Post by Stephen Singh on Oct 30, 2018 22:59:28 GMT -5
TEAMWORK
Ideologically, there is nothing wrong with teamwork. In fact, tribalism is just another form of “teamwork” and is almost inarguably the only reason that mankind survived its most primitive days. With that type of evolutionary precedent boiled into our DNA it’s unsurprising to see modern society extolling the virtues of teamwork and lionizing those who supposedly embody it. Professional athletes seen as good “teammates” are the most praised and are disproportionately valued by the teams, fans, and media. As soon as our children are able to walk, we’re signing them up for youth sports emphasizing the benefits of “teamwork” and selflessness; giving Picardian speeches of the needs of the many vs those of the few, etc. These zealots are not wrong but they’re not exactly right either; to present the framework of a “team” and “cooperation” as the ONLY means to victory is disingenuous to be certain. Romans didn’t worship “teams,” they knew that it was the single gladiator that deserved their praise, the abilities and accomplishments of one man alone instead of a group working together. But what happens when partnership is, in fact, the ONLY means ot victory?
It will come as no surprise to you, Faithful Stephenite, that former World, Hardcore, Internet, Trios and Tag Team Champion was not privy to the youthful indoctrination of beautiful, harmonious and peaceful teamwork being the only means to victory. No, his mother, Donna, was too busy heating up spoons, flicking needles, and using her expired driver’s license to push little piles into neat little lines. The very first “team” any of us are a part of--our family--was fractured from early in Stephen’s life so the idea that a team could be a means to success seemed damn near impossible to him. With that as his bedrock, he built his castle of isolation and shrine to personal success by any means. He crossed whoever he needed to whenever he needed to in order to ensure his own personal success. At last year’s Hellimination he bribed his way onto the ring, used it as a way to continue his blood feud with Gravedigger--ostensibly his teammate--before being pinned by Alex Richards, one of the men he’d stand alongside this year.
Still...Singh kept people around him, near him physically if not emotionally. First Everest and then The Church and now his mother follows him to the ring every week. So despite that lack of early propagandism, there has always been something inside of Singh drawing him towards the idea of a team or perhaps even a family? Maybe it’s just that evolutionary drive, that bone-deep draw to tribalism that we often see bring out the worst in people. But as of late, it seems to be bringing out something else in Singh. Perhaps not his best but certainly something...better? Maybe he sees standing alongside The Guardians as a chance to continue that personal betterment and growth. Maybe he’s seen them as a group of competitors willing to do what it takes for what they see as “right” and maybe that’s where Stephen wants to see himself. Or maybe he just wants to ensure Odin suffers and if “teamwork” is the means to that end...then the Golden God will stands beside the Time Witch.
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Sunday October 28, 2018
Chicago, Illinois
Outside The Drunken Dragon
Stephen Singh sits inside his rented black Acura coupe, hands massaging the wood-grain steering wheel as he eyes the front door of the Drunken Dragon. A pointed exhale.
Just go the fuck in
It’d been a month or two now of unfamiliar sensations and Stephen reckoning and re-reckoning with them. This one was perhaps the strangest so far; Stephen Singh, self-made man and self-proclaimed Golden God, was NERVOUS about going into this meeting with The Guardians. For some unknown reason, he was more nervous about this than he would be about a match with any of them; he was more nervous about this little meeting than he was for their match at Hellimination. But perhaps this anxiety was a good thing, fear can sharpen one’s physical gifts and there’s no such thing as bravery without at least a little bit of fear. He closes his eyes for a moment too long and sleep nearly takes him over, his heart races and his eyes snap open; he’d nearly gone back to that place he’d seen every time he drifted off to slumber recently.
Not what I need right now.
Another sigh.
Fuck it, let’s do this.
He flings the car door open, pops open an umbrella to shield him from the heavy downpour outside and strides in faux-confidence directly toward the door. It was those aforementioned dreams that have guided him here; something timeless and powerful drew him to this match with these teammates, something seeking the blood of a god, something that needed revenge on Odin, the same thing that Stephen desires. The camera tracks him from left to right as it crossfades to an entirely different time and place...
