[FADE IN – to a cowering, quivering sheet? In the darkness of the scene, where only a single lamp, askew off camera, shines, there is quite clearly a quivering sheet, shivering as crashes, thunder, rain and gunfire sound off in the distance. The voice emanating from the safety of the sheet is scared, afraid… or is it?]
ME: Oooooh, now I’m scared. Mr Rochester DeLion, the guy who likes ta call me “Steph-o”, is havin’ ta resort ta swearin’, an’ common bully-boy tactics like insultin’ the way I talk. What ever will I do? He’s gonna tear me limb from limb! He’s meaner now than he’s ever been! He’s stopped the bad storyline and now he’s focused on his God sized fists of steroi… I mean, hammering fists.
He’s God, am I’m a mere mortal… I’m scared! He’s going to win… roll the tape!
[The voice changes, as the scene itself changes to match. We’re being given a story – and it’s going to be an interesting one at that]
Picture, if you will, a dark, dank alleyway in a heavy downpour. Litter and wooden pallets are strewn about the narrow passageway, and a dumpster sits proud of the crumbling wall to your left. Nothing breaks the steady drumming of the rain, as it flows freely in the gutters, down the drainpipes and along the road like a raging river, before cascading down like miniature Niagara Falls into the sewers. There is no light in the alleyway with you, but you can just make out the orange glow of street lamps up ahead. Quickly, pulling the collar of your heavy, full length coat over your head to try and stay dry, you run towards it, the water splashing cold at your legs, your soaked corduroy trousers snapping against your calves, making you think, by the trickle of water going down to your heel that you’ve cut yourself deeply. You run as fast as you can, looking to get to a taxi, a hotel, some doorway that you can stand under until the worst of the rain has stopped.
Your breath comes hot and fast, steaming the instant it hits the air as a thick fog chokes you. Your gloves are drenched, offering your hands no further protection, as you turn with each and every heavy step, wading through the night-air, head towards the end of the alley.
A bang, and you’re against the wall, covered in dust, in debris, covering your head in fear and terror. No, not a bang – that doesn’t adequately describe the force of the explosion, nor the impact of the shockwave that sent you straight into the right hand wall. Your left leg is numb, and your body is in total shock – except your left ear, which has been made deaf and useless by the proximity of the blast. Your head starts to throb, as you reach up to your right temple, peering at your gloved fingers and smelling your own blood, trickling down your left leg into your shoe, trickling down your head, as feeling slowly returns to your right arm – your shoulder feels like the very shoulder blade itself has been snapped.
You reach down, crying out in pain, as you realise some of the debris has lodged itself in your left calf – the source of the blood in your shoe. You try to shift it, but can’t – it’s stuck, right the way through. Try as you’d like to, it won’t be moving.
A flicker of light in the corner of your left eye – and the sound of an alarm! Your wits are returning as the shock wears off, and above the alarm, you can hear voices, shouting to each other.
“Hurry up! The cops’ll be here soon!”
“I’m movin’ as fast as I can, you’re the one who set too much damn explosive! You could’ve killed us!”
“Shut up and get on with it, we haven’t got any time!”
“Hey! There’s a guy in the alleyway!”
They’ve seen you! Your heart races, your breath caught in your throat as you try and hide, try to huddle up into a ball – but your leg is still trapped, pierced through… your mind races, trying to think what to do, what the voices are doing, why it had to be tonight, of all nights, when you were going to propose to your sweetheart –
Her face comes to you. The flaming red hair, cascading over her right shoulder, leaving one side of her thin, slender neck exposed – her porcelain skin shimmering as she passes by the standing lamp by the drinks cabinet. She’s wearing that dress. That white dress, close-fitting, her shoulders exposed. It’s low cut, has no back – her skin is so perfect. She’s wearing make-up again – a faint, seductive eye-shadow in pale blue to offset her eyes. She’s wearing lipstick again, a deep, dark, full cherry-red. She’s wearing perfume – a sweet scent, wafting on the breeze caused by the open window. She smiles – oh what a smile! Your heart pounds as her supple fingers gently take a wine glass from the cabinet, and she starts walking towards you – her dress fluttering, her heels clinking on the wooden floorboards – you look down, and her ankles are bare, the bottom of her calves visible – her thin, slender, supple legs! She’s coming closer with each step, and you stand as you often have, mesmerised by her beauty, a beauty that none can match, her perfume getting stronger and stronger with each step. She hands you your drink, her hazel eyes flickering in the low light, as she gazes into yours – your heart stops. She’s just below your level, only a couple of inches shorter than you, but she makes up for that by gently, confidently gliding one hand across your cheek, down the side of your neck, tracing a finger down your spine, before she gently pulls you closer, closer towards her full lips and
“What’re we gonna do, boss?”
