Post by Stephen Singh on Feb 11, 2018 1:33:24 GMT -5
Fuck this shit.
That’s supposed to be the voice of WCF World Heavyweight Champion, Stephen Singh. Because it’s his promo. And also because, sometimes, all he seems to do is bitch. If the Dub books him against Wade Moor and Dune he complains about facing would-be champions, if he’s booked against Adam Young and Vincent Augustine, he complains about being buried. So “Fuck this shit” is a pretty universal opening salvo for a Stephen Singh promo. This time however, it emanates from the mouth of consummate unprofessional and part-time punching bag, Hank Brown. Droplets of saliva make frenzied escapes from his mouth and onto the face of a production assistant currently micing him up as he complains to no one in particular.
Brown: It’s my inaugural show and this is the best I could do?! I’ve been around here since Gravedigger mattered and I can’t book a decent guest for what’s going to be the hottest interview show available on the WCF Network!
This show, which Hank has titled “The Brown Sit Down” because he’s a fucking idiot, is simply a one-on-one interview with WCF mainstay Hank Brown and another WCF personality. With the front office continuing its recent trend of deep and unabiding turmoil, he somehow finally got enough approval and enough funds to put together a recurring show for the network. Unfortunately, it was left in Hank’s wildly incapable hands so it’s falling apart before it even starts.
Brown: I was told that camel jockey champ would be here but this morning that jackass Menaker calls me to say that he’ll be doing the appearance. Something about this being below the champion or whatever. That kike bastard can suck my di--
As Brown begins to work blue, in walks “Slick” Rick Menaker, surprisingly flanked by the expected-to-be-absent Stephen Singh.
Brown: Mr. Singh! What a wonderful surprise! I’d been woefully misinformed that you wouldn’t be attending today’s interview!
Hank Brown has all but jumped out of his seat to extend his hand past Menaker and toward the champion. Menaker takes the seat next to Brown for the interviewee and without so much as a glance at the outstretched hand, Singh steps around Hank and takes his chair.
Singh: Are you implying that my camp misinformed you, Hank?
Brown: Well no, just that--
Singh: Because they did not. I will be not interviewed today. Quite frankly, I don’t have the energy nor the patience to deal with you today. The prestigious Mr. Menaker here will be interviewed.
Though Hank is ruffled again, having the carrot shown to him ever so briefly before its yanked away, he tries to catch a World Champion fly with some honey.
Brown: Of course, Mr. Singh! I’ll be happy to interview Mr. Menaker and perhaps if there’s time aft--
Singh: No, there won’t be any time after. And you actually won’t be doing the interview either. I decided, Hank, that you’re actually not even worthy of interviewing the agent of The Golden God.
His frustration becoming more visible now, Hank responds through a strained grin.
Brown: Of course, Mr. Singh. A call would’ve sufficed though, you didn’t need to come in person to tell me he wasn't doing the interview.
Singh: Oh HE is doing the interview, you’re just not doing it. I’m going to interview Rick. This IS the first episode of a new WCF network show isn’t it? I mean, we want to put our best foot forward as a company. I’m the champion, these are the types of things I need to think about and address as best I can. And in light of that, I’ll be conducting the interview with Mr. Menaker. That seems like our best option, don’t you think?
Hank inhales deep and sharp for a moment as though his spine might be made from something other than packing peanuts for just a moment but his exhale contains no words and instead just a nod as he turns to sulk off set. Singh smirks and calls to him, stopping him in his track for a moment.
Singh: But Hank I’ve got something for you! The name of your show: it sucks. “The Brown Sit Down?” It sounds like shit. Literally, it sounds like a euphemism for taking a shit. What the hell were you thinking? If I were to name a promo that, I'm not even sure anybody would watch it. And if they would, they're definitely some kind of simpleton. So change the name. Like yesterday. Now get the fuck out of here.
Cue the Charlie Brown music as Hank Brown sadsacks his way off the set. Meanwhile Singh nods to Rick, straightens the WCF World Title--yes, of course it’s with him and no it wasn’t mentioned yet because it doesn’t need to be mentioned immediately and because maybe we haven’t even described what they’re wearing because why should we, doesn’t that shit get tedious to anybody else? Stephen holds up three fingers to the camera and silently counts them in to the first taping of the hottest new WCF sit-down interview show.
