Post by Teo Blaze on Oct 1, 2017 11:46:25 GMT -5
“So then, foot on the gas, eh?”
“There’s a time for every tactic.”
“So, what else do we do about Rabid?”
“Oh don’t worry, I have a plan.”
“Honestly? That kind of worries me…”
The hustle and bustle of the Tokyo streets has never been louder. Despite the Sunday morning, the streets are packed from end to end with the relaxed faces of the lucky few who have the chance to enjoy their weekend. Businessmen happily throw off their suit jackets and meet with coworkers over Sake Bombs, and homemakers rush from shop to shop, hoping to get the best possible ingredients for the evening’s meal. But for the lucky few, there is a different kind of procession.
Standing proudly in the center of the city, coated in neon lights shining like a circus tent even in the afternoon light is the one and only Tokyo dome. The building is covered in shimmering lights, a monolith to extravaganza proudly illuminating the streets alike, standing almost like a religious structure, a church of the mind, the one and only destination for the imagination, the site of possibility.
And befitting such a wonderful structure, several miles long lines convalesce near the entrances to the stadium. Eager fans wait patiently to get the best seat possible, patiently awaiting the arrival of the stars of the WCF, tickets grasped in hands and eyes alight with the wonder of the spectacle that awaits them.
But the people will not have to wait as long as they are expecting, for in the midst of the crowd, a sudden raucous noise echoes throughout the front of the arena.
Celebratory music choruses throughout the parking lot, drawing the eyes of the thousands to the front, where a group of workers are expertly setting up a large red curtain. The crowds begin to break away from the lines, rushing forward to see what the workers are doing. The music grows louder and louder, and before long it begins to be accompanied by the cheers of eager fans, the sheer anticipation mixing with the emotion of seeing this new event, their smiling faces calling out cries of excitement. The emotion is palpable, intermingling with the music, climbing higher, faster in a never ending crescendo, voices and notes crying out as one to be heard, to be answered!
And just as the chaos reaches its zenith, as the highest note hits is stride, the audience roars, a hungry lion ready to devour whatever is beyond the curtain…and sure enough, the silk falls down to reveal the man who will vie for the world title, the one and only Teo del Sol!
His typical gear has been replaced with a long coat, embroidered with Japanese kanji and scenes, the robe almost emulating a painting in classical Japanese style. Teo has a mask placed over his face, but rather than the typical luchador mask, it is a classical Japanese Kabuki mask, painted with highlights that emulate the Luchador mask’s design. Teo bows respectfully, but then quickly gestures the audience to continue their cries, whipping them further and further into a frenzy, fanning the flames of excitement into a roaring bonfire of ecstatic joy! He holds out one hand to the crowd and raises it as though a referee had lifted it in victory, then with his other hand he removes the mask, revealing the familiar face underneath. With a smile he reaches into a pocket of the robe, removing a wireless microphone to begin speaking.
Teo del Sol: Tokyo Japaaaaaaaaaaaaan!!
The audience can only roar even louder, although it is quickly becoming clear that the volume may drown out the microphone. Despite the efforts, Teo calls out, his voice a fiery cry matching the crowd in intensity.
Teo del Sol: Are you ready for something special?
The roar answers in the affirmative, and Teo responds with a smile.
Teo del Sol: Let it never be said that Teo del Sol does not give the people a show.
Let it never be said that Teo del Sol phones in his performances.
I use that phrase literally, by the way, because I am talking about one particular wrestler.
One wrestler who thinks that he is the greatest talker in the entire history of mankind!
I speak of course of Johnny Rabid, my opponent for this evening.
A man who is such a good talker, that he chose to intimidate the champion of the entire world by….sitting and reading off of his cell phone.
No, really, word for word.
Johnny Rabid, the man who I am supposed to be scared of, was pulling up quotes and arguing with headlines like a depressed teenage girl looking for attention.
“Oh, let me pull up this thing Stephen Singh said and address him by how wrong he is”, let’s have a debate over every single comment, every little brush against the ego.
Let me correct you, cause I’m Johnny Rabid you see, and I think that people want to hear me respond to each comment Stephen Singh said like I’m checking off a list.
It’s all the fun of watching a college student stuck in a twitter war and yet with somehow even less self-awareness.
This is the Johnny Rabid I’m supposed to be scared of? The man who thinks that it counts as a promo by literally making a checklist?
By picking out point by point that Stephen Singh said this or that? By the way completely forgetting that he is in a triple threat match this Sunday.
Johnny, buddy, listen.
That’s not a promo.
That was just….painfully responding to a week old rant from a champion so inept he thinks that a wrestling belt is supposed to hold his tights up.
But this isn’t about Stephen, not at the moment. I’m going to go ahead and show you what a shoot promo is right here Johnny Rabid!
The audience roars in anticipation, and Teo holds his hands out with a friendly gesture, calming the flames just enough for the sound to escape.
Teo del Sol: Johnny Rabid, you may be the luckiest man walking the face of this earth right now. You have managed, through no small effort, to put yourself in a position to fool the entire world.
Every week you come out and you deliver the same promos, the same tricks. You drone on and on and on about how your opponents misunderstand their own gimmicks, with that slightly arrogant, slightly misinformed tone that sounds like Agent Smith on Quaaludes.
And while you’re droning on and on and on about how smart you are, quite frankly you regularly get your facts wrong. It’s this long chain of tedious “Aha!” moments that sounds more like you’re hosting a history channel special than shooting on your opponents!
