(You're) The Disaster (I'm The) Artist
Dec 17, 2017 17:30:53 GMT -5
God King Dune, John Rabid, and 2 more like this
Post by Stephen Singh on Dec 17, 2017 17:30:53 GMT -5
December 14
2300 Arena Philadelphia, PA
The arena sits quiet and still in its now-default state: set up for low-budget, ECW-knockoff indie events. This place used to bustle with excitement, it was home to what was generally accepted as the greatest thing in modern professional wrestling: ECW. Now it could barely book enough acts to pay the rent; foolhardy owners passed its deed back and forth, usually with some saccharine memory of a promotion long dead that people love to forget was actually a failure. Granted this place has had high highs but it lives now in a valley, barely acknowledged by the mainstream and a shell of what it once was. Speaking of shells of what they once were, Ethan King’s measured footsteps echo through the vacuous chamber; he looks around for his former co-champion and the man he was supposed meet here: Stephen Singh. In one of his hands, strangely, King clutches a football. This place was once the haven of hardcore so you’d think the reigning WCF Hardcore Champion would be clutching that but his grip--on the title, on his career, on his life--seems to have loosened as of late. So instead he brought a football at the behest of his former partner to whom he hadn’t spoken a word in months. Ethan had diverged from his former partner morally; Ethan would no longer willingly play a part in any of Singh’s desperate machinations toward greatness. The former World Champion assumed Ethan’s silent disappearance from his life was born out of jealousy but Ethan simply did not trust the man and wanted no part of his frenzied clawing back to the top of the mountain. Ethan chased a straighter path. A voice blasts through the arena.
Singh: OH HAI ETHAN!
He strides into view of the camera dressed….oddly. In lieu of his usual tailored suit or workout gear, he wears a black v-neck shirt underneath an ill-fitting black suit coat atop white cargo pants. He holds a water bottle.
Singh: It’s bullshit, I did not hit her! I did not!
He throws the water bottle in the general direction of Ethan who doesn’t flinch.
Singh: I did NOT!
King: What in the hell are talking about? Who didn’t you hit?
Singh: Lisa!
Singh smiles wide as King shakes his head, not sure what’s gotten into his former partner.
Singh: Oh good you brought the football, Ethan! Let’s play some football!
King: No. Please just take this.
Ethan King tosses the football underhand to Singh who catches it and lets out an awkward, forced laugh before throwing it back. Unamused, King sidesteps the ball and it goes barrelling off into the distance.
Singh: Goddammit, King. Can’t you just play along? Where’s the fun? Where’s the joie de vivre?
King: It’s not in tagging with you. I told Seth I was done with this but--
Singh: But Seth does whatever he damn well pleases. You think I want to be saddled with your sad-sack, serial second-place sorriness? Because I don’t.
King: So I guess we’re in agreement with that at least. So why’d you ask me here? And what is this whole schtick you’re doing?
Singh: I asked you here to make sure you were actually going to bring it this week...like we used to.
King: Like we used to it? No chance. I’ll be there and we’ll take care of The Risen but not like we used to. Where did that ever get us?
Singh: Well let’s see it got us a Tag Title reign, a Trios Title reign, a Trios Tournament victory, shoe-ins for Stable of The Year, BOTH nominated for Wrestler of the Year and--for one of us--a WORLD FUCKING TITLE. So forgive me if your wholesome new outlook doesn’t inspire confidence in me, Ward Cleaver.
King: You have won that World Title by letting Warwick blindside me and then slithering in on your own. Like the snake you are.
Singh: LEAVE YOUR STUPID COMMENTS IN YOUR POCKET!
King: What is wrong with you today?
Singh: Aside from the fact that I haven’t gotten my World Title rematch? Or that I’m saddled with carrying Digger to a proper feud? Or that I’m stuck teaming with the man-child once known as Future Queef?
King: Yeah, aside from all that, what is wrong with you?
Singh: I just watched The Room.
King: What?
Singh: Nevermind you mainstream, middling mook. It takes a certainly quality of mind to find brilliance in the earnest failure of the mediocre tryhards of the world. It’s sort of why I’ve enjoyed keeping an eye on your career this past year.
