THIS IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL HOME! THIS IS NOT MY...
Feb 10, 2019 23:55:32 GMT -5
Bonnie Blue likes this
Post by Deleted on Feb 10, 2019 23:55:32 GMT -5
A million little lights. Nostalgic of an archaic glass screen television, minute shifting of blues, greens and reds form an amorphous haze of vibrancy as colors swirl helplessly in an incoherent image. The iridescence radiates with a warm familiarity specific to childhoods harking back to the days when saturday morning cartoons and breakfast cereal commercials paired effortlessly with one another. This is the All-box, the eye and the face, the projector into a million minds.
As if yelled at by mother not to stand too close to the screen for fear of burning out its retinas, the view starts to pull back and the infinitesimal details begin to converge, the projection forming something vaguely human. Eventually the small dots pull together to show an unfamiliar face sporting a rather smug smirk, one Tobias Gibson. As the reveal shows the newly hired manager standing center screen, the edges of the shot distort, bending back as the glass of the screen curves. Nothing shares the screen with him besides a perpetual blackness which extends forever behind him.
“Mr. Blaze,” the voice of Gibson plays through the speakers of the television set with minor distortion, “It was once said ‘give onto Caesar what is Caesar’s’, and now more than ever I feel it is just to give the current reign its due. So many names over time - Del Sol, Blaze, Teo, Teddy - but all with one singular result; drawing the immense eye of the public onto something so oft overlooked as the Television championship. Praise he who can hold a title and truly call himself a champion, a moniker which asks itself much of its wearer, but so few can live up to.
“So boring are most title holders, wouldn’t you agree? Sad and pathetic little things that leach off of the gold and try to claim themselves akin to true greatness, and while the audience at large might see truth in their words, such veterans of the industry as ourselves see with all transparency what substance is lacking behind the facade they carry. So empty. So sad.
“But not you, my dear optimist, not you,” a bar of distortion rolls up the screen, reminiscent of a worn VHS, as Gibson smiles widely, “You’ve been something special on the title scene, even if something of a sleeper under the grander title changes having taken place lately. Others dwell in the legacy and names that created their base, but in providing a proper goal for not only yourself but the company as a whole, you’ve created your own domain which has led you to holding not just one belt, but two. Two grand reigns. Trust me the gravity of your ‘King of All Media’ moniker has not been lost on me.
“The competition must ALWAYS be elevated. Evolution will weed out weakness and place upon it the proto-gods which will lead the future, and I thank you deeply for being the first to place your head on the altar for us.”
The camera pulls back farther to reveal the edges of the television box itself and beyond it a dark room with a singular light beaming down from an unseen source illuminating not only the set, but myself, Robert Simmons, standing behind the television in my typical street clothes. The light dies just right around me, as the room - stretching beyond what the camera can pick up - sits in shadow.
“Teo Blaze, we say that without any sense of jest,” I cross my arms over the set, professing a sincere sentiment, “This does not fall onto title alone. Before becoming a proud member of this roster, a number of years were spent watching as a fan on the sidelines. I remember feeling PALPABLE ANGER when John Gable, in his mass hysteria and egomania, broke the record for longest TV title reign, and then experiencing it all over again when John Rabid did the same. I remember your first match here, maybe more than you do. To me, for years, you were this entity, and even now, despite being able to see you face to face, something about you strikes me as larger than life. If anyone not only could break John Rabid’s reign, but should, I would throw your name in that hat...
“...If I weren’t here.”
“You see,” Gibson continues, “something interesting is happening here.. See if you can follow me on this one, boy. Walking into WCF, we became ensnared in a humiliation so few would survive. Best to leave out the details, but imagine looking up at a world you’ve dreamed of being a part of for years, and just as the gleam hits your eyes and the realization of a lifelong dream is taking place, you see shit slinged down at you by a group of self-congratulating has-beens and suits, watching them laugh as your morning morphs into a disdainful and long night. Imagine it and think, what should a talent want more than to continue to climb up and burn the mountain clean.