As if you were trying to make matters worse, your promo for the world title completely omitted yours truly. You had so many fancy ways to tell our beloved Stephen to screw that you completely forgot you have two opponents this Sunday.
And that, John? That’s just ignorance.
Ignorance and Arrogance rhyme for a reason, you cocky son of a bitch.
You’ve got your eyes placed firmly on Stephen Singh, you feel like he’s the real threat in this match.
Tactical error, John.
In your rush to essentially write a novella on that fraud of a human being, you have willingly turned your back to me! It’s like you’re trying to make this easy!
Well, Easier anyway.
Because you see John, I’ve got you pegged. That’s how you operate. You send out a web of lies, you pretend like you have your opponent figured out, and you act like it makes up for the fact that your promos have all the variety of a Taco Bell Menu!
Same old shit, different name! Oh, I wonder what John Rabid is going to do this week? I hope it’s sit in a restaurant and talk about his opponent while eating!
Maybe he’ll talk about his opponent’s past, or literally pull up videos of them to argue with?
A John Rabid promo is so slow he has to put up clips of other promos to keep his audience paying attention.
Teo turns towards the stage, calling for one of the workers to bring something forward.
Teo del Sol: You know, it’s a funny thing, too. All I heard coming in this week was how great John Rabid was, how impeccable his promo skills were.
But the most entertaining part of his promo?
Corey Black.
Listen in John, because this is the part you’re going to want to quote. Your Television title reign is a carefully orchestrated sequence of matches designed to artificially lengthen your reign in order to put a stamp in a record book.
How many tag matches have you defended that belt in, John? How many times have you stepped into that ring with a rookie talent, someone who is still finding their feet? How many times have you walked in and out versus known jobbers?
You want to know what kind of caliber champion you are? You don’t even have a match scheduled.
WAR. One of the biggest shows of the year, and you can’t even be bothered to defend a belt that’s supposed to be defended each and every week.
You want proof, people? That. Is proof.
That is proof that John Rabid has managed to put together a carefully orchestrated series of events meant to make you believe that he is a viable contender.
That he has momentum on his side.
He’s not a proud champion who goes out and defends his belt no matter what.
He’s a child clinging desperately to his ball, not wanting to let anyone else play.
But Teo, you’ll say, didn’t you get a shot at the Television championship? Are you saying you’re not a high caliber opponent?
You’re right. John Rabid, after over six months of easy wins, tag matches, and cashing paychecks for coming into the arena, finally put that belt in actual danger. And do you know what happened?
I almost won! I came within inches of landing the same combo that put him away at Slam 350. That’s it. A tactical error on my part is the only reason that I’m not working on my own Television title reign.
And I promise you, I swear on the sky above that if I had won that Television Title, we’d be seeing a TV title match tonight, win lose or draw, and it wouldn’t be against any glorified jobber either.
Look to last year, when I put myself through a three stages of hell match and still managed to make it to WAR. When I crowned the internet belt as the dominant media, when I beat a former world champion twice and still walked into that match.
But that’s not you John.
You don’t want to take risks.
You don’t want to push yourself outside of what you have to do.
You want to fight against an assembly line of opponents, a line of ducks for you to shoot down, and you want to focus on the world championship.
The fact that you have not even attempted to find an opponent for that belt shows me that you do not value it, you see it as a tool to lead you to the world championship, and nothing more.
A means to an end. That’s what you think of that belt.
John, every time I have held a belt, I have done everything in my power to make that belt the most important thing in the world. I have elevated championships higher than any other man, and I have done it because I am willing, on any night, to face any man.
If Dune had wanted a shot at the People’s title, I would have gladly walked through that sandblasted hellscape if it meant giving the people a match they wanted to see.
The only time you’ve ever sought out a challenging opponent is when there’s something in it for you.
You are a manipulative, conniving bastard who does not deserve the accolades he’s received.
If you had even a fraction of the level of opposition I had when I was Television champion, you would have lost it in the first week.
If you had to face just one of the men I defended the People’s title against, you wouldn’t have a record to your name.
And if you think for one second that I’m about to let you do the same thing to that world title? That I’m going to let you take that prize and lock it away from the people, artificially lengthening a meaningless reign that only serves to boost your ego?
You haven’t been paying attention.
John, I know you’ve studied the tapes. I know you know the blood on these hands. You know what I will do to protect that world championship.
You’ve seen me walk in and pin world champions, you’ve seen me defy odds and pull off miracles.
You know what I’m capable of.
But still you stand there.
You stand there and you drone, on and on about how you want to revive the “Old” Teo del Sol. About how much worse I’ve become since I put on the shades.
But Johnny, the thing you’ve missed, the key ingredient here….
Is that Teo del Sol held back.
Teo del Sol willingly tied an arm behind his back, let his opponents take advantage. I’ve taken a lot of low blows and chair shots by stopping before the final blow.
You’re not going to get that chance.
You get no mercy.
No forgiveness.
The workers have now finished setting up the table behind Teo, which prominently show all of the custom belts from his reigns as Internet and People’s champion, as well as a white and gold wrestling mask.
Teo del Sol: Johnny, you don’t get the Teo del Sol who stopped when he had the chance to cave Jared Holmes’s head in.
The Teo who stayed his hand when Kyle Kemp was at his mercy, chair in hand.
You don’t get the Teo who stays his hand when his opponents are inches from the end of their careers.
You’re going to get the Teo who broke Spencer Adams’s jaw.
The Teo who pushed Andrew Marx off of a scaffold.
The Teo who locked Stephen Singh in a limousine and crashed that damned thing into the stage!
Mercy is off the table, John!
