Post by Stephen Singh on Oct 1, 2016 10:45:26 GMT -5
Dusk pushes into the New York skyline; its imposition begins to splash the clouds’ backdrop with streaks of yellow and orange and red complementing the early-turning trees in Central Park and the return of football and the crisp air. “Autumn killed the summer with the softest kiss.” This is how the seasons turn: one gently creeps unto the other an inch at a time. Does Summer even know when Autumn first nudges in at the edges? It can’t know. Or maybe it thinks Autumn has only come for those first few inches. Its days long and warm, Summer might meet this newcomer with a bit of excitement. “What grand new experiences can this foreign being bring to me! My reign has been long and steady, I fear no new entries into my world, peaceful co-existence is no problem.” Summer benevolently cedes those minor tracts of existence unaware of its own imminent expiration. A foothold is gained by the interloper and Summer smiles upon it. Autumn’s first signs of true growth are still an excitement for both; Summer foolishly even encourages it. The heat cools and the colors change and--in what seems sudden--the last Summer sun has set. Autumn knows it wasn’t sudden and it wasn’t easy. Autumn took its place by fighting inch by inch, tooth and nail while no one else wanted to pay attention. Autumn looks around, immensely pleased with its efforts, happy with its newly established dominance and taking no small pleasure in the death of Summer. The air is sharp, the days are shorter, and the greens have all turned to yellow and orange and brown and…
On a lower Manhattan street we find The Superstar Steven Singh in his fall threads: a lightly speckled gray blazer billows slightly off his person exposing the deep maroon cardigan only partially buttoned over a crisp white button up and a blue, plaid tie. The jeans are crisp and pressed, bottomed by a pair of surprisingly casual Royale style ‘Greats’ brand sneakers, their brown matching perfectly with his belt and pocket square which peeks cautiously out of his pocket. He walks briskly and intentionally, phone in-hand out in front of him. The voice emanating from it is the warm, professional tone of his assistant, Erica.
Erica: Sorry, Superstar, it’s in your contract.
Singh: I know that, Assistant. You think I don’t know that? I signed the contract didn’t I? So of course I know that. I just didn’t think they’d be dragging me out there right now, DAYS before War. DAYS before I make my pay per view debut! Days before I make the WCF realize that they’ve wasted their attention, breath, and effort on any of these newb nincompoops who aren’t me!
Erica: Yeah, I know it’s inconvenient but I forwarded you the request as soon as it come through. It’s the first one they’ve received so--
Singh: It’s the first one they’ve received?!
There’s a deafening silence on the other end of the phone.
Singh: I’ve been here for a MONTH and you’re telling me this is the first actual pathetic little cancer-stricken sucker to request to meet me?!
Erica: As far as I know….
Singh: Typical. All these kids must have that same brain cancer it seems afflicts have the WCF roster.
Erica: You know, it’d probably help raise your profile if you spent some more time on social media. The Rookie Welcome Guide suggests at least one message a week to--
Singh: Rookie Welcome Guide?! ROOKIE WELCOME GUIDE?! Never mention that to me again. And matches are not won with jiffs and photoshop; they’re won in the ring. And WINNING is my business, not marketing.
Erica: These other guys are getting considered for in-depth interviews and behind-the-scenes analyses that you’re barely on the radar for. And it’s in part because of their social media presence.
Singh: Who cares?! PUT ME IN THE RING WITH THEM. How much more clearly can I say that? Stand them across from me and watch them abscond.
Erica: You’d get in the ring with them a lot more quickly if you did ANY social media. Any at all really. Facebook, twitter, instagram...Heck, I’d even take MySpace!
Singh: MySpace? C’mon, Assistant, MySpace hasn’t been relevant since before all these washed up wankers were running train on the WCF.
Erica: I know but I’m desperate, I’d take anything.
Singh: We're not here to discuss your sex life, Assistant. But anyways, your motivation to ensure my success bedevils me slightly. Remind me again why your pay is a percentage of mine instead of just a flat fee?
Erica: I don’t know, I initially assumed it was because you were making nothing and you’re cheap.
Singh: Wrong, it’s because I am a first class motivator! Look at what a eager little beaver I’ve made out of you! Oh and it’s called being, “cost effective.” I live my life in a “cost effective” manner, not a cheap one. That other word is so boorish. I do not waste money in the same way that I do not waste my time or effort. Other than on this goddamn conversation and this goddamn make-a-wish bullshit, both of which are getting tiresome.
Erica: Well I’m sorry but you tied my salary to yours. You do social media, you make more money, I make more money and maybe I can afford upgrade from my Ramen-only diet.
Singh: Ramen only? That’s not a healthy diet, Assistant. You should really be eating organic.
Erica: I CAN’T AFFORD TO EAT ORGANIC! THIS IS WHAT I’M SAYING TO YOU!
Singh: Namaste, Assistant! Find your zen! Raising your voice like that is VERY unbecoming of a young lady. Next thing I know you’ll be swearing like a fucking sailor. That would be very unacceptable. But your over-exuberant point is made. For the sake of maintaining your health, The Golden God will make sacrifices and be the truly selfless being that I was born to be! You have my word that my social media presence will increase this very week! Huzzah!
Erica: Thank you.
Singh: You’re welcome. And don’t thank me. Just do a better job screening out these REPUGNANT make-a-wish requests please. I’m almost there now. You said it was at Bellevue Hospital Center right?
Erica: I said it was near there.
Singh: Well where the hell is it? Tisch Hospital?
Erica: They didn’t want to meet directly at a hospital.
Singh: What are you talking about? These kids can’t just go galavanting around Manhattan! They’ve all got AIDS! This isn’t San Francisco where you can just go dancing around in the street with your HIV!
Erica: They don’t all have AIDS.
Singh: Some of them probably do though.
Erica: You can’t possibly think that. Anyways, you’re going to the corner of 1st Avenue and E 23rd Street. There’s a 7-Eleven nearby that they wanted to meet at.
Singh: A 7-Eleven? Is their last meal a large Slurpee and a roller dog? What in the holy hell is going on?
Erica: Just go there, meet him, sign an autograph, take a selfie, do whatever. You owe him an hour so keep that in mind.
Singh: AN HOUR?! I’ve got SHOOTING to do!
Erica: Yes an hour. And yes, you’ve got all kinds of shooting to do. You haven’t mentioned most of the premiere guys.
Singh: Always save the best for last, Assistant. I already chopped down all the little weeds and saplings so now I can slash and burn the redwoods.
Erica: You didn’t even mention Armstrong in the last one.
Singh: Yeah I did. Remember? I told that engrossing story about his mother?
Erica: That wasn’t a real story and it was basically about your penis. So I stopped listening.
Singh: Because you fainted from lust?
Erica: No.
Singh: Because you had to change out of your panties soaked with dewy desire?
Erica: No.
Singh: Because your floor was so wet with m’lady’s moisture that you accidentally slipped on it and passed out and then had brief but life-changing wet dreams about The Sure Thing?
Erica: No!
Singh: Well I’m still not going to mention Armstrong. That do-nothing dullard has gone full radio silence since I bested him AGAIN at Slam.
Erica: You did win the match but you still haven’t pinned him.
Singh: Correct! I’m saving that little cherry on top of this Superstar Sundae for the post-War Slam where I ensure he never gets to come down to MY ring to MY music again. In fact, I don’t even intend to pin him; I’m going to make his sorry ass tap out. But that’s all for another time. For now, I do so hope to see him inside the ring at War so I can give him a little taste of what’s coming for him. But until this mute mook decides to get back in front of a camera and engage in the ballet of boisterous ball-busting, I’ve got nothing else to say to or about him. And iff I’m being perfectly honest, I think he’s tucked-tail and split. Which, if he did, would be the smartest move he’s made yet.
Erica: Alrighty. Anyways, don’t forget that you promised to be active on social media this week. Oh and one more thing about the make-a-wish meeting--
The Superstar hangs up on his assistant.
Singh: Whoops, dropped call. She needs to get off Cricket Wireless ASAP. But the timing IS pretty golden as it’s just about time to say a few words to the WCF about the forthcoming WAR this Sunday.
The Superstar puts his phone in his back pocket, clears his throat and pierces through the camera with his gaze.
Tick, tick, tick WCF! The cross hairs are set on Archduke Ferdinand and our little world is about to explode into War. I, for one, could not be more excited to show all you backstage bumpkins why I’m the Jack of All Trades, Master of One. But it seems like I might be in the minority in my exuberance! Considering this is one of the biggest events of the year for this fine federation of ours, I sure do hear a lot of radio silence from you nitwits. Why is that? What happened to everybody’s boasts and bravado?
Where’s Henry Spearman? A former TV Champion! A not-unblemished but still impressive seven and two record! He’s an apparition. He’s nowhere to be found. Since he managed to share the ring with Mikey Extreme long enough to beat AA in what became a handicap match, he’s nowhere to be found. Maybe he’s spent day after day working on a new finisher only to realize that he now has to change his last name. And now he’s stuck in the bureaucracy of it all, struggling with all that paperwork. Maybe they asked him for a birth certificate but all his whore mother could produce was a 20% off coupon for the Golden Corral with a phone number for “Dick Spearman” on it--which, for the record, is a GREAT fake name. OR maybe he’s not as brain dead as I’m assuming. Maybe, just maybe, he figured out that he has a dick’s chance at Lilith Fair to win this thing coming in at number one. If that’s the case, good for you, not writing checks you know that your ass can’t cash. So just go ahead and keep your yap shut while the talent finishes out the week engaging and entertaining.