King: Great stuff, Singh. I’d encourage you to “never change” but you and I both know that you’re incapable of actual human growth. Just do me a favor and don’t take these guys lightly. They’re new to the WCF and they’re hungry; a win over a pair of former tag champs who literally have never lost a match together would look pretty damn swell on their resume. And last week, they handled your former proteges pretty well. I’ll see you Sunday.
With that, King has said his piece and takes his leave of the jabs and shenanigans from Singh who yells after him as he walks out of the arena.
Singh: YOU’RE TEARING ME APART ETHAN!
King doesn’t bother turning around but does give Singh a sarcastic half wave with his right hand. The Hardcore Champion knows Singh to be one of the most talented men in the WCF but walking away from him now--and after Sunday, for good--to be quite a relief.
Singh: Well Faithful Stephenites, I was hoping I could coax just a few more yucks out of that joyless cuckhole but honestly I should’ve known better; he was a grim-faced, pretty boy piece fuckchop when Everest was running this entire place. Lord knows now that he’s cemented his place as never-better-than-second-best, he’s got nothing to celebrate. The poor guy lost his smile.
Your Shakespeare of Shoot however? This cheshire cat grins through it all. I lose the World Title, I smirk. I lose the IT Title, I smile. I lose to SJW, I chuckle. Gravedigger makes it personal? He goes to MY HOME? With blood trickling down my face...I fucking beam. So don’t worry about me, my Faithful, I’ll be here with Golden Goddamned bells on ready to ring the bell from bell to bell of whomever has the misfortune of lining up across from me. Gravetriggered? He’s stirred in me an anger I haven’t felt since THE CAPTAIN. And where’s he now? Has anyone seen him lately? Or did I run him out of this place like I’m going to do to Digger? Another beloved WCF figure who I’ll show to be nothing more than just a symbol, just a shadow and shell of what the World wants them to be. But that’s not for now. That’s in a few weeks. We’ll deal with that then.
This week, however, I’m fed two fresh meatsacks that go by The Risen. Risen from what? Why is that their name? No one knows. It’s as boring and non-sensical as their promos. As you might be able to tell from my untraditional outfit today, mooks, I’m a bit inspired by the Tommy Wiseau modern masterpiece of shit that is The Room. Watching it this week--as I sat in a hospital waiting room by the way, thanks Digger--watching it this week, I initially thought you two might be the WCF’s own Wiseau level avant retardes. I mean your speech patterns are inane and robotic. You keep talking about being actual title contenders so you must be living in the same kind of dream world where Tommy Wiseau is actually loved by anyone, much less a blonde with great fake breasts. And you all dress like you’re still stuck in 1994 with the budget of a middle schooler at the first dance. A perfect fit! The Risen is actually the WCF’s very own The Room!
Then I thought a little bit harder. See that’s the difference between me and the rest of the WCF, mulkies. I’m sure that everyone here--with the notable exception of my ONE opponent of course--thinks, I think a little harder. I dig a little deeper. And that’s why I’m more than a little bit better than all of you (apologies to Kyle Kemp). Anyways, there’s one glaring reason you three bus station bums can’t be the WCF’s own Tommy Wiseau: he and his creation are actually ENTERTAINING. You three? Sure you have the proper delusions of grandeur and skill that Tommy sports but his delusions have actually entertained people. They’ve garnered him a real following because he makes people laugh, smile, even think. He struck that perfect note of so bad he’s good. You shitstains? You’re only bad enough to be the worst possible thing you can be in sports, entertainment and especially sports entertainment:
That’s it. That’s the one word summary of every promo you’ve ever cut here. That’s the only word that could POSSIBLY be used to describe you three lightweight losers. Actually, that’s a bit of a fabrication. I could think of plenty of other words: dull, mind-numbing, sleep-inducing, tedious, stale, lamer than Stephen Hawking’s legs, and so forth. But really those are all just pointing back toward “boring” if we’re being honest. And I wouldn’t want to cloud your tiny little minds with a myriad of words or creative use of the English language. So we’ll just stick to that B word. I’d been actively avoiding your promos based on your monotonous in-ring perfunctory performances and aggressively non-descript WASPy faces I did my due diligence and actually watched some this week. In a surprise to absolutely nobody, I was right. They’re dreadful drudgery. Do you guys ever leave Alberta for anything other than a wrestling match? Are you even aware that other places exist? I get it, you train in a dojo out of Calgary with great discipline and blah blah blah. You’re an even more doltish Hart Foundation. You’re all Bret Hart without the charisma. And let me make this perfectly clear since I’m pretty sure your IQs juuuuuuuust barely keep you off the short bus: the joke here is that Bret Hart was already a black hole of charisma. I hope that’s enough explanation because I really don’t have the patience to break it down any further.
