Post by Stephen Singh on Oct 10, 2018 15:32:35 GMT -5
Monday October 8th
Chicago Ridge, IL
The Frontier Fieldhouse - Backstage
Stephen Singh bursts through the curtains after his promo, smug smile painted across his face and Hardcore Title festooning his shoulder. Without breaking stride or slowing in the slightest he checks the faces of those he’s walking past backstage. Never-weres, wannabes, has-beens, and the rare competitor with actual potential, they all look at him just a bit differently after his announcement. Singh had just announced his intention of “changing the conversation” around his current place in the WCF and will be doing it by defending that Hardcore Title glistening on his shoulder on every Slam. The decision is met with a variety of emotions by a variety of people. In those backstage, it’s piqued their interest but not changed their opinion. They still see a somewhat weakened Stephen Singh and now he’s put himself directly in their sights. The fans--the WCF Faithful in general, not just his beloved “Stephenites”--were legitimately excited by the announcement. Even if Singh manages to successfully defend his Hardcore Title every week, they still at least get to watch him have his head bashed by foreign objects. For Singh though, the announcement stirred an unfamiliar feeling; it was so unfamiliar, in fact, he wasn’t absolutely sure what it was. It felt like a minor swelling in his chest, something pushing his chin and the corners of his mouth up.
Is this pride? Is this what pride feels like? Strange if so because this isn’t exactly what he felt earlier this year when he stole the World Title from a Mr. Warwick. And it’s only a shade of what he felt after last year’s Ultimate Showdown, like a watered down version of that moment. So maybe this is pride on a smaller scale, maybe this is being proud of a decision you’ve made and enjoying the way others are reacting it. He’s actually enjoying the feeling those crosshairs on his back already. And he’s actually enjoying the idea of title defenses: definitely a new sensation. There’s even something rattling around in the back of his usually corner-cutting cranium about how he can’t snake his way out of hardcore matches, “cheating” is almost non-existent in these types of matches and for some odd reason that seems to feel….good. For just this tiny moment in time, Stephen Singh is taking pride in a small action of his, in a step and an idea instead of an achievement. This is the most unfamiliar of territories for The Thief In The Night. There is, of course, another party who has never kept her cards anywhere even in the same vicinity as her chest.
WHAT IN THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?!
Smashing through his briefest moment of pride--likely stopping it short before Singh even truly realized what it was--is his mother, Donna. She had been waddling after him, the gap between them growing the entire way up the ramp as she wheeled her squeaky-wheeled oxygen tank behind her. She was in no way, shape, or form excited to see her son/paycheck put his title/cashcow Champion’s bonus on the line every week.
Donna: Answer me boy! What in the fuck are you thinking with this?
The Champ keeps walking away from his mother, hearing every word but pretending just the opposite.
Donna: Nevermind, I know the answer. You weren’t fucking thinking. Yer just out there trying to prove how big yer dick is just like half these fuckin’ cunt stains in the back. Yer supposed to be a strategist, yer supposed to be the smartest one in the room. Thought you knew to work smart instead o’ hard but now you’re gonna go out and put that strap on the line….every week?! By choice?! I taught you better than that.
He finally breaks his gait, turns on his heels to make a correction.
Singh: You never taught me shit, MOTHER.
The word doesn’t leave his mouth often and when it does, it’s usually--as is the case here--dripping with disdain. The word is a punctuation meant only to juxtapose what Singh sees as the reality of his life with the general expectations of a “mother.” All of that is either lost on Donna or outrightly ignored who barely lets him finish his sentence before continuing her beratement.
Donna: I taught you how to be a winner. How to fend fer yerself. How to TAKE what you deserve and how to keep it. How to--
The champion turns and walks briskly toward the locker rooms.
Donna: What’s the fuckin point of this, boy?
Looking for a particular locker room, Singh keeps walking, answering his mother without turning toward her.
Singh: The point, Donna, is assuredly one that goes beyond your limited comprehension. The point is one of purpose, of image, of legacy: three things you haven’t given a thought to in twenty damn years.
Donna: Legacy? I’m here tryin to get my son to pull his damn head out his ass and protect his gold for my own health? Yer career here is all the legacy I got left! Or did you forget what happened to the rest of mine?