This Sunday, you get no second chances!
You get no stay of execution!
If it means that you do not get your filthy hands on that world championship, I will walk into that arena and I will end you!
No fancy threats, no elaborate descriptions.
I am leaving Sunday as World Champion, the realization of an impossible dream.
You leave in a fucking stretcher.
Keep your long, droning lectures on morality, your listless talks in a bar about how much smarter you are than everyone else, your psychobabble and your nonsense.
Teo reaches onto the table, grabbing from the very end a long baseball bat. The same Baseball bat that almost caved in Stephen Singh’s ribs.
Teo del Sol: This, John. This is all I need.
This is the reason why you’re leaving in a stretcher.
Teo looks at the bat, considering it for a moment, then looks down at the table, covered in memorabilia from his past. He considers it for a moment, looking at the golden mask, the custom belts, the T-shirts and Teo del Sol toys, everything that he had collected.
Then, without a word, he slams the baseball bat down on the table, smashing it in half! He rains blows down on the memorabilia, shattered plastic going in every direction! Merchandise flying everywhere as the pieces fly. He takes the fallen things and throws them out into the audience, what isn’t destroyed is quickly snatched up.
Teo looks out over the crowd, looking at the souvenirs of his past slowly disappearing into a sea of hands.
Teo del Sol: You can talk about my past John Rabid, but the fact is I’ve clung to the past for too long.
It is time to start making a new legacy, and it starts Sunday.
It starts when I walk into that arena, and it ends when I walk out with the World Championship around my waist.
You get one warning.
Stay out of the way.
Do not get between me and Stephen Singh.
If you do, I can’t promise that you’ll be walking tomorrow.
Try and test me.
I fucking dare you.
Teo sighs, and looks out the crowd, who is cheering the former luchador, chanting his name happily. He holds the bat out to the crowd, before pointing at a large poster advertising the world title match. He throws down the microphone and begins walking to the backstage.
Teo del Sol: That, John. That was a promo. Have fun on your restaurant date with Corey.
The day has given way to night, and the crowd has packed into the arena, the unmistakable roars of enthusiasm clearly audible even through the concrete walls of the Tokyo dome. The 55,000 seat arena is packed to capacity, and the high pitched cries of the audience echo loudly throughout the city. For miles around, the noise pierces through the atmosphere, pushing its way into the ears of passerby, demanding to be heard.
The people came for a WAR, and they intend to celebrate it.
Teo stands in the locker room, quietly winding tape around his fists without a word, preparing himself for the world title match.
The noise, however, is broken by a familiar sound, as the swift click of the locker room door breaks the silence. Teo walks forward, but the person at the door has already left. There on the floor sits a cardboard box, with a hand-written note taped to the top.
“Hey Teo, heard you were at the arcade last night. Japan is nice, isn’t it? Anyway, I picked this up from my last tour here, and given what I heard about your success rate, you’ll probably get more out of than I could. Good luck tonight man.
-Antidote”
Teo looks at the box with a smile, and slowly opens the top. Sure enough, within the box is a Sega Mega drive, complete with a copy of Virtua fighter.
Teo smiles and places the box in his locker, to be retrieved later.
The past could be a burden, it could drag you down.
But nothing was permanent.
Even his best friend had managed to move on from the mistake Teo had made.
It was time for Teo to do the same.
He reaches into the locker, picking up the controller, feeling its weight in his hands.
And after all….Some challenges were worth the effort.
The scene now shifts to another part of the backstage area- Teo stands before a monitor showing local talent. From the looks of things WCF hired a group of local performers to warm up the crowd since the entire roster was on call. He watches the intricate strong-style tag team match, listening to the slap of the chops, the thud of the kicks, and he smiles.
The strong style was not that far from what he had learned back at the Gimnasio from Hector. Perhaps one day he’d come train here.
Teo del Sol: Well, gentlemen, the time has come, hasn’t it?
John, Stephen.
I wonder what thoughts are going through your head.
What dirty tricks you’re planning, what victory speeches are being written.
John Rabid, coronated as king, right?
Don’t make me laugh.
People look at this match and they see a foregone conclusion.
They don’t see what’s right in front of them.
That whether I pin Stephen Singh or Johnny Rabid, I’m walking out with that belt.
My opponents are a paper champion, a man who has hidden behind every technicality possible, has buried himself beneath a mountain of red tape and get out of jail free cards to protect a belt that he has no business holding in the first place.
And an artificially created homunculus of an opponent who has spent the better part of the last year playing a chess game to convince the world that he deserves to be in the main event.
Teo smiles as he watches a particularly hard snap suplex on the monitor.
Teo del Sol: I’m not telling you which is which, by the way. Stephen Singh and Johnny Rabid, the sad thing is that they don’t want to admit they’re in the same boat. They’re two halves of the same dirty penny, yet somehow worth even less.
I’m the only man in this match walking in without a world title, because I’m the only one who hasn’t been handed one on a silver platter.
I’ve fought my way here tooth and nail, I pinned Mikey Extreme to earn my world title shot, a man who many have as the odds on favorite to win WAR.
I’ve spent the last month getting my ass kicked, and I have no doubt that both my opponents will be eager to twist that knife, but quite frankly? It’s the best thing that could have ever happened to me.
My opponents are looking past me. John Rabid failed to even mention me in his first promo, though I have no doubt he’ll be vomiting out a long rant to make up for it. I can’t wait for him to tell me about how much better I’ll be after this match.
Teo turns and spits onto the ground, the reflection of the monitor flashing in his eyes.
