[MINNEAPOLIS FINAL] (4) Troy Douglas vs. (6) Fusenshoff

[TH]

At the Target Center in Minneapolis, MN

Douglas defeated:
Showtyme
Simply Beautiful
Dan Ryan

Fusenshoff defeated:
Erik Mateo
High Flyer
Donovan Astros

Match is one fall to a finish, no time limit. All regular rules apply. RP deadline is Thursday, May 15th at 11:59:59 PM EDT, give or take a second.

 

[CuseTroy]

FADE IN...

Troy Douglas, wearing his standard uniform of khaki shorts, a black Philadelphia Flyers t-shirt and the EPW Intercontinental Championship belt, stands in front of a TEAM banner. There is also one notable addition to his wardrobe, a small gauze pad peeking out of his left sleeve, the souvenir of the rabies shot he received after the interjection of the American Idol Squirrel~! into his Sweet 16 match with Dan Ryan.

TD: One year older, one round closer. That's the way it seems to go.

Last year, I got bounced in the Sweet 16 of this here tournament. This time around, I've charged with a full head of steam into the regional finals, fresh off unseating the man who won this tournament and just about every major title in wrestling over the past year.

So, exactly why the hell should I stop now? Why the hell should one round of improvement be good enough?

Newsflash, folks, I'm not here to be the feel-good story anymore. I'm not here to be a Cinderella or a surprise. I came here to win at all costs, just like every other man, woman, Sheephumper and Ventriloquist Telepath that tossed their name into the hat for TEAM Invitational version Three Point Oh.

And I'll be damned if I get stopped now.

Fusenshoff, I've seen you here, I've seen you in EPW, I've seen you just about everywhere you've gone, and you've been damn impressive. You just beat a man in Donovan Astros who has a habit of wrestling dizzying circles around most common men. So, I've got no doubt whatsoever that this week in Minneapolis, my hands are going to be plenty full. I know, with every fiber of my being, that to get from Minneapolis to Atlanta is going to be the hardest task I've been faced with yet.

But, I've got a little extra incentive this time around. You see, for those of you who might be new around these parts, or for those of you who aren't the biggest history buffs, the man who knocked me out of this tournament last year was Ace Mason, who just happens to be an old friend and tag team partner of our buddy Fusenshoff.

And, while I got my redemption against Ace at a couple of SuperShows, I don't feel like waiting for revenge this time around. In fact, I don't feel like getting revenge at all. After Minneapolis, I could care less if I ever see you inside a TEAM ring again, Fusenshoff. I let myself slip up and get beat a year ago. I won't go oh-for-two, and you can take that to the bank, son.

I won't be all sappy, sentimental and stupid and talk about how winning this tournament is my dream. I won't be brash and egotistical and talk about how it's my destiny. And I will not be stupid enough to come out and say that I'm preternaturally better than everybody else left.

What I will say, is that I will fight until I have absolutely NOTHING left. I will keep going until I can't go any more, even if that means I end up plunging headlong off a cliff.

Not because of a dream. Not because of destiny. Not because of some divine right.

BECAUSE. I. CAN.

Because I know what this tournament means. Because as a kid who grew up watching the company that Chad Merritt helped to create, I know what it means when that man's name is attached to the trophy given to the winner of this tournament.

Because I've been mired in a pool of s**t for eight long years, and I'm sick and tired of being passed over by established stars and rising hotshots. I'm sick and ******* tired of being everybody's whipping boy and everybody's stepping stone.

Because I've had it up to here with being called a choker, with being called out for a lack of focus. To give a shout-out to Paddy Chayefsky, I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore.

And right here, right now, on the grandest stage in the wrestling world, in the most prestigious tournament around today, I'm going to remove all doubt. I'm going to wipe away all the f***ing stigmas, and I am going to THROW that five hundred pound gorilla off my pack.

I'm going to PROVE, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that my name belongs in that pantheon of legends that I grew up watching. I'm going to prove that I'm not willing to be overlooked anymore.

And I don't give a damn who's spirit I have to crush to get there.