Singh: I didn’t forget, Donna. I don’t forget anything, that’s my gift and my curse. I remember everything I’ve done whether it’s the proudest moment of my life or the most shameful. It’s all burnt into my hippocampus.
Donna: So if you remember what YOU did, how YOU destroyed part of our family’s legacy, what YOU did to Alex--
The Hardcore Champ stops and addresses her directly again.
Singh: There’s not a Golden Goddamned day that goes by that I don’t remember Alex. You think he’d be proud of this reverse pep talk you’re delivering? You think he’d be proud of me snaking the World Title off of a lesser talent earlier this year? You think he’d be proud of the way I’ve moved pawns around the board and earned my gold by whatever means necessary to this point? You think he’d want that to be part of my legacy? Our legacy?
Donna was hoping to manipulate Stephen into compliance with the mention of her deceased son, Stephen’s younger brother. She’d mismeasured his emotions and as his own spilled over and out of his mouth unabridged and unedited, she was the one affected.
Singh: He was the best of us. He didn’t learn the same underhanded, low-down, by any means necessary survival mechanisms that you drove me to. I made sure of that. But I wasn’t able to avoid those lessons from you. I was so busy protecting him, that I didn’t keep your poison out of my mind. So now with Alex gone...and my failure of a 2018 coming to a close...I’ve decided to try something different. I’ve decided to take the reigns into my own hands, to put the burden of success on no other back than my own. And if it breaks it? Then so fucking be it.
With outpouring of uncharacteristic honesty, Singh swings open the door he’d stopped in front of. His mother follows in and we see Corey Black, current WCF CEO sitting behind his desk.
Corey Black: You didn’t knock.
With knuckles wrapping the table,
Singh: Knock, knock.
Corey Black: Now if you’d actually knocked OUTSIDE the door like a good little employee, I would’ve told you to get lost. Oh wait, I’m still going to do that: get lost.
Singh: No can do, boss. Who do I defend against next week?
Corey Black: Who said you were defending next week?
Singh: I did. Don’t you even watch your own show? I mean, I know Seth Lerch set a certain blueprint to running this place but--
Corey Black: Oh I see everything, don’t worry about that. But I don’t remember okaying your little Hardcore Title gimmick. So what’s the rub here, Singh? What is this all about?
Donna: That’s what I’ve been fucking asking!
Corey Black: Quiet, Mama Mustache.
Before his mother can defend whatever she believes to be her “honor” Singh holds up a hand to shush her.
Singh: There’s no rub, Corey. I hear you and everybody else back here thinks it might be time for this God to be riding off into a Golden sunset. That I might be slipping. That I might be losing a step. So instead I’m going to step on everybody’s fucking neck in the back until you have to strip me of this title because I’ve bloodied the entire division into retirement. So...who do I defend against next week?
Corey Black: Title defenses are good for ratings. And Hardcore matches--complete with blood and broken bones--are good for ratings. Together? They might be great for this place. So rest assured, I don’t do this for you: I do this for the WCF.
Donna: Shit. Alright so if we’re doing this, let’s just warm it up a bit. Let’s feed him a….uh...Biohazard? Is he alive? Or maybe just throw somebody with a name but no talent out there...like Price? Either way, let’s just keep this first week nice and easy, sumthin to improve upon…Maybe some snot-nosed rookie faggot he can casually murder…
Corey Black: Great idea, mom.
Donna: Yeah maybe that Augustine asshole my boy’s already embarrassed or whatever sideshow Adam Young is currently carnival barking for…
Corey Black: Quinton Cross.
Donna: Well hold on now, let’s not just say the first name that pops into our heads….mayb--
Corey Black: No, you’re right Donna. Let’s give some new blood a real shot at doing something here in the WCF. Stephen, you’ll be defending against Quinton Cross next week.
His trademark smirk is back on Singh’s face and he nods at Corey.
Donna: Sonuvabitch.
Corey Black: Now onto our final matter of business…
A dramatic pause by The King of All Wrestlers as the Singhs stare back confusedly.
Corey Black: You gonna suck my dick or what?
With a half of a half of a chuckle and a shake of his head, Singh turns to exit while Corey turns his glance briefly toward Donna who furls her brow and curls her lips before spitting on the floor of his office and wheeling her oxygen tank out of the office, tailing after his son.