Even more disappointing in his failure to properly represent the WCF and its people as he claims is Captain WCF. His half-thought out, poorly-worded train wrecks of a promos were basically spent fellating Joey Flash. I mean, those three Zero Talent turdpoles are barely able to string five words together in any sort of a sensical fashion and their shit is ABSOLUTELY unwatchable but at least they’re putting in the effort, giving it the old college try! Or, more accurately--if I can make some safe assumptions about their education levels--the old middle school try. But you Captain WCF? You’re supposed to be an inspiration! You’re here for all the right reasons! You’re a superhero! You’re a goddamned CHAMPION! We’ve got mooks coming out of the woodwork to piss all over this fed and then we’ve got so-called champions like you proving them right with your FAILURE to spit even a single SECOND of venom back in their direction. You’re pathetic. I haven’t seen someone bomb like this since Nagasaki. If only we’d gotten your grandfather back then, I wouldn’t have to be bothered by your boorish bullshit now.
The other half of the tag team champions has at least attempted some semblance of entertainment for the people. Now I probably shouldn’t expect that much from a man whose brethren find all of their entertainment at the bottom of a bottle but I am nothing if not an optimist. So I check the WCF airwaves and see that Chief Tommy Boy has produced something for War and....Well...That’s the best I can say for it; it’s “something.” It’s not nothing, I guess. It’s just not something about War. Almost at all. I guess if I were one of the last survivors of a once proud race that has been thoroughly conquered and subjugated, I wouldn’t be too eager to discuss War either. Shit, if I were you Tommy Boy, I’d spend most of time being worried that somebody might hand me a blanket and wipe out another 93% of my people.
Speaking of death and destruction: OBLIVION. The God of Enlightenment. Can I just assume he’s arrested? I mean, I honestly don’t know how it’s taken this long but I watched him beat a man to death on Slam. TO DEATH! What in all of the fucks was that?! I thought we were wrestling! If this guy is gutting people like pigs on national TV and Seth is sanctioning it...Well...I mean... Count me out. There, I said it. Just count me out. Now if it’s a wrestling match we’re talking about....Count me back in. I have no problem going toe to toe and blow for blow with IT in a wrestling match. Maybe Oblivion is the most frightening man in the WCF but do you know what that makes him? A man. A man who still gets knocked out, a man who still taps out, a man who still passes out. A man that I haven’t heard a Golden Goddamned word from regarding War. And if it’s NOT because he’s incarcerated then maybe it’s because he’s worried about being just another man that gets BLASTED by a Supernova.
I guess I’d take radio silence over the mind-numbing nothingness being spouted by one Adam Young. Song parodies and an apparent obsession with Joey Flash and his female cohort. Again, these are the men standing between the ‘new’ WCF and the old guard that’s coming back to knock down the door? I have to be associated with this redneck reprobate?!
The Superstar curls his lips in disgust and huffs his disapproval.
Still, it IS his eighth War so he has a lot of experience...at losing. He may have more experience at that than anyone else in the back. He reminded the WCF Galaxy that anyone can walk out with a victory at War...Well almost anyone. Anyone but him. Because he’s up Flash’s ass all the way to his redneck. And that’s great. So many of you fucklets are heading into the match with personal vendettas, with goals other than the important one. Which is great for guys like me, guys with one, single crystal clear goal and a laser-like focus on it: GOLD. The only thing worse than going in with some obtuse obsession with one single opponent is being the guy that seems to be the object of half the roster’s obsession. Which brings us too….
Mr. Joey Flash. You here that? Mister. Look at all that goddamned respect I’m putting on the name. Don’t get me wrong, I still think the whole ‘Making my triumphant return at War!’ is some real low-hanging fruit, hackneyed, done-to-death, fuckchop shit. And your internet presence has more in common with three virgin tweens on Omegle than with the WCF but at least is got Adrian Archer so worked up that I think he might’ve had a stroke. Which I’ll be eternally grateful for if it relieves him of his ability to speak. But off all the oversized egos and masturbatory mythologizing, you appear to be the one who’s closest to his own delusions. Two time World Champ! 44 and 5! Haven’t lost a match in 9 months--though I haven’t been here for the last 5. You’ve got that surefire Hall of Fame resume yet here you are. You come crawling back for one more booty call. Here you are sending that 2am “WYD” text message to your old stand by. Here you are looking at the guys that are stepping into what used to be your spotlight and with an unbecoming mixture of jealousy and indignation. “They don’t deserve it! They can’t beat me! They’re nobody!” Those things might even be true, JoJo but what ‘they’ are most importantly is HERE. And they’ve been here. And when you pack up your ball and go home again, they’ll still be here.
Now, I sure as shit know that half the roster truly needs the pointers you laid out in your bit about ‘creative’ promos so it’s probably much appreciated back there. But remember to be careful when pointing a finger because there are always three pointing right back up your ass. Right? Is that how that goes? I mean, the closer on your list advised to not predict everybody else’s shoots. Because it makes you a condescending cunt, I believe you said. So we’re in agreement. When you get on your little soapbox, prattling on about what not to do, making assumptions and predictions about what you’re going to see and hear from everybody else it’s not clever or intelligent or original. It’s halfhearted, juvenile and patronizing. There’s your three word epitaph, Joseppi. You’re welcome.
But either way, you’re back. And you’re talking out of both sides of your piehole. You claim LOVE as your motivation but it rings hollow. You do not LOVE the WCF, you depend on it. YOU need the WCF, it does NOT need you. In your short-sighted arrogance, you fully expected the WCF galaxy to fold in on itself in your absence. The man with the hammer in his hand truly becomes a ghost; his world here stops spinning. But the WCF galaxy kept right on spinning. Your void was filled and this machine just kept right on churning. You peeked out from behind the curtain you pulled on yourself and was surely saddened to learn what I’ve known since the day I was born: THE UNIVERSE DOESN’T CARE. NO ONE CARES. The universe is a cold, indifferent and infinite place. You live, you die, you’re gone and forgotten; your energy is divvied up for the next beings. The beings with the wherewithal to stay and to fight and to LIVE. So as you shed that single tear, sadly leering at the WCF’s indifference towards your absence, you decided to come back. To the place that you once mattered. To the place that made Joseph Malignaggi into Joey Flash. You decided to come back for just one more hit of that endorphin-boosting endo that is the illusion of influence, your mirage of mattering, your ephemeral sandcastle of significance. The tide is coming in, J Flash, and the frail little, co-dependent sandcastle of your dreams is about to be WASHED UP.
The Superstar pauses. He’s approaching the 7-Eleven now.
Let’s change gears again. El Hombre Bio--
Yo!
The male voice is gruff and unfamiliar. The Superstar ignores it and continues towards the entrance of the 7-Eleven.
Yo! Where you goin, Supe!? I’m right here!
The Superstar stops in his tracks. The corners of his mouth pull down towards the sidewalk as he blinks hard, trying to take in what’s before him, behind the cameraman and off-screen.
I can’t believe you came! This shit’s dooooope!
Steven Singh can’t hide his contempt and confusion. His nose is scrunched, eyebrows raised. The camera turns away from Singh and takes the owner of the voice in for itself. He’s a thin man in a filthy pair of Wal-Mart-bought jeans, a plain black t-shirt, a green jacket just on this side of tattered, a silver chain around his neck that slips underneath his shirt and black sneakers so large and clunky they may as well be orthotics. His age is hard to discern, he’s either an hard-aged twenty-something or a well-kept thirty-something. No taller than five foot nine and topped with short unkempt hair, he exhales a cloud of smoke from the Marlboro Red keeping him company as he leans against a mailbox.
Man: Seriously, this shit’s awesome.
Superstar still stares, unsure what to make of this rather excitable, potentially homeless man.
Singh: I don’t have any change.
Man: Ha! Change? No thanks, Obama, you can keep the change! Amirite?!
The stands up away from the mailbox and slaps the Superstar on the shoulder. Steven is not amused. He looks down in disgust at where the man’s grubby hand touched him. Seeing his continued hesitance, the man wipes his on his cruddy jeans and extends it to the WCF rookie.
Man: Sorry! I think I’m being rude? I never was too good at formalities. I’m Jerry.
The Superstar is doesn’t take his hand, still unsure.
Jerry: C’mon Supe!
Singh: Stop saying that.
Jerry: Stop saying Supe?
Singh: Yes.
Jerry: Why? That’s like Superman’s casual name. Nothing wrong with Superman!
Singh: Superman’s moral code is as black and white as a toddler. And all of his gifts were god-given, he’s worked for absolutely nothing in his life. He’s another spoiled simpleton.
Jerry: Ha! Good point, Supe! But you can take back that name! You know, like they do with ni--
Singh: OKAY! Where do you think you are? In a Salem Shepard promo? Now do you need an autograph or what’s your problem, I’m supposed to be meeting some make-a-wish kid.
Jerry: That’s me, man!
Singh: Please no.
Jerry: Hell yeah!
Singh: How the hell are you the make-a-wish kid?
Jerry: All you gotta do is fill out a form! I saw somebody shared the link on Facebook so I filled it out and then they just emailed me to set this up! I had sent it back when I was in the hospital so they were going to send you there but I told your assistant this worked better for me.
Singh: Dammit, Assistant.
Jerry: Yeah, Erica’s soooooo nice. And fine. She’s really fine. She’s like a little pint-sized Christina Hendricks. Mmmm…
Singh: Don’t be a pig, pig.
Jerry: Oh come on, Supe! I know you’re hitting it!
Singh: So you committed fraud to get me here for what purpose? To speak crudely about Assistant?
Jerry: Fraud? Whoa, I’m a lotta things but I ain’t no fraud, Supe.
Singh: You pretended to be a sick child to meet the WCF Superstar.
Jerry: Naw man. They didn’t ask for my age and I WAS in the hospital at the time.
Singh: For what? Diarrhea of the mouth? Because you probably caught that from watching too many promos of these jabrones around here.
Jerry: Naw way dude, they were finally getting me my leg!
