A Morning Eulogy Without Mourning
Mar 26, 2017 16:57:39 GMT -5
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Post by Stephen Singh on Mar 26, 2017 16:57:39 GMT -5
Tuesday March 21st. New York City
Steven Singh did not rest easy; he wrestled with visions through the night that were less conquerable, less manageable than those faced inside the squared circle during the day. As a child he was prone to night terrors, the more realistic, haunting version of the common nightmare; he’d jar awake sweating and screaming, briefly unable to discern the theatre inside his mind from the theatre outside it, the theatre in which the whole world either wittingly or unwittingly was a player or the played. As a child, that real world theatre was what he detested the most; it didn’t bring him the most fear but it brought him the most...hate. That filthy home in Wisconsin “kept” by an addict mother and forcefully deserted by a weak-willed father was the true object of his anger and likely the cause of those night terrors. Or at least that was the theory posited by the school psychologist that nine year old Steven finally saw fit to go see on his own, precociously realizing the incompetence of his so-called caretakers. Today he tossed and tussled in expensive sheets, the thread count of which was higher than his family’s bank account growing up. He’d bested his plague of night terrors early in adolescence via self-taught meditation techniques but stress would still present itself via nightmares through his life. Though recent trips back to Wisconsin and a new professional alliance were meant only to decrease the stress in his life, the nightmares persisted and maybe even increased.
Today, Singh believed himself in control of his waking hours; he believed himself the architect of his own life and couldn’t possibly detest something he himself had built. Instead, it was his dreams he detested. It was his dreams that reminded him of that which was actually out of his control, those plates that spun in the real world unable to be steadied by his own hands; those plates that Singh was destined to watch as they either wobbled and fell to the floor of their own volition or as they were smashed into a hundred pieces by someone else staring him in the eye. Most nights the dreams were of Alex and, by logical extension, Steven’s life as “The Brother Who Survived.” Tonight, though, his mind’s theatre wasn’t haunted by the car crash nor Alex’s subsequent injury nor Steven’s decision to MURDER RELEASE HIM. Tonight, the theatre featured the man who coined that pithy four-word phrase that sought to belittle and demean Singh’s own existence. Tonight, Steven was a snake, a metaphor he had provided to the WCF by his own accord to describe his time there thus far; a week ago he tried to play the mongoose but that part was not his, at least not yet. Last Sunday, as tonight in his dreamscape, Steven was a snake who had been discovered, who could not slither away nor hide, a snake being slowly constricted and suffocated by a kingsnake, by a Serpent. Singh’s Television Title loss to The Ripper had taken seed in the back of his mind, blooming only at night like a nagging primrose. The Serpent tightened its grip around the Singhsnake; Steven’s mind attempted caution him of a continued danger he faced, something more sinister, quieter and deadlier than that which occupied the forefront of his cortex heading into Explosion. He pops up into a seated position with a small gasp for air, his mind tricking his body into momentary asphyxiation.
Fucking nightmares.
Singh snatches his water glass off the nightstand and gulps it down, controlling his parched throat in lieu of his ability to control his overactive subconscious. A man’s voice from the other room:
Of course. Just trying to do the right thing. But two weeks later, he killed her. Of course. Caved her head in with the base of a Waring blender. We got there, there was so much blood you could taste the metal. Moral of the story is I chose a half measure when I should have gone all the way. I’ll never make that mistake again. No more half measures, Walter.
The old man’s wise, wizened voice made Singh smirk; Erica took his advice. He checks the time on his phone; four forty-five, almost time to get up anyways but why the hell was she up? She didn’t have class for hours. The living room glowed and flickered with the warmth and comfort of the television, an aid to pass time and numb the mind that Singh had almost fully excised from his life. His GIRLFRIEND FUCKBUDDY assistant was far less pretentious and was excited to watch what Singh referred to as a “near perfect” piece of television. Singh stands and stretches toward the ceiling in his tommy john underwear. Initially, he’d assumed they were overpriced shiite who had to sponsor wrestling podcasts trying to convince lonely neckbeards to give two shits about their upkeep or appearance for the first time in their pathetic lives. But after receiving a free pair for appearing on one of those aforementioned podcasts, it was all Singh wore; he liked the way it cupped his junk. Quietly thankful for the warm glow of television and Erica’s increasingly common presence in his condo, he entered the living room.
Erica: You were so right about this show.
Singh: Of course I was. Wrong isn’t something I do frequently; I’m sure you know that by now. I’m just impressed you’re on this season already.
Erica: Yeah, well, laying next to you while you grunt and roll all over the bed doesn’t allow for the greatest nights of sleep.