Teo del Sol: What neither of them wants to admit though? They need me to be Teo del Sol. They don’t know how to deal with me unless I’m standing up for the little guy, unless I’m staying my hand when I have the killshot locked in.
They want to have the Teo who plays by the rules, who is predictable.
That’s why they’ve been raising him up like an idol all this time.
They want Teo del Sol back because he’s what they understand.
Listen to the way John speaks, listen to Singh’s comments. They don’t get it.
They don’t see why Teo del Sol doesn’t just put the mask back on.
They might have even said so word for word.
Teo just chuckles, shaking his head happily.
Teo del Sol: The mask does not make the man, gentlemen. That version of Teo, the one you want, the predictable one. He’s obsolete.
He had his time and place, but quite frankly that pandora’s box has opened a long time ago.
That Teo could not have done what I have done.
He would not be here right now.
That Teo would not have crashed Stephen’s limo with him in it.
Would not have thrown himself into the midst of a world contract title signing.
He would have let himself get robbed. Have accepted that he couldn’t beat the politics.
I’m done with politics.
I’m going to buck the system if I have to burn the whole thing down.
It’s a moot point, Stephen. You stole my chance at history. You called in those police officers and you literally pulled me away from my place in the record books.
You can’t do it. you can’t beat me one on one.
Rabid on the other hand- you got one over on me. I will admit that.
But all you have done by beating me is to guarantee that I will never let it happen again.
I don’t care what you throw at me John. You’re digging so hard to try and destroy my past, so I went ahead and did it for you.
All that’s left of my past is scars. I can let it go, so why can’t you?
Why are you obsessed with talking about Beach Krew, about Jared?
Is it because you don’t want to admit the truth, John?
Oh yes, I’m going there.
The truth John, is that you can’t get it done by yourself.
You can’t walk in that ring and win the big one.
You’re the man who masterminded a plot to end Dune.
You’re the man who took Beach Krew from a group of hashtag obsessed stoners to a feared group.
But when it comes to that world title, you just can’t pull it off.
You had the chance, the week before ONE, to dethrone Bates, but you ended up losing on a disqualification.
You had the chance to claim a world title shot in the Trios Tournament, but it ended up going to David Sanchez.
You had the chance to win Ultimate Showdown, but all you managed to do was retain your title.
I’m going to say it right now John, when it comes to that world title, something is always off.
You just can’t manage to put all the pieces together.
So either you take your ball and go home, like that previously mentioned faux paus…
Or you try and play the odds.
This match, this entire year-long journey, it’s been one long, carefully constructed house of cards designed to get you into this match.
Designed to make the world think that you winning the world title is an inevitability.
Every move, every motion a calculated choice.
But your tricks backfired.
You brought me in to weaken Stephen Singh, because you couldn’t do it on your own. Didn’t want to get your hands dirty I suppose. You knew that I was going to make him pay for what he did, and you wanted to pick up the pieces.
But what you didn’t count on was that I would see it coming, John.
You didn’t anticipate that I would not only cause Stephen a living nightmare, put stress wrinkles under his eyes until he was more raisin than man!
But that I would not leave without that world title.
That belt was stolen from me, John. You may think that you deserve it, that it’s only a matter of time until you are world champion.
But I had it in my hands. I had the world champion pinned.
You think I’m going to let you swoop in and undo that? That I’m going to let you waltz through the Tokyo dome doors and steal that belt from me again?
Teo begins laughing, but the laugh is not a chuckle. It bears with it a hardened edge, Teo’s hands clenching into fists and his head lowering slowly as the laughter grows louder, more manic. His head suddenly snaps upwards, a crazed look in his eyes, burning like a demon’s as his face twists into a pointed and toothy smile.
Teo del Sol: John, you stupid son of a bitch, you’ve signed your own death order!
You’ve made me realize that I need both Sunshine and Fire if I’m going to walk out as world champion, and you better believe I’m going to burn you for your mistake!
You say that you’re going to be world champion, that it’s only a matter of time, but the fact is that my time has already come! The only reason that you’re even a factor in this match is a fraudulent Television title reign, and if the damage you’ve done to that belt is an indicator of how you handle yourself as champion, then when I drive my knee into your skull and pick up teeth off of the mat, I’ll be able to put it down as a public service!
And as for Stephen Singh? I’ll say it one more time, because it doesn’t need to be said. You’ve made your bed already. You know that you can’t beat me one on one, you know that if I get the chance, that I’m going to make up for Revenge. I’m not only going to pin you, Stephen, I’m going to end you.
Both of you, John Rabid and Stephen Singh, are no different than each other. You’re lying, conniving children who deserve nothing but think that the world owes them a championship. You use every spin tactic in the world to justify the fact that neither one of you has even a small claim to where you are.
Tonight, I’m going to expose both of you in one fell swoop. But don’t worry Johnny, you’ll get to keep your precious TV belt, after all, it’s not even important enough to you to defend it, but this is the greatest TV champion of all time, right?
Gentlemen, I’ll see you tonight, but you won’t see me coming until it’s far, far too late.
Teo turns back towards the monitor as the audience roars louder and louder, the sound drowning out everything as the screen snaps to black.
Teo sighs to himself, leaning back in the chair. The video arcade was rather generous to provide its players with that level of comfort, he had to admit to himself. It hadn’t been easy, playing wolf again. He wasn’t used to the aggressive play style, the landing heavy blows.
Then again, as much as he hated to admit it, on some level he did appreciate the different style. There was a certain appeal to landing harder shots, rather than trying to counter an opponent.