You've got a bright, bright future, Fusenshoff. It just won't include the Final Four of the 2008 TEAM Invitational Tournament.

We all expect big things from you, big man. And this ain't because you're not ready yet, and it ain't because you're not good enough. Your road stops here because this time around, you're facing a man who couldn't give a rat's ass about momentum.

Go ahead and say whatever you want, Fuse, but when we get in the ring at the Target Center and I lay the full measure of what I'm capable of out on the line, you'll know with absolute certainty that you're road through this tournament has reached the bitter end.

You got stuck on the wrong side of the draw this year, kid. We'll send you home with some lovely parting gifts.

Thanks for playing. Better luck next time.

...FADE TO BLACK

 

[Fusenshoff]

Fade in to Fusenshoff walking along the side of I-94 in Minneapolis. Rarely does Fusenshoff show signs of being drunk, but he’s stumbling along the highway. The cameraman is seriously concerned he will slip and walk into traffic. He takes a drink from the paper bag holding a fifth, and speaks into the camera.

Fusenshoff: “I have to say Troy, I’ve been watching promo after promo of you. Over the course of this tournament, in A1E, in EPW, I’ve been trying to do some homework. You seem to have this knack for always saying the right thing. You don’t really ruffle any feathers. It seems like you have the same public relations guy as LeBron James. There’s no controversy in your monologues. Certainly no background about your past.

“Basically you’re talking about how badly you want said title/trophy/match/recognition or you’re whining like a broke cokehead on a ski lift. You whine about being called a choke artist, or whine because you weren’t able to catch a break in Empire Pro until about two weeks ago.

“You dwell on your career, your career, your career… like all that matters to you is the next line on your resume. No wonder you’re a world-renowned and self-proclaimed choke artist when all you think about is the significance of the match at hand. I’m starting to understand why we both won our first gold in EPW on the same night. Putting the pressure that you put on yourself can only be crippling. No wonder you’re trying to THROW that five hundred pound gorilla off your pack.

“That sentence alone is a perfect example of your career. Everything is smooth sailing and full-speed ahead until you blow it at the end.

“You’re talking about being remembered as a legend, and how the idols of your past are on such high pedestals that it’s your whole goal to meet those heights. This is supposed to be the crowning jewel of your career.

“You can’t take all that baggage to the ring with you in every match and not expect it to bring you down. You think its motivation Troy, but if you need to worry about your reputation every time you step in the ring, there’s no way you’ll reach your highest potential.

“Sorry friend, but that gorilla’s still on your pack, and it’s going to take a change in your mindset if you’re ever going to get that off. You’ve been great lately with winning the IC title in EPW and getting a shot at the Cyber Title in A1E. If I remember correctly though, you were doing pretty well last year too before you were derailed in the Sweet Sixteen. Then again, you hadn’t beat Dan Ryan twice in a row… and that second win was quite an accomplishment.

“Nice plug mentioning knocking off the defending champ. It’s not every day someone brags about beating a guy who didn’t show up during the promo period, let alone with the aid of Rocky. Just a hint- we hunt Bullwinkle up in British Columbia, so I’d stick with Boris Badenov or Natasha Fatale for the second act.

You’ll have to do more than just talk it Troy. Donovan Astros loved making an argument by saying I’m already toast. I’m sorry to see you’re taking the same approach. Saying things like ‘when we get in the ring at the Target Center and I lay the full measure of what I'm capable of out on the line, you'll know with absolute certainty that you're road through this tournament has reached the bitter end.’ If there’s anything that annoys me more than crappy grammar, its guys making the bold predictions that they have the match won already. Who’re you kidding? It screams false confidence Douglas. Say what you will, but if you have to tell me that I’ve lost already, you’re making it blatantly clear that you fear pending doom.

“The only prediction I’ll make is that you’ll have to break me both mentally and physically to move on to the next round, and if you take that statement lightly for even a second in the ring, you’ve already lost.”

Fade out as Fusenshoff seems to have sobered up considerably over the course of the promo. He realizes he’s out of booze and starts walking up the exit right in front of him.

 

[CuseTroy]

FADE IN...

