[FADEIN: Mikey is sitting on a bench in a locker room at the REBEL Underground. Behind him is a REBEL Pro Wrestling banner. He smirks at the camera, takes out a lighter, ignites it, and holds it to the corner of the banner. Flames begin spreading from the corner of the banner towards the center of it. He laughs maniacally and turns to the camera.]
MIKEY: I’ve never been one of those clowns who believed in destiny and fate and all that **** that goes along with it… but lately, well, let’s just say I’m beginning to wonder. Well, first, let me back up and give the TEAM guys a little background. It took me twenty years in this sport, twenty years traveling this country from coast to coast, opening up cards, occasionally wrestling somewhere in the midcard, breaking bones and shedding blood, to realize what a crock of **** professional wrestling is.
[The banner is now almost entirely consumed by flames. Mikey stands up, grabs a side of it that is yet to burn, and rips it down from the wall. He steps on the fire until it is out.]
MIKEY: See, about two years ago, I saw my first REBEL Pro tape. I was ****ing hooked. This was the promotion I wanted to be a part of. **** all the other independent promotions I was pretending to love being a part of. REBEL Pro seemed to be my destiny. I was hardcore. I put myself through tables, fell from ladders, ate glass and **** barbed wire… I figured I was exactly what they were looking for. So I sent in tape after tape and never heard back. That is, ‘til a little over a year ago, I got a call. They gave me one chance to prove myself. I rose to the occasion. In my first few matches, I cemented myself to the REBEL Pro audience. I defined hardcore. I brought that **** to a new level.
MIKEY: I never cared about titles or victories… I was there for the fans. I was there to make sure they had a good time, that they got their money’s worth. I didn’t give a **** if I left the arena missing pints of blood. Hell, I didn’t even care that I couldn’t afford the health care to treat me. As long as the REBEL Pro fans were happy, I was happy. Then, a few months ago, I realized The Truth. It took something of a mental breakdown to make me realize the Truth of that company, hell, of this entire industry. The fans didn’t care about me. They didn’t care about Mikey Massacre. No, they just wanted to see me bloody and broken. They wanted to see me jump from a balcony through a table. They just wanted to see barbed wire pierce my skin and put holes all over my body. You know who they TRULY loved? They truly loved the ****s who didn’t care about them, the ones who only cared about titles and win-loss records. ****ing injustice, right? There I was, caring about each and every one of them, putting life and limb on the line day in, day out… and they liked the OTHER guy? ****ing bull****.
[Mikey unrolls a TEAM banner and hangs it up in place of the REBEL Pro banner.]
MIKEY: Since that realization, since I realized The Truth of that company and this industry, I’ve been doing my damndest to **** over REBEL Pro Wrestling every chance I get. I’m going to take that company down. I’m going to make it fall to my knees. And TEAM? You’re no different. Once The Truth is revealed, once the hypocrisy and bull**** that built this industry is shown to the world, this entire industry is going to collapse. Mark my words. MARK MY ****ING WORDS!
[Mikey takes out the lighter. This time it's the corner of the TEAM banner that is beginning to burn.]
MIKEY: The other week, I saw I was facing Rocko Daymon in the first round of the tourney. I couldn’t ****ing believe it. In many ways, Rocko, you’re the Bizarro World copy of me. Because, on one hand, you’re similar to me: bearded, hairy as ****, about the same age, been in this industry about the same amount of time. But, on the other hand, you’re different from me: you’ve won world titles. Hell, you’ve won titles all over this damn country. You’re a ****ing household name. And the biggest difference of all? You have yet to see The Truth… You just came back from that career-threatening injury for what? To put your career and your life on the line AGAIN… for WHAT? For the approval of THEM? For the approval of those idiots who pay to see your career and life threatened AGAIN? Why, Rocko? Why? **** that EPW title. **** those fans. **** TEAM. **** this industry. Rise above it, Rocko…
[Mikey rips down the TEAM banner and throws it to the floor. He stomps the fire out.He turns back to the camera, a sadistic grin on his face.]