And as he looked down at the screen, his last coin gone, he finally saw the words he’d been waiting for all night.
“There’s a time for every tactic.”
“So, what else do we do about Rabid?”
“Oh don’t worry, I have a plan.”
“Honestly? That kind of worries me…”
Part 1-
A Symphony of Ignorance
The hustle and bustle of the Tokyo streets has never been louder. Despite the Sunday morning, the streets are packed from end to end with the relaxed faces of the lucky few who have the chance to enjoy their weekend. Businessmen happily throw off their suit jackets and meet with coworkers over Sake Bombs, and homemakers rush from shop to shop, hoping to get the best possible ingredients for the evening’s meal. But for the lucky few, there is a different kind of procession.
Standing proudly in the center of the city, coated in neon lights shining like a circus tent even in the afternoon light is the one and only Tokyo dome. The building is covered in shimmering lights, a monolith to extravaganza proudly illuminating the streets alike, standing almost like a religious structure, a church of the mind, the one and only destination for the imagination, the site of possibility.
And befitting such a wonderful structure, several miles long lines convalesce near the entrances to the stadium. Eager fans wait patiently to get the best seat possible, patiently awaiting the arrival of the stars of the WCF, tickets grasped in hands and eyes alight with the wonder of the spectacle that awaits them.
But the people will not have to wait as long as they are expecting, for in the midst of the crowd, a sudden raucous noise echoes throughout the front of the arena.
Celebratory music choruses throughout the parking lot, drawing the eyes of the thousands to the front, where a group of workers are expertly setting up a large red curtain. The crowds begin to break away from the lines, rushing forward to see what the workers are doing. The music grows louder and louder, and before long it begins to be accompanied by the cheers of eager fans, the sheer anticipation mixing with the emotion of seeing this new event, their smiling faces calling out cries of excitement. The emotion is palpable, intermingling with the music, climbing higher, faster in a never ending crescendo, voices and notes crying out as one to be heard, to be answered!
And just as the chaos reaches its zenith, as the highest note hits is stride, the audience roars, a hungry lion ready to devour whatever is beyond the curtain…and sure enough, the silk falls down to reveal the man who will vie for the world title, the one and only Teo del Sol!
His typical gear has been replaced with a long coat, embroidered with Japanese kanji and scenes, the robe almost emulating a painting in classical Japanese style. Teo has a mask placed over his face, but rather than the typical luchador mask, it is a classical Japanese Kabuki mask, painted with highlights that emulate the Luchador mask’s design. Teo bows respectfully, but then quickly gestures the audience to continue their cries, whipping them further and further into a frenzy, fanning the flames of excitement into a roaring bonfire of ecstatic joy! He holds out one hand to the crowd and raises it as though a referee had lifted it in victory, then with his other hand he removes the mask, revealing the familiar face underneath. With a smile he reaches into a pocket of the robe, removing a wireless microphone to begin speaking.
Teo del Sol: Tokyo Japaaaaaaaaaaaaan!!
The audience can only roar even louder, although it is quickly becoming clear that the volume may drown out the microphone. Despite the efforts, Teo calls out, his voice a fiery cry matching the crowd in intensity.
Teo del Sol: Are you ready for something special?
The roar answers in the affirmative, and Teo responds with a smile.
Teo del Sol: Let it never be said that Teo del Sol does not give the people a show.
Let it never be said that Teo del Sol phones in his performances.
I use that phrase literally, by the way, because I am talking about one particular wrestler.
One wrestler who thinks that he is the greatest talker in the entire history of mankind!
I speak of course of Johnny Rabid, my opponent for this evening.
A man who is such a good talker, that he chose to intimidate the champion of the entire world by….sitting and reading off of his cell phone.
No, really, word for word.
Johnny Rabid, the man who I am supposed to be scared of, was pulling up quotes and arguing with headlines like a depressed teenage girl looking for attention.
“Oh, let me pull up this thing Stephen Singh said and address him by how wrong he is”, let’s have a debate over every single comment, every little brush against the ego.
Let me correct you, cause I’m Johnny Rabid you see, and I think that people want to hear me respond to each comment Stephen Singh said like I’m checking off a list.
It’s all the fun of watching a college student stuck in a twitter war and yet with somehow even less self-awareness.
This is the Johnny Rabid I’m supposed to be scared of? The man who thinks that it counts as a promo by literally making a checklist?
By picking out point by point that Stephen Singh said this or that? By the way completely forgetting that he is in a triple threat match this Sunday.
Johnny, buddy, listen.
That’s not a promo.
That was just….painfully responding to a week old rant from a champion so inept he thinks that a wrestling belt is supposed to hold his tights up.
But this isn’t about Stephen, not at the moment. I’m going to go ahead and show you what a shoot promo is right here Johnny Rabid!
The audience roars in anticipation, and Teo holds his hands out with a friendly gesture, calming the flames just enough for the sound to escape.
Teo del Sol: Johnny Rabid, you may be the luckiest man walking the face of this earth right now. You have managed, through no small effort, to put yourself in a position to fool the entire world.
Every week you come out and you deliver the same promos, the same tricks. You drone on and on and on about how your opponents misunderstand their own gimmicks, with that slightly arrogant, slightly misinformed tone that sounds like Agent Smith on Quaaludes.
And while you’re droning on and on and on about how smart you are, quite frankly you regularly get your facts wrong. It’s this long chain of tedious “Aha!” moments that sounds more like you’re hosting a history channel special than shooting on your opponents!