The man pulls up his left pant leg to reveal a crude, steel prosthetic that attaches somewhere up above the knee. The Superstar is slightly taken aback.
Singh: Did it just atrophy to the point of your best option being amputation after years of existence as a lazy piece of shit living in your parents’ basement?
Jerry lets out a laugh and pulls the silver necklace out from his shirt. It’s a dog tag.
Jerry: Naw way, man. Goddamn towelheads blew it off! Can’t believe I got got by those fucking sand ni--
Singh: What the hell did I tell you? I find most manners of profanity rather pleasing to my ear but that particular word is completely uncouth.
Jerry: Sorry, Supe, I forget I ain’t in the sandbox anymore. Ain’t this leg a beaut though? Composite steel! Heavy as a motherfucker but sturdy as they come. Just wish it came with a gun or something, ya know?
Singh: I absolutely do not know. So--
Before Singh can inquire exactly what more Jerry wants out of him, a 20-something kid walks up to the duo.
Singh: Not right now kid, I’m--
The kid shoots him a bewildered and dismissive look. He palms a 20 to Jerry.
Jerry: What’s it gonna be?
Kid: Perks.
From inside his jacket Jerry produces a tiny plastic baggie with two Percocets and hands it to the youth who immediately turns and walks away.
Jerry: Support the troops!
Singh: Are you fucking kidding me right now?
Jerry: I know right?! The kid didn’t even look at ‘em! I could be selling him Excedrin! Fuckin millenials.
Singh: You. I mean you. You’re selling Percocets outside a 7-Eleven.
Jerry: Oh yeah man! I’m a small business owner man! They hand these shits out like candy at the VA and I don’t need ‘em. I mean, what the hell is going to hurt on me? The leg I don’t have?
The Superstar tilts his head and looks at the socially outcast, obviously uneducated, one-legged veteran. His opinion shifts a bit.
Singh: Well, I guess you’ve got yourself an entrepreneurial mindset which keeps you off the government teat. Are you on disability?
Jerry: That’s for retards and cripples man! I just lost a leg, I can sling just as easy as I did with two legs. Yo let’s talk about war!
Singh: No offense Jerry, but I don’t care about war.
Jerry: YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT WAR?!
Singh: No.
Jerry: What the hell happened man? You cared like a motherfucker earlier this week. You roasted the shit out half the dudes.
Singh: Ah! War! Yes. Yes, I do care about War. I thought you meant...you know, Iraq or Afghanistan.
Jerry: Naw man fuck that place. I don’t want to talk about that shit neither. Let’s talk about War! Cliff of Doom talked some reeeal shit on you!
Singh: Yeah I saw it. It doesn’t matter. Cliff’s schtick is real cute and all. And I’m sure it’s a goddamn inspiration to all the kids in his class that even if you’re an out-of-shape loser who’s living paycheck to paycheck on like twenty eight thousand a year you can chase your dream of getting punched in the mouth for a living. He’s got the backstage buzz, he’s a trendy pick as a surprise success story in this year’s War, he’s got it all. But ask any other modern woman, Cliff, you just can’t have it all! Prioritize. I am a man of singular focus. I wrestle. I win. That’s it, end of list. You teach, your try to keep that troll of a wife happy, and THEN you wrestle. And it’s been real fun watching you spin these plates so far but it’s going to come crashing down sooner rather than later. Have fun sweeping it up.
Jerry: Why the fuck would he think I want to watch him teach class?
Singh: Excuse me?
Jerry: I’m just saying, half his promos take place in class. C’mon bitch, half of us dropped out of that shit the first time. Like we wanna hear his broke ass talkin bout whatever the fuck he's talkin bout.
Singh: A true fan’s perspective is always welcome, Jerry.
Jerry: For real?
Singh: No, not at all. But I’m humoring you since you’re a sick and dying kid and all. What’re your thoughts on Teddy Blaze?
Jerry: That internet-surfing lil bitch? He ain’t half the man he used to be.
Singh: Your astute observations continue to astound me, Jerry. Blaze, this isn’t a match that will be decided with moving images or youtube clips or one hundred and forty pithy characters. It’s going to be decided in the middle of that squared circle, the exact place you’ve been FAILING lately. Hold fast to that Internet Title. You’re the champion of the vitriolic virgins on 4Chan, you’re the king of creepy middle-aged men quietly pornhubbing in one room over from their sleeping family. All hail, The Champion of that which exposes the true depths and derision of our collective humanity.
Jerry: We’re shootin’ on ‘em now!
Singh: No. I’m shooting. You’re window dressing. Though you’re not entirely without usefulness, you’re absolutely inessential.
Jerry: Whatever you say, Supe! Do Mikey Extreme!
Singh: You don’t give orders here, soldier. And I’m assuming you didn’t give them over there either, did you?
Jerry: Naw.
Singh: Men who follow are not men at all. Know that. As for Mikey Extreme, I can only assume he’s got his feet up somewhere, calm and cool about his last-man-to-enter status. Good for him, he earned his right to be laze about, sure that by being last one in he can be the last one out. Unfortunately, that just isn’t the case. I hope those laurels you’re resting on are comfortable, Mikey, because while you kick up your extreme extremities, The Shakespeare of Shoot keeps working. Keeps grinding. Keeps getting ready for War. Being last is an advantage in theory only. There are a dozen guys in this little shindig that can leave you staring at the ceiling with one move. So if it only takes one move, first or last doesn’t mean a Golden Goddamned thing. Breaking news for you, Mikey: the WCF isn’t handpicking people over you and leaving you behind. They haven’t been wasting you, you’re the waste. Longevity is not an accomplishment unto itself; you’ve done almost as little with fifty six matches as I’ve done with two. I hope you’re excited to watch a whole new batch of guys leapfrog you in this company on Sunday.
Jerry: Yo, how do you stay focused around them fine ass girls?
Singh: “Them fine ass girls?”
Jerry: You know, like Sarah Twilight and Lilith.
Singh: Ahh, yes. Two of the elder stateswomen of the WCF. Well, you’re right, it’s really challenging to keep my cool around a couple of high-class, debutante, bus station skanks like those two. Lilith had the gall to air a “promo” that was just one word. ONE WORD! I had to waste my time with that?! Time is the only thing we can’t make more of Jerry, you know that? That’s why I don’t like mine wasted. And as punishment for wasting my precious, finite time with that, I might just tap LillyBear out at War.
As for Sarah Twilight, all my scouting says that I have to take her with at least a semblance of seriousness. She’s a former World Champ, a WCF Classic Winner and has held a handful of other gold. All of that is to say that she’ll make for an excellent candidate for 15 Minutes of Fame. Her zipped-shut silence in the lead up to War thus far bespeaks that her little stint in the front office may have caused a few cobwebs. Maybe it got a little cushy there. Maybe she started to enjoy the perks of being a suit just a bit too much. Maybe she’s not exactly ready to come back and be the absolute psycho killer she once was. But maybe I’m wrong! Maybe she’s already in the gym trying her damnedest to knock those cobwebs off. Unfortunately for her, there’s no cure for ring rust when you’re out of the WCF. Hit the gym and spar and train all you want because it’s apples and oranges, Sarah. But you already know that. That’s why you’ve been so quiet thus far; you know you’re not ready and you know that you’re going to be another piece of kindling on the fire this Sunday.
Jerry: That Shay McKay queer has a lot to say though?
Singh: Alright, Jerry. Again, we’re not doing that; you’re in the wrong place. The “so and so is gay” insult does not fly here. It’s the absolute epitome of low hanging fruit.
Jerry: Low hanging fruit...I get it.
Singh: Jesus. Anyways, McKay does NOT warrant a mention at this juncture. I mean, I’m proud of that little spud for getting out here and jumping in head first. It’s just unfortunate for him that he’s still in the shallow end of the pool and jumping in head first gets you a broken neck. Now a man that apparently could survive a broken neck is El Hombre Bionico. God what is up with these names in spanish...Are we even sure half these dues are hispanic? Is this just more angry white guy appropriation? Or can I at least press 1 for English on these bitchsticks? Anyways, we’ve got another big triumphant return just in time for War. Or do we? Because this is another dude that could apparently add “Silencioso” to the end of his name. Will he even show up? Will anyone care? Does the Pope shit in the woods?
Jerry: No?
Singh: Exactly, Jerry. No. No one is going to care whether or not he’s there for his triumphant return of the month. Thanks for sparing us the painfully boring promo I guess, Gonz.
Doc Henry is another guy who gets to carry around the title of “legend” here. Hmph. Another once-was. At least this guy doesn’t tuck tail only to expect everyone to cheer when he returns. This one’s stuck around. He’s working hard at cementing his legacy. He’s…defecating in the tank of toilets? I guess? I guess that’s a ‘thing’ for him? Lord give me strength. What do you do after that? Go smash mailboxes? Set fire to bags of dog crap on the neighbor’s stoop? I want to believe in your hype, Doc. You’ve got a list of accomplishments half a mile long under your name but you’re letting your lady do your shooting? Is that just so when I tell you that it was some of the weakest most half-assed work I’ve ever seen you can just blame her? If so, that’s a good plan. Unfortunately, you’re still the one that has to get in the ring, Crock Henry. So when I leave you staring up at the Bright Lights on Sunday, you won’t be able to blame her.
Jerry: What about Cormack MacNeiill? He won last week, dude. Seemed like a re--
Singh: He seemed like a real neanderthal. He won the match against what amounted to enhancement talent. So that means nothing either way. What’s telling is that he allowed Jeff Purse to use him. He allowed Jeff Purse to do nothing but share in the shine of the victory. And that tells me that this ape is ripe for manipulation, that this tool is ready to be used. The right tool can make any job easier so it’s important to note who the biggest, baddest tools are in War. And MacNeill looks like one of the best.