MIKEY: See, Rocko, there’s where destiny might be coming in. Putting two veterans in a match together, one-on-one, to highlight the distinctions between us, to show how one of us is enlightened and the other is still stuck in the fog of the lies and the bull**** that this industry thrives on. Do I expect you to listen to me? No, probably not. Do I expect anyone in TEAM or anyone who watches TEAM to listen to me? No, probably not. But, will I try? Hell ****ing yeah! Until I die, I am going to be traveling this country, wrestling wherever and whenever I can, delivering The Truth. And one day, maybe after I am dead, The Truth will be realized and this industry—REBEL Pro, EPW, TEAM, all of it!—will collapse unto itself. And on that day, whether I am on this earth or somewhere else, I am going to smile for the first time in a LONG ****ing while. And on that day I will have made my greatest contribution to this planet and to all of humanity. Professional wrestling is a virus. And I, Rocko, am its ****ing cure.
(Fade into blinding white light, so intense it nearly burns the eyes. In the background, there is the sound of indistinct ambience, seemingly like an ocean of noise. Then, within moments, the picture begins to focus. The light is coming from bright, high-powered lamps seemingly suspended in the heavens, and the noise soon morphs into the din of screams and cheers.)
(There's something else that can be heard, more distinct... it sounds like lyrics.)
"Love is a burning thing
"And it makes a fiery ring
"Bound by wild desire
"I fell into a ring of fire"
(The camera pulls back, and the all too familiar beams of red white and blue come into the frame. Ropes. Below that, a snowy white sheet that cuts off sharply. Canvas. The scene is becoming obvious now as the camera begins slowly spinning around, the sound of cheering fans getting louder and louder by the second.)
"I fell into a burning ring of fire
"I went down, down, down
"And the flames went higher"
(The spinning accelerates until the ropes and lights become a swirling blur. The cheering grows into sheer cacophony.)
"And it burns, burns, burns
"The ring of fire
"The ring of fire"
(Abrupt cut to black. Everything goes quiet.)
(Until the same Johnny Cash ballad can be heard again, this time in the form of a whistle. Fade in again, the camera now positioned on the outside of a completly different and obviously cheaper ring. Sitting on a stool in the very center is the whistler, placid in the murky light shining down from above him.)
(The figure, clad in simple camo cut-off shorts and a brown t-shirt bearing a blood-spattered insignia on his chest, is "THE UNDYING" ROCKO DAYMON.)
(He stops whistling.)
(He looks squarely into the camera. His gaze is synonymous with what many call "the 1000 yard stare.")
Do you make false assumptions about all of your opponents, or am I just getting special treatment?
(He leans forward slightly, arms rest on his knees, and peering into the camera as if he were trying to study it.)
The reason why I ask, Mike, is because though you seem to know who you're up against... it's only a shallow and completely baseless knowledge.
Sure, you're aware of my career highlights and the impact I've made on this industry... which is nothing the average shmuck couldn't scrape up himself off of Wikipedia. But what gets me is this notion you have of who I am, why I came back, and what my intentions are.
I think it just shows that in spite of all the second hand information you have on me, you truly know NOTHING of what I symbolize to this industry. You know nothing of my motives... my desires... or my sacrifices. Because you wasted the last ten years of your life throwing yourself through tables and onto tacks just to please a mere handful of snobbish indie wrestling fans, while I went on to pack arenas across the globe and define myself as a professional wrestling superstar, you somehow come to the conclusion that you hold some sort of infinite knowledge over me and the rest of this industry.
You couldn't be more wrong, Mikey.
(He stands up, legs shoulder-distance apart and hands in his pockets. He still gives the camera a look as if he were a scientist peering down upon a rat trapped in a maze.)
But believe me... I know about "The Truth."
The true life of a professional wrestler is severely different from how its often been glamorized to be. Slowly, the world is beginning to realize that we're not invincible supermen fighting for truth, justice, and the American way; we're all drug-addicted, tempermental failures, and the only way that we know of to scrape our way through the torment of life is to fight.
That's why we do what we do. It isn't for the adoration of the fans or the luxurious lifestyle that you see on TV. We bust heads on a nightly basis for the simple fact that it's the only thing in life we know how to do well.
