Post by Stephen Singh on Oct 21, 2018 13:24:14 GMT -5
October 19, 2018
The Sixth Dimension Arena (wherever the fuck that is)
This is fuckin gay.
The shrill voice of constant dissent and discontent belonged to Donna Singh, mother of the Hardcore Champion and a bottomless well of grievances. Indeed, her Festivus would never even reach The Feats of Strength.
Holy shit, is Festivus based on professional wrestling? An airing of grievances (a promo) followed by the Feats of Strength that doesn’t end until you pin shoulders to the ground?! This is a groundbreaking discovery and deserves a more in-depth analysis.
Donna: So why the fuck are we here?
Oh that’s right, there’s a promo going on. Donna “Singh” is sitting in a steel folding chair in the middle of a hexagonal ring that had been previously used for the WCF Network-only tournament The Sixth Dimension. Beside her is her trusty oxygen tank, tube coiled around the metal cylinder, and a large purse covered in a floral. On the outside of the hexagonal ring, Stephen Singh is in his training gear, slowly tracing the outside of the ring as he conversates.
Singh: This is match preparation, Donna. I know you’re unfamiliar with the idea of “work” and “preparation” but sometimes it’s unpleasant or boring; in this case, it’s obviously both. This arena is where DW wormed his way back into the consciousness of the WCF. Under a promoter calling himself only “The Handler” this little five dollar production came and went without the rest of the federation so much as blinking an eye at it.
Donna: That’s probably because it’s fuckin gay.
Singh: Your command of the english language never ceases to astound, Donna. But it doesn’t matter if no one Faithful Stephenites out there watched it, I kept my eye on it. Anytime something or someone new worms its way into the WCF, I take note and I take notes. Now as dreadfully difficult as it was to stay awake through an entire episode, I did my damnedest to keep tabs on all the competitors. Half of them were flukes or jokes; Ded Memry, Biff Mustache, and Caleb Ronan will be long forgotten by even the sport’s most meticulous historians. The other three however all shared that same pang of potential, that same tidbit of talent that had at some point or another tantalized the WCF Galaxy. My opponent this week Dean Wolf, his headmaster Bernard Core and a man with whom I’ve had a score to settle for nearly two years now, Cliff of Doom.
Donna: Wait, Wolf is buddies with that fuckin shitstain Cliff?
Singh: I wouldn’t say he’s exactly “friends” with the most disappointing Cliff since Huxtable, but he’s certainly not his enemy. Some could even argue that it’s only thanks to DW that Cliff was able to put away Bernard Core in the finals. That’s how this place wrapped up its lackluster little lore, with a tidy bow for the fuckchop failure face clutching a title and his woman. Rocky and Adrian walking out arm in arm, title in hand, a success story for the ages. That seems to be just what everyone in the Sixth Dimension--including you--wanted, Wolf. What you want, however, is no longer in consideration for the outcome on Monday Night. What you’re able to take IN to be able to take AWAY what I’m the rightful holder of is what will be under consideration. It’s interesting to me--and this may be the ONLY interesting thing from that entire damn tournament--that the Best of the Best hinged entirely on a moral dilemma laid at your feet. Had you prioritized loyalty to Bernard Core and the fact that he’d given you some direction when you most needed it, he would’ve won the tournament; no question about it. But you didn’t. You chose Cliff of Doom as the winner. And let’s not pretend you simply did nothing, that you simply allowed Cliff a “fair chance.”
First and foremost, we both know that there is no such thing as a “fair chance” in this sport. You take what you can take until you’re stopped by the rules or by a force greater than yourself. I’ve made a name for myself here by showing that the “rules” are unable to stop me from taking what I want. But now by laying the Hardcore Title on the line week after week, I show the plebeians in the back that neither rules nor rostered rubes cause my retreat. I take what I want when I want because I am able. This week I want a victory over the much-ballyhooed DW Wolf, I want to snatch that little bit of light I’ve seen behind your eyes, I want to take a piss on that so-called “legacy” you’re looking to build. So I will. And you will not stop me.