Speaking of Jeff Purse, this is another one I was actually excited about! Here’s another returning reprobate with the actual clout to back up any high-minded claims he might make. But no matter how hard I listen, it’s like the sound of one hand clapping: nothing. He even took to twitter to get the world juiced for his return only to...no show it. This once-was missed his own hype train. I guess at this point I’ll just hope against hope for his presence at War. The mess of bodies and liters of blood and sweat that a match like this are bound to produce have to drive his feeble little mind just nutty. And the moment The Future takes his eye off the prize, the moment his little OCD distracts him from the monumental task at hand is the moment he gets to have a look at The Bright Lights.
Jerry: How come you don’t do that?
Singh: Do what?
Jerry: Hype your shit up on twitter! Some of these dudes are running TRAIN on bitches over there!
Singh: You sound like Assistant, it’s for tweens and basement-dwelling dimwits.
Jerry: No way, shit’s fun as hell! You can tweet at anybody! And just say some shit you’d NEVER say in real life! And I can definitely use that ‘n word’ you keep yelling at me for. People hate it!
The Superstar sees a solution to his problem.
Singh: Do you have a phone?
Jerry quickly produces a monthly prepaid flip phone. Clearly his burner.
Singh: Ugh. Nevermind, I forgot I’m talking to crippled Avon Barksdale. How are on twitter on that relic?
Jerry: Oh, you mean MY phone!
Jerry puts away the flip phone and pulls out a brand spanking new iPhone 7.
Singh: Of course. Give it.
Jerry hands the phone over.
Singh: How do you not have this password protected? You’re a drug dealer for Christ’s sake.
The Superstar’s fingers swipe and tap away at the device. A few moments go by and he tosses it back to Jerry.
Singh: You youtube?
Jerry: I guess.
Singh: How’s your gif game?
Jerry: Weak.
Singh: Photoshop?
Jerry: Uhhh….
Singh: Perfect. You’re hired. Congratulations, you’re the new Social Media Manager of Sure Thing Enterprises!
Jerry: Shit, man! For real?!
Singh: I speak only golden truths. You know that.
Jerry: This is gonna be the fucking tits!
Singh: Yes, tits indeed. Listen, you’re tweeting right from my handle so don’t go sending out any dick picks and don’t try to catfish any unsuspecting young ladies only for them to find out they’ve been chatting with a one-legged drug dealer and not The Superstar himself.
Jerry: No prob, boss. Any other rules?
Singh: No. Twitter is literally nothing to me. It’s a land of trolls and troglodytes. That’s why I thought you’d be perfect.
Jerry: You can’t ruin my buzz right now, Supe!
Singh: There. THAT’S the other rule. Stop truncating my goddamn name. It’s Superstar. Brevity might be the soul of wit but it’s also the death of our beloved language. So you call me Superstar or Steven or even ‘boss’ worked just fine.
Jerry: Got it, boss.
Jerry makes a half-assed salute and then begins typing away on twitter.
Jerry: Poppin my twitter cherry! Shit’s gonna be messy!
Singh: Yeah, you belong there. I’ve chosen correctly as per the usual. Speaking of social media, let’s talk about a man chasing its championship and a man who defined it: Gemini Battle and Zombie McMorris. Gemini Prattle is a warrior for certain. He’s a guy that seems to actually REACH his potential through sheer effort and putting it all out there on the line every week for the WCF. Of course, fulfilling potential with a ceiling that low is like dunking on an eight foot rim. No one gives a shit and it’s embarrassing to brag about. Your blink-and-you-missed-it World Title reign has come and gone, Gem. This weekend you’re going to whiff on that ‘King of All Media’ title; Blaze left you torched on the fields of internet dumbfuckery. Congrats to you both though on your transition into human spambots. Still, you seem ready to bring it for War. You seem more preoccupied War than with the THREE potential matches you’re going to be whooped through earlier in the evening. I understand the story you’re trying to write, the picture you’re trying to paint. Despite going through the rigors of jobbing out to Teddy Blaze, Gem still managed to outlast all the others and win War! What a fairy tale ending! This isn’t Disney, Gem and you don’t get that storybook ending. Because as much grandstanding as you do, when these old guard goombas showed up you shook. You showed your fear. One word escaped your fingertips: “Fuck.” How sad for you. How sad that even Gemini doesn’t believe in the myth that Gemini is perpetuating. Your moment of honesty, your moment of fear speaks to your greatest truth: the knowledge that if it weren’t for the right place and right time, you’d never have a single title reign to your name. And you’re not going to earn another shot at it this weekend.
The Coked Up Mad Man is another heretofore absent would-be front-runner for the big show this weekend. The only thing ZMAC hasn’t done in the Dub is get the big belt which is why I have to wonder if his absence from WCF television this week isn’t intentional. To be perfectly honest, I think if he wanted it, he’d have it by now. I think that these types of accolades, right alongside our mortality, mean nothing to him. So what the hell is War to him? Nothing. He can’t help but LOL FGT is way to a few eliminations in this cesspool desperately wanting for talent but this isn’t his year because he doesn’t give enough shits to make it his year. Luckily he’s got a few more years to give it a shot, being immortal and all.
Jerry: What about the other old timers?
Singh: Old timers is probably a discredit to their skillset, Jerry. We’re not here to take these mooks lightly. Verbally denigrate them and plant seeds of doubt in their half-formed little fetus-brains? Yes, that we’re here to do. But take guys like Odin Balfore lightly? I’m not a godamned moron. He’s seven feet and three hundred pounds of...thickness? Seriously? Half of your promos are dedicated to dick-size metaphors subtle enough to stop traffic in NYC. And you dub yourself the Villain of the Story? What story? You walk out from behind the curtain and the plebeians lap up your bullshit. They cheer the giant with the weed and the poon and the fourteen year old’s fantasy life. You’re no villain, Balfore. You’re an octogenarian looking for one last shot at glory, one last feather in your fedora. But at least you’re really bringing it with the originality and drama: a dead son. This place has more more dead kids than Aleppo. Anyways, I’m excited to watch you try and do the things you once did, Olden. Men your size do not age well. Your joints ache, your bones are stressed. That frame, that imposing tower that has played such a part in getting you this far, is starting to buckle. It’s turning on you. And rest assured the moment I see even a glimmer of which joint is aching, which bone is brittle, I’ll be right there to wrench on it until it pops or you tap.
Then we’ve got the interstellar imbecile, Jay Omega. Another man of great talent and potential. A former War winner! And another oil dick, shit kitten who’s coming back with some specific agenda. Except his isn’t to tear this place down to build it back up or to lead us all back into glory or whatever dumbfuckery the others are spouting. This one’s here just to settle a score with Joey Malignant. Glad to hear it. Tell you what, I’ll steer clear of you and let you know when I get eyes on Flash. Then you two can go ahead and beef this out while I go about my business: the business of success.
FPV is another one with all the history, all the woes, all the legacy in the world here. And instead of standing on that legacy, instead of letting it be what it is, he decides to poke his nose back in just for War. The only reason these self-styled ‘legends’ of WCF are doing this is because they know their legacy is smoke. It might’ve been thick and full when they left but they’ve seen it begin to dissipate. They’re aware that it’s finite and it’s beginning to slip away into the night to never be seen nor spoken of again. So instead of actually letting history stand on its own, we get guys like HPV coming back to tell us all about it again. To show us how emotionally charged this is going to be by visiting a grave. Jesus. We get it guys. Death. Dying. It’s tough. It can be motivating, whatever. But what it CAN’T be is compelling when I’M SEEING IT ALL THE TIME. God I’m even sick of talking about it. So I’m going to stop. Let’s press on.
Jerry: People die, man, that shit’s real.
Singh: Yes, I know it’s real you inbred. I’m just bored with hearing about it. I don’t get paid enough to be their psychiatrist.
Jerry: If you’ve got money problems, I can lend you some.
Singh: Jerry, I don’t have money problems. I was just making a point. Which was, apparently, entirely lost on you.
Jerry: Just sayin...death man. I see it everyday…..
Singh: Like PTSD you mean?
Jerry: Naw, man. I’ve got a pet python. I feed that sonuvabitch live mice. Sometimes it gets to me, ya know?
Singh: Absolutely not.
Jerry: Pythons are crazy. You know to feed they just sit there? Like if they’re hungry, they just sit there. They don’t move a damned muscle. It’s crazy.
Superstar seems to have been struck with an idea. He takes his phone out and dials Byron, his bookie. It goes to voicemail.
Singh: Answer your damned phone, Byron. I need to change my bet. I’m making my mark this Sunday but it’s a little bit different. Check the odds on me to break or tie the elimination record. Call me.
The Superstar hangs his phone up.
Jerry: What changed? How the hell are you gonna do that?
Singh: What I’m “gonna” do Jerry, is be the python. Now I may not have some one-legged burnout feeding me mice but there are going to be plenty of predators leaving plenty of carcasses lying around that ring for a snake like me to snatch up. So I lay in wait. I watch as Belfore or Flash or Battle lay waste to half of these fuckchop failures and I just swoop in for their leftovers. All these guys with histories, with long-standing feuds and scores to settle, they’ll get distracted. Me? I’ll be the python. Sitting, waiting, and just vulturing up elimination after elimination while everybody else is splitting their focus and effort between their half a dozen different purposes.
Jerry: So...you’re just going to sit around waiting?
Singh: Not entirely, Jerry. But like the python, I’ll be conserving energy until the time is right to feed. And I will be fed well. It’s brains over brawn, Jerry. It’s always brains over brawn. And my brain is going to see my name right up there next to Gemini Battle’s for eliminations at War!
The Superstar turns to face the camera and address it directly.
