Post by Stephen Singh on Oct 23, 2016 15:11:15 GMT -5
Sunday October 16. 9:42 pm
Backstage at the Stan Sheriff Center in Honolulu, we pick up immediately after “Superstar” Steven Singh accepted Cliff of Doom’s partnership despite the adamant protest of his assistant, Erica. Cliff has just left them alone and she immediately begins reiterating her problems with the choice.
Erica: I cannot fucking believe you did that. I can’t fucki--
Singh: Okay! Assistant, I gave you some leeway on that first curse word due to the gravity of the moment. I understand it might overwhelm someone like you who isn’t accustomed to these types of situations but I can’t just have you go casually dropping these F bombs like so much salt on an entree.
Erica: You swear all the fucking time.
Singh: Assistant! Wow, you must really be upset. And I must be feeling REALLY benevolent today because I’m still not going to fucking fire you. I’m just simply going to explain that I am a professional wrestler. My profanity is dictated by the particularities of this profession. YOU are a personal assistant; more specifically, MY personal assistant. And, though The Golden God is a forgiving one, I expected a modicum of professional decorum. Can we continue with that FUCKING understanding, Assistant?
Erica: Whatever.
Singh: You’re approaching belligerence, dear Assistant.
Erica: O-DIN BAL-FORE. Beating Tomohawk and Captain WCF would’ve barely required breaking a sweat with him. Cliff hasn’t re--
He cuts her off.
Singh: Excuse me, Assistant? If I didn’t know better, I’d it sounds like you’re lacking a bit of faith in The Superstar.
Erica: No I just thi--
Interrupting again.
Singh: I don’t care what you think. All you should be thinking is, “Gosh, Mr. Singh, you’re so goram talented your partner doesn’t matter one bit. You’re going to absolutely embarrass those sorry excuses for champions!”
Erica: I just don’t get why you wouldn’t want to give yourself the BEST partner possible.
Singh: First of all, I’m sick of you deriding my partner. Cliff Doom--
She interrupts him, for once.
Erica: OF Doom. It’s Cliff of Doom.
Singh: Right. Like I was saying, I’m sick of you deriding my partner Cliff. You don’t know that Odin is more talented than him, Cliff might mop the floor with that burnout. The kid’s all heart! Regardless, I could walk into Helloween with YOU as my partner and walk out with the straps. With Cliff, the blogs are going to rave about what THE SUPERSTAR has done. They’re going to rave about the MY team, MY success, MY tag titles.
The Superstar takes a step towards his diminutive assistant. He glares down at her, the anger in his voice rising as he speaks.
I give that spot to Oldman Balfore and all I’d hear is about how dominant he is. All I’d hear about are his accomplishments, about his triumphant return. Helloween is MY first shot at a title and those headlines belong to ME! I want the glory and the gold. If you can’t get that through your thick fucking skull, you’re going to be seeking new employment post haste, little girl. So put that name on your lips again and I'm going to slap it off.
He finishes his menacing diatribe leaning over her. He peers down his nose, past her auburn locks and into her angry, blue eyes. Erica was more annoyed than intimidated. She knew he’d never strike her. Or at least she believed it, granting her the lack of fear in her cool blues.
Keep your job and drop it. Keep your job and drop it. You’re close to actually making some real money. Keep your job and drop the topic.
She exhales and smiles up at his icy glare.
Erica: Point taken. Well...Then you’ve got your tag partner. Should we get back to the hotel?
Singh: We? You’ve got a red eye to catch. I footed the plane ticket and lodgings for one night so you could come help me deal with this situation. Which, by the way, you didn’t do. But that’s not your fault, that’s mine for putting my faith in you.
Erica: My lodgings?
Singh: Yeah, your lodgings.
Erica: You made me sleep on the couch at your Airbnb. Which smelled like feet.
Singh: Yeah, it definitely smelled like feet. Make sure when dock them a star when you write my review for that host. Regardless, I provided your lodging. You’re welcome. And I provided your flight which leaves in about three hours back to the mainland. I want you to start brainstorming team names, entrance music, et cetera.
Erica: Don’t you think you might be getting a bit ahead of yourself?
Singh: If the champs were someone else? Maybe. But I could out-wrestle those two mooks in my sleep. Plus, I’m sure Seth is going to be booking a couple singles matches to prime the pump for the pay per view. I’m going to make sure Tommy Boy leaves a trail of tears straight to Helloween.