Singh: Welcome to Golden Gab with Stephen Singh! Just another fucking hole I have to plug on the ever leak-springing dam of failure that is the WCF. I’m honored to be joined here by agent to the stars, scourge of the Internet, and overall asset to existence as we know it: Rick Menaker.
Menaker: Wow, what an incredible introduction, Stephen. Really, I don’t think I’ve ever heard one so eloquent, so potent. And I assure you the honor is all mine.
Singh: I assure you, you’re right. Alright Rick, let’s get right into it. This promo is already seven times the length of the cumulative “Matthew Black” library so let’s not go overboard. Some people have been asking the question: why? Why does “Slick” Rick even exist? Why does the Excellence of Elocution even need a mouthpiece?
Menaker: Now there’s a few different questions in there but let’s answer the most important one--the one that pertains in any way to Stephen Singh--first. The Excellence of Elocution does not NEED a mouthpiece. All Stephen Singh needs is a name and a location and he’s going to go out there and continue to be the best Golden Goddamned talent competing in pro wrestling today. But what Stephen Singh WANTS is to not have to deal with every half wit asshat who wants to disparage his great name on the internet. Mr. Singh does not want to have to speak with the likes of John Rabid directly so he’s hired me to handle these minor communications that are so clearly below him yet somehow required of him vis-a-vis his role as Champion of The World.
Singh: Wow, well said Mr. Menaker. Speaking of John Rabid, can you please comment on his apparent exit from the WCF and your alleged role in said exit?
Menaker: Another really masterful question, Mr. Singh; there really isn’t anything you can’t do. Unfortunately though, we’ve been advised by our legal team to not comment on the situation at this time.
Singh (suddenly shouting): YOU WILL ANSWER MY QUESTIONS!
Confused and always desperate to acquiese, Menaker whispers back.
Menaker: Wait...do you really want me to talk about it?
Singh: No, I’m just kidding, we’re going to stick with the lawbirds on this one. You will answer me this though: is he, as the rumors allege, a bitch?
Menaker: I believe we can say, unequivocally, that yes. Yes he is a bitch.
Singh: Alright. I’m bored. This is already boring. How does Browneye do this for hours a day?!
Menaker: Simple minds are easily amused.
Singh: I suppose the level of concentration required just for him to speak in complete sentences probably makes this plenty engaging. Let’s switch now.
The two men get up and trade seats, Rick now in the interviewer seat and Singh in the interviewee seat. Because you can only ask questions from the left hand side of the screen. Think about it. How many interviewers sit on the right side? Really think. And if you can come up with one, they’re probably a real piece of shit. Not like these two. These two are doing it the right way. Menaker looks directly into the camera and does the same countdown from three that Singh did to begin his segment.
Menaker: Welcome to Rappin’ With Rick--
Singh: That’s a terrible name.
Menaker: Of course, I’ll change it.
Singh: You’re already “‘Slick’ Rick” more rapping associations is suicide. You know, like the kind Odin Balfore would commit if he grew out of his perpetual adolescence.
Menaker: Right. Okay, I’ll workshop it on my own time. I don’t want to waste any more of yours, Champ. So let’s get right to it: Matthew Black.
Singh: Is going to get murdered. It’s sad for him really. He’s been bouncing around here long enough to know what’s going to happen Sunday. He’s done more jobs than a lifelong temp so he knows what he’s in for. But can I be honest, Rick?
Menaker: Please.
Singh: You’re a truly gracious host.
Menaker: I seek only to match the grace of The Golden God.
Singh: Of course. Now if I may be honest, I’m starting to actually feel bad for these plebeians. I’ve been getting fed a steady diet of bottom tier turdpoles that are destined for nothing greater than licking the bottom of my boot. They don’t belong. And I don’t mean that they don’t belong in the ring against me, I mean that they outrightly don’t belong in the WCF. Hell, a guy like Matthew Black doesn’t even belong in wrestling. No wait, scratch that, he’d probably be a contender over at Action Wrestling. So pack your bags, Matte Black, your future here is about as bright as your name. Maybe bring back Matthew Drake, he showed more promise than this new incarnation...He had done….something? Right? Hadn’t he done something? Rick can you fact check that for me, Matthew Drake did something right?