“So, a mere week later, my client found himself standing across the ring from the one-and-only-former-world-champion-and-future-hall-of-famer Bonnie Blue in what SHOULD have been a forgone conclusion, another joke from the laughing on high, but what is failure if not a great fuel for success. The gears of fate turn in their funny little way, changing a quiet domination of another new talent by an established star into the upset of the night, and now we sit one rung higher on the ladder with a new feather in our headdress and a good story to tell.
“Time passes and we see ourselves pitted against another giant household name in the canon of this company’s illustrious history, and now the laughing has stopped, the shit slinging is no more, because now the scene has gone deadly serious. Do you see it? The beginning of a wonderful path, one where this company makes a mockery of The Stone Crow himself and we decide to in-act our revenge by tearing down, one banner at a time, the legends and myths that make up this wonderful pantheon of WCF greats.
“See, this rather minimalist set-up is all to illustrate a rather simple point; I am the voice, the concept, the flash. For the weeks, months and hopefully years to come, you will hear my voice radiating from the mountain tops. While Mr Simmons acts as the flesh and blood, the substance. While I speak his word, he will dismantle, one by one, this world that has been built around him!”
The television and the light pouring down on it dies immediately, sending the shot into complete darkness. After a moment, the darkness is replaced with a flash a brilliance as the once empty room lights up to reveal a large stage with rather extravagant decorations of bright white pillars, a long red carpet leading up to a dark mahogany pulpit where Gibson stands bathed in light while donning a rather vibrant and shiny priest outfit, pure white from top to bottom.
“So, you must ask yourselves, WCF galaxy!” Gibson raises his hand into the air, “while you sit in your beautiful homes, with your fancy cars, and your wonderful lives, will you be ready? For while you might share the title of ‘wrestler’, much as dandelion and a rose share the name of ‘flower’, can you say you share the same tenacity, the same hunger, and the same skill as The Stone Crow? Will you be able to look him in the eye as he stares you down and say, without any doubt, that this will end well for you? Are you a wrestler the way the Rose is a flower, or does your veins twist like the roots of the despicable weed which tries to unfairly share the same name?
“More importantly! If you CANNOT answer this question while sitting inside of your BEAUTIFUL HOME with your FANCY CAR, will it keep you up at night? Will sleep come easy or with a fight? Will you look around you and wonder if these walls you’ve built around yourself have KEPT you down, have WEAKENED your mind? And maybe, you will start to ask yourself do I DESERVE these things? What have I done to get here?
“Will you be able to answer confidently? Will you be able to face the truth as it stares you in the face and asks you for a fight, because that truth will look you in the eye and give you the answers you couldn’t give yourself!” A red velvet curtain behind Gibson is pulled aside to reveal a chorus of jovial people of color singing “One Day at a Time” by The Talking Heads, the closest thing to a ‘gospel’ track that Gibson knew, “And you, Teo! For you there is no question! Time has come to call for you to find out the truth!”
The real truth being that I hate the entire presentation. Its loud, obnoxious and takes so much time to say nothing. Gibson said it was important to speak to the ‘animalistic’ and ‘emotional’ mind of the audience. That it need not be logical, but speak on a deeper abstract level.
But…
Hmm…
If I had the chance, I would tell Teo that I wished him well in everything he chose to pursue after this match, but I spent a lifetime wishing to see someone like holding a title on national television, and knowing that it might be me and I could be that someone for another kid who might be growing up in a shit family, or without any form of support, that more than anything makes me wish nothing but misfortune for him for the week leading up to the match, that he remain sleepless, that he hits every red light, and that he misses every possible opportunity to over take me. Nothing personal, but I want him to understand what an opportunity like this means to me.
But…
No,..
He’ll just see this. A silly presentation, a silly concept. It means the world to Gibson, so I let him do it, because he never got the chance to do something on this scale before, having been stuck in the world of indy hell. If we’re going to burn together, there is no reason we shouldn’t live like stars until then. Thus is my love for broken things.
“So, how did it go?” Alicia says a couple minutes after wrap as I walk out the studio door.
“It was fun, I guess,” I shrug, I peer over at her, “I once watched Biohazard spit acid on a book...so it is only marginally less silly than that…”
“It’s not what you want though?”