The scene has changed to Jesse and Wendy chatting in a car. She asks for another bump and before Jesse can express his displeasure and disbelief, Erica hits pause on the laptop.
Singh: Here I thought you came over for a grunt and roll.
Erica: Yeah but after our grunting and rolling I need to get some actual damn sleep; I’ve still got class.
Singh: You? The girl sleeping with her employer? I wouldn’t say you’ve got class.
Erica: Hilarious. You know what I meant. What are you dreaming about anyways?
Singh: Mostly about a nation where we’re not judged by the color of our skin but the content of our character...of a day whe--
Erica: Avoidance. So I assume it’s your brother then.
Singh: ….Sometimes. Not last night. I think it was about Rabid.
Erica: You don’t handle loss well.
Singh: That depends on your definition of “handle well.” Am I okay with losing? No, I’m not. You show me a good loser and I show you a LOSER CAPTAIN PANTHEON. Though I’m not okay with it, I accept my losses because it’s only by accepting them that you can use them, that you can grow from them. Only understanding and accepting those losses can improve you; ignoring them will only lead you to the same result. It’s that effort to understand and accept that leads to the night time....unease. I apologize if it’s interfered with your rest as I’m sure it has.
Erica: It’s fine. I got to catch up with Jesse and Walter. But Rabid? Shouldn’t you be focusing on THE CAPTAIN?
Singh: Don’t say his name like that.
Erica: Like what?
Singh: Like you did. Just call him Captain. Or Cap. Or the Greatest Mark to Ever Live. Or even The Captain, just please not THE CAPTAIN.
Erica: I’m really struggling to hear the difference.
Singh: With one of them, you sound like a douche canoe loser with your chest puffed out and your skull empty. With the other, you sound like a girl I might actually sleep with again.
Erica: Okay. So shouldn’t you be more preoccupied with Cap?
Singh: I am. He’s been my number one priority for weeks; his fake claim to my tag team title has been at the forefront of my mind ever since we put his Herwo Jory on the shelf. Shit, if I were a lesser man, I’d blame my mental preoccupation with El Crapitan and his eminent burial for my loss to Rabid.
Erica: But that’s only if you were a lesser man.
Singh: Exactly, I’d certainly never postulate such preposterousness. Still, it seems I can’t quite let go of The Ripper, at least not yet.
Erica: If you want to keep those
She gestures towards the WCF Tag Titles prominently displayed on the otherwise bare wall of his condo.
Erica: here with you then I suggest you stay focused on the task at hand: climbing that ladder and defeating THE CAPTAIN.
Singh: Goram, it’s like nails on a chalkboard with that name. You’re getting me all wound up here, Erica so unless we’re heading back to the bedroom for a sunrise session--
Erica: We’re not.
Singh: Good, you seemed like you needed a morning off anyways; your performance last night was uninspired at moments.
Erica: Fuck you.
Singh: You will not be, that’s what I’m saying. Anyways, You’ve gotten me all wound here just by repeating that goddamn name over and again so since I rejected your advances--
Erica: That is decidedly not what just happened.
Singh: Since I rejected your advances, why don’t you frame me up so I can shower the dirty dick whistlers in the Dub with that verbal violence from the Trash Talk Tolstoy.
As his assistant sighs and leans forward to grab her phone, her auburn locks fall forward over her milky white cleavage and Singh steals a glance. Enjoying the view, he has a tinge of regret over not taking a softer response to her disinterest in a return to bed this morning. No matter; he could remedy that situation after addressing the WCF and his former partner, THE CAPTAIN. Singh centers himself below the Tag Title mounted on his wall and begins.
Here we are, partner. We are at the unavoidable end of the failed-experiment you pithily dubbed “Cap ‘n Crook”--a name I loathe. Do you remember how we started? I’m sure you remember that it was a ladder match at Helloween and all that but let me explain to you--and all the plebeians watching that will assuredly be mindlessly cheering for your doomed victory this Sunday--what really happened in that match. Our partnership, your brief stint in the sun began as it will now end: with your failure. You had a partner who represented the heart and soul of the WCF before you made such claims into a running gag, into a force fed irony that only half of the federation and NONE of its fans even understand. The Artist Formerly Known as Teddy del Sol was the one man everybody pointed to as the quintessential face of the WCF; all of the heart with zero irony and zero backwoods Bates bullshit. This was a great tag team, a perfect fit, and promised great future revenues from children gobbling up that merchandise like Jared Holmes popping Xanax. But instead of the coronation of the WCF Tag Team Champion Smiling Yukkity Yuks, you failed. You failed your partner that day as you’d proceed to do to me for the next several months. You’re, of course, not without talent or value; I refuse to make that dangerous conjecture No, you managed to climb that ladder by yourself. You were the first man up that ladder, you were the first one with his hands on the titles and yet your partner....was not tag team champion was he? Due solely to your failure, the reign that should’ve sold a million t-shirts featuring two grinning fuckchops in masks to the mentally challenged masses never even existed due totally and completely to your failure. Does that day haunt you now? How deeply do you loathe your own incompetence, knowing that you could’ve had months of verbally fellating your heroes next to Teddy while he handed out the rim jobs and you nerds high fived? That sad little lovechild could’ve ended in a hug and a handjob instead of being aborted before it was born and its poisoned replacement ending with a crowbar to your face. That was the day Cap ‘n Crook officially ended and it was with failure just as it had begun. With equally symmetrical poetry, it came to a close with my intelligence, success, and foresight. I strode into Helloween partnerless and walked out a Tag Team Champ. Who before me has completed that task? Who before me has not simply won the tag title by themselves but did it in a one on two on two handicap match? NO ONE, Cap.