But now I’m digressing. Let’s get back to what I was saying about morals here in the Sixth Dimension. I know you saw yourself as acting impartially, as allowing the tournament to play out properly and to give lil Cliff Balboa the chance to walk out the champion. But by subverting expectations of your partner, by waiting until that very moment to decide to abandon a plan or at least an unspoken agreement made with Bernard Core, you swung the pendulum fully into Cliff’s court. You shook Core. In that moment his focus was not on Cliff of Doom, it was on you and your betrayal, your failure to stay loyal. If you REALLY wanted to stand on your morals, if you wanted the fairest possible outcome, you would’ve withdrawn yourself from his services prior to the match. You would’ve made it known that under no circumstance will you act on his behalf any further. But you didn’t want that, you wanted to punish Mr. Core. Maybe there’s a part of you that truly thinks you’re changing, that truly thinks you’re beginning to be guided by principles and morals, that you’re beginning to tame the Wolf and you can utilize him solely in the ring. Know what? Maybe you’re right….let’s check with the judges…Judges, did DW Wolf do what was right or simply, as he always has done, what he wanted?
Looks like the judges are with me on this one, Wolf. You’re still the same unscrupulous fuckchop you’ve always been but now you’re just deluding yourself about it. You think that just because you’ve developed the most infinitesimal amount of self control--avoiding things like smacking some 90 pound substitute teacher wrestling on some sort of make-a-wish program with a steel chair or hitting Hank Brown with the Hunt--you think you can better achieve your goals here. You think this adding this faint whiff of morality on the putrid porta-potty-at-Coachella-smell of your life is going to help you make something of yourself in the Dub. First of all, it’s not. And second of all, you’re still not that guy. You deserted the man who pulled you out of an absolute downward spiral in your life. If not for him, you certainly wouldn’t be wrestling and there’s a chance that you wouldn’t even be alive. But in the one of the biggest moments in any of your careers (or at least in your imaginations) you choose to betray him. You fucked him, Wolf. You fucked him like you’re Harvey Weinstein and he was just some C-List actress trying to make it in this world. You fucked him like you Kevin Spacey and he had just graduated middle school. You fucked him like you were in the Mustache Family and he was literally anything with a hole.
And that’s all fine, Wolf. Fuck whoever you want however you want. I’m not here to judge. I’m just here to tell you that you’re not the man you think you are and you never will be. That “wolf” runs you, it controls you. Even when you do what you think is the “right” thing you’re driven by anger and hate. And if you’ve got anger and hate behind the wheel, you’re losing the race to my gold. Being fueled by those types of things work great against lesser men, against curtain jerking jerkoffs and midcard mooks but you’re stepping into the ring the a Golden God, with the Watson of Wrestling. Being the smartest guy in the room is fine but being the smartest guy in the ring is what leads me to victories. A man run by his “wolf,” a man who utilized what you do to win cannot beat a man like me. Your anger leads you to mistakes, your hate leads you to sloppy wrestling. Your Hunt will come up empty this week because you’re spraying a shotgun at God while I’m firing a sniper rifle at a Wolf. Precision. Control. Accuracy. These are not in a wolf’s repertoire and they are not in yours, DW.
Donna: Great fuckin speech. Can we get outta here now?
She lights up her cigarette and takes a long drag as Singh steps between the ropes. He takes slow, measured strides between each of the six turnbuckles, the camera framing him in front of each stage as he moves, a different superstar’s visage on each curtain.
Singh: Not even close, Donna. Just sit there and enjoy doubling down on the Big C; I’ve got more morality to talk.
Donna: Jesus fuckin’ Christ.
Singh: Well I wasn’t planning on mentioning him but I guess “morality” could be interpreted as such. The Christian ideas on morality aren’t exactly nuanced and leave much to be discussed or desired; they simply give a list of “don’ts” and that’s about it. Follow that list and you’re in. Simple, comforting. It’s that type of small-minded morality that makes you, DW, think that you were doing the right thing but that’s just sixth dementia. Reprobates like you and the christian church fail to account for intent, context, cultural relativism or anything else on a near-endless list of complications to the idea of “good” and “evil.” I speak to this now, to this idea of morality, because it’s weighed heavy on mind lately as well.
His mother shoots him an annoyed glance, unhappy with her son for walking away from a surefire pinfall last week.