“What I don’t want is to be looked at as some sort of odd mute,” I rub my forehead, “I want Teo to have the same respect for me as I do for him. I want this to work out. I’ve struggled for years not having anything close to a direction, and now that I have one, why should I complain? This is how it works, right?”
Alicia remains quiet as I shake my head and walk away, the only sound filling the air being the deconstructing the set and carrying it out piece by piece, highlighting its synthetic nature. Empty..
As if yelled at by mother not to stand too close to the screen for fear of burning out its retinas, the view starts to pull back and the infinitesimal details begin to converge, the projection forming something vaguely human. Eventually the small dots pull together to show an unfamiliar face sporting a rather smug smirk, one Tobias Gibson. As the reveal shows the newly hired manager standing center screen, the edges of the shot distort, bending back as the glass of the screen curves. Nothing shares the screen with him besides a perpetual blackness which extends forever behind him.
“Mr. Blaze,” the voice of Gibson plays through the speakers of the television set with minor distortion, “It was once said ‘give onto Caesar what is Caesar’s’, and now more than ever I feel it is just to give the current reign its due. So many names over time - Del Sol, Blaze, Teo, Teddy - but all with one singular result; drawing the immense eye of the public onto something so oft overlooked as the Television championship. Praise he who can hold a title and truly call himself a champion, a moniker which asks itself much of its wearer, but so few can live up to.
“So boring are most title holders, wouldn’t you agree? Sad and pathetic little things that leach off of the gold and try to claim themselves akin to true greatness, and while the audience at large might see truth in their words, such veterans of the industry as ourselves see with all transparency what substance is lacking behind the facade they carry. So empty. So sad.
“But not you, my dear optimist, not you,” a bar of distortion rolls up the screen, reminiscent of a worn VHS, as Gibson smiles widely, “You’ve been something special on the title scene, even if something of a sleeper under the grander title changes having taken place lately. Others dwell in the legacy and names that created their base, but in providing a proper goal for not only yourself but the company as a whole, you’ve created your own domain which has led you to holding not just one belt, but two. Two grand reigns. Trust me the gravity of your ‘King of All Media’ moniker has not been lost on me.
“The competition must ALWAYS be elevated. Evolution will weed out weakness and place upon it the proto-gods which will lead the future, and I thank you deeply for being the first to place your head on the altar for us.”
The camera pulls back farther to reveal the edges of the television box itself and beyond it a dark room with a singular light beaming down from an unseen source illuminating not only the set, but myself, Robert Simmons, standing behind the television in my typical street clothes. The light dies just right around me, as the room - stretching beyond what the camera can pick up - sits in shadow.
“Teo Blaze, we say that without any sense of jest,” I cross my arms over the set, professing a sincere sentiment, “This does not fall onto title alone. Before becoming a proud member of this roster, a number of years were spent watching as a fan on the sidelines. I remember feeling PALPABLE ANGER when John Gable, in his mass hysteria and egomania, broke the record for longest TV title reign, and then experiencing it all over again when John Rabid did the same. I remember your first match here, maybe more than you do. To me, for years, you were this entity, and even now, despite being able to see you face to face, something about you strikes me as larger than life. If anyone not only could break John Rabid’s reign, but should, I would throw your name in that hat...
“...If I weren’t here.”
“You see,” Gibson continues, “something interesting is happening here.. See if you can follow me on this one, boy. Walking into WCF, we became ensnared in a humiliation so few would survive. Best to leave out the details, but imagine looking up at a world you’ve dreamed of being a part of for years, and just as the gleam hits your eyes and the realization of a lifelong dream is taking place, you see shit slinged down at you by a group of self-congratulating has-beens and suits, watching them laugh as your morning morphs into a disdainful and long night. Imagine it and think, what should a talent want more than to continue to climb up and burn the mountain clean.
“So, a mere week later, my client found himself standing across the ring from the one-and-only-former-world-champion-and-future-hall-of-famer Bonnie Blue in what SHOULD have been a forgone conclusion, another joke from the laughing on high, but what is failure if not a great fuel for success. The gears of fate turn in their funny little way, changing a quiet domination of another new talent by an established star into the upset of the night, and now we sit one rung higher on the ladder with a new feather in our headdress and a good story to tell.