The voices! They’ve seen you!
“Grab the loot and get in the car. C, grab that guy and get him in the car too, we needa know why he was here.”
“But boss”
“Just do it! Don’t argue an’ do it!”
One of the figures comes towards you, silhouetted in the dust. A light shines full in your eyes, and you instinctively raise one hand to cover your eyes. You hear the cloth of his coat shift as he raises one arm up high
[The scene cuts back to the quivering blanket]
ME: Keep going, I’m still too scared to talk… the Rocko-man’s gonna get me!
[The scene cuts back to the story, the deep resonance of the narrators voice bringing every emotion detailed alive within you, the humble viewer]
When you awake, your mouth dry, your head pounding, it takes your eyes several moments to acclimatise to the room you’re in. There is very little light, and you have to squint your eyes to make out even the shape of the chair nearby, a chair that, on its back, has your coat. Beyond it, in the darkness, you can just make out the outline of a man – but it moves so quickly across the opposite wall that you think for a moment it must be a spider, no man can move that fast.
“Boss, ’e’s awake.”
The door opens, and a lightswitch is pulled. The click is followed by the hum of a striplight, a low-powered one whose best service is definitely behind it by some years. The sudden brightness takes you by surprise, hurts your eyes as you again try to shield yourself.
“Now, pal,” says the voice you recognise as Boss. “Wha’were’ya doin’ back there, huh? Who tipped you off pal?”
“urgh,” your voice has abandoned you for a moment, your throat feeling like someone has rammed mile upon mile of barbed wire through it in every direction imaginable. A sharp blow cuts across your cheek, and you bite your lip, spitting blood and a tooth onto the cold, hard floor below. You open your eyes after the initial shock, and see the stained, filthy mattress you’ve been laying on. As you try to move to a seated position, your eyes still trying to focus, you wince in pain as the open wound on your leg comes into contact with some fabric – you hope it’s a bandage of some sort, because the infection you’ll get from the mattress would surely kill you.
“What were you doin’ back there?”
“I was…” your voice is weak, “trying to get home.”
“Don’t play games with me, no-one uses that alleyway ‘cept the rats. Who tipped ya off?”
“I was… trying… home.”
Another blow. You can feel something biting into your left cheek – in all likelihood, the man is wearing a heavy ring.
“He ain’t gonna talk, boss. We shoulda finished him off right there an’then.”
“Shut up, C.” You’re lifted into a seated position, your eyes swelling shut, your hair feeling like it’s being torn out in clumps, flesh and all. “Now, why were you there?”
“I was...”
A swipe, a rush of air – and a cut, a slice with a knife on your cheek. Your heart skips a beat, before rushing again, the smell of fresh blood quickly filling your nostrils above the putrid smell of damp and decay in the room.
“Boss, we pulled off the job, the cops ain’t gonna get us – just leave this guy alone, he’ll be dead in less than an hour from that leg wound, he ain’t gonna squeal.”
“Idiot – if one guy was there then the cops were onto us! No-one uses that damned alley.”
Alley? Yes, you remember an alley. It had been raining. An explosion, pain, panic.
ME: OK, that’s enough.
[The scene changes again. Mr Entertainment is standing next to the quivering blanket, the lights on fully, and an old vinyl player by his side. He presses a button, and the arm rises, moving back to rest. He lifts the blanket, throwing it to one side, as we see a machine, quivering and vibrating, and a digital dictafone. He presses a button to turn it off, then stands, arms crossed, and an annoyed look on his face]
ME: Ya know, if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s guys like Rocko. Guys who call someone up on something, then go off an’ do the exact same thing. Guys who say the same thing as so many other guys it ain’t funny. It's got to the point that I'm not even gonna try an' make some kinda deeply metaphorical skit like people've come to expect, because Rocko can't even get simple things, so there's no chance he'd get somethin' like I put out against Rex Calibre or way back when I wrestled Mark Matix and GoP.
Let me guess - you’re like that guy who goes around pullin’ the beard off Santa in the malls of America, ta prove to the little kiddies that Santa Claus doesn’t exist? If so, let’s pull the whole costume off fer a few minutes.
Ya wanna go talk to Richard Fleihr? Terry Bollea? Stone Cold Steve Williams? Mark Calloway? Paul Levesque? Are you part of the Voodoo Kin Mafia now?