Tuesday October 18th. 7:09 am.
The brilliant Hawaiian sun should be pouring in through the windows, filling The Superstar’s rented apartment with a golden glow. The air should be crisp and clean and fresh; it should invigorate the body as it courses throughout, on the backs of blood cells. But there are no windows. There’s no sunlight and the air is only fresh relative to an Auschwitz gas chamber; Erica was right, it smells like Thomas Bates’ jock strap . The apartment is dark and dank. And not as in “totally dank, brah! lolfgt” but as in drag, dreary and dewy. This place, frankly, sucks. He’s always a frugal traveler but even The Superstar has to regret this one.
If that’s the case, you wouldn’t know by watching him now. He’s frying up eggs on the one functioning burner of a stove apparently teleported here from 1974. The toasts pops up with a satisfying “schunk” of the rusty springs. He whistles the intro to the Scorpions’ “Winds of Change.” The egg sizzles back to his tune and Singh flips it once with a spatula. Back still the camera, Singh stops whistling and speaks.
Welcome WCF! To my humble little SHITHOLE that I’ve been stuck in for the third consecutive goddamn week now because Seth apparently has a hard-on for hula, luaus or cheap rub-n-tugs from sex-slave Island women. Hotels serve no greater purpose for me than simply place to catch my requisite 6 hours before waking back up and re-starting my pattern of success, my established routine of greatness. So I generally have Assistant book one of the most cost-effective Airbnbs available, give or take a few other amenities and proximities that I require. She, of course, failed to take into account Lerch’s aforementioned predilections which have kept me marooned here on ass-stainnIsland for far longer than anticipated. But that’s such a minor quibble, such a small qualm; I’d much prefer to bring a different piece of beef to the breakfast table this morning.
Singh throws the piece of toast down on a small plate and spatulas his two overeasy eggs on top of each piece of toast. Salt, pepper, hot sauce from the fridge. Singh faces the camera, breakfast plate in his right hand.
Lerch. You fucking worm at the bottom of the bottle of tequila. I am five and O. I eliminated more mooks from War than I had wins at that point. I am the number one contender to the tag team titles. Yet I look at the card and see my name across from these professional losers on next week’s card?! Now granted, that could apply to half of your roster but I very specifically am referring to these two who LOSE PROFESSIONALLY: Sandy Cabbage and Red Trunks. Listen, the last time I saw somebody this content to so obviously just be an enhancement talent, he was named Bob and was probably paid better than these jabrones.
So what this tells me, Lerch, is that you have no faith in my little experiment. You have no faith in Cliff Doom and Steven Singh. You have no faith in your Golden God! And the faithless must, of course, be punished. So this Sunday, pull your Atheist ass up real close to the monitors because Doom and I are going to smite those joebears you chose to put in the ring with us. And when I snap one of their fucking limbs from their body, YOU are making the call to their family. You call their family and tell them that you didn’t take The Jack of All Trades, Master of One seriously. Tell them that you thought it was better to line up something for Zero Tolerance and the tag champs than to give MY match the lead-up it deserves. Tell them that you’re a shit-for-brains, bus station busker who still doesn’t understand that I will NOT be denied a Championship. I am going to tear through that match this week, working like a machine with Cliff and then we’re going to mow down your so-called champions with no more thought than a John Deere gives a blade of grass. Take that shit...to the bank.
He plops his plate down on the counter and takes a large bite out of one of his open-faced egg sandwiches. The egg oozes its yellow innards back onto the plate. Superstar looks back at the camera, his eyes newly lit with anger. Crumbs expel from his mouth as he barks.
That's it, shoot's over! I'm not wasting any more breath on this shit! If Lerch doesn't give two squirts about booking his shows properly, I'm not going to give two squirts about putting it over. Get the fuck out.
He plops his plate down on the counter and takes a large bite out of one of his open-faced egg sandwiches. The egg oozes its yellow innards back onto the plate. Superstar looks back at the camera, his eyes newly lit with anger. Crumbs expel from his mouth as he barks.
That's it, shoot's over! I'm not wasting any more breath on this shit! If Lerch doesn't give two squirts about booking his shows properly, I'm not going to give two squirts about putting it over. Get the fuck out.