Still, I should heed the wise words of Jedi Ethan I’m sure; you two aren’t entirely devoid of talent. You’re...well...I’m not going to say you’re good. Because you’re not. Passable? Sure. But good? Don’t make a Golden God laugh. I’ll give this to you though: you’re certainly there every week. That’s more than I can say for everybody in the back. And I’m not sure I can say it for my partner anymore. But showing up can get you plenty of places around here. As that daughter-diddling-director Woody Allen said, “Showing up is 80% of life.” In some other non-Golden Era of the WCF, you could’ve had a stellar feud with a former World Champion by the name of Oblivion. He’s another guy who’s strongest attribute was you know, just being there. On the other hand, at least he was never boring. Psychotic and non-sensical? Sure. But rarely boring. Maybe he’s the real Tommy Wiseau of the WCF. I digress.
You’ll notice by now--or maybe you won’t because you’re dimwitted dullards--that I haven’t referred to either of you individually by name. And I don’t intend to. I won’t differentiate between the two of you because there is no differentiation between the two of you. You’ve done nothing to create two distinct personas here in the WCF instead just painting each of you with the same beige brush and hoping that’s enough. And, with some degree of variance, it has been enough. This week? It won’t be. This week you step inside the ring with a team that has never lost.
Let me run that one by you again.
The Never Will Be King and I have never lost a tag team match. We may not see the world from a similar viewpoint--mostly because I’ve now been to the top of the mountain and he’s still clawing his way up from the nearby hillsides--but make no mistake: we are unfuckwithable. We only lost the Tag Titles by virtue of moving UP in the ranks during the Ultimate Showdown match. A match that contained the top stars of the WCF, a match that I won handedly by being the smartest man in the ring which is the same way I’m going to win this Sunday. Even if King suddenly doesn’t agree with some of the means by which I win, either of us squeeze more talent out in toilet every morning than the two of you will ever hone in that dojo.
Last week you pointed that you’ve run across men like VBS for, men who throw their weight around and expect it to garner them victories. You claimed you knew how to handle that; surprisingly enough to everyone, you did know how to handle them. This week I promise that you’ve NEVER been in the ring with a man like me. The usual metaphor here is for me to say that I’m playing chess while you’re playing checkers. But that’s not true in this case. It’s more like you’re learning the alphabet while I’m re-writing the Bible itself and fucking your mom at the same time. Check the Book of Ethan, Chapter 6, Verse 9 for that particular passage.
This week is your guys’ chance to show your worth against Ethan King. This week is my warm up to my destruction of Gravedigger. Ethan King might be the one with the most to lose; if he can’t beat you this week with The Sure Thing on his side, how can he stand a chance in a handicap match? But more importantly than all those things, I can formally and officially say that this is Everest’s last match. In reality, Everest had their last match a long time ago. But I can now personally guarandamntee that this is the last time you ever see Ethan King and I in the same corner. I rose to to the top of Everest, and the top of the WCF. Ethan King ran from who he truly he is, from his true nature. David Sanchez ran from the whole damn business. Me? I briefly ran the whole damn show and then took my eye off the ball and gave it all away to Rabid. Now my eyes are steeled and that’s unfortunate news for you. Everest is long dead but I look forward to burying it this week. And as part of the ceremony, we’re sacrificing you two cum dumpsters at the altar of The Golden God. It’s not your fault really. You’ve really done nothing to deserve this. To be honest, you’ve really done nothing in general. You’re simply in the wrong place at the wrong time and will be in the ring with the wrong man. Me. And when I’m giving you the spirit-breaking, soul-crushing, doubt-inducing pummeling that I’m going to give you this Sunday you’ll be looking up at the Bright Lights with the last words running through your head, “Why?! Why is this happening to me? Golden God forgive me!”
