Post by Stephen Singh on Oct 18, 2018 15:20:36 GMT -5
October 17, 2018
New York, New York
Blue Bottle Coffee
********************
More strange, somewhat uncharacteristic actions by Singh followed by more strange, somewhat unfamiliar feelings. Last Slam he had a Hardcore Title defense against relative newcomer Quinton Cross, a talented but still fairly unremarkable competitor. The match went back and forth--as these things tend to do--and apropos of absolutely nothing at all, Stephen’s mother-turned-manager Donna struck Cross twice with a chair. This would’ve been the moment where Thievin’ Stephen lunges into action, a quick cover on the newly-downed Cross and a successful title defense. But instead, Stephen Singh, the Thief In the Night himself, slapped away that silver platter upon which sat a signed, sealed and delivered victory. The crowd was confounded, managing only a few meager boos but his mother was less nuanced: her shrill barking followed him all the way up the ramp, that wretched voice cutting through all the other noise and burrowing its way back into ears and not just in the recesses of his brain where he’d tucked it away years ago. Still, Singh felt he had done something...right? Could that possibly be accurate? Was this others’ perception of morality? Was this that less true “golden rule” they indoctrinated the youth with? Treat others, something something something? Singh’s moral compass had never pointed to “Right” nor “Wrong” but only to a “W” and an “L” and he’d always set his bearing for that W at whatever the cost, through whatever the means. But now? Not it appeared he’d opened up another door? Though the path lead him to neither an “L” nor a “W” it left him with his belt and that strange twinge of pride he had after making his defense announcement. It was a feeling he might even be getting used to.
Something Singh was definitely already used to was his current locale, one of his favorite coffee shops in NYC: Blue Bottle coffee. The decor was sparse and the patrons were decidedly hipster but Stephen was happy to ignore any of that for a proper Peruvian roast. Indeed, the Hardcore Champion was dressed to his dandy standards, embracing the fall weather with a few layers of chic: an armani tie knotted over his striped button up but tucked under a cream cardigan which itself is obscured slightly by his checked sportcoat. The jeans were unremarkable for anything other than their price tag but Singh punctuated the outfit with a pair of burgundy suede loafers that demanded attention. It was as though, Singh wanted everyone around him to think about hitting him in the mouth before he even opened it. And after he opened it? Well that’s all you could really think about.
Singh: Byron!
With an enthusiasm that instantly granted him some embarrassment, Singh had shot up a hand to wave over Byron, his consummate sidekick. In a moment where Singh was wading into the unfamiliar, dipping a toe into previously unknown pools, he came to bathe in the warmth of the known and predictable. He’s getting coffee (probably the closest thing he probably has to a hobby) with Byron, his bookie (probably the closest thing he has to a friend). The casually-dressed, six foot-or-so black man pulls out his chair and sits across the table from Singh who has two reusable travel mugs set in front of him.
Byron: What the hell has you all wound up?
Singh: What? Nothing.
Byron: Your hand shot up like some fuckin’ nerd on the first day of class. What’s up?
Singh: What are you talking about? I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Singh was absolutely aware of having raised his hand up too fast and excitedly though he wasn’t sure why either. Either way, he was mostly annoyed that Byron had noticed.
Singh: Are we here to deliberate how I waved you over to the fucking table? Do you need a hobby, B?
Byron: I got hobbies, bro. If you’re that excited just to see me, maybe you need hobbies.
Singh: I wrestle.
Byron: That’s your job; that’s not a hobby. Wrestling is a source of stress, not a relief from it. Hobbies are stress relief.
Singh: Yeah, I gamble.
Byron: On yourself. Wrestling. Basically just putting MORE stress on you and into your matches. Definitely not a hobby.
Singh: Fine, I’ll take up fucking quilting or something. Just shut the fuck up already.
Byron: Quite a mood swing, man. Donna starting to get to you?
Singh: She doesn’t have what it takes to get to me.
Byron: Look man, that’s two weeks in a row you’ve left the ring with her yipping after you. Why even keep her around? You don’t need her so if she’s starting to get in your he--
Singh: She’s not getting in my head. No one gets in my head.
Byron: No one except for Stephen, of course.
A pause and a glare from Stephen elicits a sigh from his friend who reaches across the table toward the coffee mug he hasn’t seen Singh drink from yet.
Byron: I’m just saying I watched you walk away from a guaranteed victory this week. You left one out there, literally. So now you add another “no contest” to the tally and you lost your bet for five lar--
The Hardcore Champion slaps Byron’s hand away from the cup.
Singh: That’s not yours.
Byron: Whose is it?
Singh: It’s mine.
Byron: You’ve got two?
Singh: I’ve got two. On the left we have a Peruvian, dark roast single-source and in this one we have a Central American “morning blend” which I normally wouldn’t waste my time with but this place has a reasonable reputation.
Byron: Reputation. That’s exactly what we’re talking about here. I think you might be doing damage to yours.
Singh: Though I can pretend to appreciate the opinion of a man who’s never once stepped foot in the squared circle, I’m not going to. And my “reputation” as it has stood since I entered the WCF could maybe use some “damage.” Maybe it’s time to start re-writing my own history a little bit.