Singh: I haven't been sleeping great. I’ve been plagued by these nightmares, perhaps better called night terrors; they’re vivid and tactile. I’d swear to you they were real if I didn’t know better. They all seem to take place somewhere not in this world...or this time? I’m not really sure to be honest. But the thing that is clear is that they are a call to action. I wake up sweating, heart racing, my chest heaving as I pant…I can’t even always remember what happened in the dreams but I know that I’m supposed to do something now. Something different. Or maybe just differently? I struggle with that part. I know I’m where I belong, the WCF and I know I belong carrying gold for this place--even if it’s not the World Title. But these dreams...that place that I’m going--
He hears it as he says it, a Freudian slip to be certain. He knows he’s not going anywhere but it sure feels like he is. His mother’s look to him changes from anger t confusion, maybe even concern--if not for her son than certainly for his success and consequently her paycheck.
The place that I’m dreaming about is attempting to set me on a different path than the one I’ve taken. It’s strange but I know that my ends are the same as they’ve always been, that I seek the same goals and accomplishments but for the first time in my life...I have this need to prove something I never have before, to do as I said earlier and show that my success is hindered by nothing, neither rules nor man. And currently, paradoxically, the best way to show that is to work within the rules--such as they are for the Hardcore Title. So here I stand in a six-sided ring, seeing so many paths to the center, so many ways to get into the ring we all share. And in the Handler’s little tournament all men exited right back up their own ramp. That is how most humans will complete their lives, they walk a path to a major event, to some monstrous tribulation and they survive it one way or another--in our case, either victorious or conquered--and then they walk that same path until their time ends. That’s Stephen no longer. I am taking control of my story, I’m changing the ending. When I walk out of the ring now, when my career is done and they’re sweeping away the debris left behind, I will exit through a different curtain. I will have left a different man than I have entered, for better or worse. That is what I am doing. DW, you’re still the same picked-on, angry, hateful little cum dumpster you’ve always been but now you’re just pretending it’s different. When you walk out of the ring, you’re heading right back up the ramp with your ugly fucking mug on it. And when you wake up tomorrow, you’re still you. It’s sad I know, but try not to kill yourself. At least wait until after you job to me.
Earlier I referred to Cliff of Doom as Rocky Balboa. I’m reiterating this because I think you’re a half-wit moron who has likely already forgotten what I just said five minutes ago. Indeed your selfish, amoral decision at Best of the Best allowed Cliff his unearned moment in the sun, the lovable, plucky underdog defeating the evil, heavy favorite. What a story.
What a boring fucking story. That you were little more than a plot device for. How does that feel, Woof? That the most important thing you’ve ever done in the WCF wasn’t even in the WCF? That the biggest moment you’ve had ACTUALLY belongs to that prepubescent Cliff of Poon? It must really stir your dander, I bet it gets that toothless little wolf inside you all snarled and angry. I bet it gets you twisted right into knots. Good. That’s where I want you. I want you to seek that wolf and embrace it so when it’s lunging and growling and acting solely on instinct, I can chuckle, sidestep and snaps its fucking neck.
The reason Rocky is such a beloved title is that he didn’t actually win. It was the classic underdog story, it hit all those sports tropes, checked all those boxes and then subverted general expectation by letting the hero LOSE. He got worked over by a superior talent, and took the moral W but an actual L. So The Handler’s little popsicle stand got to rewrite the Rocky allegory by embracing the previously subverted cliche, puttin but our little story isn’t going to flip the script; I believe one must stay Faithful to the greats. Assuming you show up with enough stupidity (you will, you can’t escape that) and furious fortitude (these insults I lob are meant to make you angry, Woof, am I doing well?), then maybe you can make it interesting. Maybe you can really wow the crowd with how much punishment you’re able to take. Maybe you’ll show the WCF Galaxy how much heart you have...And then I can show the WCF Galaxy how much heart you HAD when I’ve ripped it out of your chest and raised it victoriously over my head. Congratulations on your forthcoming moral victory, Woof. Apollo Singh is going to tag you with body blows and superior skill for as many fucking rounds as you’re dumb enough to stay upright for. Then I’ll let the referee count the number of dimensions (hint: it’s not six where you might’ve stood a chance) we’re wrestling in this week while your shoulders are on the mat…
One…
Two…
Three.
The Sixth Dimension Arena (wherever the fuck that is)
This is fuckin gay.