As if you were trying to make matters worse, your promo for the world title completely omitted yours truly. You had so many fancy ways to tell our beloved Stephen to screw that you completely forgot you have two opponents this Sunday.
And that, John? That’s just ignorance.
Ignorance and Arrogance rhyme for a reason, you cocky son of a bitch.
You’ve got your eyes placed firmly on Stephen Singh, you feel like he’s the real threat in this match.
Tactical error, John.
In your rush to essentially write a novella on that fraud of a human being, you have willingly turned your back to me! It’s like you’re trying to make this easy!
Well, Easier anyway.
Because you see John, I’ve got you pegged. That’s how you operate. You send out a web of lies, you pretend like you have your opponent figured out, and you act like it makes up for the fact that your promos have all the variety of a Taco Bell Menu!
Same old shit, different name! Oh, I wonder what John Rabid is going to do this week? I hope it’s sit in a restaurant and talk about his opponent while eating!
Maybe he’ll talk about his opponent’s past, or literally pull up videos of them to argue with?
A John Rabid promo is so slow he has to put up clips of other promos to keep his audience paying attention.
Teo turns towards the stage, calling for one of the workers to bring something forward.
Teo del Sol: You know, it’s a funny thing, too. All I heard coming in this week was how great John Rabid was, how impeccable his promo skills were.
But the most entertaining part of his promo?
Corey Black.
Listen in John, because this is the part you’re going to want to quote. Your Television title reign is a carefully orchestrated sequence of matches designed to artificially lengthen your reign in order to put a stamp in a record book.
How many tag matches have you defended that belt in, John? How many times have you stepped into that ring with a rookie talent, someone who is still finding their feet? How many times have you walked in and out versus known jobbers?
You want to know what kind of caliber champion you are? You don’t even have a match scheduled.
WAR. One of the biggest shows of the year, and you can’t even be bothered to defend a belt that’s supposed to be defended each and every week.
You want proof, people? That. Is proof.
That is proof that John Rabid has managed to put together a carefully orchestrated series of events meant to make you believe that he is a viable contender.
That he has momentum on his side.
He’s not a proud champion who goes out and defends his belt no matter what.
He’s a child clinging desperately to his ball, not wanting to let anyone else play.
But Teo, you’ll say, didn’t you get a shot at the Television championship? Are you saying you’re not a high caliber opponent?
You’re right. John Rabid, after over six months of easy wins, tag matches, and cashing paychecks for coming into the arena, finally put that belt in actual danger. And do you know what happened?
I almost won! I came within inches of landing the same combo that put him away at Slam 350. That’s it. A tactical error on my part is the only reason that I’m not working on my own Television title reign.
And I promise you, I swear on the sky above that if I had won that Television Title, we’d be seeing a TV title match tonight, win lose or draw, and it wouldn’t be against any glorified jobber either.
Look to last year, when I put myself through a three stages of hell match and still managed to make it to WAR. When I crowned the internet belt as the dominant media, when I beat a former world champion twice and still walked into that match.
But that’s not you John.
You don’t want to take risks.
You don’t want to push yourself outside of what you have to do.
You want to fight against an assembly line of opponents, a line of ducks for you to shoot down, and you want to focus on the world championship.
The fact that you have not even attempted to find an opponent for that belt shows me that you do not value it, you see it as a tool to lead you to the world championship, and nothing more.
A means to an end. That’s what you think of that belt.
John, every time I have held a belt, I have done everything in my power to make that belt the most important thing in the world. I have elevated championships higher than any other man, and I have done it because I am willing, on any night, to face any man.
If Dune had wanted a shot at the People’s title, I would have gladly walked through that sandblasted hellscape if it meant giving the people a match they wanted to see.
The only time you’ve ever sought out a challenging opponent is when there’s something in it for you.
You are a manipulative, conniving bastard who does not deserve the accolades he’s received.
If you had even a fraction of the level of opposition I had when I was Television champion, you would have lost it in the first week.
If you had to face just one of the men I defended the People’s title against, you wouldn’t have a record to your name.
And if you think for one second that I’m about to let you do the same thing to that world title? That I’m going to let you take that prize and lock it away from the people, artificially lengthening a meaningless reign that only serves to boost your ego?
You haven’t been paying attention.
John, I know you’ve studied the tapes. I know you know the blood on these hands. You know what I will do to protect that world championship.
You’ve seen me walk in and pin world champions, you’ve seen me defy odds and pull off miracles.
You know what I’m capable of.
But still you stand there.
You stand there and you drone, on and on about how you want to revive the “Old” Teo del Sol. About how much worse I’ve become since I put on the shades.
But Johnny, the thing you’ve missed, the key ingredient here….
Is that Teo del Sol held back.
Teo del Sol willingly tied an arm behind his back, let his opponents take advantage. I’ve taken a lot of low blows and chair shots by stopping before the final blow.
You’re not going to get that chance.
You get no mercy.
No forgiveness.
The workers have now finished setting up the table behind Teo, which prominently show all of the custom belts from his reigns as Internet and People’s champion, as well as a white and gold wrestling mask.
Teo del Sol: Johnny, you don’t get the Teo del Sol who stopped when he had the chance to cave Jared Holmes’s head in.
The Teo who stayed his hand when Kyle Kemp was at his mercy, chair in hand.
You don’t get the Teo who stays his hand when his opponents are inches from the end of their careers.
You’re going to get the Teo who broke Spencer Adams’s jaw.
The Teo who pushed Andrew Marx off of a scaffold.
The Teo who locked Stephen Singh in a limousine and crashed that damned thing into the stage!