Byron: Yo that’s fine. You do you, mayne. But just know that you’re messing up your money a little bit in the process.
Singh: My money’s fine.
Byron: Fine. Then what about optics, nigga?
Singh: Jesus, you’re almost as bad as Cross. You shoehorn that word in for some faux-credibility as a black man but you precede it with the word “optics” like the private school poonbag you actually are.
Byron: I can say that word whenever and for whatever reason I want. What I’d prefer not to hear is your mother using it on Hank Brown on national television.
Singh: Didn’t I stop her?
Byron: Did you?
Singh: I thought I cut her off.
Byron: Did you though?
Singh: Did I?
Byron: Whatever, bro. The optics though, man. How did last week make you look to everybody else? How did it make you look to your challenger this week, Wolf?
With that, The Hardcore Champion uncorks a belly laugh, slaps the table and draws a few eyebrow raises from the other customers. He takes the last large gulp from his single-source Peruvian roast.
Singh: Why in the fuck would I care about how it “looks” to Wolf? How did Deano’s match last week make him look to me?
Byron: It probably...wait...He didn’t have a match, did he?
Singh: Exactly! This dude’s been a fucking ghost since I’ve been here. His name’s the echo of an echo of an echo and the only reason it’s even audible to anything other than his dog-eared brethren like James is because HE KEEPS REPEATING IT. Every so often he pops his head in backstage to reminisce for five minutes or to pretend he might actually put in some sort of actual effort and try to make another run or just to pretend he ever actually mattered in the Dub. But he didn’t. And he doesn’t. And he won’t. His legacy currently reads as follows:
“Breakout performance at War! High ceiling! Potential future Great!”
That’s it. That’s the whole thing. And you better fucking believe the second bullet point on this non-resume isn’t going to include my damn name. Unless, of course, I actually end his career this week and they make that the note.
Byron: Alright, take it easy. I didn’t mean to send you into a--
Singh: Shoot?
Byron: Shit.
Singh: Language!
Byron: ….shoot?
Singh: Don’t mind if I do…
With that awful schtick of a set up, Stephen smirks and rolls his neck to the right and then to the left. Knowing what comes next, Byron stands up from the table and points to the now empty travel mug.
Byron: I use this?
Singh: What are you getting?
Byron: How is that relevant?
Singh: You can’t answer a question with a question.
Byron: It’s empty, I just want to use it while we’re here, you can have it back aft--
Singh: I understand the nature of your query but I need to know what you’re getting.
Byron: Why does that matter?!
Singh: Because THAT mug is only for dark roasts or Americanos.
Byron: Well it won’t hurt if I use it this one time for something else.
He grabs the mug but Singh grabs his wrist.
Singh: What are you getting?
Byron: Fine! I’m getting a fucking pumpkin spice latte! Now gimme it.
Singh: You...you are the most basic of bitches.
The Hardcore Champ doesn’t release his grip on his friend’s wrist and instead snatches the mug out of his hand with the other.
Singh: And no. You are not putting that dreck in my mug.
With a sigh and an eye roll, Byron acquiesces the ever-particular pugilist. Stephen turns his attention squarely to the camera and to DW Wolf.
Singh: Everything in its place, Wolf. Despite what some people believe and even how some people live, everything has its place. Take for example, The Trash Tolstoy, The Shakespeare of Shoot: I belong in front of a camera explaining to the galaxy exactly why and how I’m going to decimate you on Slam. Take for example, The Mat Messiah, The Jack of All Trades and Master of One: I belong in the middle of a ring rubbing your nose in the steaming sihtpile of your own efforts. I belong holding Gold, I belong in the Champions Lounge, and perhaps most of all, I belong in the WCF.
Now I’ve been known to disparage this popsicle stand, its perpetually intoxicated management/owners, its fans, its venues, its..I should stop here otherwise the rest of the promo is just going to be me pissing all over the Dub. And that’s definitely not the point I was trying to make. I was trying to say that despite the fact that this place frequently appears to be a steaming pile of trash beneath my Dr. Eckleburgian eyes (if you’re wondering what the hell I’m talking about, read a book you illiterate ignoramuses), it turns out that this place, for all its flaws, is actually the best that professional wrestling has to offer. This place has outlasted all of its brethren. To be a competitor here means more than anywhere else in our industry, to be champion even more, and to be a legend in the WCF? That’s as good as it gets in this business. So as I said, I belong in the WCF and it belongs to me. You? You belong the same place you’ve been for the past two years and the same place you’re going:
Fucking nowhere.
If I were any of those other midcard mooks and mulkies backstage I’d e absolutely up in arms over this Hardcore Title shot. I mean, Corey Black just hands you this based on what credentials? This is definitely a “What have you done lately?” sport and you can’t even BEGIN to answer that question adequately enough to have earned a shot at MY Hardcore Title. In fact, I’d truncate that question to “What have you done?” and you STILL wouldn’t have the credentials. You’re just another wasted talent, another name farted into the wind by some asshole. Apparently this time that asshole’s name was “The Handler.” The Handler. Jesus Christ, do I even want to get into THAT mess?