Troy Douglas stands in front of a TEAM backdrop, wearing a pair of dark green cargo shorts and a black 2008 TEAM Invitational t-shirt. The EPW Intercontinental Champion smiles for a moment, briefly scratches his chin in thought, then steadies his gaze on the camera.

TD: Hypocrisy is a funny, funny thing, Fusenshoff.

And a man who whines about someone needing to back up all his talking doing nothing BUT make annoying, unfounded and generally incorrect judgments, that pretty much fits the ol' Webster's definition, don't you think?

There is nothing, and I mean nothing, that pisses me off like a drunk, nitpicky lummox with his head up his ass and an overdeveloped sense of his own intelligence and insight. You just think you've got me all figured out, don't you Fuse?

You think because you watched a couple of videotapes with your nightly fifth of Jack Daniels, that you've got me pegged? If you're that stupid and that shortsighted, then you need a serious Cameron Cruise-trademarked Reality Check. And since Cam's not exactly in this tournament any longer, I don't see any reason why I can't work in his stead.

Yeah, Fusenshoff, I dwell on my career. I dwell on the idea of reaching a position in this industry that so few have been able to reach. And yeah, I take each match for what it's worth, one by one, and I think about what that match means. To me. To my opponent. To everyone out there.

Forgive me, oh mighty Fusenshoff, for committing the sin of perspective. Forgive me for having a damn sense of history. I grew up watching some of the greatest of all time putting everything on the line less than ten minutes from my front door, so I apologize, son, if I've offended you by committing the grievous error of CARING about my place in history.

Is it possible I've held myself up to an unattainable standard? Maybe. Names like Hornet, Melton, Windham, Eli Flair, Big Dog, Dan Ryan, even someone like Mike Randalls -- who's threatening to go ahead and win this very tournament after 10 years of floating in the wrestling ether -- those are the elite of the last two decades, and those are the reputations I'll always be trying to match.

I may never equal what they've accomplished, Fusenshoff, but what exactly is the point of doing what we do if not to try and have your name merit consideration with all of those who came before us?

I've made money. I've gotten famous enough that I can't walk down a crowded street or into a bar without someone recognizing me. I want more than that.

I want a legacy. And you know why, Fusenshoff?

Because of that past you say I never talk about. Which, if you hadn't been such a shortsighted son of a ***** and actually watched a tape that hadn't been recorded in the last six weeks, you'd have realized that I spent the better part of four or five years talking about my past.

But, since you've probably drowned any memories you may have had of that period in a rapidly flowing river of cheap booze, I'll give you a refresher course in hopes of giving a bit of a job to your Commander Data-esque memory engrams.

I care about my place in history because I know exactly how quickly you can be forgotten, Fusenshoff. For more than five years now, I've lived with the fact that the two most important people in my life were shot and killed inside my home when I was in Europe on a tour.

I know how quickly everything can be taken away, you insolent little prick, so you're damn right that all I think about is the significance of the task at hand. The distant future isn't set in stone, Fusenshoff, and it doesn't do anyone any good at all to dwell on destiny, so I might as well go one step at a time and make my own future.

So spare your bull**** sarcasm and your faux philosophy, jackass. It's not flattering you at all. I've lived through hell and I've made it back, kid, and I'm standing here better than I've ever been before.

Damn the past, damn the blown ACL, damn the ****ed up back and neck, damn the "choker" label, because this time around, it all gets thrown out the window, along with everything I'm throwing off my back.

The pack and the 500-pound gorilla included.

Troy shakes his head, looks skyward, rubs his forehead for a moment and looks back at the camera, the edges of his mouth forming a slight smile.

TD: But -- and you've got to trust me on this one, Fuse -- don't fool yourself for one minute into thinking that when we get into that ring, I'll be focused on anything other than your 260-plus pound drunken Canadian ass and how I can best dispose of you from the TEAM Invitational.

I've got a hell of a lot of motivation and inspiration, and I'm full aware of the big, fat pot of gold sitting at the end of this rainbow, but I also know full well that none of that means a damn thing if I don't run you over and steamroll into Atlanta.