Mercy is off the table, John!
This Sunday, you get no second chances!
You get no stay of execution!
If it means that you do not get your filthy hands on that world championship, I will walk into that arena and I will end you!
No fancy threats, no elaborate descriptions.
I am leaving Sunday as World Champion, the realization of an impossible dream.
You leave in a fucking stretcher.
Keep your long, droning lectures on morality, your listless talks in a bar about how much smarter you are than everyone else, your psychobabble and your nonsense.
Teo reaches onto the table, grabbing from the very end a long baseball bat. The same Baseball bat that almost caved in Stephen Singh’s ribs.
Teo del Sol: This, John. This is all I need.
This is the reason why you’re leaving in a stretcher.
Teo looks at the bat, considering it for a moment, then looks down at the table, covered in memorabilia from his past. He considers it for a moment, looking at the golden mask, the custom belts, the T-shirts and Teo del Sol toys, everything that he had collected.
Then, without a word, he slams the baseball bat down on the table, smashing it in half! He rains blows down on the memorabilia, shattered plastic going in every direction! Merchandise flying everywhere as the pieces fly. He takes the fallen things and throws them out into the audience, what isn’t destroyed is quickly snatched up.
Teo looks out over the crowd, looking at the souvenirs of his past slowly disappearing into a sea of hands.
Teo del Sol: You can talk about my past John Rabid, but the fact is I’ve clung to the past for too long.
It is time to start making a new legacy, and it starts Sunday.
It starts when I walk into that arena, and it ends when I walk out with the World Championship around my waist.
You get one warning.
Stay out of the way.
Do not get between me and Stephen Singh.
If you do, I can’t promise that you’ll be walking tomorrow.
Try and test me.
I fucking dare you.
Teo sighs, and looks out the crowd, who is cheering the former luchador, chanting his name happily. He holds the bat out to the crowd, before pointing at a large poster advertising the world title match. He throws down the microphone and begins walking to the backstage.
Teo del Sol: That, John. That was a promo. Have fun on your restaurant date with Corey.
Part 2
Care Package
The day has given way to night, and the crowd has packed into the arena, the unmistakable roars of enthusiasm clearly audible even through the concrete walls of the Tokyo dome. The 55,000 seat arena is packed to capacity, and the high pitched cries of the audience echo loudly throughout the city. For miles around, the noise pierces through the atmosphere, pushing its way into the ears of passerby, demanding to be heard.
The people came for a WAR, and they intend to celebrate it.
Teo stands in the locker room, quietly winding tape around his fists without a word, preparing himself for the world title match.
The noise, however, is broken by a familiar sound, as the swift click of the locker room door breaks the silence. Teo walks forward, but the person at the door has already left. There on the floor sits a cardboard box, with a hand-written note taped to the top.
“Hey Teo, heard you were at the arcade last night. Japan is nice, isn’t it? Anyway, I picked this up from my last tour here, and given what I heard about your success rate, you’ll probably get more out of than I could. Good luck tonight man.
-Antidote”
Teo looks at the box with a smile, and slowly opens the top. Sure enough, within the box is a Sega Mega drive, complete with a copy of Virtua fighter.
Teo smiles and places the box in his locker, to be retrieved later.
The past could be a burden, it could drag you down.
But nothing was permanent.
Even his best friend had managed to move on from the mistake Teo had made.
It was time for Teo to do the same.
He reaches into the locker, picking up the controller, feeling its weight in his hands.
And after all….Some challenges were worth the effort.
Part 3
Requiem for A Heavyweight
The scene now shifts to another part of the backstage area- Teo stands before a monitor showing local talent. From the looks of things WCF hired a group of local performers to warm up the crowd since the entire roster was on call. He watches the intricate strong-style tag team match, listening to the slap of the chops, the thud of the kicks, and he smiles.
The strong style was not that far from what he had learned back at the Gimnasio from Hector. Perhaps one day he’d come train here.
Teo del Sol: Well, gentlemen, the time has come, hasn’t it?
John, Stephen.
I wonder what thoughts are going through your head.
What dirty tricks you’re planning, what victory speeches are being written.
John Rabid, coronated as king, right?
Don’t make me laugh.
People look at this match and they see a foregone conclusion.
They don’t see what’s right in front of them.
That whether I pin Stephen Singh or Johnny Rabid, I’m walking out with that belt.
My opponents are a paper champion, a man who has hidden behind every technicality possible, has buried himself beneath a mountain of red tape and get out of jail free cards to protect a belt that he has no business holding in the first place.
And an artificially created homunculus of an opponent who has spent the better part of the last year playing a chess game to convince the world that he deserves to be in the main event.
Teo smiles as he watches a particularly hard snap suplex on the monitor.
Teo del Sol: I’m not telling you which is which, by the way. Stephen Singh and Johnny Rabid, the sad thing is that they don’t want to admit they’re in the same boat. They’re two halves of the same dirty penny, yet somehow worth even less.
I’m the only man in this match walking in without a world title, because I’m the only one who hasn’t been handed one on a silver platter.
I’ve fought my way here tooth and nail, I pinned Mikey Extreme to earn my world title shot, a man who many have as the odds on favorite to win WAR.
I’ve spent the last month getting my ass kicked, and I have no doubt that both my opponents will be eager to twist that knife, but quite frankly? It’s the best thing that could have ever happened to me.
My opponents are looking past me. John Rabid failed to even mention me in his first promo, though I have no doubt he’ll be vomiting out a long rant to make up for it. I can’t wait for him to tell me about how much better I’ll be after this match.