Every wrestler comes to this realization at some point in his career. I learned it years ago, when I realized no matter how hard I tried to win them over, the fans were always going to shun me, because I refused to be something I'm not. So I stopped going into the ring just to please them, and instead I went into the ring to please myself.
Lo and behold, it got me somewhere.
And now, after years of self-destruction for a worthless cause, you up and have this revelation on "The Truth," and you seem to think you have some omnipotent vision that sets you above the guys like me and the few others who were actually able to accomplish something in this sport. But the real truth is that you're finally understanding what so many have understood and accepted before you: the typical wrestling fans are little more than cattle with fat wallets and slim attention spans.
(He shakes his head, slowly. It's not immediately discernable as to whom this gesture is directed toward.)
I didn't come back for the fans, Mikey. I didn't come back for the titles or the money either.
...you want to know why I really came back?
(Something low pipes out from his throat. A chuckle?)
Approximately one year ago, I had everything I could have ever wanted. I had a successful career, a World Title to my name, an estate outside the Tacoma city limits that had a value of $350,000, a beautiful wife, two beautiful children...
But then... a rival of mine, who wasn't too keen on the fact that I put him in his place and walked away twenty pounds heavier, decided to kick me out of a three-story window. I landed on top of a Volvo, dislocating my right shoulder, tearing two ligaments, breaking three legs, and giving myself a concussion that left me comatose for three days. I was lucky. I could have easily broken my spine or my neck and paralyzed myself, but consequence saw it differently.
Regardless, it put me out of action. I disappeared from the wide world of wrestling seemingly overnight. Many people assumed I was gone for good, and that my career was over. Truthfully, I was secluding myself from the outside world. I didn't want to see or talk to anybody... not until I was ready to come back.
(His gaze wanders away from the camera as everything comes back to him.)
If any normal man were in such a situation... he'd probably reconsider his life choice. When faced with something that devastating, he'd probably take a step back and reevaluate his priorities. If I were that sort of man, I probably would have never come back. I would have settled down with the family... probably be in the works of writing a book about my experiences and perspective in the world of professional wrestling.
...but as time wore on, little by little... I began to realize that I wasn't that man. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't put professional behind me. Though physically removed from the sport through this time... mentally, I was still there. It began to overtake me like a sickness.
Understand what I'm trying to say to you, Mike: I was starved to be back in that ring.
Eventually, my desire to be back in the ring began to change me... and before I knew it, I was building a wall around me, cutting msyelf off from everything in my life that ever made me happy. My wife and children became the victims of something they couldn't begin to understand. I understood clearly, though: It was not my destiny to be a family man.
It was my destiny to fight..
(The expression on his face changes slightly, into something resembling a half-smile, though could be easily mistaken for a half-sneer. His eyes find the camera again.)
A few months later, my wife handed me the divorce papers...
...and I breathed a sigh of relief.
I could have fought it... but I knew deep down that it wasn't what I wanted. I let her go... gave her the children, the house, and the fortune. It's the very least she deserves after years of following me around from town to town, watching me destroy myself night after night, hoping that some day I'd give it up and devote myself to her. When the injury changed me, though... she realized it was nothing more than a pipe dream. I had become detached from her and our children, and the realization came that my passion lied not in her... but in this ring.
(He holds out his hands to the four sets of ropes that surround him.)
So I let them go... sacrificing the last thing that made me human.
Now I have nothing...
...but the sport.
(As if this brief monologue has exhausted him, Daymon falls back onto the stool, hands resting on his knees and eyes fixated on the gray canvas at his feet.)
I don't expect you to understand it anymore than you seem to expect anybody to listen to you, but that's the long and short of it, Mikey. And while you piss and moan over inconsiderate fans and talk about how this industry is "bullsh*t", I can't help but sit here and think of everything I willingly gave up just to come back to it. There is no family to hold me back any longer. I've severed the ties and rid myself of the weaknesses that have been my bane for years.
The man that Rocko Daymon was a year ago... he died the second he hit that Volvo. In his place is something so determined and dedicated to this sport that you couldn't even begin to grasp it if you tried, Mikey.
(He looks back into the camera with grave importance.)