It’s almost upon us, WCF! The Golden God gets his first real chance to shine on the big stage! I’ve got no friends and no targets on my back. I’m as close to being a completely unknown as possible without being Jay West. This match is for the sharp-minded, for the adaptable, for the quick of wit. This match is for The Superstar. I see all of the angles before anybody else in that locker room. I know you human garbage fires don’t see the angles I see, you’re too obtuse to be aware of the fact that in every moment of this match I’m measuring each and everyone of you up. I’m acutely aware of what needs to be done this Sunday. Alright, I think I’ve protracted this metaphor long enough.
This Sunday the WCF will bear witness to the dawning of its new Golden Era and there’s only two things you can do about it: like it….or love it.
Fade to black.
GOLD
On a lower Manhattan street we find The Superstar Steven Singh in his fall threads: a lightly speckled gray blazer billows slightly off his person exposing the deep maroon cardigan only partially buttoned over a crisp white button up and a blue, plaid tie. The jeans are crisp and pressed, bottomed by a pair of surprisingly casual Royale style ‘Greats’ brand sneakers, their brown matching perfectly with his belt and pocket square which peeks cautiously out of his pocket. He walks briskly and intentionally, phone in-hand out in front of him. The voice emanating from it is the warm, professional tone of his assistant, Erica.
Erica: Sorry, Superstar, it’s in your contract.
Singh: I know that, Assistant. You think I don’t know that? I signed the contract didn’t I? So of course I know that. I just didn’t think they’d be dragging me out there right now, DAYS before War. DAYS before I make my pay per view debut! Days before I make the WCF realize that they’ve wasted their attention, breath, and effort on any of these newb nincompoops who aren’t me!
Erica: Yeah, I know it’s inconvenient but I forwarded you the request as soon as it come through. It’s the first one they’ve received so--
Singh: It’s the first one they’ve received?!
There’s a deafening silence on the other end of the phone.
Singh: I’ve been here for a MONTH and you’re telling me this is the first actual pathetic little cancer-stricken sucker to request to meet me?!
Erica: As far as I know….
Singh: Typical. All these kids must have that same brain cancer it seems afflicts have the WCF roster.
Erica: You know, it’d probably help raise your profile if you spent some more time on social media. The Rookie Welcome Guide suggests at least one message a week to--
Singh: Rookie Welcome Guide?! ROOKIE WELCOME GUIDE?! Never mention that to me again. And matches are not won with jiffs and photoshop; they’re won in the ring. And WINNING is my business, not marketing.
Erica: These other guys are getting considered for in-depth interviews and behind-the-scenes analyses that you’re barely on the radar for. And it’s in part because of their social media presence.
Singh: Who cares?! PUT ME IN THE RING WITH THEM. How much more clearly can I say that? Stand them across from me and watch them abscond.
Erica: You’d get in the ring with them a lot more quickly if you did ANY social media. Any at all really. Facebook, twitter, instagram...Heck, I’d even take MySpace!
Singh: MySpace? C’mon, Assistant, MySpace hasn’t been relevant since before all these washed up wankers were running train on the WCF.
Erica: I know but I’m desperate, I’d take anything.
Singh: We're not here to discuss your sex life, Assistant. But anyways, your motivation to ensure my success bedevils me slightly. Remind me again why your pay is a percentage of mine instead of just a flat fee?
Erica: I don’t know, I initially assumed it was because you were making nothing and you’re cheap.
Singh: Wrong, it’s because I am a first class motivator! Look at what a eager little beaver I’ve made out of you! Oh and it’s called being, “cost effective.” I live my life in a “cost effective” manner, not a cheap one. That other word is so boorish. I do not waste money in the same way that I do not waste my time or effort. Other than on this goddamn conversation and this goddamn make-a-wish bullshit, both of which are getting tiresome.
Erica: Well I’m sorry but you tied my salary to yours. You do social media, you make more money, I make more money and maybe I can afford upgrade from my Ramen-only diet.
Singh: Ramen only? That’s not a healthy diet, Assistant. You should really be eating organic.
Erica: I CAN’T AFFORD TO EAT ORGANIC! THIS IS WHAT I’M SAYING TO YOU!
Singh: Namaste, Assistant! Find your zen! Raising your voice like that is VERY unbecoming of a young lady. Next thing I know you’ll be swearing like a fucking sailor. That would be very unacceptable. But your over-exuberant point is made. For the sake of maintaining your health, The Golden God will make sacrifices and be the truly selfless being that I was born to be! You have my word that my social media presence will increase this very week! Huzzah!
Erica: Thank you.
Singh: You’re welcome. And don’t thank me. Just do a better job screening out these REPUGNANT make-a-wish requests please. I’m almost there now. You said it was at Bellevue Hospital Center right?
Erica: I said it was near there.
Singh: Well where the hell is it? Tisch Hospital?
Erica: They didn’t want to meet directly at a hospital.
Singh: What are you talking about? These kids can’t just go galavanting around Manhattan! They’ve all got AIDS! This isn’t San Francisco where you can just go dancing around in the street with your HIV!
Erica: They don’t all have AIDS.
Singh: Some of them probably do though.
Erica: You can’t possibly think that. Anyways, you’re going to the corner of 1st Avenue and E 23rd Street. There’s a 7-Eleven nearby that they wanted to meet at.
Singh: A 7-Eleven? Is their last meal a large Slurpee and a roller dog? What in the holy hell is going on?
Erica: Just go there, meet him, sign an autograph, take a selfie, do whatever. You owe him an hour so keep that in mind.
Singh: AN HOUR?! I’ve got SHOOTING to do!
Erica: Yes an hour. And yes, you’ve got all kinds of shooting to do. You haven’t mentioned most of the premiere guys.
Singh: Always save the best for last, Assistant. I already chopped down all the little weeds and saplings so now I can slash and burn the redwoods.
Erica: You didn’t even mention Armstrong in the last one.
Singh: Yeah I did. Remember? I told that engrossing story about his mother?
Erica: That wasn’t a real story and it was basically about your penis. So I stopped listening.
Singh: Because you fainted from lust?
Erica: No.
Singh: Because you had to change out of your panties soaked with dewy desire?
Erica: No.
Singh: Because your floor was so wet with m’lady’s moisture that you accidentally slipped on it and passed out and then had brief but life-changing wet dreams about The Sure Thing?
Erica: No!
Singh: Well I’m still not going to mention Armstrong. That do-nothing dullard has gone full radio silence since I bested him AGAIN at Slam.
Erica: You did win the match but you still haven’t pinned him.
Singh: Correct! I’m saving that little cherry on top of this Superstar Sundae for the post-War Slam where I ensure he never gets to come down to MY ring to MY music again. In fact, I don’t even intend to pin him; I’m going to make his sorry ass tap out. But that’s all for another time. For now, I do so hope to see him inside the ring at War so I can give him a little taste of what’s coming for him. But until this mute mook decides to get back in front of a camera and engage in the ballet of boisterous ball-busting, I’ve got nothing else to say to or about him. And iff I’m being perfectly honest, I think he’s tucked-tail and split. Which, if he did, would be the smartest move he’s made yet.
Erica: Alrighty. Anyways, don’t forget that you promised to be active on social media this week. Oh and one more thing about the make-a-wish meeting--
The Superstar hangs up on his assistant.
Singh: Whoops, dropped call. She needs to get off Cricket Wireless ASAP. But the timing IS pretty golden as it’s just about time to say a few words to the WCF about the forthcoming WAR this Sunday.
The Superstar puts his phone in his back pocket, clears his throat and pierces through the camera with his gaze.
Tick, tick, tick WCF! The cross hairs are set on Archduke Ferdinand and our little world is about to explode into War. I, for one, could not be more excited to show all you backstage bumpkins why I’m the Jack of All Trades, Master of One. But it seems like I might be in the minority in my exuberance! Considering this is one of the biggest events of the year for this fine federation of ours, I sure do hear a lot of radio silence from you nitwits. Why is that? What happened to everybody’s boasts and bravado?
Where’s Henry Spearman? A former TV Champion! A not-unblemished but still impressive seven and two record! He’s an apparition. He’s nowhere to be found. Since he managed to share the ring with Mikey Extreme long enough to beat AA in what became a handicap match, he’s nowhere to be found. Maybe he’s spent day after day working on a new finisher only to realize that he now has to change his last name. And now he’s stuck in the bureaucracy of it all, struggling with all that paperwork. Maybe they asked him for a birth certificate but all his whore mother could produce was a 20% off coupon for the Golden Corral with a phone number for “Dick Spearman” on it--which, for the record, is a GREAT fake name. OR maybe he’s not as brain dead as I’m assuming. Maybe, just maybe, he figured out that he has a dick’s chance at Lilith Fair to win this thing coming in at number one. If that’s the case, good for you, not writing checks you know that your ass can’t cash. So just go ahead and keep your yap shut while the talent finishes out the week engaging and entertaining.
Even more disappointing in his failure to properly represent the WCF and its people as he claims is Captain WCF. His half-thought out, poorly-worded train wrecks of a promos were basically spent fellating Joey Flash. I mean, those three Zero Talent turdpoles are barely able to string five words together in any sort of a sensical fashion and their shit is ABSOLUTELY unwatchable but at least they’re putting in the effort, giving it the old college try! Or, more accurately--if I can make some safe assumptions about their education levels--the old middle school try. But you Captain WCF? You’re supposed to be an inspiration! You’re here for all the right reasons! You’re a superhero! You’re a goddamned CHAMPION! We’ve got mooks coming out of the woodwork to piss all over this fed and then we’ve got so-called champions like you proving them right with your FAILURE to spit even a single SECOND of venom back in their direction. You’re pathetic. I haven’t seen someone bomb like this since Nagasaki. If only we’d gotten your grandfather back then, I wouldn’t have to be bothered by your boorish bullshit now.