2300 Arena Philadelphia, PA
The arena sits quiet and still in its now-default state: set up for low-budget, ECW-knockoff indie events. This place used to bustle with excitement, it was home to what was generally accepted as the greatest thing in modern professional wrestling: ECW. Now it could barely book enough acts to pay the rent; foolhardy owners passed its deed back and forth, usually with some saccharine memory of a promotion long dead that people love to forget was actually a failure. Granted this place has had high highs but it lives now in a valley, barely acknowledged by the mainstream and a shell of what it once was. Speaking of shells of what they once were, Ethan King’s measured footsteps echo through the vacuous chamber; he looks around for his former co-champion and the man he was supposed meet here: Stephen Singh. In one of his hands, strangely, King clutches a football. This place was once the haven of hardcore so you’d think the reigning WCF Hardcore Champion would be clutching that but his grip--on the title, on his career, on his life--seems to have loosened as of late. So instead he brought a football at the behest of his former partner to whom he hadn’t spoken a word in months. Ethan had diverged from his former partner morally; Ethan would no longer willingly play a part in any of Singh’s desperate machinations toward greatness. The former World Champion assumed Ethan’s silent disappearance from his life was born out of jealousy but Ethan simply did not trust the man and wanted no part of his frenzied clawing back to the top of the mountain. Ethan chased a straighter path. A voice blasts through the arena.
Singh: OH HAI ETHAN!
He strides into view of the camera dressed….oddly. In lieu of his usual tailored suit or workout gear, he wears a black v-neck shirt underneath an ill-fitting black suit coat atop white cargo pants. He holds a water bottle.
Singh: It’s bullshit, I did not hit her! I did not!
He throws the water bottle in the general direction of Ethan who doesn’t flinch.
Singh: I did NOT!
King: What in the hell are talking about? Who didn’t you hit?
Singh: Lisa!
Singh smiles wide as King shakes his head, not sure what’s gotten into his former partner.
Singh: Oh good you brought the football, Ethan! Let’s play some football!
King: No. Please just take this.
Ethan King tosses the football underhand to Singh who catches it and lets out an awkward, forced laugh before throwing it back. Unamused, King sidesteps the ball and it goes barrelling off into the distance.
Singh: Goddammit, King. Can’t you just play along? Where’s the fun? Where’s the joie de vivre?
King: It’s not in tagging with you. I told Seth I was done with this but--
Singh: But Seth does whatever he damn well pleases. You think I want to be saddled with your sad-sack, serial second-place sorriness? Because I don’t.
King: So I guess we’re in agreement with that at least. So why’d you ask me here? And what is this whole schtick you’re doing?
Singh: I asked you here to make sure you were actually going to bring it this week...like we used to.
King: Like we used to it? No chance. I’ll be there and we’ll take care of The Risen but not like we used to. Where did that ever get us?
Singh: Well let’s see it got us a Tag Title reign, a Trios Title reign, a Trios Tournament victory, shoe-ins for Stable of The Year, BOTH nominated for Wrestler of the Year and--for one of us--a WORLD FUCKING TITLE. So forgive me if your wholesome new outlook doesn’t inspire confidence in me, Ward Cleaver.
King: You have won that World Title by letting Warwick blindside me and then slithering in on your own. Like the snake you are.
Singh: LEAVE YOUR STUPID COMMENTS IN YOUR POCKET!
King: What is wrong with you today?
Singh: Aside from the fact that I haven’t gotten my World Title rematch? Or that I’m saddled with carrying Digger to a proper feud? Or that I’m stuck teaming with the man-child once known as Future Queef?
King: Yeah, aside from all that, what is wrong with you?
Singh: I just watched The Room.
King: What?
Singh: Nevermind you mainstream, middling mook. It takes a certainly quality of mind to find brilliance in the earnest failure of the mediocre tryhards of the world. It’s sort of why I’ve enjoyed keeping an eye on your career this past year.