I wanted that title so I took it. You were nothing more than an unfortunate side effect of my predilection for gold; an unnecessary byproduct of my success. Still, even a dead body can be hoisted as a human shield and provide some use to those with blood still warm in their veins so I assumed I could use the shell of a man I now stood as champion with to absorb punishment, deflect attacks and improve the odds of a long reign for The Golden God. I was right. Your doughy corpus was perfect for absorbing body shots I saw fit to dodge and all I had to do to keep you happy was let you make the pins. That’s something I’ll sure your mention in your atrocity of a promo this week; the fact that you picked up SO MANY of the pins for Cap ‘n Crook which surely must indicate that you’re the superior competitor and will emerge triumphant this weekend. Cap, you know in your heart--probably not in your brain because that thing is tiny and filled mostly with trivia about BATISTA’S JOEY FLASH’S dick--you know in your heart of hearts you picking up the wins has nothing to do with your superiority, it has everything to do with you being USED. I work hard, not smart. And I’ve been working you since day one of our reign.
Singh reaches up and pulls one of the titles off the wall; he places it over his shoulder with a smile.
You represent so much of what is wrong with the business, Cap. I loathe who you are and what you bring into my most hallowed of halls: the wrestling ring. You belong pushing paper behind a desk for a Japanese life insurance agency denying claims for those poor little asians who miss the “You can’t even kill yourselves right” nets outside the Apple factories.
Singh holds his hand to his ear as a phone.
“I do apologize ma’am but we’re unable to pay out on your husband’s life insurance policy. You see, he accepted a position that he knew he wasn’t man enough to handle and therefore actually deserved the grisly ending he met with. His death--by suicide or any other means--was a foregone conclusion at the outset of this new position. It’s unfortunate for his bereaved that he was too fucking stupid to see when a situation is completely and utterly beyond his pathetic capabilities.”
That’s the conversation you should be having as this claim-denying pencil pushing geek. Or maybe it’s the conversation they’re going to have with your wife trying to cash in your insurance policy after I bury you.
Wait a tick.
Do you even have a wife? Do you even have a family? Do you have a life outside of me and that title which you no longer possess and that Golden Goddamn robot? Or are you a one-dimensional, go-nowhere, inner-monologue lacking one-note abomination of a creation who should’ve been aborted a year ago? Shit, Cap, I’ve been your “best friend” for four months now and I don’t even know if you have a family. Now sure, you can chalk this up to me not giving a fuck about the lovable lardass loser in the leotard or we could chalk it up to the fact that you have no life, no depth, no soul. You’re a fucking one-off joke in a wet suit who keeps bumbling his way to mediocre success. To be honest, it’s almost impressive. Like I said earlier, I can’t pretend you’re without any skills; after having trained with you multiple times I see that you’re sponge. You soak up whatever I taught you quickly, even seeming to pick up things just by watching. You’ve assuredly gained SOME modicum of knowledge about how I wrestle, how I move, how I win over the last four months. But it doesn’t matter, Cap. Do you know why? Granted, I’m a better wrestler than you; always have and always will be. And granted I work harder than you. I’m certainly more genetically gifted and better-trained. And I’m currently backed by three of the most ruthless souls on the roster who’ve already claimed the career of your beloved Jory Splash. But it’s not all those superiorities that assure me my victory this week: it’s your failure to do WHATEVER IT TAKES TO WIN. We are in a no disqualifications ladder match. You know I will do whatever is necessary--and plenty which is not--just to have my hand raised at the end of this match. While you proudly stride the high road, I’ve already crossed the finish line and have now circled back behind you waiting to show you another Fifteen Minutes of Fame. I am going to punish you and then finally end our charade this week, Cap, by any means necessary. While you’ll be looking for revenge on me--from that shot with the crowbar or maybe from the TWO times we KO’d your hewo--I’ll only be looking for one thing, the same thing I’m always looking for: the victory. You've got something to prove, sings statement to make, I've got titles to win and doubts to dash and that's all. So go ahead and prove your points and make your heroic last stand. While you're shucking and jiving for the camera, I'll be holding the titles and you'll be left holding nothing but contempt for me and maybe your flaccid little microdick.
