buyers to tour than a home.
But it’s The Superstar’s home and it’s just how he wants it. He doesn’t live here, he lives in the ring. This is where he might sleep or eat or fuck but it’s certainly not where he lives. Right now--as it has been since Slam--it’s where he studies. A MacBook is open on the coffee table and the Superstar’s eyes are married to it. Arms crossed, a smirk on his face he makes his notes on last year’s War. He absorbs the movements, the patterns, the recurring situations and opportunities. Though only eleven of last year’s entrants are back for this one, the situations will repeat themselves. Singh has seen it himself after watching War after War after War for the past month. There are entirely predictable and exploitable moments in War year after year. Poring over each annual event three, four, five times allows him to internalize and foresee these moments. To manipulate these moments into HIS moments, HIS glory, HIS success.
It’s the same mental cataloguing he’s been doing watching matches of all the entrants to War XV. That list of entrants seems to keep changing, keep growing. A few old dogs have even come back to show their old tricks. And maybe some new ones. Singh was studying their matches with the greatest fervor as their words were given credence by their recorded history here. Unlike so many of the others he studied, the old guards’ boasts were not without basis, not fully without merit. So he gave to them special attention, special effort, special thought and strategy. Watch enough tape on anyone and there’s always the reassuring refrain: they’re human. Despite what they claim or believe, they are--invariably--human. And humans are never without defect. Find it, learn it, exploit it. The process was always the same but breaking the code of some men required greater time, effort and passion. Three things The Superstar always gave to his craft, to his calling.
Without warning, Singh’s voice cracks the silence.
This is the most important part. This right here. This is the part that everybody wants to skip, the part everybody wants to treat like it doesn’t matter. Everybody wants to cut this corner. Everybody wants to get in front of the camera, shoot their mid-card mouth off, and congratulate themselves with a beer. Or they want to spend all their time in the gym, pushing weights. Strength is a wonderful tool. But a tool in the hands of the unstudied is nothing. I’ll take the stick swung by the studied master over the finest bat swung by a novice. Or they want to spend all their time in the ring, sparring. There is no sparring for this. There is no talent you can find in a gym to emulate what you find in the WCF. And there’s nowhere in the world to emulate what’s coming at War.
So the relentless research, the infinite inquiry, the ENDLESS examination is how one comes to master a trade. The studying, the obsessing, the dissection isn’t sexy enough for most to truly embrace as a part of the wrestler’s grind. And that’s fine. It’s more than fine actually, it simply provides me with yet another advantage once inside the ring. Since I debuted, I’ve been versing myself in the minutiae of everyone here because I knew I’d eventually be facing everyone here on my rocket ship to the top of this heap. As luck would have it, I’m going to step into the ring with the majority of you mooks sooner rather than later. WHAT A glorious DAY!
Seriously, when I got official word that I was going to War Lil Superstar went from twelve to six in a nanosecond. I very nearly called the doctor because I was lugging around a diamond-hard-dangler for like six hours. Luckily I avoided my co-pay by calling Bruno Armstrong’s mom and letting her do what she does best…
The Superstar trails off and gives a wink to the camera.
You know, talk about her ogre-brained offspring with such pride that it depresses the living shit out of anyone she’s talking to as they consider, “Her biggest achievement is queefing out a guy whose biggest achievement is whatever his morning bowel movement produced?” It’s IMPOSSIBLE to keep an erection around that middle-america, working-for-the-weekend, sad-sack shit.
And also I f*cked her.