The shrill voice of constant dissent and discontent belonged to Donna Singh, mother of the Hardcore Champion and a bottomless well of grievances. Indeed, her Festivus would never even reach The Feats of Strength.
Holy shit, is Festivus based on professional wrestling? An airing of grievances (a promo) followed by the Feats of Strength that doesn’t end until you pin shoulders to the ground?! This is a groundbreaking discovery and deserves a more in-depth analysis.
Donna: So why the fuck are we here?
Oh that’s right, there’s a promo going on. Donna “Singh” is sitting in a steel folding chair in the middle of a hexagonal ring that had been previously used for the WCF Network-only tournament The Sixth Dimension. Beside her is her trusty oxygen tank, tube coiled around the metal cylinder, and a large purse covered in a floral. On the outside of the hexagonal ring, Stephen Singh is in his training gear, slowly tracing the outside of the ring as he conversates.
Singh: This is match preparation, Donna. I know you’re unfamiliar with the idea of “work” and “preparation” but sometimes it’s unpleasant or boring; in this case, it’s obviously both. This arena is where DW wormed his way back into the consciousness of the WCF. Under a promoter calling himself only “The Handler” this little five dollar production came and went without the rest of the federation so much as blinking an eye at it.
Donna: That’s probably because it’s fuckin gay.
Singh: Your command of the english language never ceases to astound, Donna. But it doesn’t matter if no one Faithful Stephenites out there watched it, I kept my eye on it. Anytime something or someone new worms its way into the WCF, I take note and I take notes. Now as dreadfully difficult as it was to stay awake through an entire episode, I did my damnedest to keep tabs on all the competitors. Half of them were flukes or jokes; Ded Memry, Biff Mustache, and Caleb Ronan will be long forgotten by even the sport’s most meticulous historians. The other three however all shared that same pang of potential, that same tidbit of talent that had at some point or another tantalized the WCF Galaxy. My opponent this week Dean Wolf, his headmaster Bernard Core and a man with whom I’ve had a score to settle for nearly two years now, Cliff of Doom.
Donna: Wait, Wolf is buddies with that fuckin shitstain Cliff?
Singh: I wouldn’t say he’s exactly “friends” with the most disappointing Cliff since Huxtable, but he’s certainly not his enemy. Some could even argue that it’s only thanks to DW that Cliff was able to put away Bernard Core in the finals. That’s how this place wrapped up its lackluster little lore, with a tidy bow for the fuckchop failure face clutching a title and his woman. Rocky and Adrian walking out arm in arm, title in hand, a success story for the ages. That seems to be just what everyone in the Sixth Dimension--including you--wanted, Wolf. What you want, however, is no longer in consideration for the outcome on Monday Night. What you’re able to take IN to be able to take AWAY what I’m the rightful holder of is what will be under consideration. It’s interesting to me--and this may be the ONLY interesting thing from that entire damn tournament--that the Best of the Best hinged entirely on a moral dilemma laid at your feet. Had you prioritized loyalty to Bernard Core and the fact that he’d given you some direction when you most needed it, he would’ve won the tournament; no question about it. But you didn’t. You chose Cliff of Doom as the winner. And let’s not pretend you simply did nothing, that you simply allowed Cliff a “fair chance.”
First and foremost, we both know that there is no such thing as a “fair chance” in this sport. You take what you can take until you’re stopped by the rules or by a force greater than yourself. I’ve made a name for myself here by showing that the “rules” are unable to stop me from taking what I want. But now by laying the Hardcore Title on the line week after week, I show the plebeians in the back that neither rules nor rostered rubes cause my retreat. I take what I want when I want because I am able. This week I want a victory over the much-ballyhooed DW Wolf, I want to snatch that little bit of light I’ve seen behind your eyes, I want to take a piss on that so-called “legacy” you’re looking to build. So I will. And you will not stop me.