So, Mike... the next time you think to yourself as to where I stand in this industry... know that I'm on your side. I'm completely against the tailoring of this sport in a way that adheres to consumerism and spectacles and the demands of average people who don't know the first thing about fighting, but like to watch and judge it just the same. Telling me it's all "bullsh*t" is just preaching to the choir.
But there's something else about this sport that you have yet to grasp. It's beyond simply pleasing the fans, or winning titles, or win-loss records. It all has to do with that innate desire every human has to hurt his own kind. Without this sport, Mikey, we are nothing... just overly aggressive assh*les with no decent place in a politcally correct society. Maybe if you spent all that time and effort bleeding and breaking yourself in every which way just to get a thrill from a few insignificant fans and actually committed yourself to the competition, you would have figured it out by now.
None of that bodes well for you or your mission as we enter this match. While we do come from two completely different worlds, this isn't simply a battle between "truth" and ignorance... not on the level you think it is, anyway. I'm going to show you in that ring, slowly and painfully, what really seperates you from me.
Things a man like you who has dedicated the majority of his life doing hardcore stunts just to please fans couldn't help to understand.
You are facing a man who has devoted the rest of his mortal life to the art of fighting... not simply because the people betrayed him, or his family walked out on him, but because he has looked into the TRUE face of destiny and realized what he really is.
I fight for myself, Mikey...
...and therefore, only I will enjoy seeing you fall.
(He lowers his head, again gazing to the canvas, lost in thought. The camera slowly pulls back as we can hear the ambience of cheering fans coupled with "Ring of Fire". Rocko Daymon hears the ghosts of all the fans that once cheered his name... and willingly ignores them. Fade to black.)
[FADEIN: Mikey is sitting on a locker room bench, the same one we saw him on before. There is no banner behind him this time. It's just him, a camera and an invisible cameraman.]
MIKEY: Sorry, TEAM fans. I've got no music for you. Can't afford the license. And I've got no trippy camerawork. That cameraman TEAM sent me said he'd do it for me, but I told him I didn't want to waste my time or his. Because it's time to get down to what I do best... arguing for The Truth.
[Mikey stands up and begins pacing in front of the camera, talking as much to himself as he is to Rocko and the rest of the professional wrestling community.]
MIKEY: Rocko, Rocko, Rocko… you accuse me of being the one who pretends to have all the answers, who pretends to have infinite knowledge, far surpassing that of anyone else…
[He turns to the camera, shrugs and smirks.]
MIKEY: Well, first of all, I do.
MIKEY: Second of all, you claim the same. You act as if you have found this ideal place to be, as if you have finally heard your calling. As if God placed you here to fight and to only fight. And all those other things—your children, your wife, yadda yadda—were just obstacles on your path to this moment of Zen you have finally come to. Give me a ****ing break. Leaving your family behind... for this industry? Jesus, Rocko, you're a sick ****. I hope, for your sake, that this isn’t the philosophical endpoint of your life because you have way more to go. And, though I don’t want to admit it, you have the potential to get there.
[Mikey points to the camera as if Rocko were right there.]
MIKEY: Let me enlighten you some more, buddy. After those cute little tricks with the camera, you accuse me of making false assumptions based on you. Yes, sir, I DID make assumptions based on you. But making assumptions is all we humans do. NOTHING is certain. There ain’t a damn thing in this world you can count on; all we ever have is a best-possible guess. Life’s a poker game, buddy. A world of incomplete information.
[Back to his pacing...]
MIKEY: And besides… I nailed you buddy. You’re exactly who I thought you were. You’re a man in denial. You’re actually closer to The Truth than most guys in this industry, which is both an accomplishment and a tragedy. It’s an accomplishment because you are right there; The Truth is right there in front of you; it takes a special kind of person to get there, and for that much, I applaud you. But it’s a tragedy because you ignore it; you refuse to reach out and seize it into your hands. You’re scared. A perennial *****.
[Mikey stops for a moment, holds his chin as if in deep thought, then smirks and turns to the camera.]
MIKEY: The Undying? Ha! The Unthinking!
[Mikey resumes pacing.]