Tell me, Rocko – what is it about the fact I use a ring name that makes it obvious I’m using a pseudonym that gets ya goat? What is it that gets under your skin, Rochester DeLion? Or do you really care so little about this industry that you have ta go around, chest all puffed up, an’ break the code of what the biggest part of this industry is?
The ENTERTAINMENT factor.
Remember that? Gettin’ folks ta come in and watch the matches? Ya know, since I came in, New ERA’s ratings are through the roof. Since you came in an’ started whackin’ people with chairs when ya wife announced she was pregnant? You’ve added not one ratings point. How do I know?
I called the office an’ got copies of the ratings sent to me.
What, you thought I was talking about the time in Empire Pro you chickened out of a triple threat match by whacking a couple of people with chairs? Please. Since you’ve been in New ERA, you’ve done the exact same things you did in Extremely Poor Wrestling. The only thing left for ya ta do is lose yer smile again.
Which knowin’ you will happen after I beat you at RAUCOUS. Because that’ll break yer hundred per cent singles ratings, an’ we know ya’ll can’t stand that.
What, two matches an’ yer impressed with ya’self? Granted, one of them was against me, the only guy here who cares enough about the fans ta actually wanna make other people look good, but still.
But that’s the thing with you. You don’t care about the fans. All you care about is yer precious win – loss record. I don’t care about mine. I care about gettin’ ratings fer the company, so I’m happy ta make the people they wanna look good, look good. An’ the best way ta make you look good? Deliberately lose.
Yes fans, that’s right. Since Rochester wants ta break kayfabe by calling me by real name, like a poor-mans Matt Hardy, then I’m gonna let you in on a secret.
I threw the match against him last time. I also jumped at Battlebrawl when Shawn Hart, not Rochester DeLion, pulled down the top rope. I let others take centre stage, havin’ pulled off some of the biggest moves of the entire match! No fewer than two superplexes? In a battle royal?
Because I care about you, the fans. I care about the people I work with in this company. I want them ta be able ta get a decent pay cheque, here, in New ERA, ta mean they don’t have ta dilute themselves by goin’ off inta other feds, weakening their potential drawing power.
Did I just deliberately drop my natural accent to force out some g’s? Wow. What will the schoolyard bullyboy do now? He can’t make fun of me because of how I talk.
Is that what you’ve grown up to, Rocko? Tryin’ ta pull people up because of how they speak? Is that the big bad Rocko Daymon?
Please. You’re absolutely nothing without people like ME
Mister Entertainment
Going out of our way ta put you over.
Now, let’s go through your latest crap, an’ set a few records straight.
My biggest challenge in the wrestling world? MWG. Not you, not Promo, not Frankie Scott, or IrishRed. MWG.
Why did I let ya win last time? Because of the same reason I let MWG get a couple wins over me. The same reason I let Rex Calibre get a win over me in TEAM. The reason I let people win is because I want people ta care – I want people ta want to see the rematch. I want people ta want ta see what’s gonna happen next. If I go all Bill Goldberg and steamroller over everyone, as you seem ta think ya gonna do, people ain’t gonna give a damn. Ya wanna know why?
Because one of the elements of good ENTERTAINMENT is drama. It’s not knowing what’s gonna happen. It’s why pro wrestling beats boxing fer fan satisfaction – ya never know who’s gonna win. In boxing ya may get an unexpected result every once in a while, but in pro wrestling? You get series between two guys that can go fer months and months, wins being traded back and forth. Ya get title situations where someone narrowly beats the champion in a non-title match, like you did, an’ finds themselves with the chance, the Rocky moment, where they could be HUGE. The little underdog story. And as soon as someone DOES manage ta defeat the long-reigning champ, there’s a huge feeling of “WOW! That was great! What a story!”
So that’s why I let ya win, ta give you the rub. Ta give you, comin’ in ta New ERA of Wrestling, a chance ta make a name fer yerself, outside of other places. Because you’d spread yerself so thin with ya hissy-fits, workin’ fer so many other companies, that fans couldn’t give a damn about you. It’s what made the Chad Dupree cup so interesting at the end – all the guys on team New ERA were seen as New ERA guys. We weren’t like UCW, where ya could tune in ta EPW and see the same guys. We weren’t like MBE, EPW, A1E, or so many other feds, where if ya miss the guy one show, ya tune in on another company later that week. We boosted New ERA’s ratings the same way I did when I made the semi-finals of the TEAM Invitational last year. We didn’t boost other companies ratings by sayin’ “HEY! Catch us on NEW! Or WXW! Or ABC! Or anywhere else in the known universe!”