Donna: Well I hope yer fuckin happy, boy. You don’t just have a title defense but you have one against an ACTUAL opponent. Somebody that actually has a shot. Hope you know what yer doing.
Singh: Know what, Donna? I don’t. For the first time since I’ve stepped foot in this place, I don’t know exactly what I’m doing. I don’t know exactly what my next six moves are or who I’m gunning for at ONE or what my plans are after that.
What I do know though? What I do know is that I’m going to kick Quinton Cross’ mongoloid fucking skull in next Monday.
The unbridled confidence suddenly spreading across his face, Donna’s worries are temporarily quelled. She recognizes that even if he’s doing things for slightly different reasons, there are some things that are timeless; things like Shakespeare...of Shoot.
Singh: Quinton Cross you mealy-mouthed, cliche of a wrestler, it’s your lucky fucking week. By virtue of being brand new (MEANING: not yet having your neck snapped by The Golden God) you’ve earned this Hardcore Title shot. So congrats on that. You really nailed it, the whole being new thing. And make no mistake, that is the ONLY reason you’re getting this shot. Corey Black, for all his suck-my-dick, late-career, mailing-it-in is no half-wit; one does not become the King of All Wrestlers without a modicum of intelligence. Corey Black knows letting me rip Kennedy Matthews a third fuckhole doesn’t sell any tickets. At least this way the reprobate fans can fool themselves into thinking the new flavor of the month has more than a snowball’s chance in hell standing across from the Jack of All Trades, Master of One.
Spoiler alert, Quinton: you don’t. You’re going to end up with a mouthful of chiclets, getting lunch through a tube for the next week just like everybody else in the back already has. The list of names that actually hold a W over me is short and boy is it sweet. And it is NOT a list you’ll be joining this week. It’s not a list you’ll ever be joining. Because, young Quinton, you’re not in my fucking league. Full disclosure, you don’t even belong in my fucking federation but the WCF has been in dire straits for recruitment in recent months; there were rumors about using a stray dog to revitalize the Internet Title Division. But then they all realized that would only give Teo del Solittlecommitmenttoanyonegimmick an excuse to run his mouth so they all decided against it.
Do you see what I’m doing here, Quinton? Do you understand that before I’ve even begun to detail exactly why you’re such a deeply inferior talent, before I’ve really shown why I’m the Trash Talk Tolstoy, I’m positioning myself and this match within the greater landscape of the WCF. I’m sprinkling in these names throughout the promo effortlessly and casually because this place...like it or not...has been my home for a few years now. This place is part of me and I of it. So when I see what passes for new “talent” in this era it turns my fucking stomach and I actually feel some sort of sick obligation to commandeer the welcome wagon and use it to run you no-talent ass-clowns the fuck over. Go ahead and ask around; I’ve been doing it for years now. There’s some new-fangled fuckchop that the front office wants to test the mettle of so who do they throw him at? Yours truly. They know that I’ll get my W by hook or by crook and in that result they take a better measure of the new man they’ve signed up. The outcome is a foregone conclusion but their career is not. In losing to me--which again, is the constant in this equation, not the variable--maybe you’ll make a decent impression. Maybe you’ll get some offense in, maybe even a few nearfalls in your failure. And if that’s the case, the front office has something to work with, something to build off of even in your inevitable loss. So that’s what you should aim for Quinton. If you convince yourself you’ve got a chance at a victory, then disappointment abounds. But if you accept your fate of taking a peek at those Bright Lights then maybe you can build on that.
However, if you’re actually pinning your hopes and dreams on beating me then it’s not going to turn out well. Honestly, I’m just looking out for your mental well-being here, fucklet. I’ve run so many out the door before they even got started on some semblance of a career all because they foolishly thought they might actually have a shot at putting my shoulders to the mat. After a proper Smite from The Golden God, there are plenty of rookie rubes who never saw another card: Bruno Armstrong, Drakkein, Jay West, The Risen, the list goes on and on. These are names that in other federations may’ve actually made something of themselves. Hell, if they weren’t so unlucky as to stand across the ring from me early in their career they might’ve made something of themselves here...but of course, they DID stand in my ring and they did NOT make anything of themselves. Instead, I pissed on their piddly dreams and watched them wilt like the delicate little flowers they were.