And, even if I'm hanging on by the skin of my teeth, that's exactly what I'm going to do, Fusenshoff.

That's not false confidence. That's not bravado or bull****, son, and if you think so, well that just means you're an even bigger moronic lush than you appear to be.

I said what I said because I believe it, and because I believe I've got it in me to back it up. Not because I think our match is a foregone conclusion, but because I know that if I get in that ring and do what I do best, there's not a man out there who'll be able to hold out long enough to beat me.

So if I've got to break you mentally and physically to survive and advance, then that is EXACTLY what I'll try and do. Because I know where I've been in my life, Fusenshoff, and while my body might one day decide to give out, my mind never will. When you've survived what I've survived, it makes it a little hard for a man to break you with a few wrestling holds.

Nothing is certain, Fusenshoff. I know that as well as anyone, and I know there's no guarantee I'm going to beat you. But, I also know that if you want this as much as I do, you damn well better get your alcohol-riddled ass in gear, and you damn well better get off your ****ing high horse.

Innate superiority and haughtiness don't exactly go well with a dollar-store bottle of whiskey inside a brown paper bag, you stupid, self-indulgent bastard.

There won't be any squirrels this time, and there won't be any damn controversy. In Minneapolis, one of us moves on, one of us reaches the end of the road. It's my job to send you there. And I think you'll find that I can be very, very stubborn when it comes to getting a job done.

I expect nothing short of a war, Fusenshoff. But, if it comes down to attrition, don't think for one damn second that you can last longer than me.

Talk about a false sense of confidence screaming at the top of its lungs. I'm looking forward to hearing from you again. We'll see if you can't set a new world record for how far a man can stick his head up his own ass.

...FADE OUT

 

[Fusenshoff]

Fade in to Fusenshoff sitting on a stool with a black TEAM backdrop behind him. He has on a black leather jacket over his wife beater which compliments his black jeans and boots. We see that Fuse has some extra-large flash cards in his hands. His fifth of blackjack is sitting on the ground next to the stool.

Fusenshoff: “Now we’re talking Troy!

“I’m glad to see it is possible to light a fire under your ass. Hell, I’d argue that I’ve lit a damn forest fire. That’s what I was hoping for. I just didn’t expect middle school playground banter coming from your end.

“Let’s see here, what do we have…”

Fusenshoff starts showing off the XL flash cards in his hands.

“Drunk, nitpicky lummox”

[Cue up: laugh track]

“This one is my personal favorite. Lummox is a great, rare word that has a particularly biting sound to it. Since you’re such a big fan of recognition Douglas, I’ll award this jab: Least Juvenile Insult of the Promo.”

[Cue up: applause]

“Then of course there’s the honorable mentions; stupid (x2), shortsighted (x2), son (x2), son of a b*tch, insolent little prick, jackass, kid, drunken Canadian ass, moronic lush, alcohol-riddled ass, self-indulgent bastard.”

Fusenshoff flips through the flash cards until they’re all strewn about on the ground in front of him. Then he gets a serious look on his face.

“That is, if you call crap like that honorable.

“I was looking to wake a sleeping giant by coming out of the gate in this promo period guns blazing. I definitely set off the alarm, but I feel like I’ve awoken a sleeping medium-sized dude instead.

“Still, you’ve made some points I feel obligated to address, so I’ll humor you. I’d delve into the hypocrisy remark, but quite frankly, I have no freaking clue what the hell you were trying to say. Perhaps I am overconfident of my intelligence. Let’s try to break it down. ‘a man who whines about someone needing to back up all his talking doing nothing BUT make annoying, unfounded and generally incorrect judgments’. Well, it’s a brain-buster if nothing else. Am I the whiner or are you? I know I gave you a hard time about whining, and everyone knows its one of your favorite pastimes. Hmmm… no, I’m the whiner in this accusation, despite it being unfounded and generally incorrect, but go ahead and pass judgment. I apparently whine about someone needing to back up all his talking…

“I’ll just let that sit and brew for a minute…”

Fusenshoff stares blankly into the camera for several moments.