Menaker: Hmmm….Let’s just see….
Rick pulls out his phone and pretends to google something for the briefest of moments.
Menaker: Nope. Nothing. He’s never done anything worth while.
Singh: Ah, see the difference there? You said worthwhile. I was talking about doing ANYTHING. I know he’s never done anything worthwhile, I just thought that Matthew Drake had done SOMETHING. Regardless, the only thing he’s set to do Sunday is leave with a Broken Will.
Menaker: You’re heavily favored coming into this match Mr. Singh--as you have been the prior two weeks--but what is Black’s best chance? You’re the Watson of Wrestling, give The World an idea of Matthew Black’s best chance of winning this week.
Singh: Buy a fucking powerball ticket. This mook has better odds of going six for six in that money trap than he does surviving five minutes in the ring with me. Look, I did Vermin Ancillary a favor and took him out swiftly and without prejudice. He’s new here, he could still amount to something. I mean, not a worthy opponent for me, but SOMETHING. Like maybe he can be one of those opponents that’s used to make Bonnie feel better after she loses her 83rd big match in a row. But Matthew Black? He’s not fresh enough for me to take that kind of pity on. The bloom is WAY the fuck off this rose and I’m here to prune this little fucklet out of existence. He won’t be given the quick death of pair of gold knucks to the side of the head, I’m going to physically shame him out of my federation. And then the moment that referee’s hand slaps the mat the third time and that bell sounds, I’m going to completely and totally forget about him. The same way the entire WCF basically already has.
Menaker: Now Mr. Singh, I just wouldn’t be doing my job as a journalist if I didn’t give you the tough questions here.
Singh: Of course, Rick. If something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well. Proceed.
Menaker: Magnanimous as always, Mr. Singh. Certain people have pointed out that for the third week in a row you’re given these absolute pushover opponents while Odin Balfore has been grinding his way through a tournament and is now facing a former World Champion in the main event. Would you care to comment on what some people have called the “protection” that you’ve been receiving since becoming World Champion.
Singh: Wow. I can’t believe you went there, Rick, true hard-nosed, classic journalism. Brava. As for the differences in booking for The Golden God and the Olden Sod, the explanation is simple. And Odin can make whatever claims he would like about it but the simple truth is this: I have been here. I have been grinding week in and week out for over a year while Olden’s boots have been gathering more dust than his old, unused ‘thick.’ The front office--in whatever form it takes--knows who I am. The fans know who I am. Everybody backstage knows who I am. And, more importantly, they know what I’m capable of. That shitty Zeppelin album art come to life though? He’s been sitting at home, stroking his “thick” while I tried to right the ship here. While I kept this place afloat and relevant. While I spit that verbal violence and laid that sweet Smite. He can frame his story as a glorious return, as a savior of the WCF. That’s fine. His entire forte is the world of fucking fantasy so that’s just another false facet. I have to wonder how that little story wraps up now with the man who handpicked him to “save” the WCF has gone AWOL. Actually I don’t have to wonder, it actually wraps up the same way it was going to wrap up either way: on your back wondering where the fuck that Thief In the Night came from. It’s going to wrap up with you again bitching and moaning about how the brass didn’t give you what you deserved, how you were robbed, never admitting the truth: that YOU’RE NOT GOOD ENOUGH.
Let’s refocus on your question though, Rick. Odin Balfore needs the main event. Odin Balfore needs the resume building wins. Odin Balfore needs to get back over. Because this isn’t the land of Odin any longer and no one is believing in the cunt who cried Ragnarok. He’s stepping foot in the WCF’s Golden Era. He’s stepping foot in my ring. He’s stepping that foot into his fucking mouth right before I snap the damn thing off. And that’s fine. The booking is fine. I’ve got nothing to prove ahead of Til Death Do Us Part. I’ll keep doing these obligatory midcard murkjobs they line up for me and you can keep on making sure everyone knows just how hard you’re working on your promos by noting the length right at the top. I assume it’s a strategy gleaned from another failed part of your life after the thirtieth woman said, “Oh....I thought it’d be longer.”