What about you, Q? What’re you going to do after I trounce you from pillar to post and then back again this week? And make no mistake, that’s what’s going to happen. I’ve watched you as much as I need to and the cracks in your facade are already there. Note here that “cracks” are a metaphor for your flaws, it’s not “crack” as in the thing you must be smoking in order to accept this match with me. Or perhaps more accurately: the thing your mother was addicted to when she made the mistake of letting your dad blow his unemployed load in her to create your soon-to-be-unemployed existence. That’s right Quittin’ Cross, I’ve already got your history filed away right up here; you’re dealing with the Watson of Wrestling. I see everyone who walks, struts, or rolls into those doors and I do immediately do my homework. I check out their backstory, their history as a competitor and as a human and I assess the threat level. You? You I’ve got pegged for about Threat Level: Midnight.
That is to say, you’re a fucking joke. The difference is that you’re not even an entertaining joke; you have no punchline. You and your promos are just a string of forced words that drag on and on until I want to kill myself for even having watched thirty seconds of it. Is that your strategy? Since you obviously can’t beat me in the ring, you’ll just pound the English language into submission in those awful fucking promos? Or maybe they’re purposely so boring and trite that if an opponent actually takes the time to watch them, they’ll have to just kill themselves. To be honest, it’s a better strategy than stepping into the ring with me, a man your consummate and inarguable superior. Fuck bring, your “mentor” Gabe the Least with you this Monday and I’ll snap both your necks for the price of one. When I steal whatever piddly amount of momentum you had, what is the crowd going to do? What do you even WANT them to do? Do you know? Because I read the profile that you submitted to WCF.com and it touts you as a “real fighter of the people.” It seems you believe you are “like those who are fans of the sport living the American dream, working well trying to work and live and live out that dream…”
“Living the American dream, working well trying…”
“Working well…”
“...well…”
Well.
While?
Well. Well, I’ll give you this: whatever semi-literate loser you paid to pen your biography certainly has the grammar of the “fans of the sport.” Oh now I’m digressing. The reason I brought this up is to point out that you’re positioning yourself as a “man of the people” WHILE also playing pretend-bad guy. So which is it? Who do you want to be? Do you need to be bathed in their applause and approval? Do you need to be seen as a “man of the people” so you can finally feel the love you missed out on growing up in the system? Or are you bucking the system, are you the bad ass dealer from the streets that’s seen and done some dark things? Which one is it, Q? Because it sure as shit can’t be both. And guess what, if you don’t know who you are, that leaves it on men like me to define you--and that is not something you want.
Because I look at you and I see just another fake tough gun in the lineage of many a fake tough guy before him. I see a guy who grew up in the system and learned how to posture and pose like he’s ready to do whatever it takes but was really only ever looking for love and approval. I see a dimestore version of Jason O’neal. Another guy checking those tried-and-true black guy, drug dealer, orphan stereotypes. The main difference is that O’Neal had more talent in his soft little left hand than you do in your entire jello-mold of a body. And I beat the shit out of O’Neal every time we shared the ring. So think on that for a minute, Cross. If I invariably bested the MORE talented orphaned, black, drug-dealing doofus then what am I going to do to the LESS talented, watered down version of the same?
If you said “Yuz gon’ whoop his fuckin as yezzir” then you are both correct and STILL doing a mildly offensive impression of how you think tough black men talk. You’re two matches and two promos deep here in the Dub and the ways in which you’ve already embarrassed yourself could fill seventeen more promos. Everything you do is another fucking reason for me to bash your skull in, it’s just another reason for me to show the WCF Galaxy how much you don’t belong in my ring. I can’t wait to hear back from you this week. You’ve been smart enough to stay in your lane thus far in your young career here in the Dub, only name-checking me in passing and not doing enough to warrant a response. But now you’ve been thrown into the oncoming traffic. And this Unwelcome Wagon is careening toward your soon-to-be-lifeless body, driven by a Golden God driven by forces that go beyond you and beyond this week. But will you go beyond this week? After I leave you a corpse in the middle of the highway, will you pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and maybe get back to a lane more your speed populated by the Fourgasms and James Wolfs of the place. Or are you going to get scraped up off the cement and discarded like the abortion you should’ve been in the first place?