MIKEY: You also deride those snobbish indie fans as you call them. Hey, buddy, before you go criticizing those snobbish indie wrestling fans… don’t you think for one ****ing second that they’re any different than the fans of EPW, NFW, CSWA or TEAM or whatever-thei****. I want to hear you say it, Rocko. The fans are ALL pieces of ****. They pay to see other men beat the **** out of each other. It isn’t a competition like you claim, Rocko. They aren’t there to watch a sport like basketball or football fans are… they are there to see us shorten our lives. Football is a mean sport, arguably the toughest and most complex of the popular professional sports… but no one could make the argument that the average fan is there to see a career-ending injury.
[The pacing intensifies. Mikey grows more and more animated with his arms.]
MIKEY: You talk about your actual accomplishments in this so-called sport, Rocko. You claim I’ve accomplished nothing. Let me tell you the difference between my success and your success. It isn’t that the titles you’ve won are more respectable than the titles I’ve won. And it isn’t that the promotion you’re at the top of is more respectable than the promotion I’m at the top of. Those are fine arguments and you can make them if you want. The real difference between our successes comes down to one thing: marketability. You, sir, ooze charisma. You’re a good-looking fella. You LOOK like a professional wrestler is SUPPOSED to look. And that’s why, early in your career, you were handpicked to be pushed to the moon. Yes, you were talented. Yes, you earned your championships. But the fact of the matter is that the only difference between where you are and where I am is that you were more marketable than me. For Chrissakes, Rocko, look at me!
[Mikey opens his mouth and moves closer to the camera. He points to his teeth.]
MIKEY: Crooked-as-hell teeth.
[Mikey points to his head.]
MIKEY: Awful hair. Weirdly-shaped skull. Don’t know how to properly trim my beard or my unibrow or my ear hair or my nose hair.
[Resumes hurried pacing...]
MIKEY: Awkward as ****, Rocko. THAT’s the difference between our successes. You put a man with my abilities in your body, with your personality and your charisma, I’ll win the ****ing EPW World Title too!
MIKEY: See, Rocko, that’s another reason this isn’t like professional football or basketball. Granted, Michael Jordon and LeBron James happen to be good-looking folk, but if they had buck teeth and facial psoriasis, is there any doubt in your mind they wouldn’t have still reached the top? You think anyone in the NFL gives a **** what the players they just drafted look like? Of course not. Give me a break, Rocko. This ain’t a damn sport like that.
[Mikey's voice grows louder. It's now as if he has even forgot the camera is even present. His pacing brings him far left of the camera, then far right of the camera, back and forth, to and fro.]
MIKEY: For God’s sake, Rocko, your life proves my hypothesis. You gave your entire life—you gave up what REALLY matters—for this cursed profession. Never in my life have I seen such a perfect example than Rocko Daymon. You are the perfect example of what this industry does to people… chews ‘em up, spits ‘em out… then steps on the remains just for kicks. And its the FANS who are to blame, those soulless pieces of ****. Not just the indie fans, but ALL of them. Don’t pretend that you’ve overcome their influence. Don’t pretend that you’ve risen above their bull****. For God’s sake, Rocko, you deny it, but you sacrificed your children and your wife for THEM. You won’t admit it; you’ll hide under the guise of being a sportsman and being a fighter, but I see you for what you are, Rocko. THEY created this spectacle. If you want to be a true sportsman, a true fighter, find a different industry… because professional wrestling is THEIRS.
[He is behind the cameraman now, though his words are still clearly audible.]
MIKEY: You make the argument that professional wrestlers are the types of people who have no choice but to wrestle… But, once again, you’ve got it all wrong, Rocko. Your premise is flawed. You claim that we are all drug-addicted, temperamental failures, and because of that, we are forced to enter this arena. But, my friend, it isn’t that God cursed certain people with drug addictions and poor temperaments and they all then happened to stagger into the same industry. No, Rocko. Here’s what happened. Various people with athletic ability decided to put that ability to use in a unique way. They fell for the glitz and the glamour, thought they were both competing and entertaining. Then, in various ways and at different lengths of time, the industry turned these well-intentioned people into those drug-addicted, temperamental failures, as you describe them. We all could’ve done something else, Rocko. I didn’t have to fight. I could have been a damn fine accountant. [He is back on camera now, his pacing intensifying even more. His arms now swinging wildly as he emphatically makes each of his points.]