Alright, I’ll put down the shovel. I don’t to completely bury the fuckchop before we even get to the PPV.
That’s supposed to be the voice of WCF World Heavyweight Champion, Stephen Singh. Because it’s his promo. And also because, sometimes, all he seems to do is bitch. If the Dub books him against Wade Moor and Dune he complains about facing would-be champions, if he’s booked against Adam Young and Vincent Augustine, he complains about being buried. So “Fuck this shit” is a pretty universal opening salvo for a Stephen Singh promo. This time however, it emanates from the mouth of consummate unprofessional and part-time punching bag, Hank Brown. Droplets of saliva make frenzied escapes from his mouth and onto the face of a production assistant currently micing him up as he complains to no one in particular.
Brown: It’s my inaugural show and this is the best I could do?! I’ve been around here since Gravedigger mattered and I can’t book a decent guest for what’s going to be the hottest interview show available on the WCF Network!
This show, which Hank has titled “The Brown Sit Down” because he’s a fucking idiot, is simply a one-on-one interview with WCF mainstay Hank Brown and another WCF personality. With the front office continuing its recent trend of deep and unabiding turmoil, he somehow finally got enough approval and enough funds to put together a recurring show for the network. Unfortunately, it was left in Hank’s wildly incapable hands so it’s falling apart before it even starts.
Brown: I was told that camel jockey champ would be here but this morning that jackass Menaker calls me to say that he’ll be doing the appearance. Something about this being below the champion or whatever. That kike bastard can suck my di--
As Brown begins to work blue, in walks “Slick” Rick Menaker, surprisingly flanked by the expected-to-be-absent Stephen Singh.
Brown: Mr. Singh! What a wonderful surprise! I’d been woefully misinformed that you wouldn’t be attending today’s interview!
Hank Brown has all but jumped out of his seat to extend his hand past Menaker and toward the champion. Menaker takes the seat next to Brown for the interviewee and without so much as a glance at the outstretched hand, Singh steps around Hank and takes his chair.
Singh: Are you implying that my camp misinformed you, Hank?
Brown: Well no, just that--
Singh: Because they did not. I will be not interviewed today. Quite frankly, I don’t have the energy nor the patience to deal with you today. The prestigious Mr. Menaker here will be interviewed.
Though Hank is ruffled again, having the carrot shown to him ever so briefly before its yanked away, he tries to catch a World Champion fly with some honey.
Brown: Of course, Mr. Singh! I’ll be happy to interview Mr. Menaker and perhaps if there’s time aft--
Singh: No, there won’t be any time after. And you actually won’t be doing the interview either. I decided, Hank, that you’re actually not even worthy of interviewing the agent of The Golden God.
His frustration becoming more visible now, Hank responds through a strained grin.
Brown: Of course, Mr. Singh. A call would’ve sufficed though, you didn’t need to come in person to tell me he wasn't doing the interview.
Singh: Oh HE is doing the interview, you’re just not doing it. I’m going to interview Rick. This IS the first episode of a new WCF network show isn’t it? I mean, we want to put our best foot forward as a company. I’m the champion, these are the types of things I need to think about and address as best I can. And in light of that, I’ll be conducting the interview with Mr. Menaker. That seems like our best option, don’t you think?
Hank inhales deep and sharp for a moment as though his spine might be made from something other than packing peanuts for just a moment but his exhale contains no words and instead just a nod as he turns to sulk off set. Singh smirks and calls to him, stopping him in his track for a moment.
Singh: But Hank I’ve got something for you! The name of your show: it sucks. “The Brown Sit Down?” It sounds like shit. Literally, it sounds like a euphemism for taking a shit. What the hell were you thinking? If I were to name a promo that, I'm not even sure anybody would watch it. And if they would, they're definitely some kind of simpleton. So change the name. Like yesterday. Now get the fuck out of here.
Cue the Charlie Brown music as Hank Brown sadsacks his way off the set. Meanwhile Singh nods to Rick, straightens the WCF World Title--yes, of course it’s with him and no it wasn’t mentioned yet because it doesn’t need to be mentioned immediately and because maybe we haven’t even described what they’re wearing because why should we, doesn’t that shit get tedious to anybody else? Stephen holds up three fingers to the camera and silently counts them in to the first taping of the hottest new WCF sit-down interview show.