So WCF, know that I’m absolutely ecstatic about my position heading into War. I’ve got no friends, no allies, and no expectations. In fact, I don’t think I’ve garnered one single mention by any of my cuckolded competitors so far. This is just as I’d expect from the ignoramuses that make up the locker room here, heads too far up their own asses to see a SUPERNOVA bearing down on them. Keep your heads in the sand long enough and I’ll put a boot in your ass. That’s the difference between me and the rest of these all-talk-turdpoles, my confidence is borne out of work. It’s borne out of the tens of thousands of hours I’ve spent in the gym. It’s borne out of my unrelenting observation of every match on every card. It’s borne out of the fact my god-given-gifts and superior genetics are one thing; but my obsession with success is another. I eat, sleep, breathe and shit victory. You brain-dead-dullards eat, drink, and piss away your lives, your skills, your opportunities. Not me. Not The Golden God with the Gift of Gab. No, no, no. I am the Trash Talk Tolstoy because I know that wrestling matches--that any fight, truly--is a chess match. And search no more, because you’ve found Bobby F’n Fischer, Garry Kasparov, and IBM’s Watson all rolled into one. Yeah that’s good. The Watson of Wrestling. Alexa, email Assistant.
Alexa: What would you like it to say?
The Watson of Wrestling. Another gem, right?
Alexa: Ready to send?
Fire away.
Alexa: I don’t understand.
Yes, send it.
Alexa: Okay, sending.
Your grasp of the English language is on par with the majority of the WCF, Alexa. This is not a compliment.
Alexa: I don’t understand.
Right. Neither do they. Which is exactly why it’s my responsibility to enlighten the effeminate imbeciles. Let’s begin at the beginning….
The Superstar leans back, interlocks his fingers and pushes his palms out away from him with a stretch. Before he can begin at the beginning there’s a knock.
Come on.
The door swings open. It’s a well-dressed, black male. He’s donning a light blue button-up shirt tucked into charcoal dress slacks separated by a black leather belt. His head is shaved on either side but is left slightly longer on the top, tufting up with a slight curl. A wide smile precedes a booming, joyful voice.
Man: What’s the haps, caps?!
Singh: Your timing, as per the usual, Byron, is impeccable.
This was Byron, Singh’s bookie previously unintentionally shouted-out on WCF air by the Assistant. He was nearly dressed for Wall Street, not for collecting debts and taking bets. He tosses a manila envelope to the Superstar, still sitting on the couch.
Byron: Yeah everybody says that when I come to pay ‘em. When I come to collect, it seems like it’s NEVER a good time.
Singh: I certainly have no idea what you’re saying; that’s not a problem I’ve ever had.
Byron: Right. Well it feels like you only bet on sure things.
Singh: THE Sure Thing. I always bet on The Sure Thing.
Byron: That’s why I thought you’d be letting that 5K ride, Sure Thing. I mean, where’s all that confidence?
Singh: Delusion is not in my nature, Byron. There’s too many people that are going to be watching too many people’s backs in that event to make that kind of a bet a Sure Thing. And I don’t make bets to lose. I don’t do ANYTHING to lose. You know that.
The Superstar pauses. It feels wrong to say out loud that it’s not a foregone conclusion that he’ll win. He bristled at hearing it out of his own mouth; it’s uncomfortable and unfamiliar.
Singh: What are my odds?
Byron: Same as all the other new guys.
The Superstar lunges forward, hands on knees, and snaps his neck around to stare in disbelief at his bad-news-bringing bookie.
Singh: What the hell did you just say?
Byron: Hey man, Bovada always does it this way. Anybody on that “New Roster” gets the same odds.
Singh: Which are what?
Byron sighs and reaches into his pocket for a phone. He pulls out a stool, plops down and hunts through his phone.
Byron: Man, I ain’t come over here to work.
Singh: First of all, speak like you have two brain cells to rub together when you’re in my presence. Second of all, I know why you came over here. You came over here because you LOVED hearing Assistant say your name during my promo a week ago and decided you wanted more air time.
Byron: Oh you’re here to judge about people wanting air time?
Singh: No but I’m here to tell you that you’re not going to siphon off MY air time. You want some shine, hit the gym and sign a contract.
Byron: Hard pass, bruh. I got two jobs already.
Singh: Yeah and announcing yourself as a bookie on television is bound to relieve you of one of them.