The other half of the tag team champions has at least attempted some semblance of entertainment for the people. Now I probably shouldn’t expect that much from a man whose brethren find all of their entertainment at the bottom of a bottle but I am nothing if not an optimist. So I check the WCF airwaves and see that Chief Tommy Boy has produced something for War and....Well...That’s the best I can say for it; it’s “something.” It’s not nothing, I guess. It’s just not something about War. Almost at all. I guess if I were one of the last survivors of a once proud race that has been thoroughly conquered and subjugated, I wouldn’t be too eager to discuss War either. Shit, if I were you Tommy Boy, I’d spend most of time being worried that somebody might hand me a blanket and wipe out another 93% of my people.
Speaking of death and destruction: OBLIVION. The God of Enlightenment. Can I just assume he’s arrested? I mean, I honestly don’t know how it’s taken this long but I watched him beat a man to death on Slam. TO DEATH! What in all of the fucks was that?! I thought we were wrestling! If this guy is gutting people like pigs on national TV and Seth is sanctioning it...Well...I mean... Count me out. There, I said it. Just count me out. Now if it’s a wrestling match we’re talking about....Count me back in. I have no problem going toe to toe and blow for blow with IT in a wrestling match. Maybe Oblivion is the most frightening man in the WCF but do you know what that makes him? A man. A man who still gets knocked out, a man who still taps out, a man who still passes out. A man that I haven’t heard a Golden Goddamned word from regarding War. And if it’s NOT because he’s incarcerated then maybe it’s because he’s worried about being just another man that gets BLASTED by a Supernova.
I guess I’d take radio silence over the mind-numbing nothingness being spouted by one Adam Young. Song parodies and an apparent obsession with Joey Flash and his female cohort. Again, these are the men standing between the ‘new’ WCF and the old guard that’s coming back to knock down the door? I have to be associated with this redneck reprobate?!
The Superstar curls his lips in disgust and huffs his disapproval.
Still, it IS his eighth War so he has a lot of experience...at losing. He may have more experience at that than anyone else in the back. He reminded the WCF Galaxy that anyone can walk out with a victory at War...Well almost anyone. Anyone but him. Because he’s up Flash’s ass all the way to his redneck. And that’s great. So many of you fucklets are heading into the match with personal vendettas, with goals other than the important one. Which is great for guys like me, guys with one, single crystal clear goal and a laser-like focus on it: GOLD. The only thing worse than going in with some obtuse obsession with one single opponent is being the guy that seems to be the object of half the roster’s obsession. Which brings us too….
Mr. Joey Flash. You here that? Mister. Look at all that goddamned respect I’m putting on the name. Don’t get me wrong, I still think the whole ‘Making my triumphant return at War!’ is some real low-hanging fruit, hackneyed, done-to-death, fuckchop shit. And your internet presence has more in common with three virgin tweens on Omegle than with the WCF but at least is got Adrian Archer so worked up that I think he might’ve had a stroke. Which I’ll be eternally grateful for if it relieves him of his ability to speak. But off all the oversized egos and masturbatory mythologizing, you appear to be the one who’s closest to his own delusions. Two time World Champ! 44 and 5! Haven’t lost a match in 9 months--though I haven’t been here for the last 5. You’ve got that surefire Hall of Fame resume yet here you are. You come crawling back for one more booty call. Here you are sending that 2am “WYD” text message to your old stand by. Here you are looking at the guys that are stepping into what used to be your spotlight and with an unbecoming mixture of jealousy and indignation. “They don’t deserve it! They can’t beat me! They’re nobody!” Those things might even be true, JoJo but what ‘they’ are most importantly is HERE. And they’ve been here. And when you pack up your ball and go home again, they’ll still be here.
Now, I sure as shit know that half the roster truly needs the pointers you laid out in your bit about ‘creative’ promos so it’s probably much appreciated back there. But remember to be careful when pointing a finger because there are always three pointing right back up your ass. Right? Is that how that goes? I mean, the closer on your list advised to not predict everybody else’s shoots. Because it makes you a condescending cunt, I believe you said. So we’re in agreement. When you get on your little soapbox, prattling on about what not to do, making assumptions and predictions about what you’re going to see and hear from everybody else it’s not clever or intelligent or original. It’s halfhearted, juvenile and patronizing. There’s your three word epitaph, Joseppi. You’re welcome.
But either way, you’re back. And you’re talking out of both sides of your piehole. You claim LOVE as your motivation but it rings hollow. You do not LOVE the WCF, you depend on it. YOU need the WCF, it does NOT need you. In your short-sighted arrogance, you fully expected the WCF galaxy to fold in on itself in your absence. The man with the hammer in his hand truly becomes a ghost; his world here stops spinning. But the WCF galaxy kept right on spinning. Your void was filled and this machine just kept right on churning. You peeked out from behind the curtain you pulled on yourself and was surely saddened to learn what I’ve known since the day I was born: THE UNIVERSE DOESN’T CARE. NO ONE CARES. The universe is a cold, indifferent and infinite place. You live, you die, you’re gone and forgotten; your energy is divvied up for the next beings. The beings with the wherewithal to stay and to fight and to LIVE. So as you shed that single tear, sadly leering at the WCF’s indifference towards your absence, you decided to come back. To the place that you once mattered. To the place that made Joseph Malignaggi into Joey Flash. You decided to come back for just one more hit of that endorphin-boosting endo that is the illusion of influence, your mirage of mattering, your ephemeral sandcastle of significance. The tide is coming in, J Flash, and the frail little, co-dependent sandcastle of your dreams is about to be WASHED UP.
The Superstar pauses. He’s approaching the 7-Eleven now.
Let’s change gears again. El Hombre Bio--
Yo!
The male voice is gruff and unfamiliar. The Superstar ignores it and continues towards the entrance of the 7-Eleven.
Yo! Where you goin, Supe!? I’m right here!
The Superstar stops in his tracks. The corners of his mouth pull down towards the sidewalk as he blinks hard, trying to take in what’s before him, behind the cameraman and off-screen.
I can’t believe you came! This shit’s dooooope!
Steven Singh can’t hide his contempt and confusion. His nose is scrunched, eyebrows raised. The camera turns away from Singh and takes the owner of the voice in for itself. He’s a thin man in a filthy pair of Wal-Mart-bought jeans, a plain black t-shirt, a green jacket just on this side of tattered, a silver chain around his neck that slips underneath his shirt and black sneakers so large and clunky they may as well be orthotics. His age is hard to discern, he’s either an hard-aged twenty-something or a well-kept thirty-something. No taller than five foot nine and topped with short unkempt hair, he exhales a cloud of smoke from the Marlboro Red keeping him company as he leans against a mailbox.
Man: Seriously, this shit’s awesome.
Superstar still stares, unsure what to make of this rather excitable, potentially homeless man.
Singh: I don’t have any change.
Man: Ha! Change? No thanks, Obama, you can keep the change! Amirite?!
The stands up away from the mailbox and slaps the Superstar on the shoulder. Steven is not amused. He looks down in disgust at where the man’s grubby hand touched him. Seeing his continued hesitance, the man wipes his on his cruddy jeans and extends it to the WCF rookie.
Man: Sorry! I think I’m being rude? I never was too good at formalities. I’m Jerry.
The Superstar is doesn’t take his hand, still unsure.
Jerry: C’mon Supe!
Singh: Stop saying that.
Jerry: Stop saying Supe?
Singh: Yes.
Jerry: Why? That’s like Superman’s casual name. Nothing wrong with Superman!
Singh: Superman’s moral code is as black and white as a toddler. And all of his gifts were god-given, he’s worked for absolutely nothing in his life. He’s another spoiled simpleton.
Jerry: Ha! Good point, Supe! But you can take back that name! You know, like they do with ni--
Singh: OKAY! Where do you think you are? In a Salem Shepard promo? Now do you need an autograph or what’s your problem, I’m supposed to be meeting some make-a-wish kid.
Jerry: That’s me, man!
Singh: Please no.
Jerry: Hell yeah!
Singh: How the hell are you the make-a-wish kid?
Jerry: All you gotta do is fill out a form! I saw somebody shared the link on Facebook so I filled it out and then they just emailed me to set this up! I had sent it back when I was in the hospital so they were going to send you there but I told your assistant this worked better for me.
Singh: Dammit, Assistant.
Jerry: Yeah, Erica’s soooooo nice. And fine. She’s really fine. She’s like a little pint-sized Christina Hendricks. Mmmm…
Singh: Don’t be a pig, pig.
Jerry: Oh come on, Supe! I know you’re hitting it!
Singh: So you committed fraud to get me here for what purpose? To speak crudely about Assistant?
Jerry: Fraud? Whoa, I’m a lotta things but I ain’t no fraud, Supe.
Singh: You pretended to be a sick child to meet the WCF Superstar.
Jerry: Naw man. They didn’t ask for my age and I WAS in the hospital at the time.
Singh: For what? Diarrhea of the mouth? Because you probably caught that from watching too many promos of these jabrones around here.
Jerry: Naw way dude, they were finally getting me my leg!
The man pulls up his left pant leg to reveal a crude, steel prosthetic that attaches somewhere up above the knee. The Superstar is slightly taken aback.
Singh: Did it just atrophy to the point of your best option being amputation after years of existence as a lazy piece of shit living in your parents’ basement?
Jerry lets out a laugh and pulls the silver necklace out from his shirt. It’s a dog tag.
Jerry: Naw way, man. Goddamn towelheads blew it off! Can’t believe I got got by those fucking sand ni--
Singh: What the hell did I tell you? I find most manners of profanity rather pleasing to my ear but that particular word is completely uncouth.