But now I’m digressing. Let’s get back to what I was saying about morals here in the Sixth Dimension. I know you saw yourself as acting impartially, as allowing the tournament to play out properly and to give lil Cliff Balboa the chance to walk out the champion. But by subverting expectations of your partner, by waiting until that very moment to decide to abandon a plan or at least an unspoken agreement made with Bernard Core, you swung the pendulum fully into Cliff’s court. You shook Core. In that moment his focus was not on Cliff of Doom, it was on you and your betrayal, your failure to stay loyal. If you REALLY wanted to stand on your morals, if you wanted the fairest possible outcome, you would’ve withdrawn yourself from his services prior to the match. You would’ve made it known that under no circumstance will you act on his behalf any further. But you didn’t want that, you wanted to punish Mr. Core. Maybe there’s a part of you that truly thinks you’re changing, that truly thinks you’re beginning to be guided by principles and morals, that you’re beginning to tame the Wolf and you can utilize him solely in the ring. Know what? Maybe you’re right….let’s check with the judges…Judges, did DW Wolf do what was right or simply, as he always has done, what he wanted?
With that a loud, harsh buzzer blares through the empty arena, causing Donna to jump in her folding chair. Looking to calm her nerves, she begins searching for a cigarette in her purse. Singh walks up the stairs to the ring and continues his pontification from the apron.
Looks like the judges are with me on this one, Wolf. You’re still the same unscrupulous fuckchop you’ve always been but now you’re just deluding yourself about it. You think that just because you’ve developed the most infinitesimal amount of self control--avoiding things like smacking some 90 pound substitute teacher wrestling on some sort of make-a-wish program with a steel chair or hitting Hank Brown with the Hunt--you think you can better achieve your goals here. You think this adding this faint whiff of morality on the putrid porta-potty-at-Coachella-smell of your life is going to help you make something of yourself in the Dub. First of all, it’s not. And second of all, you’re still not that guy. You deserted the man who pulled you out of an absolute downward spiral in your life. If not for him, you certainly wouldn’t be wrestling and there’s a chance that you wouldn’t even be alive. But in the one of the biggest moments in any of your careers (or at least in your imaginations) you choose to betray him. You fucked him, Wolf. You fucked him like you’re Harvey Weinstein and he was just some C-List actress trying to make it in this world. You fucked him like you Kevin Spacey and he had just graduated middle school. You fucked him like you were in the Mustache Family and he was literally anything with a hole.
And that’s all fine, Wolf. Fuck whoever you want however you want. I’m not here to judge. I’m just here to tell you that you’re not the man you think you are and you never will be. That “wolf” runs you, it controls you. Even when you do what you think is the “right” thing you’re driven by anger and hate. And if you’ve got anger and hate behind the wheel, you’re losing the race to my gold. Being fueled by those types of things work great against lesser men, against curtain jerking jerkoffs and midcard mooks but you’re stepping into the ring the a Golden God, with the Watson of Wrestling. Being the smartest guy in the room is fine but being the smartest guy in the ring is what leads me to victories. A man run by his “wolf,” a man who utilized what you do to win cannot beat a man like me. Your anger leads you to mistakes, your hate leads you to sloppy wrestling. Your Hunt will come up empty this week because you’re spraying a shotgun at God while I’m firing a sniper rifle at a Wolf. Precision. Control. Accuracy. These are not in a wolf’s repertoire and they are not in yours, DW.
Donna: Great fuckin speech. Can we get outta here now?
She lights up her cigarette and takes a long drag as Singh steps between the ropes. He takes slow, measured strides between each of the six turnbuckles, the camera framing him in front of each stage as he moves, a different superstar’s visage on each curtain.
Singh: Not even close, Donna. Just sit there and enjoy doubling down on the Big C; I’ve got more morality to talk.
Donna: Jesus fuckin’ Christ.
Singh: Well I wasn’t planning on mentioning him but I guess “morality” could be interpreted as such. The Christian ideas on morality aren’t exactly nuanced and leave much to be discussed or desired; they simply give a list of “don’ts” and that’s about it. Follow that list and you’re in. Simple, comforting. It’s that type of small-minded morality that makes you, DW, think that you were doing the right thing but that’s just sixth dementia. Reprobates like you and the christian church fail to account for intent, context, cultural relativism or anything else on a near-endless list of complications to the idea of “good” and “evil.” I speak to this now, to this idea of morality, because it’s weighed heavy on mind lately as well.
His mother shoots him an annoyed glance, unhappy with her son for walking away from a surefire pinfall last week.