See you Monday, Q.
Chicago Ridge, IL
The Frontier Fieldhouse - Backstage
Stephen Singh bursts through the curtains after his promo, smug smile painted across his face and Hardcore Title festooning his shoulder. Without breaking stride or slowing in the slightest he checks the faces of those he’s walking past backstage. Never-weres, wannabes, has-beens, and the rare competitor with actual potential, they all look at him just a bit differently after his announcement. Singh had just announced his intention of “changing the conversation” around his current place in the WCF and will be doing it by defending that Hardcore Title glistening on his shoulder on every Slam. The decision is met with a variety of emotions by a variety of people. In those backstage, it’s piqued their interest but not changed their opinion. They still see a somewhat weakened Stephen Singh and now he’s put himself directly in their sights. The fans--the WCF Faithful in general, not just his beloved “Stephenites”--were legitimately excited by the announcement. Even if Singh manages to successfully defend his Hardcore Title every week, they still at least get to watch him have his head bashed by foreign objects. For Singh though, the announcement stirred an unfamiliar feeling; it was so unfamiliar, in fact, he wasn’t absolutely sure what it was. It felt like a minor swelling in his chest, something pushing his chin and the corners of his mouth up.
Is this pride? Is this what pride feels like? Strange if so because this isn’t exactly what he felt earlier this year when he stole the World Title from a Mr. Warwick. And it’s only a shade of what he felt after last year’s Ultimate Showdown, like a watered down version of that moment. So maybe this is pride on a smaller scale, maybe this is being proud of a decision you’ve made and enjoying the way others are reacting it. He’s actually enjoying the feeling those crosshairs on his back already. And he’s actually enjoying the idea of title defenses: definitely a new sensation. There’s even something rattling around in the back of his usually corner-cutting cranium about how he can’t snake his way out of hardcore matches, “cheating” is almost non-existent in these types of matches and for some odd reason that seems to feel….good. For just this tiny moment in time, Stephen Singh is taking pride in a small action of his, in a step and an idea instead of an achievement. This is the most unfamiliar of territories for The Thief In The Night. There is, of course, another party who has never kept her cards anywhere even in the same vicinity as her chest.
WHAT IN THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?!
Smashing through his briefest moment of pride--likely stopping it short before Singh even truly realized what it was--is his mother, Donna. She had been waddling after him, the gap between them growing the entire way up the ramp as she wheeled her squeaky-wheeled oxygen tank behind her. She was in no way, shape, or form excited to see her son/paycheck put his title/cashcow Champion’s bonus on the line every week.
Donna: Answer me boy! What in the fuck are you thinking with this?
The Champ keeps walking away from his mother, hearing every word but pretending just the opposite.
Donna: Nevermind, I know the answer. You weren’t fucking thinking. Yer just out there trying to prove how big yer dick is just like half these fuckin’ cunt stains in the back. Yer supposed to be a strategist, yer supposed to be the smartest one in the room. Thought you knew to work smart instead o’ hard but now you’re gonna go out and put that strap on the line….every week?! By choice?! I taught you better than that.
He finally breaks his gait, turns on his heels to make a correction.
Singh: You never taught me shit, MOTHER.
The word doesn’t leave his mouth often and when it does, it’s usually--as is the case here--dripping with disdain. The word is a punctuation meant only to juxtapose what Singh sees as the reality of his life with the general expectations of a “mother.” All of that is either lost on Donna or outrightly ignored who barely lets him finish his sentence before continuing her beratement.
Donna: I taught you how to be a winner. How to fend fer yerself. How to TAKE what you deserve and how to keep it. How to--
The champion turns and walks briskly toward the locker rooms.
Donna: What’s the fuckin point of this, boy?
Looking for a particular locker room, Singh keeps walking, answering his mother without turning toward her.
Singh: The point, Donna, is assuredly one that goes beyond your limited comprehension. The point is one of purpose, of image, of legacy: three things you haven’t given a thought to in twenty damn years.
Donna: Legacy? I’m here tryin to get my son to pull his damn head out his ass and protect his gold for my own health? Yer career here is all the legacy I got left! Or did you forget what happened to the rest of mine?