Singh: Welcome to Golden Gab with Stephen Singh! Just another fucking hole I have to plug on the ever leak-springing dam of failure that is the WCF. I’m honored to be joined here by agent to the stars, scourge of the Internet, and overall asset to existence as we know it: Rick Menaker.
Menaker: Wow, what an incredible introduction, Stephen. Really, I don’t think I’ve ever heard one so eloquent, so potent. And I assure you the honor is all mine.
Singh: I assure you, you’re right. Alright Rick, let’s get right into it. This promo is already seven times the length of the cumulative “Matthew Black” library so let’s not go overboard. Some people have been asking the question: why? Why does “Slick” Rick even exist? Why does the Excellence of Elocution even need a mouthpiece?
Menaker: Now there’s a few different questions in there but let’s answer the most important one--the one that pertains in any way to Stephen Singh--first. The Excellence of Elocution does not NEED a mouthpiece. All Stephen Singh needs is a name and a location and he’s going to go out there and continue to be the best Golden Goddamned talent competing in pro wrestling today. But what Stephen Singh WANTS is to not have to deal with every half wit asshat who wants to disparage his great name on the internet. Mr. Singh does not want to have to speak with the likes of John Rabid directly so he’s hired me to handle these minor communications that are so clearly below him yet somehow required of him vis-a-vis his role as Champion of The World.
Singh: Wow, well said Mr. Menaker. Speaking of John Rabid, can you please comment on his apparent exit from the WCF and your alleged role in said exit?
Menaker: Another really masterful question, Mr. Singh; there really isn’t anything you can’t do. Unfortunately though, we’ve been advised by our legal team to not comment on the situation at this time.
Singh (suddenly shouting): YOU WILL ANSWER MY QUESTIONS!
Confused and always desperate to acquiese, Menaker whispers back.
Menaker: Wait...do you really want me to talk about it?
Singh: No, I’m just kidding, we’re going to stick with the lawbirds on this one. You will answer me this though: is he, as the rumors allege, a bitch?
Menaker: I believe we can say, unequivocally, that yes. Yes he is a bitch.
Singh: Alright. I’m bored. This is already boring. How does Browneye do this for hours a day?!
Menaker: Simple minds are easily amused.
Singh: I suppose the level of concentration required just for him to speak in complete sentences probably makes this plenty engaging. Let’s switch now.
The two men get up and trade seats, Rick now in the interviewer seat and Singh in the interviewee seat. Because you can only ask questions from the left hand side of the screen. Think about it. How many interviewers sit on the right side? Really think. And if you can come up with one, they’re probably a real piece of shit. Not like these two. These two are doing it the right way. Menaker looks directly into the camera and does the same countdown from three that Singh did to begin his segment.
Menaker: Welcome to Rappin’ With Rick--
Singh: That’s a terrible name.
Menaker: Of course, I’ll change it.
Singh: You’re already “‘Slick’ Rick” more rapping associations is suicide. You know, like the kind Odin Balfore would commit if he grew out of his perpetual adolescence.
Menaker: Right. Okay, I’ll workshop it on my own time. I don’t want to waste any more of yours, Champ. So let’s get right to it: Matthew Black.
Singh: Is going to get murdered. It’s sad for him really. He’s been bouncing around here long enough to know what’s going to happen Sunday. He’s done more jobs than a lifelong temp so he knows what he’s in for. But can I be honest, Rick?
Menaker: Please.
Singh: You’re a truly gracious host.
Menaker: I seek only to match the grace of The Golden God.
Singh: Of course. Now if I may be honest, I’m starting to actually feel bad for these plebeians. I’ve been getting fed a steady diet of bottom tier turdpoles that are destined for nothing greater than licking the bottom of my boot. They don’t belong. And I don’t mean that they don’t belong in the ring against me, I mean that they outrightly don’t belong in the WCF. Hell, a guy like Matthew Black doesn’t even belong in wrestling. No wait, scratch that, he’d probably be a contender over at Action Wrestling. So pack your bags, Matte Black, your future here is about as bright as your name. Maybe bring back Matthew Drake, he showed more promise than this new incarnation...He had done….something? Right? Hadn’t he done something? Rick can you fact check that for me, Matthew Drake did something right?