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No Time
Some Place
It could be described as a hellscape to some but it’s certainly been a sanctuary to others. Either way, for Stephen Singh it is certainly a confounding place; the terrain is uneven and rocky and the horizon doesn’t seem to even exist. The harder you try to find the place where this barren land meets the sky that should be surrounding it, the harder it is to see. The edges of everything seem to blur into each other with every object lacking both beginning and end. This was not a comfortable place for Stephen but it was one he’d visited multiple times recently. It seemed his sleep was no longer his own, it now belonged to this place. Usually, he wandered aimlessly, twisting his ankles on rocks he can’t find the flat parts of and tripping over structures he’d sear weren’t there only moments ago and then he simply woke up peculiarly sore in those joints he’d worked so hard in the dream. That was part of what was so unsettling; it certainly seemed as though this place was taking his toll on him physically even though he knew it to be only a dream.
Right?
In his frustration with his return here, he kicked at a rock in stride. He struck what he saw as a loose stone but it didn’t move and he tripped to his stomach, face in the dust below. The heavy silence was ruptured with a great laugh from the belly of someone...or something?
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Though he wasn’t sure where the guffaw came from, he wasn’t going to take it lying down. Well, I guess literally he was still lying down when he responded but metaphorically he was, you know, standing up to it or whatever.
Singh: Suck my dick, twat waffle.
The laughing stopped but a sudden gale force wind stirred up pebbles and dust, pelting Singh’s face with them.
Singh: Great. I’m here to fight a fucking weather pattern.
Another mighty chuckle emanates from everywhere all at once.
Voice: Nothing so simply understood, boy.
Singh: Is it that easily understood? Because back on earth where insults don’t get met with gale force winds they’re still debating climate change. So maybe it’s not quite as simple as you think…
Voice: Not by the likes of your kind, no.
Singh: So we’re in agreement then, climate change is a hoax?
Voice: No! We are in no such agreement!
Singh: I agree, there’s a lot of disagreement on the subject so we shouldn’t just go around passing crazy regulations based on inconclusive scie--
Voice: ENOUGH!
Tired of the banter, the voice’s rumbles through every bone in Singh’s body. His knees buckle at the tremor through every inch of him.
Singh: Okay, so I’m not here to fight weather? Maybe the planet itself? Do you want revenge for how badly we’re fucking up Earth? Or is this some type of Guardians of the Galaxy 2 shit? Because I haven’t seen Jay Omega in a l--
Voice: SIIIIIIIILENCE!
Before Singh can press himself up to his feet again, the temperature plummets. Frost is on his brow and on his nose almost instantly. He’s not sure he can even move his eyeballs but he closes the lids tightly. He curls to the ground, clutching his own body trying to preserve any warmth he can.
Voice: Listen closely, boy, and you will learn why you’re here. Can you do that?
Through chattering teeth and bone-deep shivers, Singh manages a feeble nod. The temperature shifts again and he begins to thaw out while the voice booms.
Voice: In your inane ramblings, you uttered two pertinent words: Guardians and Revenge. That is why you’re here. The Guardians need you and you need revenge.
As Singh regains most of the feeling in his limbs, he struggles to his feet. Around him the gray, rocky terrain flourishes and turns to deep greens everywhere, wildflowers springing up around him. A chair formed to Singh’s specific body erupts up from the ground beneath him and cups his person. He sits and from the greenery a figure emerges: the massive figure is blurry, hard to make out any details but his eyes burn bright blue and full of hate that Singh can feel permeating the very air. They glow bright or dim in accordance with his words.
Voice: Odin Balfore has tarnished your year....your name...your legacy.
Singh opens his mouth to argue but no words come out. Even that, it would seem is under the control of whatever he’s speaking to.
Voice: But he has not destroyed those things....not yet at least. So go to the Guardians and grant them your services in order to exact your revenge so that I may have my own revenge. My name is Ymir and it’s upon my body that Odin built all that he has but the fool did not and could not crush my spirit. Before you ask, I am not here for a single mortal vessel, my power is too vast for that and any one of you would disintegrate before I was able to take hold. But you will be my heralds, you will avenge my death by avenging your own failures. You will provide Blue with her well-deserved shot at a World Title as her reward for allowing to dwell here in the Rock of Ages for so many years. My destruction cannot be undone, I will not live again. But your mortal life, however briefly flickering the flame, is ahead of you still. Stoke the fire in yourself and the Guardians at your side and burn Balfore to ash.