Singh: I didn’t forget, Donna. I don’t forget anything, that’s my gift and my curse. I remember everything I’ve done whether it’s the proudest moment of my life or the most shameful. It’s all burnt into my hippocampus.
Donna: So if you remember what YOU did, how YOU destroyed part of our family’s legacy, what YOU did to Alex--
The Hardcore Champ stops and addresses her directly again.
Singh: There’s not a Golden Goddamned day that goes by that I don’t remember Alex. You think he’d be proud of this reverse pep talk you’re delivering? You think he’d be proud of me snaking the World Title off of a lesser talent earlier this year? You think he’d be proud of the way I’ve moved pawns around the board and earned my gold by whatever means necessary to this point? You think he’d want that to be part of my legacy? Our legacy?
Donna was hoping to manipulate Stephen into compliance with the mention of her deceased son, Stephen’s younger brother. She’d mismeasured his emotions and as his own spilled over and out of his mouth unabridged and unedited, she was the one affected.
Singh: He was the best of us. He didn’t learn the same underhanded, low-down, by any means necessary survival mechanisms that you drove me to. I made sure of that. But I wasn’t able to avoid those lessons from you. I was so busy protecting him, that I didn’t keep your poison out of my mind. So now with Alex gone...and my failure of a 2018 coming to a close...I’ve decided to try something different. I’ve decided to take the reigns into my own hands, to put the burden of success on no other back than my own. And if it breaks it? Then so fucking be it.
With outpouring of uncharacteristic honesty, Singh swings open the door he’d stopped in front of. His mother follows in and we see Corey Black, current WCF CEO sitting behind his desk.
Corey Black: You didn’t knock.
With knuckles wrapping the table,
Singh: Knock, knock.
Corey Black: Now if you’d actually knocked OUTSIDE the door like a good little employee, I would’ve told you to get lost. Oh wait, I’m still going to do that: get lost.
Singh: No can do, boss. Who do I defend against next week?
Corey Black: Who said you were defending next week?
Singh: I did. Don’t you even watch your own show? I mean, I know Seth Lerch set a certain blueprint to running this place but--
Corey Black: Oh I see everything, don’t worry about that. But I don’t remember okaying your little Hardcore Title gimmick. So what’s the rub here, Singh? What is this all about?
Donna: That’s what I’ve been fucking asking!
Corey Black: Quiet, Mama Mustache.
Before his mother can defend whatever she believes to be her “honor” Singh holds up a hand to shush her.
Singh: There’s no rub, Corey. I hear you and everybody else back here thinks it might be time for this God to be riding off into a Golden sunset. That I might be slipping. That I might be losing a step. So instead I’m going to step on everybody’s fucking neck in the back until you have to strip me of this title because I’ve bloodied the entire division into retirement. So...who do I defend against next week?
Corey Black: Title defenses are good for ratings. And Hardcore matches--complete with blood and broken bones--are good for ratings. Together? They might be great for this place. So rest assured, I don’t do this for you: I do this for the WCF.
Donna: Shit. Alright so if we’re doing this, let’s just warm it up a bit. Let’s feed him a….uh...Biohazard? Is he alive? Or maybe just throw somebody with a name but no talent out there...like Price? Either way, let’s just keep this first week nice and easy, sumthin to improve upon…Maybe some snot-nosed rookie faggot he can casually murder…
Corey Black: Great idea, mom.
Donna: Yeah maybe that Augustine asshole my boy’s already embarrassed or whatever sideshow Adam Young is currently carnival barking for…
Corey Black: Quinton Cross.
Donna: Well hold on now, let’s not just say the first name that pops into our heads….mayb--
Corey Black: No, you’re right Donna. Let’s give some new blood a real shot at doing something here in the WCF. Stephen, you’ll be defending against Quinton Cross next week.
His trademark smirk is back on Singh’s face and he nods at Corey.
Donna: Sonuvabitch.
Corey Black: Now onto our final matter of business…
A dramatic pause by The King of All Wrestlers as the Singhs stare back confusedly.
Corey Black: You gonna suck my dick or what?
With a half of a half of a chuckle and a shake of his head, Singh turns to exit while Corey turns his glance briefly toward Donna who furls her brow and curls her lips before spitting on the floor of his office and wheeling her oxygen tank out of the office, tailing after his son.