King: Great stuff, Singh. I’d encourage you to “never change” but you and I both know that you’re incapable of actual human growth. Just do me a favor and don’t take these guys lightly. They’re new to the WCF and they’re hungry; a win over a pair of former tag champs who literally have never lost a match together would look pretty damn swell on their resume. And last week, they handled your former proteges pretty well. I’ll see you Sunday.
With that, King has said his piece and takes his leave of the jabs and shenanigans from Singh who yells after him as he walks out of the arena.
Singh: YOU’RE TEARING ME APART ETHAN!
King doesn’t bother turning around but does give Singh a sarcastic half wave with his right hand. The Hardcore Champion knows Singh to be one of the most talented men in the WCF but walking away from him now--and after Sunday, for good--to be quite a relief.
Singh: Well Faithful Stephenites, I was hoping I could coax just a few more yucks out of that joyless cuckhole but honestly I should’ve known better; he was a grim-faced, pretty boy piece fuckchop when Everest was running this entire place. Lord knows now that he’s cemented his place as never-better-than-second-best, he’s got nothing to celebrate. The poor guy lost his smile.
Your Shakespeare of Shoot however? This cheshire cat grins through it all. I lose the World Title, I smirk. I lose the IT Title, I smile. I lose to SJW, I chuckle. Gravedigger makes it personal? He goes to MY HOME? With blood trickling down my face...I fucking beam. So don’t worry about me, my Faithful, I’ll be here with Golden Goddamned bells on ready to ring the bell from bell to bell of whomever has the misfortune of lining up across from me. Gravetriggered? He’s stirred in me an anger I haven’t felt since THE CAPTAIN. And where’s he now? Has anyone seen him lately? Or did I run him out of this place like I’m going to do to Digger? Another beloved WCF figure who I’ll show to be nothing more than just a symbol, just a shadow and shell of what the World wants them to be. But that’s not for now. That’s in a few weeks. We’ll deal with that then.
This week, however, I’m fed two fresh meatsacks that go by The Risen. Risen from what? Why is that their name? No one knows. It’s as boring and non-sensical as their promos. As you might be able to tell from my untraditional outfit today, mooks, I’m a bit inspired by the Tommy Wiseau modern masterpiece of shit that is The Room. Watching it this week--as I sat in a hospital waiting room by the way, thanks Digger--watching it this week, I initially thought you two might be the WCF’s own Wiseau level avant retardes. I mean your speech patterns are inane and robotic. You keep talking about being actual title contenders so you must be living in the same kind of dream world where Tommy Wiseau is actually loved by anyone, much less a blonde with great fake breasts. And you all dress like you’re still stuck in 1994 with the budget of a middle schooler at the first dance. A perfect fit! The Risen is actually the WCF’s very own The Room!
Then I thought a little bit harder. See that’s the difference between me and the rest of the WCF, mulkies. I’m sure that everyone here--with the notable exception of my ONE opponent of course--thinks, I think a little harder. I dig a little deeper. And that’s why I’m more than a little bit better than all of you (apologies to Kyle Kemp). Anyways, there’s one glaring reason you three bus station bums can’t be the WCF’s own Tommy Wiseau: he and his creation are actually ENTERTAINING. You three? Sure you have the proper delusions of grandeur and skill that Tommy sports but his delusions have actually entertained people. They’ve garnered him a real following because he makes people laugh, smile, even think. He struck that perfect note of so bad he’s good. You shitstains? You’re only bad enough to be the worst possible thing you can be in sports, entertainment and especially sports entertainment:
B O R I N G.
That’s it. That’s the one word summary of every promo you’ve ever cut here. That’s the only word that could POSSIBLY be used to describe you three lightweight losers. Actually, that’s a bit of a fabrication. I could think of plenty of other words: dull, mind-numbing, sleep-inducing, tedious, stale, lamer than Stephen Hawking’s legs, and so forth. But really those are all just pointing back toward “boring” if we’re being honest. And I wouldn’t want to cloud your tiny little minds with a myriad of words or creative use of the English language. So we’ll just stick to that B word. I’d been actively avoiding your promos based on your monotonous in-ring perfunctory performances and aggressively non-descript WASPy faces I did my due diligence and actually watched some this week. In a surprise to absolutely nobody, I was right. They’re dreadful drudgery. Do you guys ever leave Alberta for anything other than a wrestling match? Are you even aware that other places exist? I get it, you train in a dojo out of Calgary with great discipline and blah blah blah. You’re an even more doltish Hart Foundation. You’re all Bret Hart without the charisma. And let me make this perfectly clear since I’m pretty sure your IQs juuuuuuuust barely keep you off the short bus: the joke here is that Bret Hart was already a black hole of charisma. I hope that’s enough explanation because I really don’t have the patience to break it down any further.