With that it’s gone. The ghastly figure, the lush greenery, the entire landscape is gone. Singh’s heart races and he shoots up to a seated position in his bed. He pulls his hands up to his face to wipe the sleep from his eyes after the nightmare but finds them both covered in ash.
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Sunday October 28, 2018
Chicago, Illinois
Inside the Drunken Dragon
The Guardians’ Hellimination Team is scattered about the scene: Alex Richards leans up against the bar with a handle of Zimquila looking right at home in his paw, Noble Savage is on a nearby stool fiddling with a cocktail napkin, Damian Kaine bounces his legs under the table trying to focus in on the discussion at hand while Bonnie stands commanding the group’s attention, laying out their strategy and intent this week. With a forced appearance of calm, cool collectedness Singh sits at the same table as Kaine, leaning far back in his chair, feet propped up on another. In the middle of a sentence, Bonnie lets out a yawn.
Singh: Was that a yawn? Do you even need sleep? Can’t you just go back to yesterday and take some melatonin before bed or something?
Blue: Sleep ain’t been the easiest thing to come by lately.
Richards: Tell me about it! It doesn’t matter how much I drink I’ve had these damn weird dreams about some pissy little god.
Singh: You’re dreaming about Odin?
Richard: No, some OTHER pissy little god that wants me to kick his ass.
Savage: Ymir.
Blue: What did you just say, Noble?
Kaine: If she said Ymir...uh....That’s weird because that’s some dude from a dream I had…
There’s a heavy pause in the discussion, all present coming to the realization that they’ve dreamt about the same figure.
Singh: Wait, you nerds have been having nightmares too? Is that Ymir dude in yours too?
Solemn nods from the group.
Singh: I've been calling them Nightmirs. Pretty good right? You guys can start using that if you want. In fact, I think we should really try to make it happen. Motion to officially refer to them as Nightmirs....
<silence>
Singh: Can I get a second to the motion please?
Blue: C'mon Steven, how many times ah I gotta tell ya there ain't no Robert's Rules in here?
Singh: Well I sure as shit am not playing by Reb's Rules. So what rules are we going by?
Richards: There are no rules, Stephen....only confusion!
Singh: No, there should really be rules. I think rules would be for the best.
NS: Abiding by rules would be...noble.
Singh: See? M. Night Savagealon over here gets i--
DK: Since when do you give a shit about rules anyways?!
Singh (thoughtfully): Without rules, I fear my spirit is all I have left to break....
There's a stunned silence from the group in response to Singh's apparent honest vulnerability.
Singh: Just kidding, I just thought you fuckin squares loved rules.
Blue: So Ymir put us all on the same mission then: to destroy Odin Balfore.
Singh: Easy enough.
DK: Easy enough? Didn’t you lose to him like...THREE times already this year?
Singh: Wow, thanks TEAMMATE. So maybe I had some less than fruitful run-ins earlier in the year. Maybe I underestimated the ageless Oldfather. Or maybe he was just better than me those nights. But Hellimination isn’t any of those matches and this isn’t a one-on-one match. I’m standing here shoulder to shoulder with The Guardians, perhaps the longest running stable in the expanded WCF Universe.
NS: What is the expanded WCF Universe?