Donna: Well I hope yer fuckin happy, boy. You don’t just have a title defense but you have one against an ACTUAL opponent. Somebody that actually has a shot. Hope you know what yer doing.
Singh: Know what, Donna? I don’t. For the first time since I’ve stepped foot in this place, I don’t know exactly what I’m doing. I don’t know exactly what my next six moves are or who I’m gunning for at ONE or what my plans are after that.
What I do know though? What I do know is that I’m going to kick Quinton Cross’ mongoloid fucking skull in next Monday.
The unbridled confidence suddenly spreading across his face, Donna’s worries are temporarily quelled. She recognizes that even if he’s doing things for slightly different reasons, there are some things that are timeless; things like Shakespeare...of Shoot.
Singh: Quinton Cross you mealy-mouthed, cliche of a wrestler, it’s your lucky fucking week. By virtue of being brand new (MEANING: not yet having your neck snapped by The Golden God) you’ve earned this Hardcore Title shot. So congrats on that. You really nailed it, the whole being new thing. And make no mistake, that is the ONLY reason you’re getting this shot. Corey Black, for all his suck-my-dick, late-career, mailing-it-in is no half-wit; one does not become the King of All Wrestlers without a modicum of intelligence. Corey Black knows letting me rip Kennedy Matthews a third fuckhole doesn’t sell any tickets. At least this way the reprobate fans can fool themselves into thinking the new flavor of the month has more than a snowball’s chance in hell standing across from the Jack of All Trades, Master of One.
Spoiler alert, Quinton: you don’t. You’re going to end up with a mouthful of chiclets, getting lunch through a tube for the next week just like everybody else in the back already has. The list of names that actually hold a W over me is short and boy is it sweet. And it is NOT a list you’ll be joining this week. It’s not a list you’ll ever be joining. Because, young Quinton, you’re not in my fucking league. Full disclosure, you don’t even belong in my fucking federation but the WCF has been in dire straits for recruitment in recent months; there were rumors about using a stray dog to revitalize the Internet Title Division. But then they all realized that would only give Teo del Solittlecommitmenttoanyonegimmick an excuse to run his mouth so they all decided against it.
Do you see what I’m doing here, Quinton? Do you understand that before I’ve even begun to detail exactly why you’re such a deeply inferior talent, before I’ve really shown why I’m the Trash Talk Tolstoy, I’m positioning myself and this match within the greater landscape of the WCF. I’m sprinkling in these names throughout the promo effortlessly and casually because this place...like it or not...has been my home for a few years now. This place is part of me and I of it. So when I see what passes for new “talent” in this era it turns my fucking stomach and I actually feel some sort of sick obligation to commandeer the welcome wagon and use it to run you no-talent ass-clowns the fuck over. Go ahead and ask around; I’ve been doing it for years now. There’s some new-fangled fuckchop that the front office wants to test the mettle of so who do they throw him at? Yours truly. They know that I’ll get my W by hook or by crook and in that result they take a better measure of the new man they’ve signed up. The outcome is a foregone conclusion but their career is not. In losing to me--which again, is the constant in this equation, not the variable--maybe you’ll make a decent impression. Maybe you’ll get some offense in, maybe even a few nearfalls in your failure. And if that’s the case, the front office has something to work with, something to build off of even in your inevitable loss. So that’s what you should aim for Quinton. If you convince yourself you’ve got a chance at a victory, then disappointment abounds. But if you accept your fate of taking a peek at those Bright Lights then maybe you can build on that.
However, if you’re actually pinning your hopes and dreams on beating me then it’s not going to turn out well. Honestly, I’m just looking out for your mental well-being here, fucklet. I’ve run so many out the door before they even got started on some semblance of a career all because they foolishly thought they might actually have a shot at putting my shoulders to the mat. After a proper Smite from The Golden God, there are plenty of rookie rubes who never saw another card: Bruno Armstrong, Drakkein, Jay West, The Risen, the list goes on and on. These are names that in other federations may’ve actually made something of themselves. Hell, if they weren’t so unlucky as to stand across the ring from me early in their career they might’ve made something of themselves here...but of course, they DID stand in my ring and they did NOT make anything of themselves. Instead, I pissed on their piddly dreams and watched them wilt like the delicate little flowers they were.