Singh grabs the other title down and throws it over his other shoulder then lets out a sigh and hangs his head momentarily before picking it back up.
Let me square with you, Cap. You almost had me. There was a brief period where I considered it; I considered this being a long-term setup. I thought about what it would mean to have an actual “friend” in the business; someone I could trust and depend on. I, of course, now have a few associates but at the time the very concept thereof was so unacceptable, so foreign to me. So for that, I should thank you I guess. Without you incepting that little kernel of an idea into me, I’d never have considered forming Everest; I would’ve fully failed to see the usefulness of standing alongside others like me. But thanks to your relentless demands on my time and the dumb fucking drudgery you put me through as your partner, I realized that standing alongside someone like myself would be of great value here in the WCF. Indeed, I shouldn't speak with such vitriolic venom, it gives an entirely false impression actual anger or hatred. Those would be crazy emotions to have for you, a tool I used fruitfully and now seek to discard. I can't hate a hammer that has outlived its usefulness, that would be totally unfair to you, Captain Toolshed. No, the primary emotion you've ever elicited from is one of abject pity. From the day I set my sights on you as tag champion I felt sorry for you. That surprising bit of sympathy would only increase as our partnership grew and we drew closer. It was strange to have someone so selfless and so willing to do whatever I asked of them just short of any dastardly rule breaking. Then, as I recovered from the concussion served up to me by Lilith and I watched your pathetic, pandering promos from home, a strange feeling struck me. Do you remember what you said as I was withheld from competition nursing an injury you ALLOWED your supposedly beloved partner to incur? You said you might have to start looking for a new partner. Oh the great hero. Oh the standard bearer of all that is true and just and right on the world. While I spent nights in the hospital, while I got CAT scans and second opinions, while I pondered--for the first time--the very real and very disturbing potential long term repercussions of the sport I love...you were fantasizing about a new partner. My pity for you shifted that day.Still, not to anger but instead to shame. I was ashamed to have bought into your bullshit loyalty for even that brief moment in time. I'm wondering if I've got enough CTE that I might snap and murder anyone foolish enough to be close to me and you're wondering what sucker you can sell your false bill of good guy goods to next. THAT was when pre little team died. I'm sitter you believe it was with my World Title push our maybe even when I cracked you're skull at the last ppv but no, it was there and then that it died.
So I was ashamed of myself and as I took a closer look at your bullshittery I was ashamed of you. I mean, This is what, the thirtieth incarnation of that fucking onesie he calls a gimmick? The only reason the entire locker room doesn’t bury him for all the half-baked, half-assed, fully-failing gimmick swaps he pulls is that Adrian Archer is (STILL!) around to take that heat. No matter what a gimmick-swapping schmuck Captain Mark manages to be week in and week out, old AA is around to make it seem not quite so bad. But here's the thing, Cap: while they all give you an unearned pass on being another flip flopping fuckwit, I do not. You've been here under a year and this is your third iteration of the captain? Jesus. And I'm sure you'll sell out this latest little non commitment as soon as the next actual talent comes along for you to hitch your wanker wagon to.
Singh drops the tag titles to either side of him.
I don't hate you, Cap. Like I said, you're not worth that type of effort; you lack the charm or charisma to elicit that type of emotion from me or really anyone in the back, that's why you always stand underneath somebody else's banner, always behind a man greater gaff you. You think you deserve these tag titles? Every time I step away you lose them. If I hadn't come back when I did, would you ever have gotten these back from Lilith? You NEED me,Cap, do push you to places you're too stupid or too weak to get on your own. And that's where we are again this week, you're about to have the performance of your life thanks to your anger with me. Unfortunately for you, it won't be enough. Jesse Pinkman has learned everything he can from his genius ex partner do we're blowing up this lab. Except on this one you don't drive away unscathed, the Walter White of wrestling is turning the gatling right in his good willed little lapdog loser of a partner. And I'm blowing your fucking brains out. I euthanized my own brother a month ago, Cap. And now I do the same to Cap n Crook. And death doesn't come with a bang nor an Explosion. No, this end comes for you like a Thief In The Night.