Singh: I’m not trying to bring out the savage or anything but I absolutely do not have time to explain UCI or Action Wrestling to her. One of you other mooks send her a powerpoint or something. The point I’m making is that sure you signed on two outsiders but three of the five members of this team have been together a LONG time and have been through a LOT. Sure, Kaz Mazy has been slobbing Odin’s thick from the first moment he opened it here but other than that this a slapped together rag tag crew of jobber extraordinaires. No scratch that, remove the “extra” they’re not even exceptional at being jobbers. They're just jobber ordinaires. And this is the best Odin Balfore could do. These other four no talent ass-clowns are al that the Mighty Allfather could get to answer his call. What a showing for man that is supposed to be a surefire Hall of Famer. Why didn’t your alleged “best friend” Corey Black answer the Odin signal? Where’s that rabid human dildo, Zmac? Nevermind, he’s probably lodged firmly into your asshole where he usually is. The “where” question in this scenario is meant to convey “why” as in “Why isn’t he coming to battle alongside the World Champ?” You’re telling me he showed up last year to march under orders of The Antidote to Intelligence, Spencer Adams but he can’t be bothered to stand with who he stans for? And then the most egregious omission: Bobby Cairo. The Allfather can’t get his number one gal pal to show up and throw hands for him. And do any of you know why that is?
Richards: I mean, didn’t he get thrown into a volcano or something?
Singh: That’s possibly correct Richards but you still get zero credit because it’s not the answer this Professor of Pugilism was looking for. No, he’s stuck with Kaz Many L’s, my used punching bag that I threw in the dumpster after One last year and two of the least talented shitsquibs I’ve ever seen slime their way up to the midcard of these once hallowed halls because the Allfather doesn’t have it anymore. He doesn’t have the juice to get those other names to show up when it matters. He doesn’t have what it takes to keep carrying that big belt through the end of the year. But us? We’re going to take what he has.
Blue: I don’t doubt that for a moment, Singh but you jus’ can’t go underestimating the whole lot of ‘em. They’re a talen--
Singh: With all due respect to my timeless leader, they’re not a talented group. They’re a collection of half-wits and fucktards that are going to get their necks snapped by you, me and everybody else in this room.
DK: Well, Kaz Many is no pushover.
Singh: Know what Damian? I don’t think I’ve ever said anything nice about you so really take this in: that’s a good point. Kaz is no pushover. In fact, he might be the most talented member of this group including the Allfather himself. But--and now we’re going to go back to speaking to you in the manner that you’re accustomed, DK--Kaz is the same thing you are: uncommitted and inconsistent. The Godson was supposed to take the mantle of Balfore and Cairo, he was supposed to carry their legacy. Instead he carried their fucking jocks around for them in his mouth. This guy had all the opportunity, all the talent, and he squandered it. He just sat on the sidelines behind Balfore and Cairo, nodding along and doing his best impression. And here we are again, he’s taking up the spot that should belong to Cairo. Just off-brand Bobby for the rest of your googly-eyed fucking life, huh Kaz? Never too proud for one more suckling of the ole Ballfores. That’s alright though. Jalen Rose is a smart man so heed his word…
Stephen points to Richards to finish the line who shakes his head with a grimace and then takes a long pull from the Zimquila. Singh sighs and finishes it himself.
Singh: Keep getting them checks! So in short, this isn’t going to be the ONE time when Kaz actually lives up to his potential, he’s not suddenly going to turn it on and be some world-beater that he was supposed to be; hell, that lazy fuckchop doesn’t even have the wherewithal to be a wifebeater much less a worldbeater. I can’t wait to son the godson.
NS: If WCF history is to be believed, Gravedigger is someone who has lived up to his potential.
Singh: Yes he certainly has done that...in the past. The now distant past. The now diiiiiiiistant past. I’m sure ole Wavedigger will be happy to discuss that distant past and try to stand on those past achievements, waving his flaccid dick around, touting his Hall of Fame career. But to get a better idea of what El Anciano is actually capable of today, I’d look at last year. You know, the year he whiffed on a World Title shot he didn’t earn. And then whiffed in the Trios Tournament. And then whiffed at Ultimate Showdown. And then whiffed at War. And then whiffed at One. Que horror, Anciano! Malgastas un ano entero! Worry not my Savage friend, I slapped the taco-stained dentures out of his mouth all year last year and I’m happy to do it again this year. What are you even back here for Digs? Are you still grinding that axe for me? If so, I’d congratulate you on finally learning to use a tool you cro-magnon mulkie. But I’m not sure even YOU are dumb enough to think getting back into the ring with me is a good idea after your utter and repeated FAILURE in 2017. Just kidding, you’re definitely that dumb. I just don’t think that’s the impetus. I think you’re looking for a little bump for Action Wrestling over there. I think you know that no matter how much blood sweat and tears you put in over there it just ain’t the Dub. And you put your name in a main event at the Dub, and it’s going to get a few more eyes over there. That is, of course, until they see the utter cow dung you try to pass off as main eventers and then come crawling back to the WCF. But maybe you’ll get a ratings spike for a couple of weeks just for getting bloodied up by me for the 83rd time. I mean, at this point, what’s one more L to the Golden God? I’m sure the Faithful Stephenites are grateful, they’ll get to see this fine visage once more:
Blue: How about McPherson then? You ain’t got that kinda history with him.