“Time passes and we see ourselves pitted against another giant household name in the canon of this company’s illustrious history, and now the laughing has stopped, the shit slinging is no more, because now the scene has gone deadly serious. Do you see it? The beginning of a wonderful path, one where this company makes a mockery of The Stone Crow himself and we decide to in-act our revenge by tearing down, one banner at a time, the legends and myths that make up this wonderful pantheon of WCF greats.
“See, this rather minimalist set-up is all to illustrate a rather simple point; I am the voice, the concept, the flash. For the weeks, months and hopefully years to come, you will hear my voice radiating from the mountain tops. While Mr Simmons acts as the flesh and blood, the substance. While I speak his word, he will dismantle, one by one, this world that has been built around him!”
The television and the light pouring down on it dies immediately, sending the shot into complete darkness. After a moment, the darkness is replaced with a flash a brilliance as the once empty room lights up to reveal a large stage with rather extravagant decorations of bright white pillars, a long red carpet leading up to a dark mahogany pulpit where Gibson stands bathed in light while donning a rather vibrant and shiny priest outfit, pure white from top to bottom.
“So, you must ask yourselves, WCF galaxy!” Gibson raises his hand into the air, “while you sit in your beautiful homes, with your fancy cars, and your wonderful lives, will you be ready? For while you might share the title of ‘wrestler’, much as dandelion and a rose share the name of ‘flower’, can you say you share the same tenacity, the same hunger, and the same skill as The Stone Crow? Will you be able to look him in the eye as he stares you down and say, without any doubt, that this will end well for you? Are you a wrestler the way the Rose is a flower, or does your veins twist like the roots of the despicable weed which tries to unfairly share the same name?
“More importantly! If you CANNOT answer this question while sitting inside of your BEAUTIFUL HOME with your FANCY CAR, will it keep you up at night? Will sleep come easy or with a fight? Will you look around you and wonder if these walls you’ve built around yourself have KEPT you down, have WEAKENED your mind? And maybe, you will start to ask yourself do I DESERVE these things? What have I done to get here?
“Will you be able to answer confidently? Will you be able to face the truth as it stares you in the face and asks you for a fight, because that truth will look you in the eye and give you the answers you couldn’t give yourself!” A red velvet curtain behind Gibson is pulled aside to reveal a chorus of jovial people of color singing “One Day at a Time” by The Talking Heads, the closest thing to a ‘gospel’ track that Gibson knew, “And you, Teo! For you there is no question! Time has come to call for you to find out the truth!”
The real truth being that I hate the entire presentation. Its loud, obnoxious and takes so much time to say nothing. Gibson said it was important to speak to the ‘animalistic’ and ‘emotional’ mind of the audience. That it need not be logical, but speak on a deeper abstract level.
But…
Hmm…
If I had the chance, I would tell Teo that I wished him well in everything he chose to pursue after this match, but I spent a lifetime wishing to see someone like holding a title on national television, and knowing that it might be me and I could be that someone for another kid who might be growing up in a shit family, or without any form of support, that more than anything makes me wish nothing but misfortune for him for the week leading up to the match, that he remain sleepless, that he hits every red light, and that he misses every possible opportunity to over take me. Nothing personal, but I want him to understand what an opportunity like this means to me.
But…
No,..
He’ll just see this. A silly presentation, a silly concept. It means the world to Gibson, so I let him do it, because he never got the chance to do something on this scale before, having been stuck in the world of indy hell. If we’re going to burn together, there is no reason we shouldn’t live like stars until then. Thus is my love for broken things.
“So, how did it go?” Alicia says a couple minutes after wrap as I walk out the studio door.
“It was fun, I guess,” I shrug, I peer over at her, “I once watched Biohazard spit acid on a book...so it is only marginally less silly than that…”
“It’s not what you want though?”
“What I don’t want is to be looked at as some sort of odd mute,” I rub my forehead, “I want Teo to have the same respect for me as I do for him. I want this to work out. I’ve struggled for years not having anything close to a direction, and now that I have one, why should I complain? This is how it works, right?”
Alicia remains quiet as I shake my head and walk away, the only sound filling the air being the deconstructing the set and carrying it out piece by piece, highlighting its synthetic nature. Empty..