Still, I should heed the wise words of Jedi Ethan I’m sure; you two aren’t entirely devoid of talent. You’re...well...I’m not going to say you’re good. Because you’re not. Passable? Sure. But good? Don’t make a Golden God laugh. I’ll give this to you though: you’re certainly there every week. That’s more than I can say for everybody in the back. And I’m not sure I can say it for my partner anymore. But showing up can get you plenty of places around here. As that daughter-diddling-director Woody Allen said, “Showing up is 80% of life.” In some other non-Golden Era of the WCF, you could’ve had a stellar feud with a former World Champion by the name of Oblivion. He’s another guy who’s strongest attribute was you know, just being there. On the other hand, at least he was never boring. Psychotic and non-sensical? Sure. But rarely boring. Maybe he’s the real Tommy Wiseau of the WCF. I digress.
You’ll notice by now--or maybe you won’t because you’re dimwitted dullards--that I haven’t referred to either of you individually by name. And I don’t intend to. I won’t differentiate between the two of you because there is no differentiation between the two of you. You’ve done nothing to create two distinct personas here in the WCF instead just painting each of you with the same beige brush and hoping that’s enough. And, with some degree of variance, it has been enough. This week? It won’t be. This week you step inside the ring with a team that has never lost.
Let me run that one by you again.
The Never Will Be King and I have never lost a tag team match. We may not see the world from a similar viewpoint--mostly because I’ve now been to the top of the mountain and he’s still clawing his way up from the nearby hillsides--but make no mistake: we are unfuckwithable. We only lost the Tag Titles by virtue of moving UP in the ranks during the Ultimate Showdown match. A match that contained the top stars of the WCF, a match that I won handedly by being the smartest man in the ring which is the same way I’m going to win this Sunday. Even if King suddenly doesn’t agree with some of the means by which I win, either of us squeeze more talent out in toilet every morning than the two of you will ever hone in that dojo.
Last week you pointed that you’ve run across men like VBS for, men who throw their weight around and expect it to garner them victories. You claimed you knew how to handle that; surprisingly enough to everyone, you did know how to handle them. This week I promise that you’ve NEVER been in the ring with a man like me. The usual metaphor here is for me to say that I’m playing chess while you’re playing checkers. But that’s not true in this case. It’s more like you’re learning the alphabet while I’m re-writing the Bible itself and fucking your mom at the same time. Check the Book of Ethan, Chapter 6, Verse 9 for that particular passage.
This week is your guys’ chance to show your worth against Ethan King. This week is my warm up to my destruction of Gravedigger. Ethan King might be the one with the most to lose; if he can’t beat you this week with The Sure Thing on his side, how can he stand a chance in a handicap match? But more importantly than all those things, I can formally and officially say that this is Everest’s last match. In reality, Everest had their last match a long time ago. But I can now personally guarandamntee that this is the last time you ever see Ethan King and I in the same corner. I rose to to the top of Everest, and the top of the WCF. Ethan King ran from who he truly he is, from his true nature. David Sanchez ran from the whole damn business. Me? I briefly ran the whole damn show and then took my eye off the ball and gave it all away to Rabid. Now my eyes are steeled and that’s unfortunate news for you. Everest is long dead but I look forward to burying it this week. And as part of the ceremony, we’re sacrificing you two cum dumpsters at the altar of The Golden God. It’s not your fault really. You’ve really done nothing to deserve this. To be honest, you’ve really done nothing in general. You’re simply in the wrong place at the wrong time and will be in the ring with the wrong man. Me. And when I’m giving you the spirit-breaking, soul-crushing, doubt-inducing pummeling that I’m going to give you this Sunday you’ll be looking up at the Bright Lights with the last words running through your head, “Why?! Why is this happening to me? Golden God forgive me!”