Singh: I haven't been sleeping great. I’ve been plagued by these nightmares, perhaps better called night terrors; they’re vivid and tactile. I’d swear to you they were real if I didn’t know better. They all seem to take place somewhere not in this world...or this time? I’m not really sure to be honest. But the thing that is clear is that they are a call to action. I wake up sweating, heart racing, my chest heaving as I pant…I can’t even always remember what happened in the dreams but I know that I’m supposed to do something now. Something different. Or maybe just differently? I struggle with that part. I know I’m where I belong, the WCF and I know I belong carrying gold for this place--even if it’s not the World Title. But these dreams...that place that I’m going--
He hears it as he says it, a Freudian slip to be certain. He knows he’s not going anywhere but it sure feels like he is. His mother’s look to him changes from anger t confusion, maybe even concern--if not for her son than certainly for his success and consequently her paycheck.
The place that I’m dreaming about is attempting to set me on a different path than the one I’ve taken. It’s strange but I know that my ends are the same as they’ve always been, that I seek the same goals and accomplishments but for the first time in my life...I have this need to prove something I never have before, to do as I said earlier and show that my success is hindered by nothing, neither rules nor man. And currently, paradoxically, the best way to show that is to work within the rules--such as they are for the Hardcore Title. So here I stand in a six-sided ring, seeing so many paths to the center, so many ways to get into the ring we all share. And in the Handler’s little tournament all men exited right back up their own ramp. That is how most humans will complete their lives, they walk a path to a major event, to some monstrous tribulation and they survive it one way or another--in our case, either victorious or conquered--and then they walk that same path until their time ends. That’s Stephen no longer. I am taking control of my story, I’m changing the ending. When I walk out of the ring now, when my career is done and they’re sweeping away the debris left behind, I will exit through a different curtain. I will have left a different man than I have entered, for better or worse. That is what I am doing. DW, you’re still the same picked-on, angry, hateful little cum dumpster you’ve always been but now you’re just pretending it’s different. When you walk out of the ring, you’re heading right back up the ramp with your ugly fucking mug on it. And when you wake up tomorrow, you’re still you. It’s sad I know, but try not to kill yourself. At least wait until after you job to me.
Earlier I referred to Cliff of Doom as Rocky Balboa. I’m reiterating this because I think you’re a half-wit moron who has likely already forgotten what I just said five minutes ago. Indeed your selfish, amoral decision at Best of the Best allowed Cliff his unearned moment in the sun, the lovable, plucky underdog defeating the evil, heavy favorite. What a story.
What a boring fucking story. That you were little more than a plot device for. How does that feel, Woof? That the most important thing you’ve ever done in the WCF wasn’t even in the WCF? That the biggest moment you’ve had ACTUALLY belongs to that prepubescent Cliff of Poon? It must really stir your dander, I bet it gets that toothless little wolf inside you all snarled and angry. I bet it gets you twisted right into knots. Good. That’s where I want you. I want you to seek that wolf and embrace it so when it’s lunging and growling and acting solely on instinct, I can chuckle, sidestep and snaps its fucking neck.
The reason Rocky is such a beloved title is that he didn’t actually win. It was the classic underdog story, it hit all those sports tropes, checked all those boxes and then subverted general expectation by letting the hero LOSE. He got worked over by a superior talent, and took the moral W but an actual L. So The Handler’s little popsicle stand got to rewrite the Rocky allegory by embracing the previously subverted cliche, puttin but our little story isn’t going to flip the script; I believe one must stay Faithful to the greats. Assuming you show up with enough stupidity (you will, you can’t escape that) and furious fortitude (these insults I lob are meant to make you angry, Woof, am I doing well?), then maybe you can make it interesting. Maybe you can really wow the crowd with how much punishment you’re able to take. Maybe you’ll show the WCF Galaxy how much heart you have...And then I can show the WCF Galaxy how much heart you HAD when I’ve ripped it out of your chest and raised it victoriously over my head. Congratulations on your forthcoming moral victory, Woof. Apollo Singh is going to tag you with body blows and superior skill for as many fucking rounds as you’re dumb enough to stay upright for. Then I’ll let the referee count the number of dimensions (hint: it’s not six where you might’ve stood a chance) we’re wrestling in this week while your shoulders are on the mat…
One…
Two…
Three.