MIKEY: You are proving my hypothesis, Rocko. You entered this sport as an idealist, believing it was all for the fans. Then you realized that they didn’t accept you. The industry began to eat at you. You began to see The Truth. The sad thing, Rocko, is that you realized what The Truth was… yet you were too weak to deal with it appropriately. Instead of standing like I do, calling a spade a spade, telling the industry exactly what it really is, you convinced yourself that there was a sport somewhere within professional wrestling that was legitimate, that this sport could sustain you and nourish you. You’re wrong, Rocko. You’re going to spend your entire career under this guise unless you open your eyes just a bit more, until you look within yourself and realize you are still living under a fallacy. Until you reach out with your hand and seize The Truth. Until then, Rocko… you’re stuck somewhere between the rest of them and me.
[Mikey sits back on the bench, pointing at the camera, his eyes now fixed on it.]
MIKEY: You claim you’ll enjoy seeing me fall at our match. Rocko, you may very well experience that joy. You might pin me—hell, maybe you’ll make me submit—but whatever the outcome, even if your hand is raised, even if you go on to win this God-forsaken tournament, know one thing… I am still ahead of you. I was courageous enough to see The Truth and to embrace it. YOU weren’t.
MIKEY: Whatever happens during our match, even if I leave on a stretcher, there will still be a smile on my face. Because, although you won’t admit it, I’m inside your head. I’m helping you to get to The Truth.
MIKEY: Rocko Daymon, win or lose this insignificant wrestling match, in the things that really matter, I’ve already won… [Mikey drags his fingers across his throat, signalling the camerman to... FADEOUT.]
(Fade in from black with the camera moving with determination down a long, winding hallway. The path, cutting through the backstage of an arena, seems to go on forever. We can hear muted through the walls the sounds of thousands of cheering fans. Something else can be heard, only with crystal-clear clarity...)
"Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
"You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way
"Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
"Waiting for someone or something to show you the way."
(The perspective rounds a corner and comes into the final stretch, with the double-doors at the end of the hall hanging wide open, leading straight into the black abyss of the curtain that seperates the backstage from the rampway leading down to the ring. Just outside, the anxious fans can be heard beckoning for the arrival of their hero. The view advances forward.)
"Tired of lying in the sunshine
"Staying home to watch the rain
"And you are young and life is long
"And there is time to kill today
"And then one day you find
"Ten years have got behind you
"No one told you when to run
"You missed the starting gun."
(The guitar solo to Pink Floyd's "Time" begins to play as the camera plunges straight into the curtains and they part aside. The cheering PEAKS as we're blinded by a thousand lights falling upon the stage...)
(And all at once, silence.)
(Cut away to a view from within the ring, zoomed in directly on the entry-way. Just having emerged through the curtain, into a completely empty arena, is "THE UNDYING" ROCKO DAYMON. Over his head, rather than a colossal video screen, is a simple TEAM banner promoting the first round of the Invitational Tournament's Midwest Division. We're likely in the Nationwide Arena, home of the Columbus Blue Jackets. It's the day before the big event, and now he enters the hallowed grounds that will serve as the setting for his next battle, seemingly getting a good look at the place before he steps through that curtain again tomorrow and finds a packed arena instead of what he sees now. His eyes scan through the empty seats.)
There are few things left in this world that surprise me anymore, but it seems as though every time I come to TEAM, there's always something I see or hear that leaves me shaking my head in wonder. That's to be expected from an organization that serves as a mixing pot of the various styles and cultures that make up this industry. When you book a match between a high-flying luchadore from south of the border and a strong-style puro expert from across the Pacific, you're bound to see something you've never seen before.
Such was the case last night, as I watched Mikey Massacre stomp around in the locker room like a child throwing a tantrum. At one point, I listened to a grown man write off his lack of drive and talent in the ring on account of his weirdly-shaped skull.
(Arms crossed markedly across his broad chest, he looks directly into the camera with a look that can only be called disgust.)
Blaming the entirity of your mundane and stangant career on a lack of "marketability", Mikey, is the typical excuse of someone who has tragically failed at this sport.