Byron: Nobody gives a shit man, I told you. Public defenders are the lowest of the low and we get treated like it. And paid like it. If they think I can afford to be a self-respecting black man in NYC on their salary…..Sheeeeeeit.
Singh: Quit then. You’re a public servant. Is that you want with your life? Servitude? In the name of pathetic public peons?
Byron: I believe everybody deserves a proper defense, mayne.
Singh: I believe you’re a f*cking idiot then. Stick with your dead-end job and your dead-end life. I can’t believe I wasted the breath to try and get you out of the gutter. Now what are my odds at?
Byron: Damn, dude. Chill. The odds for anyone on the “new roster” is +10,000.
Singh: Anyone. The odds for anyone on the new roster. Ugh. My odds are the same as Shortbus Joe Smarts.
Byron: Yup.
Singh: And King of the Kooks, Jay West.
Byron: Yeah, dude.
Singh: And Jaice “Why Even Bother” Wilds?
Byron: Anybody on the new rost--
Singh: I heard what you said. I just needed to reiterate it. It’s ri-godamn-diculous. I’ve beaten all those curtain-jerking-jagweeds. I fully expect my odds to be long but the same as these no-talent ass-clowns? It’s an offense unlike any other.
Byron: Well?
Singh: Well what? Don’t just say ‘well?’ as though it’s a complete thought. That’s not a sentence. Formulate a complete thought and then verbalize it to me. One-word grunt-speak is for Jason Cash promos; it has no place here.
Byron: You cold, Steve.
Singh: I’m on goddamned fire, Byron.
Byron: I meant, WELL are you going to put the money where that loud mouth is or what?
Singh: You two-bit bookie bitch, I know you did not come to MY condo during MY promo to comment on the metaphorical volume of MY verbage. Because that type of transgression will get you the boot post haste.
Byron <meekly>: The…..Bates boot?
Singh: You’re one brave baboon, you know that? But I’ll tell you what, at 100 to 1?
The Superstar opens the envelope and snatches a rubber-banded stack. They swish as he counts it out onto the coffee table...22...23...24….
Singh: There. Five hundred on me to win War.
Byron: That’s what I’m talkin’ about! The Superstar, comin through!
The bookie grabs the stack, shoves it in his leather messenger-style bag and make a note in his phone.
Singh: Yeah, keep that in your man-purse, George Costanza. Now the reason I earlier said your timing was so impeccable was the fact that I was preparing to provide some of my so-called competition that verbal violence that you can only get from the Picasso of Pontification.
Byron: Dope, man. Do it up.
Singh: You pull that list of erring entrants back up on your phone and list them off one by one. Then I’ll take the air out of their little head-in-clouds day dream with a few well-placed punctuations. Got it?
The Superstar snaps his fingers and orders the camera to face him as he sits on the couch. The camera bumbles into its new spot, focusing in on the Superstar. Byron is just barely in the left of the frame.
Byron: For real doe? I’m so hype for this.
Singh: Your enthusiasm is unbecoming.
Byron: I don’t care, bruh! I’m assisting the Human Promo Machine! I’m basically a WCF Superstar!
Singh: There is only ONE Superstar in the WCF galaxy. You might now be considered a “WCF Personality.” Or more realistically, WCF Personality-adjace. Now let’s start their euphonic eulogy…
Byron: Drake style, we starting at the bottom--
Singh: No. Absolutely not.
Byron: What?
Singh: You’re not making references and allusions.
Byron: Bu--
Singh: And if you do, don’t call it out. Just make the reference. Avoid the temptation of dumbing it down for these dimwits despite their definite need for the same. Got it? Now let’s go, B.
Byron: Damn dude, you got rules about rules.
Singh: Golden Rules.
Byron: Alright, alright. New additions first: JNJ and Little Tornado.
Singh: JNJ Music Factory, you’re already guilty of the greatest sin you can commit: being boring as f*ck. You’re the personification of beige wallpaper man; no one really notices you’re here and those who do, definitely don’t care. You fights in jeans and Nikes chumpstain? Take some pride in the performance man. Have some class, some showmanship, some...Aw nevermind, you’ll last ten minutes and then maybe two weeks after. Just try not to get your neck broken.