He leans back with an overdramatic sigh and a slow blink. He sips his second cup of coffee slowly before answering his own question.
No. No I don’t want to even get into that. At least not yet. Let’s stick the topic at hand: the fact that you’ve done nothing to earn this shot nor even your spot here in the Dub. You squeaked by Ultimate Dungstroyer and Jizzy John one week and you’re stuck in a feud with the WCF’s resident punchline. You don’t belong in the ring, backstage, arena, or back alley with me. You don’t belong fighting for the Hardcore Title. You don’t even belong holding pads for a half-talent twat like Bernard Core which is exactly what you showed in the finale of that god-awful Sixth Dimension dementia. The Sixth Dimension. Ugh...Do I even want to go there?
At that exact moment, Byron returns with a cup of his steaming hot basic bitch latte.
Byron: Go where?
Singh: The Sixth Dimension.
Byron: The what?
Singh: It’s some off-brand, self-funded, straight-to-the-doldrums-of-the-internet piece of trash that DW Wolf was occupying his time with before getting moved to the actual roster.
Byron: So are you going to go there?
Singh: Right now? No, it’s just too sad for me to even consider right now. I’m trying to enjoy these few moments of reprieve without Donna around. But maybe it’s a worth a trip later. For now, let me get back to how much Wolf doesn’t belong here…
Byron: You can say that all you want but the guy’s a talent.
Singh: Did I say he wasn’t talented?
Byron: I wasn’t really listening but I’d assume you did.
Singh: Well what I actually said was that he’s a “wasted talent” which is a better compliment than I lay on the heads of most before I snap their necks. Dean, DW, Wolf, Ryder...whatever mediocre moniker you’ve got this week Wolf, your story always ends the same: out with not a bang but a whimper. The rest of the backstage buffoons may wait with bated breath for Wolf’s big return, for him to finally do something meaningful, for him to actually FINISH something for once..But me? I know better. You’re so weak of will and weak of spirit that you actually allowed a curtain-jerking, knuckle-dragging drip like James Wolf to be the one to pull you out of retirement. You actually let that monosyllabic mongoloid get in your head enough that you’ve chosen to get back in this ring. And I’m sure that felt like a good idea while you were guaranteed W’s against James, Destroyer and the like but now? Now you’ve entered the purview of a Golden God, you’ve taken my name in vain and will be Smited for it.
To be truly honest, I’m actually happy you took to the internet to thump your chest and declare an impossible victory for yourself. I don’t need it to get eyes on the product--I mean, check the Sixth Dimension ratings, we both know you’re not pulling numbers here--but I’m glad you’ve decided to try some self-affirmations. I’m glad you decided to combat that overwhelming feeling of “No one believes in me!” with grand declarations and public self-delusion. Fake it til you make it, Pup! I just fear it might be difficult to rage against the idea that “no one” believes in you when you realize that YOU are included in that “no one.” We both know you don’t actually have a shot this week. We both know you belong doing the two-Wolf tango in the undercard, we both know you’re a storyteller not a soothsayer. I, on the other hand, speak the sooth that doesn’t soothe, the truth that troubles, the veracity that vexes. And Golden God’s honest truth is this:
You’re a fucking extra.
You’re not a main eventer, you’re not a champion, you’re not a Superstar. You’re nobody. Even in a sub-federation that had all of six men on its roster you weren’t a main player, you were background color. You were accoutrement. You were window dressing. You’re the guy hiding behind the guy, too scared to stick his own neck out. After Slam, that could prove to be wise as it’s very liable to get snapped by a Thief In The Night. It makes me sick that anyone sees this week as anything other than a Wolf to the slaughter, that there are people actually excited for your “return” as though your first run meant anything. One decent showing at WAR and….what else? Nothing, right? If I have to hear about how you lasted over two hours one more fucking time I’m going to spend that much time cutting chunks out of your own testicles and feeding them to you.
You sincerely think you laid a foundation to build upon? You sincerely think that whatever dollar store concrete you poured into the ground isn’t dead, buried and moved well beyond by now? You’re here to make it right, here to set the record straight, to prove that you weren’t a “flash in the pan.” I always thought you were more of a turd in the bowl but let’s not split hairs here. Anyways, you’ve done a bunch of verbal grandstanding about proving something but yet you come back standing on that “foundation” you laid at War? You’re saying that you’re going to build off that? If you could take your not-even-a-mother-could-love mug out of your ass for two seconds Wolf, you’d realize that’s not how it works. If you really want to come back to prove something, to BE something here, you don’t come back and think that the past matters, that your history is anything but ancient as soon as you’re gone. You’re no mason, there was no stone laid in this alleged “foundation,” you were just pissing your name in the snow, building a half-assed castle in the sand. The rest of us melted that signature away and eroded your castle into nothing, into less than a memory. So go ahead and claim your prior accolades. Go ahead and try to stand on that “foundation” and you’ll find soon enough that it’s all been washed away by men like me, by men your better. By those with the wherewithal and drive to stay and compete. To grind. To fucking win. A few things you know very little of. The past isn’t prologue, Wolf, it’s gone completely. Whatever opening chapter you think you wrote has been cut and left on the editing room floor where I stand smiling, holding the scissors. Now you need to think twice about trying to write another chapter on MY time or I’m going to put those scissors in your fucking chest.