(Slowly, he begins advancing down the rampway. It's a simple, rudimentary plank of reinforced aluminum. On any other week, he'd be walking down the more high-quality models that come equipped with tri-colored lights and firework cannons. He descends from the stage to the floor as if he hardly distinguished them. The camera zooms out to keep him in the frame.)
But now I understand you completely. At first, I thought you were nothing more than some run-of-the-mill garbage wrestler griping about not being able to make the fans care about you, in spite of all the tables you've willingly put yourself through just to win them. But now I've realized "The Truth" about Mikey Massacre. The fact is, this is a simple case of jealousy on your part. You're pissed off at wrestlers like ME because we had the ability and the desire to leave the backyards and high school gymnasiums, and you didn't.
(He comes to a stop as he reaches the bottom of the ramp. The camera continues zooming out, very slowly.)
Do you really think I earned the second seed in this division based on my appearance?
(He holds out his right arm and points to it with his left index finger.)
While you're sitting at home, watching the finals as opposed to participating in them, will you wear the smile of someone who think's he's already won and say the same the exact same thing when you see this arm being raised in victory?
(His lowers the arm, and the finger goes directly to the bald gap in the strip of fine hair lining his brow.)
Will you chalk it up to my ability to successfully run a razor blade through the middle of my eyebrows, thus keeping them seperate?
(He scoffs and shakes his head.)
Forget that for a moment, Mike. For the time being, let's just say you're right. Let's pretend that the reason you could never go on to compete in the eyes of the entire world against the very best of the best is all because you're ugly, as opposed to something more believable...
Like being untalented or [/i]unmotivated[/i]...
Or wasting all those precious years trying to win over fans instead of pushing yourself past your full potential.
Even if your bullsh*t was true, people have found ways around simply being hideous to the human eye. Your crooked teeth and unkempt hair are nothing that a cheap mask can't sufficiently hide. That way, you could have even had the always popular "air of mystery" about you. Fans eat that sh*t up like hot cakes. You would have gone much further than you did trying to kill yourself on a weekly basis.
But I think there's something else holding you back that you're either not admitting to completely ignoring altogether. It seems to me like you're simply using your lack of charisma and your fugly face as an excuse for never going far in your lengthy career as a way of throwing people off from the fact that you were never talented enough to make it to the big time. It's about as ridiculous as Michael Bay trying to say his movie Pearl Harbor didn't succeed because of Ben Affleck's hideous ass-chin.
(His lips curl into the same expression caught between a half-smile and a half-sneer. He begins moving around to the side of the ring, the camera panning around to follow him.)
I think it just goes to show how you have only the slightest, most insignificant understanding of the entirity of this industry. You know it only from the point of view of a thick-skulled curtain-jerker working dark matches for the bulk of his career in front of maybe a few dozen fans at every show. "Professional wrestling," to you, is the business of entertaining a few bored hicks by performing a variety of self-destructive stunts. If you ever actually left the Mid-South and travelled abroad, you'd see there was more substance to it than you could ever imagine. Like Japan, where the athletes consider this art to be a SPORT in every sense of the word.
But according to you, there is no "sport." You're basically claiming that the point of destroying yourself over your entire career was to do nothing else than whore yourself out for attention. You've spent the last twenty years of your life treating this art as a sideshow attraction as opposed to seeing it as a sport. You're nothing more than the guy who lets himself get shot in the gut by a cannon. None of that has to do with actual talent or ability... which are the REAL reasons why I've been as successful as I have been.
(He turns to the barricade and clears it in a single, graceful motion. He moves with some unknown purpose through the empty ringside seats to the concrete stairs leading up to the next level.)
There's a distinct difference between sport and spectacle that you've failed to grasp, Mikey. I understand it because I've been everywhere, from unknown indie shows in community rec centers to pay per view events reaching global audiences. I've seen this industry beyond anything you've ever experienced in the two decades you've spent trying to impress fans by breaking your bones and tearing your flesh.
Since my injury, I've decided to shun the spectacle. I'm blind to the fans and the critics and the media that surrounds this industry; my focus is solely on the fulfillment I gain when I leave those who doubted me humbled and speechless. I can tell already that you get no such fulfillment.