Jerry: Sorry, Supe, I forget I ain’t in the sandbox anymore. Ain’t this leg a beaut though? Composite steel! Heavy as a motherfucker but sturdy as they come. Just wish it came with a gun or something, ya know?
Singh: I absolutely do not know. So--
Before Singh can inquire exactly what more Jerry wants out of him, a 20-something kid walks up to the duo.
Singh: Not right now kid, I’m--
The kid shoots him a bewildered and dismissive look. He palms a 20 to Jerry.
Jerry: What’s it gonna be?
Kid: Perks.
From inside his jacket Jerry produces a tiny plastic baggie with two Percocets and hands it to the youth who immediately turns and walks away.
Jerry: Support the troops!
Singh: Are you fucking kidding me right now?
Jerry: I know right?! The kid didn’t even look at ‘em! I could be selling him Excedrin! Fuckin millenials.
Singh: You. I mean you. You’re selling Percocets outside a 7-Eleven.
Jerry: Oh yeah man! I’m a small business owner man! They hand these shits out like candy at the VA and I don’t need ‘em. I mean, what the hell is going to hurt on me? The leg I don’t have?
The Superstar tilts his head and looks at the socially outcast, obviously uneducated, one-legged veteran. His opinion shifts a bit.
Singh: Well, I guess you’ve got yourself an entrepreneurial mindset which keeps you off the government teat. Are you on disability?
Jerry: That’s for retards and cripples man! I just lost a leg, I can sling just as easy as I did with two legs. Yo let’s talk about war!
Singh: No offense Jerry, but I don’t care about war.
Jerry: YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT WAR?!
Singh: No.
Jerry: What the hell happened man? You cared like a motherfucker earlier this week. You roasted the shit out half the dudes.
Singh: Ah! War! Yes. Yes, I do care about War. I thought you meant...you know, Iraq or Afghanistan.
Jerry: Naw man fuck that place. I don’t want to talk about that shit neither. Let’s talk about War! Cliff of Doom talked some reeeal shit on you!
Singh: Yeah I saw it. It doesn’t matter. Cliff’s schtick is real cute and all. And I’m sure it’s a goddamn inspiration to all the kids in his class that even if you’re an out-of-shape loser who’s living paycheck to paycheck on like twenty eight thousand a year you can chase your dream of getting punched in the mouth for a living. He’s got the backstage buzz, he’s a trendy pick as a surprise success story in this year’s War, he’s got it all. But ask any other modern woman, Cliff, you just can’t have it all! Prioritize. I am a man of singular focus. I wrestle. I win. That’s it, end of list. You teach, your try to keep that troll of a wife happy, and THEN you wrestle. And it’s been real fun watching you spin these plates so far but it’s going to come crashing down sooner rather than later. Have fun sweeping it up.
Jerry: Why the fuck would he think I want to watch him teach class?
Singh: Excuse me?
Jerry: I’m just saying, half his promos take place in class. C’mon bitch, half of us dropped out of that shit the first time. Like we wanna hear his broke ass talkin bout whatever the fuck he's talkin bout.
Singh: A true fan’s perspective is always welcome, Jerry.
Jerry: For real?
Singh: No, not at all. But I’m humoring you since you’re a sick and dying kid and all. What’re your thoughts on Teddy Blaze?
Jerry: That internet-surfing lil bitch? He ain’t half the man he used to be.
Singh: Your astute observations continue to astound me, Jerry. Blaze, this isn’t a match that will be decided with moving images or youtube clips or one hundred and forty pithy characters. It’s going to be decided in the middle of that squared circle, the exact place you’ve been FAILING lately. Hold fast to that Internet Title. You’re the champion of the vitriolic virgins on 4Chan, you’re the king of creepy middle-aged men quietly pornhubbing in one room over from their sleeping family. All hail, The Champion of that which exposes the true depths and derision of our collective humanity.
Jerry: We’re shootin’ on ‘em now!
Singh: No. I’m shooting. You’re window dressing. Though you’re not entirely without usefulness, you’re absolutely inessential.
Jerry: Whatever you say, Supe! Do Mikey Extreme!
Singh: You don’t give orders here, soldier. And I’m assuming you didn’t give them over there either, did you?
Jerry: Naw.
Singh: Men who follow are not men at all. Know that. As for Mikey Extreme, I can only assume he’s got his feet up somewhere, calm and cool about his last-man-to-enter status. Good for him, he earned his right to be laze about, sure that by being last one in he can be the last one out. Unfortunately, that just isn’t the case. I hope those laurels you’re resting on are comfortable, Mikey, because while you kick up your extreme extremities, The Shakespeare of Shoot keeps working. Keeps grinding. Keeps getting ready for War. Being last is an advantage in theory only. There are a dozen guys in this little shindig that can leave you staring at the ceiling with one move. So if it only takes one move, first or last doesn’t mean a Golden Goddamned thing. Breaking news for you, Mikey: the WCF isn’t handpicking people over you and leaving you behind. They haven’t been wasting you, you’re the waste. Longevity is not an accomplishment unto itself; you’ve done almost as little with fifty six matches as I’ve done with two. I hope you’re excited to watch a whole new batch of guys leapfrog you in this company on Sunday.
Jerry: Yo, how do you stay focused around them fine ass girls?
Singh: “Them fine ass girls?”
Jerry: You know, like Sarah Twilight and Lilith.
Singh: Ahh, yes. Two of the elder stateswomen of the WCF. Well, you’re right, it’s really challenging to keep my cool around a couple of high-class, debutante, bus station skanks like those two. Lilith had the gall to air a “promo” that was just one word. ONE WORD! I had to waste my time with that?! Time is the only thing we can’t make more of Jerry, you know that? That’s why I don’t like mine wasted. And as punishment for wasting my precious, finite time with that, I might just tap LillyBear out at War.
As for Sarah Twilight, all my scouting says that I have to take her with at least a semblance of seriousness. She’s a former World Champ, a WCF Classic Winner and has held a handful of other gold. All of that is to say that she’ll make for an excellent candidate for 15 Minutes of Fame. Her zipped-shut silence in the lead up to War thus far bespeaks that her little stint in the front office may have caused a few cobwebs. Maybe it got a little cushy there. Maybe she started to enjoy the perks of being a suit just a bit too much. Maybe she’s not exactly ready to come back and be the absolute psycho killer she once was. But maybe I’m wrong! Maybe she’s already in the gym trying her damnedest to knock those cobwebs off. Unfortunately for her, there’s no cure for ring rust when you’re out of the WCF. Hit the gym and spar and train all you want because it’s apples and oranges, Sarah. But you already know that. That’s why you’ve been so quiet thus far; you know you’re not ready and you know that you’re going to be another piece of kindling on the fire this Sunday.
Jerry: That Shay McKay queer has a lot to say though?
Singh: Alright, Jerry. Again, we’re not doing that; you’re in the wrong place. The “so and so is gay” insult does not fly here. It’s the absolute epitome of low hanging fruit.
Jerry: Low hanging fruit...I get it.
Singh: Jesus. Anyways, McKay does NOT warrant a mention at this juncture. I mean, I’m proud of that little spud for getting out here and jumping in head first. It’s just unfortunate for him that he’s still in the shallow end of the pool and jumping in head first gets you a broken neck. Now a man that apparently could survive a broken neck is El Hombre Bionico. God what is up with these names in spanish...Are we even sure half these dues are hispanic? Is this just more angry white guy appropriation? Or can I at least press 1 for English on these bitchsticks? Anyways, we’ve got another big triumphant return just in time for War. Or do we? Because this is another dude that could apparently add “Silencioso” to the end of his name. Will he even show up? Will anyone care? Does the Pope shit in the woods?
Jerry: No?
Singh: Exactly, Jerry. No. No one is going to care whether or not he’s there for his triumphant return of the month. Thanks for sparing us the painfully boring promo I guess, Gonz.
Doc Henry is another guy who gets to carry around the title of “legend” here. Hmph. Another once-was. At least this guy doesn’t tuck tail only to expect everyone to cheer when he returns. This one’s stuck around. He’s working hard at cementing his legacy. He’s…defecating in the tank of toilets? I guess? I guess that’s a ‘thing’ for him? Lord give me strength. What do you do after that? Go smash mailboxes? Set fire to bags of dog crap on the neighbor’s stoop? I want to believe in your hype, Doc. You’ve got a list of accomplishments half a mile long under your name but you’re letting your lady do your shooting? Is that just so when I tell you that it was some of the weakest most half-assed work I’ve ever seen you can just blame her? If so, that’s a good plan. Unfortunately, you’re still the one that has to get in the ring, Crock Henry. So when I leave you staring up at the Bright Lights on Sunday, you won’t be able to blame her.
Jerry: What about Cormack MacNeiill? He won last week, dude. Seemed like a re--
Singh: He seemed like a real neanderthal. He won the match against what amounted to enhancement talent. So that means nothing either way. What’s telling is that he allowed Jeff Purse to use him. He allowed Jeff Purse to do nothing but share in the shine of the victory. And that tells me that this ape is ripe for manipulation, that this tool is ready to be used. The right tool can make any job easier so it’s important to note who the biggest, baddest tools are in War. And MacNeill looks like one of the best.
Speaking of Jeff Purse, this is another one I was actually excited about! Here’s another returning reprobate with the actual clout to back up any high-minded claims he might make. But no matter how hard I listen, it’s like the sound of one hand clapping: nothing. He even took to twitter to get the world juiced for his return only to...no show it. This once-was missed his own hype train. I guess at this point I’ll just hope against hope for his presence at War. The mess of bodies and liters of blood and sweat that a match like this are bound to produce have to drive his feeble little mind just nutty. And the moment The Future takes his eye off the prize, the moment his little OCD distracts him from the monumental task at hand is the moment he gets to have a look at The Bright Lights.