Byron: Aggressive.
Singh: Hardcore even?
Byron: Ish, I guess. So his past means nothing?
Singh: Not nothing...It happened. It’s evidence of his potential, of his talent. But nothing more. It doesn’t buy him anything here and even watching that War--self-admittedly his ONE shining moment--it’s unclear to me why he thinks he can do it. The talent pool might not be as large as it once was but the deep end is still infested with the same sharks that scared you away before. I guess since Kennedy Matthews has the TV Title, maybe you can keep your floaties on and go for a nice, relaxing swim in that kiddie pool. That would be something. At least then you could get your name in that “WCF Title History” book. Right now, of course, not a single one of your awful fucking names appear there. And it sure as shit isn’t going under the Hardcore Title so long as I have my say. (spoiler alert: I always have my say).
Know what I never tout?
Byron: Never?
Singh: Well maybe not never…
Byron: Okay because I was going to say, if there’s something to brag on, you’ve bragged on it.
Singh: This is a promo, Byron, not a place for nuance. We film these then post them to the Internet; the internet is no place for nuance nor context. Those may, in fact, be the sworn enemy of the Internet. So as I was saying, know what I never tout? My impressive War debut. Thievin’ Steven was born in War and turned into a Tag Title reign and a World Title shot in the next four months. But I don’t sit here and recite how long I lasted (one hour and fifty six minutes, more or less the same as you) or how many eliminations I had (four, one more than you). Know why? Because I have a proper list of accolades to accompany it. You look up Stephen Singh in the record books and you don’t find some one-off lucky stumblefuck at War, you find a resume that approaches the levels of just about anybody in this place’s history: A two time Tag Team Champion. A Trios Champion. Winner of The Trios Tournament. Ultimate Showdown winner. Hardcore Champion. And two time World Champion. I’m the man that men like you line up in front of in order to try and add a little clout to their name. You see my shine and think it’s the best way for you to get some of your own, like it’s some sort of shortcut back to the place of near-relevance you once were. No such fucking luck, Paw Patrol. But this isn’t fair, you had substance abuse problems right? So maybe let’s just compare how we were received after our individual War debuts...I’ll let one commenter from the WCF Message boards sum it up best, from the day after my War performance:
Damn, that guy was VERY perceptive. I hope he didn’t squander all of his intelligence and insight by fading into the background of whatever he was doing only to be almost entirely forgotten. Nah, people on the internet don’t do that; they always live up to their greatest potential. Just like you, right Wolf?
Who are you speaking to when you say to “seek the Wolf?” It sounds less like a war cry than it does an early-morning reminder, an affirmation you might repeat to yourself in the mirror before you leave the house in the morning. You’re talking to yourself because you’re still seeking the Wolf, you’re still looking for that hungry, ruthless, relentless part of yourself. And you haven’t found it. But I have good news, DarkWing: I’m seeking the wolf too. But I’m not looking for it in myself; I’ve successfully consumed enough prey to know my own. But I’m seeking the wolf..in Wolf. I want the best of you this week, DW. I want you to dig deep, get as dark as you need to, get as angry and as focused as you can. Bring it to the ring, and to the floor, and to the backstage and to the tables and chairs and wolves, oh my! I’m fucking Wolf hunting, get thirsty for blood and gore and gold. And when you are...when you’ve pushed yourself as far as you can go...when you’re in a Golden Goddamn lather thinking about a Hardcore Gold Den for the Wolf….As you’ve bared your fangs and torn at the flesh before you...sweat drips down your brow, back arched, fur standing on end and the taste blood in your mouth...that’s when the Wolf realizes it’s his own. That’s when DW realizes that his Wolf still wasn’t enough, all that hate, all that anger and potential and pent up frustration with your own shortcomings and failures...just lead you out into the open where I’m sitting in the side of a fucking helicopter effortlessly gunning you down. Because while you hunt and seek, I just do what comes natural to me: shoot.
As you lay there, tasting the iron in your own blood, getting a good look at The Bright Lights and wondering about all those lofty words you’ve floated out into the universe: greatness, foundation, a serious contender, titles, legacy...As those words float through your mind again and you realize you can’t possibly keep chasing those things, as you realize you’re going to tuck tail and head back into your den of failure once more, as you wonder how you’ll be remembered and what your legacy truly will be...Just remember what I’m telling you now: you have no legacy. No one will remember you. You are already forgotten. Normally, I’d reassure you here that you’ll at least get a write up in the blogosphere on Tuesday morning as thie dead wrestler du jour but even if all dogs go to heaven, wolves don't’ get obituaries. See you Monday.
