it's chilly out....
(CUEUP: “Ego Death” by A Place to Bury Strangers….)
(CUTTO: Black and white footage of Felix Red, sitting in the woods at an arboretum, somewhere in New England. It’s chilly out, he’s huddled up in a black hoodie and tattered jeans, looking thoughtful and somewhat discouraged, taking occasional sips off a can of “JOOSE” energy drink/malt liquor combo, his newest celebrity endorsement….)
FELIX: This record keeps skipping…
The past is never quite far enough behind us, and the future is unfolding and falling to ridiculous pieces before our very eyes….I have seen the true face of Gamma-O, and have been predictably underwhelmed. I am no stranger to madness and the whimsical nature of space-time.
I have also seen the true face of evil, and given it a brief kiss on the cheek, and patted its silly head. I have met God, and offered him a line, which he accepted before dropkicking me off his cloud, sending me plummeting back to earth.
Not quite hell. Not quite not hell, either…
Were hardwired to fill little family roles in social circles. And this was especially true with LOVE – my father was absentee, my mother died, I was looking for replacements – But I probably wasn’t the only one. Weird that in all the time we spent together, I never asked about any of your families….Now that I think about it, I’m don’t think I ever asked you to tell me about yourself at all, Psycho…
So what do I need to know now? Well, you were a student of the late-great Hellion, you used to be WFW champion way back before you weren’t. You’re all into blood and violence and pain and you don’t care if you get hurt ‘cause you’re hardcore and so on and so on. One thing I almost respect about you, is, well...think about the likes of Anarky and Golem, who also like violent things, are constantly moaning about how that makes them such awful people but they can’t help it because they’re reflections of this damaged society and blublublahblah….Dr. Horrible’s f(bleep)king Wrestlingeek.com blog….Over and over, tens of thousands of times. Oh…those silly people we delude ourselves into thinking we are.
You don’t seem like you’ve ever thought very hard about yourself, Psycho. You’re not concerned with the socio-cultural implications of yourself. You merely are. I’m not sure if that’s a strength or a weakness.
For the here and now….I suppose it’s both. I like my psychobabble, speaking in riddles, attacking my opponents’ identity before I do the head-kicky thing, but how do I play mind games with someone in a state of perpetual gnostic no-mind? Like a frenzied, ritual trance. Like a speedball. Like the moments of an orgasm. It’s like you’re always and never unconscious. You’re awake, and you’re moving around – but there is no you, or at least there isn’t as much of you are there is of the rest of us…
You don’t really need to speak or think, the way the rest of us do. The violence is really all that matters to, and about you.
Meaning, you have no charisma, hence our shared-membership of Team Midcard.
Your mental non-existence means you have no psychological weaknesses, but your entire nature is one big liability against itself.
This isn’t me insulting you, this isn’t me calling you washed up, this is just the cold unforgiving reality – like a chair to the head, like a fork to the forehead, like the sound your neck makes when you botch one-too-many high spots…The bulb that burns most brightly burns half as long. Your lust for violence, which borders on psychosexual and a little creepy, may be strong as ever. But the real reason it took you so long to get back in the world title picture is your body’s held together with flimsy aluminum rods and electrical tape.
If you don’t walk away from this one, Psycho...Afterwards, I’ll add you to the list of storied careers I’ve ended. I’ll talk about how I, once and for all, destroyed the mighty American Dangerman. To impress groupies. To intimidate future opponents. I will say these things. But chances are, I’ll be lying. Chances are, if you can’t eat or breathe without the use of machinery after this, if you’re reduced to a useless cyborg, it’ll probably be your own fault. Because you didn’t know when to walk away. When enough was enough. When it was time to stop testing the limits….
…..Well, that’s probably not true either.
Probably, the truth is you already know you should’ve stopped pushing your luck a long time ago. But you don’t care. That, I actually do kind of admire.
That part of you actually wants to die in the ring, I can respect….You might be suicidal, but not out of narcissistic self-pity. Because you know you’re gonna die anyway, and you might as well go out on a high note, or should I say, high spot….
But none of that makes you capable of beating me.
You’re not faster than me. You’re not stronger than me. You’re definitely not smarter than me. You’re not even more dangerous than me.
Not only am I still young, spry, and resilient, but so much money’s been invested in my marketability, I can do pretty much whatever I want without suffering meaningful consequences. It only looks like I’m some sort of daredevil. Something happens to me, they’ll hire Gregory f(bleep)king House to come and patch me up to make sure I can get up and do it all again next weekend. And it only hurts for a little while. It’s just a place in time.
It only looks like I’m taking risks. I don’t care about the consequences, but it wouldn’t make a difference if I did. There basically aren't any.
Meanwhile, there’s you, Psycho, and…..I mean…cripes, do you even have health insurance?
You want a lot of blood and gore. You want a lot of pain and weapons and explosions and whatever. You want to look up at who ever shows up to visit you in the hospital, and though your jaw will be wired ****, maybe you can write on a piece of paper - “I came sooooo close….”
You want a legacy?
You’ve come to the right place, spunky.
You want to be champion?
Don’t get your f(bleep)king hopes up….