Tornadoes are forces of nature, they’re perfect microcosms of nature’s potential for random and unforgiving destruction. Lil Tornado sounds more a guy trying to sell his shitty mix tape out the back of his ‘93 Camry. I’m not worried about this twister in the slightest but I WOULD suggest that you click your heels three times lil Dorothy, lest you find yourself in the middle of the ring at War chanting “no place like home….no place like home…”
Byron: El Fuego Del Infierno Eterno Silenciso.
Singh: Shorten that g*damn name, man. Just go by SILENCISO since I didn’t hear a peep out of you in the lead up to our tag match that I had to carry your dead weight through last week. And for that, you seven pound sack of excrement, The Superstar will punish you. Be ready to change your name for the eighty third time after War: El Fuego Del Infierno Eterno Que Fue Extinguido Por El SuperEstrella!
Byron: Speaking of your tag partners, Jay West.
Singh: Great segue, Byron! You’re a regular Michael Cole!
Byron: That’s not a compliment, man.
Singh: Obviously! Thanks for playing! Anyways, Jay West: you’re welcome for that W last week. You really impressed a lot of people during that match. People said there was no way you could somehow be MORE useless than you were the week prior when I pinned you. But you did it! You beat the odds! You hit one move--which was brilliantly set up by me--and then disappeared. That was it. I expect yet another embarrassingly quick vanishing act from you at War, Criss Angel! POOF!
Byron: How about the other two, Joe Smarts and Jaice Wilds?
Singh: Well we were already privy to yet another riveting promo from modern-day Albert Einstein, Joe Smarts. Please, please, PLEASE don’t put us in the ring at the same time, Seth. I’m really starting to feel guilty about beating the holy hell out of the human personification of the shortbus. Congrats on what appeared to be your first ever work out though man. I can’t wait to see how it turns out--I’m hoping it was a brain aneurism!
Jaice Wilds, you’re a half a step up from these other brain dead dipshits so congrats on that. You’re like the valedictorian of the special ed school. Last promo I heard from you included some braggadocio about you not even knowing what your next move is. THAT IS NOT A SELLING POINT. NOT KNOWING WHAT YOU’RE GOING TO DO NEXT DOES NOT CONVINCE ME YOU’RE GOING TO WIN. IT CONVINCES ME THAT YOU’RE A BUMBLING HALF WIT WHO STUMBLEF*CKS BACKWARDS INTO A WIN PERIODICALLY. So I guess, if that’s what you’re going for….Great work?
Byron: Straight fire, Supe.
Singh: Supe?
Byron: Yeah, like short for Superstar.
Singh: You short on time?
Byron: Nah bu--
Singh: Say the whole name, then.
Byron: You picky as hell. Alright, Koola and Zoey Ryback.
Singh: Zoey Ryback: the Daughter that Destruction should’ve aborted. I’m sure you’re going to tell us all that you’re more than just another Hardcore Ho with no REAL skills in the ring. I’m sure you’re going to pretend that giving up nearly a foot and around a hundred pounds won’t matter because you do “whatever it takes.” And I’m sure that after you get trounced at War you’re just going to crawl back into whatever virgin-lined cosplay cave you crawled out of. You will not be missed.
Koola, the man who is one letter away from the cutest little animal in the whole kingdom. At least you set the bar nice and low for yourself with a name like that, Koala, so that when a dude who’s six foot five and two eighty comes out you’ve exceeded expectations for the two minutes before you actually have to wrestle. Once you do step foot in MY ring, though, I know that facade will come crumbling down and you’ll be the grand disappointment your parents always knew you were. Steer clear or I’m going to shove a eucalyptus tree up your ass.
Byron : Whathca got for Brian Paine and Kidd Krazzy?