New York, New York
Blue Bottle Coffee
********************
More strange, somewhat uncharacteristic actions by Singh followed by more strange, somewhat unfamiliar feelings. Last Slam he had a Hardcore Title defense against relative newcomer Quinton Cross, a talented but still fairly unremarkable competitor. The match went back and forth--as these things tend to do--and apropos of absolutely nothing at all, Stephen’s mother-turned-manager Donna struck Cross twice with a chair. This would’ve been the moment where Thievin’ Stephen lunges into action, a quick cover on the newly-downed Cross and a successful title defense. But instead, Stephen Singh, the Thief In the Night himself, slapped away that silver platter upon which sat a signed, sealed and delivered victory. The crowd was confounded, managing only a few meager boos but his mother was less nuanced: her shrill barking followed him all the way up the ramp, that wretched voice cutting through all the other noise and burrowing its way back into ears and not just in the recesses of his brain where he’d tucked it away years ago. Still, Singh felt he had done something...right? Could that possibly be accurate? Was this others’ perception of morality? Was this that less true “golden rule” they indoctrinated the youth with? Treat others, something something something? Singh’s moral compass had never pointed to “Right” nor “Wrong” but only to a “W” and an “L” and he’d always set his bearing for that W at whatever the cost, through whatever the means. But now? Not it appeared he’d opened up another door? Though the path lead him to neither an “L” nor a “W” it left him with his belt and that strange twinge of pride he had after making his defense announcement. It was a feeling he might even be getting used to.
Something Singh was definitely already used to was his current locale, one of his favorite coffee shops in NYC: Blue Bottle coffee. The decor was sparse and the patrons were decidedly hipster but Stephen was happy to ignore any of that for a proper Peruvian roast. Indeed, the Hardcore Champion was dressed to his dandy standards, embracing the fall weather with a few layers of chic: an armani tie knotted over his striped button up but tucked under a cream cardigan which itself is obscured slightly by his checked sportcoat. The jeans were unremarkable for anything other than their price tag but Singh punctuated the outfit with a pair of burgundy suede loafers that demanded attention. It was as though, Singh wanted everyone around him to think about hitting him in the mouth before he even opened it. And after he opened it? Well that’s all you could really think about.
Singh: Byron!
With an enthusiasm that instantly granted him some embarrassment, Singh had shot up a hand to wave over Byron, his consummate sidekick. In a moment where Singh was wading into the unfamiliar, dipping a toe into previously unknown pools, he came to bathe in the warmth of the known and predictable. He’s getting coffee (probably the closest thing he probably has to a hobby) with Byron, his bookie (probably the closest thing he has to a friend). The casually-dressed, six foot-or-so black man pulls out his chair and sits across the table from Singh who has two reusable travel mugs set in front of him.
Byron: What the hell has you all wound up?
Singh: What? Nothing.
Byron: Your hand shot up like some fuckin’ nerd on the first day of class. What’s up?
Singh: What are you talking about? I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Singh was absolutely aware of having raised his hand up too fast and excitedly though he wasn’t sure why either. Either way, he was mostly annoyed that Byron had noticed.
Singh: Are we here to deliberate how I waved you over to the fucking table? Do you need a hobby, B?
Byron: I got hobbies, bro. If you’re that excited just to see me, maybe you need hobbies.
Singh: I wrestle.
Byron: That’s your job; that’s not a hobby. Wrestling is a source of stress, not a relief from it. Hobbies are stress relief.
Singh: Yeah, I gamble.
Byron: On yourself. Wrestling. Basically just putting MORE stress on you and into your matches. Definitely not a hobby.
Singh: Fine, I’ll take up fucking quilting or something. Just shut the fuck up already.
Byron: Quite a mood swing, man. Donna starting to get to you?
Singh: She doesn’t have what it takes to get to me.
Byron: Look man, that’s two weeks in a row you’ve left the ring with her yipping after you. Why even keep her around? You don’t need her so if she’s starting to get in your he--
Singh: She’s not getting in my head. No one gets in my head.
Byron: No one except for Stephen, of course.
A pause and a glare from Stephen elicits a sigh from his friend who reaches across the table toward the coffee mug he hasn’t seen Singh drink from yet.
Byron: I’m just saying I watched you walk away from a guaranteed victory this week. You left one out there, literally. So now you add another “no contest” to the tally and you lost your bet for five lar--
The Hardcore Champion slaps Byron’s hand away from the cup.
Singh: That’s not yours.
Byron: Whose is it?
Singh: It’s mine.
Byron: You’ve got two?
Singh: I’ve got two. On the left we have a Peruvian, dark roast single-source and in this one we have a Central American “morning blend” which I normally wouldn’t waste my time with but this place has a reasonable reputation.
Byron: Reputation. That’s exactly what we’re talking about here. I think you might be doing damage to yours.
Singh: Though I can pretend to appreciate the opinion of a man who’s never once stepped foot in the squared circle, I’m not going to. And my “reputation” as it has stood since I entered the WCF could maybe use some “damage.” Maybe it’s time to start re-writing my own history a little bit.