What about you, Q? What’re you going to do after I trounce you from pillar to post and then back again this week? And make no mistake, that’s what’s going to happen. I’ve watched you as much as I need to and the cracks in your facade are already there. Note here that “cracks” are a metaphor for your flaws, it’s not “crack” as in the thing you must be smoking in order to accept this match with me. Or perhaps more accurately: the thing your mother was addicted to when she made the mistake of letting your dad blow his unemployed load in her to create your soon-to-be-unemployed existence. That’s right Quittin’ Cross, I’ve already got your history filed away right up here; you’re dealing with the Watson of Wrestling. I see everyone who walks, struts, or rolls into those doors and I do immediately do my homework. I check out their backstory, their history as a competitor and as a human and I assess the threat level. You? You I’ve got pegged for about Threat Level: Midnight.
That is to say, you’re a fucking joke. The difference is that you’re not even an entertaining joke; you have no punchline. You and your promos are just a string of forced words that drag on and on until I want to kill myself for even having watched thirty seconds of it. Is that your strategy? Since you obviously can’t beat me in the ring, you’ll just pound the English language into submission in those awful fucking promos? Or maybe they’re purposely so boring and trite that if an opponent actually takes the time to watch them, they’ll have to just kill themselves. To be honest, it’s a better strategy than stepping into the ring with me, a man your consummate and inarguable superior. Fuck bring, your “mentor” Gabe the Least with you this Monday and I’ll snap both your necks for the price of one. When I steal whatever piddly amount of momentum you had, what is the crowd going to do? What do you even WANT them to do? Do you know? Because I read the profile that you submitted to WCF.com and it touts you as a “real fighter of the people.” It seems you believe you are “like those who are fans of the sport living the American dream, working well trying to work and live and live out that dream…”
“Living the American dream, working well trying…”
“Working well…”
“...well…”
Well.
While?
Well. Well, I’ll give you this: whatever semi-literate loser you paid to pen your biography certainly has the grammar of the “fans of the sport.” Oh now I’m digressing. The reason I brought this up is to point out that you’re positioning yourself as a “man of the people” WHILE also playing pretend-bad guy. So which is it? Who do you want to be? Do you need to be bathed in their applause and approval? Do you need to be seen as a “man of the people” so you can finally feel the love you missed out on growing up in the system? Or are you bucking the system, are you the bad ass dealer from the streets that’s seen and done some dark things? Which one is it, Q? Because it sure as shit can’t be both. And guess what, if you don’t know who you are, that leaves it on men like me to define you--and that is not something you want.
Because I look at you and I see just another fake tough gun in the lineage of many a fake tough guy before him. I see a guy who grew up in the system and learned how to posture and pose like he’s ready to do whatever it takes but was really only ever looking for love and approval. I see a dimestore version of Jason O’neal. Another guy checking those tried-and-true black guy, drug dealer, orphan stereotypes. The main difference is that O’Neal had more talent in his soft little left hand than you do in your entire jello-mold of a body. And I beat the shit out of O’Neal every time we shared the ring. So think on that for a minute, Cross. If I invariably bested the MORE talented orphaned, black, drug-dealing doofus then what am I going to do to the LESS talented, watered down version of the same?
If you said “Yuz gon’ whoop his fuckin as yezzir” then you are both correct and STILL doing a mildly offensive impression of how you think tough black men talk. You’re two matches and two promos deep here in the Dub and the ways in which you’ve already embarrassed yourself could fill seventeen more promos. Everything you do is another fucking reason for me to bash your skull in, it’s just another reason for me to show the WCF Galaxy how much you don’t belong in my ring. I can’t wait to hear back from you this week. You’ve been smart enough to stay in your lane thus far in your young career here in the Dub, only name-checking me in passing and not doing enough to warrant a response. But now you’ve been thrown into the oncoming traffic. And this Unwelcome Wagon is careening toward your soon-to-be-lifeless body, driven by a Golden God driven by forces that go beyond you and beyond this week. But will you go beyond this week? After I leave you a corpse in the middle of the highway, will you pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and maybe get back to a lane more your speed populated by the Fourgasms and James Wolfs of the place. Or are you going to get scraped up off the cement and discarded like the abortion you should’ve been in the first place?
See you Monday, Q.