Singh: Well for Kidd Krazzzzzzzy I’ve got a few recommendations. First of all, you need more Z’s. Way more Z’s. For example, the name Kid Krazy sucks. The name Kid Krazzy? That’s kind of cool. But the name Kid Krazzzzzzzzy?! THAT IS KID IS UNF*CKWITHABLE. Next recommendation, eat a goddamn sandwich. I’ve passed kidney stones that weigh more than you. Just kidding, kidney stones are for old fat dudes and alcoholic losers like your dead uncle. Final recommendation: give you up your dreams, let your drunk brother drive you home next time and hopefully you’re both put out of my misery.
Brian Paine you round mound with the face of a Bassett Hound. The buzz in back says that you might actual be able to bring it. Good, great, grand! I don’t want to be the only one listed under the “new roster” heading who lasts more than five minutes; it would make me look bad by pure association. But if it turns out the rumors aren’t true and the only thing you ‘bring’ is a tub of cookies into bed every night, then I will gladly make your cottage-cheese-ass tap out at War. And Punisher? Change the nickname. I mean, I know you can’t lose that prison-quality tattoo you’ve got but ‘Punisher’ is fruit hanging too low for even me.
Byron: Whatchou mean, Superstar?
The Superstar Sighs.
Singh: The only punishment he inflicts is if we have to sit through one of his promos.
Byron: Oh I ge--
Singh: The Punisher nickname was originally given to him by his mattress for it wept upon his arrival nightly.
Byron: Yeah I see--
Singh: Dick Punisher.
Byron: Point made. Can we move on?
Singh: PLEASE.
The bookie scrolls on his phone.
Byron: How bout some of these other dudes? Guys with more juice than you. Like Adrian Archer.
Singh: That Magnificent Assturd is the most watered down version of The Golden One imaginable.
Byron: I don’t think he’s going by that any more. Didn’t you see his promos?
Singh: I thought so but I think my audio must have been malfunctioning.
Byron: How so?
Singh: He was on the screen but it just sounded like one prolonged fart. It was as though somebody had foolishly finally gone back to Chipotle, contracted that stomach bug again, and then I was just listening to the aftermath while Archer was on screen for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes I’m never going to get back. Twenty minutes of my life that he wasted. Just like he wastes his breath on guys he can’t lace the boots of, and just like he’s wasting a roster spot here in the Dub.
But yeah, I had the misfortune of seeing his so-called promos. One of them was titled “War Just Got A Hell Of A Lot More Interesting..” right? The ellipses there indicate that it was shortened from its original title: “War Just Got A Hell of a Lot More Interesting But my Promos Stayed Painfully Boring!” Another moniker change, a new attitude, a new him. He’s been here two fart-lengths and can’t keep his eye on the prize; he can’t decide exactly what he wants or who he is. Hopefully at War I get to help him figure out exactly what he is: another f*cklet lining up for 15 Minutes of Fame with The Superstar.
Byron: #Beholdingmydickinyomouth.
Singh: Byron, I told you this is my time. You’re just supposed to lob these softballs over the plate while I Big Papi them over the wall. But I’m going to give you a pass based on your wordplay and the fact that Archer is a human dumpster fire.
Byron: ‘Preciate it. “The Hebrew Hammer” Serujah.
Singh: Is this serious? I mean, is she for real? I….I guess I just don’t get it? And that, my little Stevenites, is a very rare admission from the Watson of Wrestling. But I do not, for one second, understand this broad. She’s here to….hump us all? How do you hump someone to victory? I...I don’t get it. I understand WHY she’s here--she’s a crazy nymphomaniac who loves sweaty dudes and wants to touch them. Fine, whatever. You sound like a pubescent middle schooler’s wildly unrealistic hope for what a woman is actually like but fine. That’s fine. What I don’t get is HOW you lust your way to victory? Do I just get so bored with your mind-numbingly juvenile persona that I leave the ring and you win by count out? Maybe that’s it? Keep me informed, please.
Byron: Alex Winterz.
Singh: Ah yes, such a promising young talent. Alex Winterz, holder of victories over...Wait. Wait a second. He lost to Joe Smarts.