I wanted ta give you a chance. And I did that by missin’ that high risk move. I did that by takin’ shots from ya. I did that by not fightin’ out of the Brain Rocker Redux, lettin’ ya hit it, an’ walkin’ to the back knowing that I’d just given the fans a show.
An’ at Battlebrawl, when I got back through the curtains? I smiled, because I’d given the fans a show. I smiled because I knew that I had made Shawn Hart, or whoever else went on ta win, a contender by bein’ a part of that match. I went in, TV champion, an’ made the final six. Rather than tryin’ ta make this the Mr Entertainment show, I took the chance ta make other people the stars.
That’s what I’m doin’ here. Boostin’ ratings, makin’ people like you more money, an’ makin’ professional wrestling more ENTERTAINING than ever.
Ya wanna make a big deal out of what you’ve accomplished here in New ERA? A win given to you an’ the last man eliminated at Battlebrawl? Are they enough ta make you a true star of this company, honestly? It makes you a bigger star than ME
Mister Entertainment?
The guy who made the semis of the Chad Merritt, was on the winning team of the Chad Dupree, the guy who holds a victory over GoP, over MWG, over Cameron Cruise… ok, scrap that last one, that guy’s almost as big a loser as you. The guy who’s competed fer this company up and down the road on the houseshow circuit, whilst you sat at home sippin’ yer ice cold drinks and talkin’ ta ya wife?
Oops, sorry – you were off in other companies, spewin’ the same crap as hundreds of others in this business. “I’m great. I’m the best. Everyone else is generic, but oh no, not me, I’m fantastic!”
You don’t even deserve ta lick the boots of the announce team, let alone wrestle in this company.
But I’m gonna go out there and make you look like the star you claim ta be. Because I give a damn about this company. I’ve NEVER claimed ta be anyone or anything other than what I am.
You? You claim ta have turned over a new leaf, when yer sayin’ the same things you’ve been sayin’ fer years. Only difference I can see is you ain’t talkin’ about Clapper every six seconds yet. Seriously, that is the only difference in you.
And yes, I have spent hours going through your back catalogue. I’ve spent hours watching what you’ve said in the past ta make sure I got my facts right, because only one of us seems able ta do that, an’ it ain’t you.
[Mr Entertainment, surprisingly, slips off his jacket, leaning it over the silent machine, as the lights fade, leaving a lone spotlight on him. His voice softens, as it becomes clear we’re looking at the man himself]
ME: Sorry, Rocko, ta use yer ring-name. Unless I wanna put you over by giving you the TV title, you ain’t gonna get it. Hell, I’m still gonna put you over as a mean sonofagun, because that’s what I do. I’m gonna go out there and give the fans the best match of the night, like I always do. Because I care. I want you to be able ta go home ta ya wife and child with a nice fat paycheque. I want the fans ta care about you if ya ever make it ta mainevent, challengin’ fer the World Heavyweight Title. I want, when New ERA and Empire Pro present their joint Pay Per View in March, fer you ta be on it because the fans shout “WE WANT ROCKO DAYMON!”, and not because the bookers feel sorry fer ya.
I want what’s best fer this company. I’m not the ego you are, only carin’ about yer win loss record, throwin’ tantrums when ya don’t get yer own way. Makin’ an impact on ya debut in a company by smashin’ a woman over the head with a chair. You wanna talk about warped logic pal, look at yer own.
Have you really changed? No. Are you really as good as you say? No. Are you any more original than any number of other wrestlers? No.
You’re a sad little boy right now, Rocko. But don’t worry. You’re working with ME
Mister Entertainment.
And I know how ta make ANYONE, even a plank of wood, look good in that ring.
I hope you slept well through this, Rocko. I know what’s gonna happen in yer next spot too. Ya gonna come out an’ say how everythin’ I’ve said is crap. Ya gonna come out an’ say that yer the greatest thing in this company at the moment because of your record thusfar. Ya gonna come out an’ say that I’m boring. Ya gonna come out an’ pull Santa’s beard off again by callin’ me Stepho, or Stephen Forrester.
But bring ya best, Rocko. Because trust me, at RAUCOUS, the world is gonna see just how much I carried yer ass last time, by how I don’t act at times, an’ put you through more pain than yer expectin’. Because this match isn’t about ME
Mister Entertainment
Goin’ over. It’s about puttin’ you over so people care about ya.
It’s about givin’ the fans the best damn match of the night. And that’s only something one man in this match can do, an’ he’s gonna have ta act ta sell ya offence again. That guy?
ME.
Mister Entertainment.
[FADE OUT]