Teo turns and spits onto the ground, the reflection of the monitor flashing in his eyes.
Teo del Sol: What neither of them wants to admit though? They need me to be Teo del Sol. They don’t know how to deal with me unless I’m standing up for the little guy, unless I’m staying my hand when I have the killshot locked in.
They want to have the Teo who plays by the rules, who is predictable.
That’s why they’ve been raising him up like an idol all this time.
They want Teo del Sol back because he’s what they understand.
Listen to the way John speaks, listen to Singh’s comments. They don’t get it.
They don’t see why Teo del Sol doesn’t just put the mask back on.
They might have even said so word for word.
Teo just chuckles, shaking his head happily.
Teo del Sol: The mask does not make the man, gentlemen. That version of Teo, the one you want, the predictable one. He’s obsolete.
He had his time and place, but quite frankly that pandora’s box has opened a long time ago.
That Teo could not have done what I have done.
He would not be here right now.
That Teo would not have crashed Stephen’s limo with him in it.
Would not have thrown himself into the midst of a world contract title signing.
He would have let himself get robbed. Have accepted that he couldn’t beat the politics.
I’m done with politics.
I’m going to buck the system if I have to burn the whole thing down.
It’s a moot point, Stephen. You stole my chance at history. You called in those police officers and you literally pulled me away from my place in the record books.
You can’t do it. you can’t beat me one on one.
Rabid on the other hand- you got one over on me. I will admit that.
But all you have done by beating me is to guarantee that I will never let it happen again.
I don’t care what you throw at me John. You’re digging so hard to try and destroy my past, so I went ahead and did it for you.
All that’s left of my past is scars. I can let it go, so why can’t you?
Why are you obsessed with talking about Beach Krew, about Jared?
Is it because you don’t want to admit the truth, John?
Oh yes, I’m going there.
The truth John, is that you can’t get it done by yourself.
You can’t walk in that ring and win the big one.
You’re the man who masterminded a plot to end Dune.
You’re the man who took Beach Krew from a group of hashtag obsessed stoners to a feared group.
But when it comes to that world title, you just can’t pull it off.
You had the chance, the week before ONE, to dethrone Bates, but you ended up losing on a disqualification.
You had the chance to claim a world title shot in the Trios Tournament, but it ended up going to David Sanchez.
You had the chance to win Ultimate Showdown, but all you managed to do was retain your title.
I’m going to say it right now John, when it comes to that world title, something is always off.
You just can’t manage to put all the pieces together.
So either you take your ball and go home, like that previously mentioned faux paus…
Or you try and play the odds.
This match, this entire year-long journey, it’s been one long, carefully constructed house of cards designed to get you into this match.
Designed to make the world think that you winning the world title is an inevitability.
Every move, every motion a calculated choice.
But your tricks backfired.
You brought me in to weaken Stephen Singh, because you couldn’t do it on your own. Didn’t want to get your hands dirty I suppose. You knew that I was going to make him pay for what he did, and you wanted to pick up the pieces.
But what you didn’t count on was that I would see it coming, John.
You didn’t anticipate that I would not only cause Stephen a living nightmare, put stress wrinkles under his eyes until he was more raisin than man!
But that I would not leave without that world title.
That belt was stolen from me, John. You may think that you deserve it, that it’s only a matter of time until you are world champion.
But I had it in my hands. I had the world champion pinned.
You think I’m going to let you swoop in and undo that? That I’m going to let you waltz through the Tokyo dome doors and steal that belt from me again?
Teo begins laughing, but the laugh is not a chuckle. It bears with it a hardened edge, Teo’s hands clenching into fists and his head lowering slowly as the laughter grows louder, more manic. His head suddenly snaps upwards, a crazed look in his eyes, burning like a demon’s as his face twists into a pointed and toothy smile.
Teo del Sol: John, you stupid son of a bitch, you’ve signed your own death order!
You’ve made me realize that I need both Sunshine and Fire if I’m going to walk out as world champion, and you better believe I’m going to burn you for your mistake!
You say that you’re going to be world champion, that it’s only a matter of time, but the fact is that my time has already come! The only reason that you’re even a factor in this match is a fraudulent Television title reign, and if the damage you’ve done to that belt is an indicator of how you handle yourself as champion, then when I drive my knee into your skull and pick up teeth off of the mat, I’ll be able to put it down as a public service!
And as for Stephen Singh? I’ll say it one more time, because it doesn’t need to be said. You’ve made your bed already. You know that you can’t beat me one on one, you know that if I get the chance, that I’m going to make up for Revenge. I’m not only going to pin you, Stephen, I’m going to end you.
Both of you, John Rabid and Stephen Singh, are no different than each other. You’re lying, conniving children who deserve nothing but think that the world owes them a championship. You use every spin tactic in the world to justify the fact that neither one of you has even a small claim to where you are.
Tonight, I’m going to expose both of you in one fell swoop. But don’t worry Johnny, you’ll get to keep your precious TV belt, after all, it’s not even important enough to you to defend it, but this is the greatest TV champion of all time, right?
Gentlemen, I’ll see you tonight, but you won’t see me coming until it’s far, far too late.
Teo turns back towards the monitor as the audience roars louder and louder, the sound drowning out everything as the screen snaps to black.
Epilogue:
Then again, as much as he hated to admit it, on some level he did appreciate the different style. There was a certain appeal to landing harder shots, rather than trying to counter an opponent.
And as he looked down at the screen, his last coin gone, he finally saw the words he’d been waiting for all night.
YOU WIN….PERFECT!