There’s a long pause as Byron waits on the Superstar to continue. He doesn’t.
Byron: And…
Singh: And nothing. I don’t have to say anything else. He lost to the make-a-wish wanker. I don’t need to say anything else; nothing I could conjure up would be more embarrassing or insulting than that simple fact. Next.
Byron: Cool, Real Deal Jason O’Neal.
Singh: Another promising young flame already burning out early. The brass really seemed to have hope for this one, but every time they put him in the ring against anybody who can do more than tie their own shoes, he’s looking up at the lights. If you worked half as hard as you b*tched about being ‘punished’ by being on the low card, maybe you could move all the way up to get a TV Title shot! But you’d probably whiff on that too...Oh wait, that already happened, didn’t it, Misdeal? But go ahead and brag about the alleged ratings you bring and these exaggerated eyeballs that are only on your promos and your matches. Brag about being runner up in that TV title match. SECOND. You know what being SECOND entitles you to? JACK SHIT. Stop touting it like it means anything other than FIRST LOSER. You’re embarrassing yourself and annoying the rest of us. You literally advertise yourself as an international drug lord, take part in murders and bring a WCF camera along for the ride. THEN you accuse Cliff of Douche and Master Bates of spending six figures to stage their promos? Pot, you just keep telling that kettle what color it is. Stay at the bottom of the card where you belong. Stay down there whining and crying about not getting your shot. I’m going to enjoy using the top of your head as a stepping stone as I keep my head down, collect wins, and make my way to the top of this food chain.
Byron: Dion Necurat.
Singh: Dion Neucrat.
Byron: Necurat.
Singh: Nuke Rat? Like he snitches on nuclear programs?
Byron: Necurat.
Singh: Newcrap? Like his new crap is just as bad as his old crap?
Byron: Necurat.
Singh: Baccarat? Like the game of chance with absolutely no skill involved?
Byron: No, it’s Nec...ur…..at.
Singh: Maybe. But I think Dion Baccarat is more accurate. Because with him there’s absolutely no skill involved and if anything good comes out of him, it’s got to be luck. He’s another deluded would-be-warrior, pretending he was born in the wrong time period. He’s at least partially correct; he’s going to wish he was never born in the same generation as The Jack of All Trades, Master of One. You better pray to The Golden God that you’re in the ring the same time as your newfound cohorts so you can at least get a snowball’s chance in hell at lasting more than five minutes.
Byron pulls up a list of the War entrants listed by their team affiliations.
Byron: Baccarat is dope though, fun game for real. While we’re on the Brotherhood, how about Damian Kaine?
Singh: Archer’s alliance-hopping ex-sidekick. This midcard mulkie was at least smart enough to grab back-up for the big War; he joined up with the Brotherhood just in time. Just in time, that is, for this One Man Maelstrom to tear through the whole lot of you. Strike at a chain’s weakest point to break it; that means everybody will be setting sights right on you, Danity Kaine. You’ve done nothing but jump from coat tail to coat tail in your brief time here. That’s not entirely fair, I guess. You’ve also begun to lose your mind. Just like every other unoriginal, unintelligent, urine-soaked unclef*cker in the back.
Let’s stay on topic here. Psychopomp: the newest pushed-too-fast f*ckchop trying to wedge his way into the main event. Kudos to you, it looks like you hitched your dilapidated, barely-functioning wagon--er, moped--to the right guys at the right time. Unfortunately for you, it’s not enough. Your happy-go-lucky, power of pathetic positivity personality has no place in War. It’s perfect for roasting s’mores with the gang at Camp, it’ll even get you a bullshit, right-place right-time pinfall over a shadow of the man that’s supposed to be world champ. It will NOT, however, get you anything but TAPPED OUT when you’re in the ring with The Superstar.