Jerry: How come you don’t do that?
Singh: Do what?
Jerry: Hype your shit up on twitter! Some of these dudes are running TRAIN on bitches over there!
Singh: You sound like Assistant, it’s for tweens and basement-dwelling dimwits.
Jerry: No way, shit’s fun as hell! You can tweet at anybody! And just say some shit you’d NEVER say in real life! And I can definitely use that ‘n word’ you keep yelling at me for. People hate it!
The Superstar sees a solution to his problem.
Singh: Do you have a phone?
Jerry quickly produces a monthly prepaid flip phone. Clearly his burner.
Singh: Ugh. Nevermind, I forgot I’m talking to crippled Avon Barksdale. How are on twitter on that relic?
Jerry: Oh, you mean MY phone!
Jerry puts away the flip phone and pulls out a brand spanking new iPhone 7.
Singh: Of course. Give it.
Jerry hands the phone over.
Singh: How do you not have this password protected? You’re a drug dealer for Christ’s sake.
The Superstar’s fingers swipe and tap away at the device. A few moments go by and he tosses it back to Jerry.
Singh: You youtube?
Jerry: I guess.
Singh: How’s your gif game?
Jerry: Weak.
Singh: Photoshop?
Jerry: Uhhh….
Singh: Perfect. You’re hired. Congratulations, you’re the new Social Media Manager of Sure Thing Enterprises!
Jerry: Shit, man! For real?!
Singh: I speak only golden truths. You know that.
Jerry: This is gonna be the fucking tits!
Singh: Yes, tits indeed. Listen, you’re tweeting right from my handle so don’t go sending out any dick picks and don’t try to catfish any unsuspecting young ladies only for them to find out they’ve been chatting with a one-legged drug dealer and not The Superstar himself.
Jerry: No prob, boss. Any other rules?
Singh: No. Twitter is literally nothing to me. It’s a land of trolls and troglodytes. That’s why I thought you’d be perfect.
Jerry: You can’t ruin my buzz right now, Supe!
Singh: There. THAT’S the other rule. Stop truncating my goddamn name. It’s Superstar. Brevity might be the soul of wit but it’s also the death of our beloved language. So you call me Superstar or Steven or even ‘boss’ worked just fine.
Jerry: Got it, boss.
Jerry makes a half-assed salute and then begins typing away on twitter.
Jerry: Poppin my twitter cherry! Shit’s gonna be messy!
Singh: Yeah, you belong there. I’ve chosen correctly as per the usual. Speaking of social media, let’s talk about a man chasing its championship and a man who defined it: Gemini Battle and Zombie McMorris. Gemini Prattle is a warrior for certain. He’s a guy that seems to actually REACH his potential through sheer effort and putting it all out there on the line every week for the WCF. Of course, fulfilling potential with a ceiling that low is like dunking on an eight foot rim. No one gives a shit and it’s embarrassing to brag about. Your blink-and-you-missed-it World Title reign has come and gone, Gem. This weekend you’re going to whiff on that ‘King of All Media’ title; Blaze left you torched on the fields of internet dumbfuckery. Congrats to you both though on your transition into human spambots. Still, you seem ready to bring it for War. You seem more preoccupied War than with the THREE potential matches you’re going to be whooped through earlier in the evening. I understand the story you’re trying to write, the picture you’re trying to paint. Despite going through the rigors of jobbing out to Teddy Blaze, Gem still managed to outlast all the others and win War! What a fairy tale ending! This isn’t Disney, Gem and you don’t get that storybook ending. Because as much grandstanding as you do, when these old guard goombas showed up you shook. You showed your fear. One word escaped your fingertips: “Fuck.” How sad for you. How sad that even Gemini doesn’t believe in the myth that Gemini is perpetuating. Your moment of honesty, your moment of fear speaks to your greatest truth: the knowledge that if it weren’t for the right place and right time, you’d never have a single title reign to your name. And you’re not going to earn another shot at it this weekend.
The Coked Up Mad Man is another heretofore absent would-be front-runner for the big show this weekend. The only thing ZMAC hasn’t done in the Dub is get the big belt which is why I have to wonder if his absence from WCF television this week isn’t intentional. To be perfectly honest, I think if he wanted it, he’d have it by now. I think that these types of accolades, right alongside our mortality, mean nothing to him. So what the hell is War to him? Nothing. He can’t help but LOL FGT is way to a few eliminations in this cesspool desperately wanting for talent but this isn’t his year because he doesn’t give enough shits to make it his year. Luckily he’s got a few more years to give it a shot, being immortal and all.
Jerry: What about the other old timers?
Singh: Old timers is probably a discredit to their skillset, Jerry. We’re not here to take these mooks lightly. Verbally denigrate them and plant seeds of doubt in their half-formed little fetus-brains? Yes, that we’re here to do. But take guys like Odin Balfore lightly? I’m not a godamned moron. He’s seven feet and three hundred pounds of...thickness? Seriously? Half of your promos are dedicated to dick-size metaphors subtle enough to stop traffic in NYC. And you dub yourself the Villain of the Story? What story? You walk out from behind the curtain and the plebeians lap up your bullshit. They cheer the giant with the weed and the poon and the fourteen year old’s fantasy life. You’re no villain, Balfore. You’re an octogenarian looking for one last shot at glory, one last feather in your fedora. But at least you’re really bringing it with the originality and drama: a dead son. This place has more more dead kids than Aleppo. Anyways, I’m excited to watch you try and do the things you once did, Olden. Men your size do not age well. Your joints ache, your bones are stressed. That frame, that imposing tower that has played such a part in getting you this far, is starting to buckle. It’s turning on you. And rest assured the moment I see even a glimmer of which joint is aching, which bone is brittle, I’ll be right there to wrench on it until it pops or you tap.
Then we’ve got the interstellar imbecile, Jay Omega. Another man of great talent and potential. A former War winner! And another oil dick, shit kitten who’s coming back with some specific agenda. Except his isn’t to tear this place down to build it back up or to lead us all back into glory or whatever dumbfuckery the others are spouting. This one’s here just to settle a score with Joey Malignant. Glad to hear it. Tell you what, I’ll steer clear of you and let you know when I get eyes on Flash. Then you two can go ahead and beef this out while I go about my business: the business of success.
FPV is another one with all the history, all the woes, all the legacy in the world here. And instead of standing on that legacy, instead of letting it be what it is, he decides to poke his nose back in just for War. The only reason these self-styled ‘legends’ of WCF are doing this is because they know their legacy is smoke. It might’ve been thick and full when they left but they’ve seen it begin to dissipate. They’re aware that it’s finite and it’s beginning to slip away into the night to never be seen nor spoken of again. So instead of actually letting history stand on its own, we get guys like HPV coming back to tell us all about it again. To show us how emotionally charged this is going to be by visiting a grave. Jesus. We get it guys. Death. Dying. It’s tough. It can be motivating, whatever. But what it CAN’T be is compelling when I’M SEEING IT ALL THE TIME. God I’m even sick of talking about it. So I’m going to stop. Let’s press on.
Jerry: People die, man, that shit’s real.
Singh: Yes, I know it’s real you inbred. I’m just bored with hearing about it. I don’t get paid enough to be their psychiatrist.
Jerry: If you’ve got money problems, I can lend you some.
Singh: Jerry, I don’t have money problems. I was just making a point. Which was, apparently, entirely lost on you.
Jerry: Just sayin...death man. I see it everyday…..
Singh: Like PTSD you mean?
Jerry: Naw, man. I’ve got a pet python. I feed that sonuvabitch live mice. Sometimes it gets to me, ya know?
Singh: Absolutely not.
Jerry: Pythons are crazy. You know to feed they just sit there? Like if they’re hungry, they just sit there. They don’t move a damned muscle. It’s crazy.
Superstar seems to have been struck with an idea. He takes his phone out and dials Byron, his bookie. It goes to voicemail.
Singh: Answer your damned phone, Byron. I need to change my bet. I’m making my mark this Sunday but it’s a little bit different. Check the odds on me to break or tie the elimination record. Call me.
The Superstar hangs his phone up.
Jerry: What changed? How the hell are you gonna do that?
Singh: What I’m “gonna” do Jerry, is be the python. Now I may not have some one-legged burnout feeding me mice but there are going to be plenty of predators leaving plenty of carcasses lying around that ring for a snake like me to snatch up. So I lay in wait. I watch as Belfore or Flash or Battle lay waste to half of these fuckchop failures and I just swoop in for their leftovers. All these guys with histories, with long-standing feuds and scores to settle, they’ll get distracted. Me? I’ll be the python. Sitting, waiting, and just vulturing up elimination after elimination while everybody else is splitting their focus and effort between their half a dozen different purposes.
Jerry: So...you’re just going to sit around waiting?
Singh: Not entirely, Jerry. But like the python, I’ll be conserving energy until the time is right to feed. And I will be fed well. It’s brains over brawn, Jerry. It’s always brains over brawn. And my brain is going to see my name right up there next to Gemini Battle’s for eliminations at War!
The Superstar turns to face the camera and address it directly.
It’s almost upon us, WCF! The Golden God gets his first real chance to shine on the big stage! I’ve got no friends and no targets on my back. I’m as close to being a completely unknown as possible without being Jay West. This match is for the sharp-minded, for the adaptable, for the quick of wit. This match is for The Superstar. I see all of the angles before anybody else in that locker room. I know you human garbage fires don’t see the angles I see, you’re too obtuse to be aware of the fact that in every moment of this match I’m measuring each and everyone of you up. I’m acutely aware of what needs to be done this Sunday. Alright, I think I’ve protracted this metaphor long enough.
This Sunday the WCF will bear witness to the dawning of its new Golden Era and there’s only two things you can do about it: like it….or love it.
Fade to black.