Byron: Yo that’s fine. You do you, mayne. But just know that you’re messing up your money a little bit in the process.
Singh: My money’s fine.
Byron: Fine. Then what about optics, nigga?
Singh: Jesus, you’re almost as bad as Cross. You shoehorn that word in for some faux-credibility as a black man but you precede it with the word “optics” like the private school poonbag you actually are.
Byron: I can say that word whenever and for whatever reason I want. What I’d prefer not to hear is your mother using it on Hank Brown on national television.
Singh: Didn’t I stop her?
Byron: Did you?
Singh: I thought I cut her off.
Byron: Did you though?
Singh: Did I?
Byron: Whatever, bro. The optics though, man. How did last week make you look to everybody else? How did it make you look to your challenger this week, Wolf?
With that, The Hardcore Champion uncorks a belly laugh, slaps the table and draws a few eyebrow raises from the other customers. He takes the last large gulp from his single-source Peruvian roast.
Singh: Why in the fuck would I care about how it “looks” to Wolf? How did Deano’s match last week make him look to me?
Byron: It probably...wait...He didn’t have a match, did he?
Singh: Exactly! This dude’s been a fucking ghost since I’ve been here. His name’s the echo of an echo of an echo and the only reason it’s even audible to anything other than his dog-eared brethren like James is because HE KEEPS REPEATING IT. Every so often he pops his head in backstage to reminisce for five minutes or to pretend he might actually put in some sort of actual effort and try to make another run or just to pretend he ever actually mattered in the Dub. But he didn’t. And he doesn’t. And he won’t. His legacy currently reads as follows:
“Breakout performance at War! High ceiling! Potential future Great!”
That’s it. That’s the whole thing. And you better fucking believe the second bullet point on this non-resume isn’t going to include my damn name. Unless, of course, I actually end his career this week and they make that the note.
Byron: Alright, take it easy. I didn’t mean to send you into a--
Singh: Shoot?
Byron: Shit.
Singh: Language!
Byron: ….shoot?
Singh: Don’t mind if I do…
With that awful schtick of a set up, Stephen smirks and rolls his neck to the right and then to the left. Knowing what comes next, Byron stands up from the table and points to the now empty travel mug.
Byron: I use this?
Singh: What are you getting?
Byron: How is that relevant?
Singh: You can’t answer a question with a question.
Byron: It’s empty, I just want to use it while we’re here, you can have it back aft--
Singh: I understand the nature of your query but I need to know what you’re getting.
Byron: Why does that matter?!
Singh: Because THAT mug is only for dark roasts or Americanos.
Byron: Well it won’t hurt if I use it this one time for something else.
He grabs the mug but Singh grabs his wrist.
Singh: What are you getting?
Byron: Fine! I’m getting a fucking pumpkin spice latte! Now gimme it.
Singh: You...you are the most basic of bitches.
The Hardcore Champ doesn’t release his grip on his friend’s wrist and instead snatches the mug out of his hand with the other.
Singh: And no. You are not putting that dreck in my mug.
With a sigh and an eye roll, Byron acquiesces the ever-particular pugilist. Stephen turns his attention squarely to the camera and to DW Wolf.
Singh: Everything in its place, Wolf. Despite what some people believe and even how some people live, everything has its place. Take for example, The Trash Tolstoy, The Shakespeare of Shoot: I belong in front of a camera explaining to the galaxy exactly why and how I’m going to decimate you on Slam. Take for example, The Mat Messiah, The Jack of All Trades and Master of One: I belong in the middle of a ring rubbing your nose in the steaming sihtpile of your own efforts. I belong holding Gold, I belong in the Champions Lounge, and perhaps most of all, I belong in the WCF.
Now I’ve been known to disparage this popsicle stand, its perpetually intoxicated management/owners, its fans, its venues, its..I should stop here otherwise the rest of the promo is just going to be me pissing all over the Dub. And that’s definitely not the point I was trying to make. I was trying to say that despite the fact that this place frequently appears to be a steaming pile of trash beneath my Dr. Eckleburgian eyes (if you’re wondering what the hell I’m talking about, read a book you illiterate ignoramuses), it turns out that this place, for all its flaws, is actually the best that professional wrestling has to offer. This place has outlasted all of its brethren. To be a competitor here means more than anywhere else in our industry, to be champion even more, and to be a legend in the WCF? That’s as good as it gets in this business. So as I said, I belong in the WCF and it belongs to me. You? You belong the same place you’ve been for the past two years and the same place you’re going:
Fucking nowhere.
If I were any of those other midcard mooks and mulkies backstage I’d e absolutely up in arms over this Hardcore Title shot. I mean, Corey Black just hands you this based on what credentials? This is definitely a “What have you done lately?” sport and you can’t even BEGIN to answer that question adequately enough to have earned a shot at MY Hardcore Title. In fact, I’d truncate that question to “What have you done?” and you STILL wouldn’t have the credentials. You’re just another wasted talent, another name farted into the wind by some asshole. Apparently this time that asshole’s name was “The Handler.” The Handler. Jesus Christ, do I even want to get into THAT mess?