And finally, their fearful leader. The People’s Chump. Kevin Bitchup. Now here’s a man worth my breath. Here’s a man with an actual list of accomplishments and a little bit of gold. Granted, it’s the most meaningless tire-fire of a championship in the federation but it’s something! And you lug around that acrid accolade with such pride! That’s how I know you’re not going to be the kind of great you want to be here, Bitchup. You take pride in being the People’s Champion. The People are idiots. They’re braindead sheep nodding along with whatever the last commercial told them to buy into. You’re just their mook of the month. Enjoy it. You’re going nowhere in War, with or without your Brotherhood of Misfit Toys. Your obsession with Bates and proving that you’re on Tubby’s level will cost you. In your heart of hearts, KB, you know the same thing I do: The Creeping Death is coming for busted-up Bates. And then when the title picture re-frames itself to exclude that excrement, you can just nuzzle up right next to him and finally get a shot at proving whatever the hell you’re trying to prove by beating him. Good for you. You deserve it. You’ve busted your ass to get up where you belong: right to the top of that PPV midcard! Just don’t close down that little day camp you’re running, you’re going to need that extra income when the WCF Sheeple finally wake up and realize you don’t belong within eyeshot of any main events.
The Superstar stands and stretches towards the ceiling. He ever-so briefly has his head leave the frame. As he walks towards the refrigerator, the camera man clearly struggles to keep it properly framed. The Superstar opens the fridge and reaches in, we’re unable to see its contents at the current angle.
Singh: All this shooting has me parched. Can I get you something, Byron?
Byron: Beer?
Singh: You know I don’t have that.
The Superstar pulls out a bottle of water and opens it.
Byron: Just checking, mayne. You’ve been betting more and more lately so--
Singh: So what? So I must be drinking? So I must lack a modicum of control over any of my basest desires? My weaknesses? I’ve been betting more but gambling less, if you catch my meaning. I bet only on myself, on The Sure Thing. I’m a factory whose product is SUCCESS. Alcohol has no place as an input.
Byron: Good for you man, one day at a time and all that.
Singh: Shut the hell up, Byron. There are not twelve steps here, there is one. I see weakness, I eliminate it. I cull weakness even from my own person. That was a weakness and it no longer exists to deter me, to poison this Superstar system. And I’ll be doing the same thing at War. Culling the weak and eliminating the unworthy. Now who else is on that list, let’s keep the magic going here.
The Superstar pops himself up onto the island, glugs the water down his throat as Byron reads from his phone.
Byron: Let’s stick with the teams. Zero Tolerance.
Singh: Yes, the simpletons named after exactly what I have for their pathetic promos: ZERO TOLERANCE. I try, I really do try. I like to listen to everybody else try and string more than four words together into some type of coherence. But these guys? Good god, these guys are UNWATCHABLE. And they’re constantly butthurt over being compared to the Insane Clown Pussies? I can’t believe people keep drawing that comparison either! I mean, all you do is paint your face so no one has to get a clean look at the hideousness...and wear sweet jerseys in hopes to hide your dough-boy bodies...and generally act like low-brow bus station stooges who don’t belong in a wrestling ring. But you’re right, you guys have almost nothing in common with ICP.
Salem Shepard, ironically the most lost of this little flock of sheep. This plastic-poon-pounding plebeian finally has a proper, flesh-and-blood woman in his life! Rejoice, rejoice! And on top of that, he’s hobnobbing with higher-ups like Tubby himself. That’s the way to do it, Salem, if you can’t get proper recognition for you and your boys by yourselves, just latch onto an already-established star for one of the biggest events of the year! I’m sure your new Nightmare Before Christmas bride will be so proud.
Onto Crazy J: he suffered a loss and therefore has a new, more dangerous attitude! He’s done fighting the voices! He’s embracing them! You thought he was crazy before?! NOW HE’S REALLY CRAZY! You sure, mulkie? Because when you and your whole crew does their J-O-B at War, where are you going to go from there? Are you going to get really extra, double crazy? Maybe spell it with a K like that newbie jabrone? You want the rest of us to stop laughing at you? You want to be taken seriously? The answer isn’t kidnapping and voices. It’s this: take yourself seriously. You can’t control yourself, you can’t control your voices, you can’t control that ring.