Singh: Narp.
Blue: Excuse you?
Singh: Do I think Sammy mac is good? Narp. Do I think I could sleepwalk my way to a victory over him any day of the week? Yarp. Do I loathe his promos, his in-ring ability, and the fact that the WCF has to lean on him to fill out their midcard? Yarp. Do I think that he’ll ever get that tag team title shot he’s done absolutely nothing to deserve? Narp. Do I wish he said words other than those gumball-mouthed syllables he mumbles through? Narp. That’s because if he could actually talk like a fucking human being, I have to believe his promos would be longer and therefore, inevitably worse. This man...nay…this ANIMAL is so fierce that he can only communicate with those “yarps” and “narps” all day. And then he sits down and journals his emotions. Well which the fuck is it, mook? Are you all grit and bloodthirst and a force of pure rage who can only conjure YARPS, NARPS, and ass-kickings? NARP! Or are you a sensitive soul cataloguing all the myriad emotions and butthurts you have on a day to day basis? NARP AGAIN! It turns out you’re a mongoloid short busser who probably can’t even tie his own shoes much less lace up wrestling boots. I’m going to sleep the retard out of you, McPherson. I’m going to hit you so hard that Lord Raab one out is going to have to wipe your ass for you from now on. Let’s pick up the pace, who else they got?
NS: James Wolf can be a bit...savage.
Singh: No, Noble he cannot. He thinks he can. But he cannot. He’s a fucking cumstain on this federation. He’s something that should’ve been gone long ago and only thought about one fucking time but everytime you think it’s out of your mind there it is again, ruining your damn day! This meaningless fuck bonnet inserts himself into all the wrong places at all the wrong times. Note that the “wrong places” for James Wolf to be are literally anywhere in the WCF or my presence in general. And the “wrong times” are literally any time. I want to disparage this man by comparing him to Yung Adam but I will not disparage the GOAT’s name. AY knew who he was and knew what he meant to this company. James Wolf thinks he’s Adam Young but he’s not fit to fluff the icon in between the sister-fuckings I’m pretty sure they’re both very fond of. This guy is pulling double duty at Helloween; he’s going to get the living shit kicked out of him by DW Wolf earlier in the night and then he’s going to drag his half lifeless and fully brain dead corpse to the ring just to get his neck snapped by me. All this just to get his name at the top of the card, just to get NEAR some of that shine that proximity to The Golden God can bestow. Or maybe Wolf is trying to butter up his fearless leader. Bad news on that front too, fucklet: you’re nothing more than a human shield to Balfore. You’re a fleshy fucking boulder that he can catapult across the ring to stall and give himself another thirty seconds to figure out which one of his underling edgelords he’s going to sacrifice next.
And that just leaves the Bad Mother Fucker himself. You can’t exist in this group, Balfore. You know that. You don’t respect half these men and yet you’re going to stand beside them and pretend. That’s the difference here: I’ve been called together here with the Guardians for a purpose. I’m not looking to just pick up a W at Hellimination, I’m looking to begin the decline of the Balfore reign. I see those knees beginning to waver just a bit as you stand atop the mountain here. And as you’re peering down the other side, waiting for Noble Savage to finish her speedy ascent, I’m right behind you shoving you to your death. I can’t wait to hear the Allfather’s scream grow fainter as I watch his body plummet back to earth and to his death. Because you’ve grown old, feeble and mortal. After Helloween, you’ll confess like the battered and broken liar you always have been. The Old God is a superstition.