He leans back with an overdramatic sigh and a slow blink. He sips his second cup of coffee slowly before answering his own question.
No. No I don’t want to even get into that. At least not yet. Let’s stick the topic at hand: the fact that you’ve done nothing to earn this shot nor even your spot here in the Dub. You squeaked by Ultimate Dungstroyer and Jizzy John one week and you’re stuck in a feud with the WCF’s resident punchline. You don’t belong in the ring, backstage, arena, or back alley with me. You don’t belong fighting for the Hardcore Title. You don’t even belong holding pads for a half-talent twat like Bernard Core which is exactly what you showed in the finale of that god-awful Sixth Dimension dementia. The Sixth Dimension. Ugh...Do I even want to go there?
At that exact moment, Byron returns with a cup of his steaming hot basic bitch latte.
Byron: Go where?
Singh: The Sixth Dimension.
Byron: The what?
Singh: It’s some off-brand, self-funded, straight-to-the-doldrums-of-the-internet piece of trash that DW Wolf was occupying his time with before getting moved to the actual roster.
Byron: So are you going to go there?
Singh: Right now? No, it’s just too sad for me to even consider right now. I’m trying to enjoy these few moments of reprieve without Donna around. But maybe it’s a worth a trip later. For now, let me get back to how much Wolf doesn’t belong here…
Byron: You can say that all you want but the guy’s a talent.
Singh: Did I say he wasn’t talented?
Byron: I wasn’t really listening but I’d assume you did.
Singh: Well what I actually said was that he’s a “wasted talent” which is a better compliment than I lay on the heads of most before I snap their necks. Dean, DW, Wolf, Ryder...whatever mediocre moniker you’ve got this week Wolf, your story always ends the same: out with not a bang but a whimper. The rest of the backstage buffoons may wait with bated breath for Wolf’s big return, for him to finally do something meaningful, for him to actually FINISH something for once..But me? I know better. You’re so weak of will and weak of spirit that you actually allowed a curtain-jerking, knuckle-dragging drip like James Wolf to be the one to pull you out of retirement. You actually let that monosyllabic mongoloid get in your head enough that you’ve chosen to get back in this ring. And I’m sure that felt like a good idea while you were guaranteed W’s against James, Destroyer and the like but now? Now you’ve entered the purview of a Golden God, you’ve taken my name in vain and will be Smited for it.
To be truly honest, I’m actually happy you took to the internet to thump your chest and declare an impossible victory for yourself. I don’t need it to get eyes on the product--I mean, check the Sixth Dimension ratings, we both know you’re not pulling numbers here--but I’m glad you’ve decided to try some self-affirmations. I’m glad you decided to combat that overwhelming feeling of “No one believes in me!” with grand declarations and public self-delusion. Fake it til you make it, Pup! I just fear it might be difficult to rage against the idea that “no one” believes in you when you realize that YOU are included in that “no one.” We both know you don’t actually have a shot this week. We both know you belong doing the two-Wolf tango in the undercard, we both know you’re a storyteller not a soothsayer. I, on the other hand, speak the sooth that doesn’t soothe, the truth that troubles, the veracity that vexes. And Golden God’s honest truth is this:
You’re a fucking extra.
You’re not a main eventer, you’re not a champion, you’re not a Superstar. You’re nobody. Even in a sub-federation that had all of six men on its roster you weren’t a main player, you were background color. You were accoutrement. You were window dressing. You’re the guy hiding behind the guy, too scared to stick his own neck out. After Slam, that could prove to be wise as it’s very liable to get snapped by a Thief In The Night. It makes me sick that anyone sees this week as anything other than a Wolf to the slaughter, that there are people actually excited for your “return” as though your first run meant anything. One decent showing at WAR and….what else? Nothing, right? If I have to hear about how you lasted over two hours one more fucking time I’m going to spend that much time cutting chunks out of your own testicles and feeding them to you.
You sincerely think you laid a foundation to build upon? You sincerely think that whatever dollar store concrete you poured into the ground isn’t dead, buried and moved well beyond by now? You’re here to make it right, here to set the record straight, to prove that you weren’t a “flash in the pan.” I always thought you were more of a turd in the bowl but let’s not split hairs here. Anyways, you’ve done a bunch of verbal grandstanding about proving something but yet you come back standing on that “foundation” you laid at War? You’re saying that you’re going to build off that? If you could take your not-even-a-mother-could-love mug out of your ass for two seconds Wolf, you’d realize that’s not how it works. If you really want to come back to prove something, to BE something here, you don’t come back and think that the past matters, that your history is anything but ancient as soon as you’re gone. You’re no mason, there was no stone laid in this alleged “foundation,” you were just pissing your name in the snow, building a half-assed castle in the sand. The rest of us melted that signature away and eroded your castle into nothing, into less than a memory. So go ahead and claim your prior accolades. Go ahead and try to stand on that “foundation” and you’ll find soon enough that it’s all been washed away by men like me, by men your better. By those with the wherewithal and drive to stay and compete. To grind. To fucking win. A few things you know very little of. The past isn’t prologue, Wolf, it’s gone completely. Whatever opening chapter you think you wrote has been cut and left on the editing room floor where I stand smiling, holding the scissors. Now you need to think twice about trying to write another chapter on MY time or I’m going to put those scissors in your fucking chest.