Byron: Yo, I think you’ve got them backwards.
Singh: I don’t care.
Byron: You sure?
Singh: Oh I’m sure I don’t care. Let’s move onto Jason Cash. At least this guy isn’t a cookie cutter copy of ICP. He’s just a cookie cutter copy of every beer-swilling, redneck nobody in the south. He’s proud to be the alcoholic boyfriend of the WCF. He’s a deadbeat heading to a dead-end and no one’s even going to remember why he was here in the first place. Enjoy the little influx of cash you’ve got and causing distress to your octogenarian neighbors. It’s the most feathers you’re going to ruffle around here because everyone else takes this craft seriously enough to know that you’re just another dimwit who’s here playing around, having a good ol’ time like a good ol’ boy. War will not be a good time, Cash, it’s going to be a proof positive that a prehab puta like you doesn’t belong in MY ring.
Byron: CJ Phoenix and Jordan Ciserano.
Singh: Another couple of false hopes for the WCF. Another couple of no-personality, charisma-less kooks. Ciserano, I’d say everyone is excited that you’re back in the WCF after your hiatus but...well...Call me George Washington, because I cannot tell a lie. No one gives a shit you’re back. The wins you’ve racked up so far are as insignificant as your history here with a stable I haven’t heard on the lips of a single other person in back. I checked that last promo where you really picked apart Mikey Ex’s match. You’re so generic you should be sold at Aldi’s. And a superkick for your finisher? Wow. How could I ever possibly imagine a way to deal with that? Oh wait, I’ll deal with it the same way I deal with the OTHER FIFTEEN duds who have it as their “finisher.” Sorry, Jordan, Steven just jumped over Jumpman.
Now second-place in this Mr. Personality contest from hell is BJ Phoenix. Some cardboard cutout version of a champion who holds press conferences bragging about a grand desire to hold his illustrious Alpha title for 92 days. Remind me again, champ, just how many times you’ve defended that title since you won it? I can’t imagine you’d forget any of those title defenses...because there’s nothing to forget! You’re just another pretender to a title you don’t deserve. You want to make that Alpha Title mean something for all those that hold it after you? Be a man and actually DEFEND IT. Or keep hiding in tag matches against guys who would pummel you one-on-one. War: another chance for BJ Phoenix to avoid defending his title while still attempt to prop up his stock by standing within arm’s distance of the federation’s REAL champs. I’m glad you’re a Phoenix because if you cross me at War, I’m going to turn you to ash. I’ll wait for you to rise again so that you can drop that Alpha Title to somebody deserving--somebody a bit more Golden.
Byron: Superstar Steven Singh: Alpha Champion. It’s got a ring, bruh.
Singh: Of course it does. Gold always goes well with yours truly. Now that’s it for tonight, man. I’ve got more studying to do.
Byron: Studying?
Singh: Yes, Byron, studying. Do you think I’m just spouting off here? Do you not realize the hours upon hours I’m putting in to know each and one of these philistines inside and out? No, you probably don’t. Because you’ve never put that kind of work into anything in your entire life. Just like half the roster here. You leave your potential unfulfilled and opt to coast on whatever god-given talents you may or may not have. That’s how you top out as a low-level bookie and public defender.
Byron: Damn dude, this is how you talk to your boys?
Singh: You’re not ‘my boy.’ You’re my bookie. You take my wagers and then pay me when they’re right. Speaking of which…
The Superstar goes back over to the table and grabs the envelope still containing $4500. He quickly counts out another $500 and shoves it in Byron’s breast pocket.
Put that on me too. After giving these know-nothing numbskulls the lexical lashing they deserved, I’m feeling even better about my chances.
Byron: Oh yeah? You feeling pretty good?
Singh: I’m feeling GOLDEN. Now get the hell out. I’ve got more work to do.
Scene fades to black.