(He files through a few rows of seats and falls into one that has a clear view of the ring. He now looks back at the camera from the perspective of a fan, looking from the outside in.)
But what I continue to find ironic about you, Mikey, is how you condemn a sport that you know nothing about... and yet, you're still here.
The fact that you're advertising yourself and willingly participating in this match only defeats your own cause. You're giving those fans you hate a reason to come back and watch you further destroy yourself. You could have accomplished more toward the widespread realization of your moronic "Truth" by sitting at home and b*tching about it on an internet blog.
I want you to ask yourself, Mikey... What can possibly hope to prove by succeeding over everyone else in this Invitational Tournament? Does it mean you were right all along about "The Truth?" Or does it just mean that twenty years of dropping yourself from staggering heights and losing enough blood to give yourself brain damage have made retarded to all logic and resilient to all pain?
(The camera zooms in so that he may fit the frame better. His eyes are intent and sober, like a hunter's, detached and emotionless.)
The real reason why you're here, Mikey, is exactly as I stated before: This is the only thing you know how to do best in life. The sad thing is, apart from the typical flash-in-the-pan stunts, you don't even do it well. And yet, without professional wrestling to give you years of something to reach for, you'd be nothing.
As it turns out, the only one that's looking in the face of "the Truth" and ignoring it directly... is you.
(He leans forward in his seat, clasping hands in front of him. His eyes look even more intense.)
I realize that everything I'm telling you now is going into one ear and right out the other. You don't believe me. You wouldn't believe me even if I laid it out in front of you in black and white print, with illustrations, because you're clearly delusional. Case in point...
You asked why I came back to professional wrestling after a career-threatening injury, and made the blatant mistake of assuming it was because of the fans.
I told you directly that the reason why I came back was because fighting is my chosen destiny. Ever since I was a kid getting picked on in the schoolyard for having a funny name, it's been my life mission to beat the respect out of everyone that's ever tried to walk over me. I willingly gave up my family and fortune in order to have nothing holding me back to distracting me from what I've dedicated myself to doing.
You're response? I'm in denial, and it really is about the fans.
(He shakes his head again, now fully sneering.)
You're a f*cking idiot, Massacre. That's all there is to say there. You've proven you know nothing about me except what your own incorrect assumptions tell you. Arguing with you is pointless, because you're so caught up in your own delusional bullsh*t that nothing I say is going to change the set false opinion you have of me in your disillusioned, f*cked up, and "weirdly-shaped" head.
To answer my own question, yes, you do make false assumptions over your every opponent. As you said it yourself, it's because you're human. Another weak excuse, this time trying to cover for the fact that you clearly have the wrong idea about who I am and what I fight for. A false assumption leads to a false expectation.
And I've been exceeding expectations my entire career, Mikey. You're doing exactly what so many before you have done and have suffered for, by thinking you could outlast me by going into that ring without knowing what you're really in store for.
Nothing I say will change your mind, but I don't care... because I have more efficient, physical ways of convincing people, where words have no weight.
(As he says this, his clenched hands tense together and the knuckles pop audibly.)
Perhaps you haven't noticed that all you've done this week is prattle on about this industry and its fans and how you're going to bring it down. Unfortunately, I've got a different agenda: Kick your ass and move on to the next round. But nothing you have said up to this point, Mikey Massacre, has given me ANY reason to believe that you can stop me from delivering to you a slow, painful destruction. Whether or not "The Truth" exists, Mikey... accusing me of being a victim of this industry doesn't change the fact that I have every intent to step into that ring and make the shape of your skull look just a little more weird than it does now.
You should have just stuck to accounting...
(He leans back in his seat and breaks his focus away from the camera, gazing out across the mid-sized, vacant arena once again in silent contemplation. The camera zooms out and slowly fades to black as "Time" by Pink Floyd plays again.)
"And you run, and you run to catch up with the sun, but it's sinking
"Racing around to come up behind you again
"The sun is the same in a relative way, but you're older
"Shorter of breath and one day closer to death"
"Every year is getting shorter
"Never seem to find the time
"Plans that either come to naught
"Or half a page of scribbled lines
"Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
"The time is gone
"The song is over
"Thought I'd something more to say"
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