Byron: Aggressive.
Singh: Hardcore even?
Byron: Ish, I guess. So his past means nothing?
Singh: Not nothing...It happened. It’s evidence of his potential, of his talent. But nothing more. It doesn’t buy him anything here and even watching that War--self-admittedly his ONE shining moment--it’s unclear to me why he thinks he can do it. The talent pool might not be as large as it once was but the deep end is still infested with the same sharks that scared you away before. I guess since Kennedy Matthews has the TV Title, maybe you can keep your floaties on and go for a nice, relaxing swim in that kiddie pool. That would be something. At least then you could get your name in that “WCF Title History” book. Right now, of course, not a single one of your awful fucking names appear there. And it sure as shit isn’t going under the Hardcore Title so long as I have my say. (spoiler alert: I always have my say).
Know what I never tout?
Byron: Never?
Singh: Well maybe not never…
Byron: Okay because I was going to say, if there’s something to brag on, you’ve bragged on it.
Singh: This is a promo, Byron, not a place for nuance. We film these then post them to the Internet; the internet is no place for nuance nor context. Those may, in fact, be the sworn enemy of the Internet. So as I was saying, know what I never tout? My impressive War debut. Thievin’ Steven was born in War and turned into a Tag Title reign and a World Title shot in the next four months. But I don’t sit here and recite how long I lasted (one hour and fifty six minutes, more or less the same as you) or how many eliminations I had (four, one more than you). Know why? Because I have a proper list of accolades to accompany it. You look up Stephen Singh in the record books and you don’t find some one-off lucky stumblefuck at War, you find a resume that approaches the levels of just about anybody in this place’s history: A two time Tag Team Champion. A Trios Champion. Winner of The Trios Tournament. Ultimate Showdown winner. Hardcore Champion. And two time World Champion. I’m the man that men like you line up in front of in order to try and add a little clout to their name. You see my shine and think it’s the best way for you to get some of your own, like it’s some sort of shortcut back to the place of near-relevance you once were. No such fucking luck, Paw Patrol. But this isn’t fair, you had substance abuse problems right? So maybe let’s just compare how we were received after our individual War debuts...I’ll let one commenter from the WCF Message boards sum it up best, from the day after my War performance:
Last night, I said that Steven Singh was this year's Wolf. I was wrong. He was not this year's Wolf. He was this year's Steven Singh. His War <promo>s were vastly superior to Wolf's.
Dude's got a bright future.
Damn, that guy was VERY perceptive. I hope he didn’t squander all of his intelligence and insight by fading into the background of whatever he was doing only to be almost entirely forgotten. Nah, people on the internet don’t do that; they always live up to their greatest potential. Just like you, right Wolf?
Who are you speaking to when you say to “seek the Wolf?” It sounds less like a war cry than it does an early-morning reminder, an affirmation you might repeat to yourself in the mirror before you leave the house in the morning. You’re talking to yourself because you’re still seeking the Wolf, you’re still looking for that hungry, ruthless, relentless part of yourself. And you haven’t found it. But I have good news, DarkWing: I’m seeking the wolf too. But I’m not looking for it in myself; I’ve successfully consumed enough prey to know my own. But I’m seeking the wolf..in Wolf. I want the best of you this week, DW. I want you to dig deep, get as dark as you need to, get as angry and as focused as you can. Bring it to the ring, and to the floor, and to the backstage and to the tables and chairs and wolves, oh my! I’m fucking Wolf hunting, get thirsty for blood and gore and gold. And when you are...when you’ve pushed yourself as far as you can go...when you’re in a Golden Goddamn lather thinking about a Hardcore Gold Den for the Wolf….As you’ve bared your fangs and torn at the flesh before you...sweat drips down your brow, back arched, fur standing on end and the taste blood in your mouth...that’s when the Wolf realizes it’s his own. That’s when DW realizes that his Wolf still wasn’t enough, all that hate, all that anger and potential and pent up frustration with your own shortcomings and failures...just lead you out into the open where I’m sitting in the side of a fucking helicopter effortlessly gunning you down. Because while you hunt and seek, I just do what comes natural to me: shoot.
As you lay there, tasting the iron in your own blood, getting a good look at The Bright Lights and wondering about all those lofty words you’ve floated out into the universe: greatness, foundation, a serious contender, titles, legacy...As those words float through your mind again and you realize you can’t possibly keep chasing those things, as you realize you’re going to tuck tail and head back into your den of failure once more, as you wonder how you’ll be remembered and what your legacy truly will be...Just remember what I’m telling you now: you have no legacy. No one will remember you. You are already forgotten. Normally, I’d reassure you here that you’ll at least get a write up in the blogosphere on Tuesday morning as thie dead wrestler du jour but even if all dogs go to heaven, wolves don't’ get obituaries. See you Monday.