Menaker: Hmmm….Let’s just see….
Rick pulls out his phone and pretends to google something for the briefest of moments.
Menaker: Nope. Nothing. He’s never done anything worth while.
Singh: Ah, see the difference there? You said worthwhile. I was talking about doing ANYTHING. I know he’s never done anything worthwhile, I just thought that Matthew Drake had done SOMETHING. Regardless, the only thing he’s set to do Sunday is leave with a Broken Will.
Menaker: You’re heavily favored coming into this match Mr. Singh--as you have been the prior two weeks--but what is Black’s best chance? You’re the Watson of Wrestling, give The World an idea of Matthew Black’s best chance of winning this week.
Singh: Buy a fucking powerball ticket. This mook has better odds of going six for six in that money trap than he does surviving five minutes in the ring with me. Look, I did Vermin Ancillary a favor and took him out swiftly and without prejudice. He’s new here, he could still amount to something. I mean, not a worthy opponent for me, but SOMETHING. Like maybe he can be one of those opponents that’s used to make Bonnie feel better after she loses her 83rd big match in a row. But Matthew Black? He’s not fresh enough for me to take that kind of pity on. The bloom is WAY the fuck off this rose and I’m here to prune this little fucklet out of existence. He won’t be given the quick death of pair of gold knucks to the side of the head, I’m going to physically shame him out of my federation. And then the moment that referee’s hand slaps the mat the third time and that bell sounds, I’m going to completely and totally forget about him. The same way the entire WCF basically already has.
Menaker: Now Mr. Singh, I just wouldn’t be doing my job as a journalist if I didn’t give you the tough questions here.
Singh: Of course, Rick. If something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well. Proceed.
Menaker: Magnanimous as always, Mr. Singh. Certain people have pointed out that for the third week in a row you’re given these absolute pushover opponents while Odin Balfore has been grinding his way through a tournament and is now facing a former World Champion in the main event. Would you care to comment on what some people have called the “protection” that you’ve been receiving since becoming World Champion.
Singh: Wow. I can’t believe you went there, Rick, true hard-nosed, classic journalism. Brava. As for the differences in booking for The Golden God and the Olden Sod, the explanation is simple. And Odin can make whatever claims he would like about it but the simple truth is this: I have been here. I have been grinding week in and week out for over a year while Olden’s boots have been gathering more dust than his old, unused ‘thick.’ The front office--in whatever form it takes--knows who I am. The fans know who I am. Everybody backstage knows who I am. And, more importantly, they know what I’m capable of. That shitty Zeppelin album art come to life though? He’s been sitting at home, stroking his “thick” while I tried to right the ship here. While I kept this place afloat and relevant. While I spit that verbal violence and laid that sweet Smite. He can frame his story as a glorious return, as a savior of the WCF. That’s fine. His entire forte is the world of fucking fantasy so that’s just another false facet. I have to wonder how that little story wraps up now with the man who handpicked him to “save” the WCF has gone AWOL. Actually I don’t have to wonder, it actually wraps up the same way it was going to wrap up either way: on your back wondering where the fuck that Thief In the Night came from. It’s going to wrap up with you again bitching and moaning about how the brass didn’t give you what you deserved, how you were robbed, never admitting the truth: that YOU’RE NOT GOOD ENOUGH.
Let’s refocus on your question though, Rick. Odin Balfore needs the main event. Odin Balfore needs the resume building wins. Odin Balfore needs to get back over. Because this isn’t the land of Odin any longer and no one is believing in the cunt who cried Ragnarok. He’s stepping foot in the WCF’s Golden Era. He’s stepping foot in my ring. He’s stepping that foot into his fucking mouth right before I snap the damn thing off. And that’s fine. The booking is fine. I’ve got nothing to prove ahead of Til Death Do Us Part. I’ll keep doing these obligatory midcard murkjobs they line up for me and you can keep on making sure everyone knows just how hard you’re working on your promos by noting the length right at the top. I assume it’s a strategy gleaned from another failed part of your life after the thirtieth woman said, “Oh....I thought it’d be longer.”
Alright, I’ll put down the shovel. I don’t to completely bury the fuckchop before we even get to the PPV.