“Now that we’ve all had enough time to jog back in from left field, let’s move on. You sure did huff and puff Troy. You also feel vitally responsible for backing up your legacy argument. I believe it can be summed up with your rhetorical question I feel compelled to answer, ‘what exactly is the point of doing what we do if not to try and have your name merit consideration with all of those who came before us?’

“Apparently the whole point for you is the legacy you’ll leave behind. You want the fame, the recognition, the reputation, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. That’s your prerogative Troy. We have several similarities in the way we approach our performances between the ropes. What you say and what I do mirror each other, at least. Like you said, there’s only one way to find out who really proves what they say.

“Our major similarity is that we both will go into this match ready to leave everything we have out there, no matter what physical and mental barriers we must overcome.

“I don’t give up in that ring. I fight until there’s nothing left of me. I do it because it’s all I have in my life. As you correctly stated, I’m a pathetic drunk who wastes life away. I saunter through an embarrassing existence one binge at a time. My only recess from an inebriated numbness is that time under the rafters. It’s the only time when my demons aren’t eating alive the back of my mind. The only time I’m not busy drowning away the memory of my sister, wrapped around a tree, because of the worst mistake I’ve ever made.

“In all honesty, I’d rather be dead. Suicide is for cowards and I can’t get myself to take the easy way out. I’ve tried some questionable antics in the past. Last year I went tandem sky diving and refused to pull my parachute. About six months ago I picked a fight with six of the biggest bikers I’ve ever seen. Is that really suicide? Sometimes I tell myself it isn’t, but the fact is I tried to get myself killed.

“Then there are the mornings I wake up before a match. My mood is serene on the surface, but all day exhilaration builds and builds inside me like an air mattress being prepared. It’s the only time I can bear to remain sober. By the time the bell rings it is blatantly clear to me why I’m still breathing. My pupils expand and I know that the only way I’m going to leave that ring without beating my opponent past his breaking point… is preferably in a coffin, but at the very least on a stretcher.

“That’s the whole point for me Troy. It’s this, or take the coward’s way out. That’s why I think you’re a fool for fighting to establish your name. In my opinion, that’s just not good enough to continue on when your body and mind are screaming NO F’N WAY! This makes me consider how one would get the reputation of being a choker. You come up short in the biggest matches of your ‘career’. Chokers crumble under the pressure. Rising to the ranks of your idols is a lot of pressure.

“I don’t care about titles, or trophies, or what the ENN thinks of my talent and performance. I don’t even care if I win. I just want to fight until my heart gives out, plain and simple. I don’t give a sh*t if I’m remembered as the saddest ‘drunk, nitpicky lummox’ to ever step inside the squared circle. If that’s my legacy, so be it. Reputation is just what others think of you.

But Douglas, you’ve already said ‘don't think for one damn second that you can last longer than me.’

“What was I thinking? You have this in the bag already. So Troy has said it, and so it shall come to pass.

“Call me a drunk. Call me stupid. Proclaim that you’ll win. Proclaim that I can’t outlast you. If you say you can beat me, outlast me, and etch your name in the halls of legends… by all means, please try to prove it. Beat me to death and you’d be doing me a favor. But proclaiming false prophecies, name-calling like an adolescent and getting your panties in a jumble, all while being as uncreative and unoriginal as possible…

“That’s just not going to cut it Douglas, but you still have time."

Fade out as Fusenshoff shakes his head and looks disappointedly into the camera.

 

[CuseTroy]

FADE IN...

Troy Douglas, wearing dark blue Syracuse University basketball shorts, a grey Minnesota Twins t-shirt with Justin Morneau's No. 27 on the back and a pair of Nike sandals, sits in a plush armchair inside his Minneapolis hotel room, calmly leafing through the final pages of his worn-out copy of Douglas Adams' absurdist comedy/sci-fi staple, "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy". Noting the presence of the cameras, Troy earmarks his page, closes the book and tosses it on the bed next to him. Troy stretches in his chair, smiles for a moment, and focuses a steady gaze on the camera.

TD: Well, I really didn't think that you'd manage it, Fusenshoff, but I have to say that you really, really impressed me with that one, big man.

I left you last time around waiting to see if you could break the world record for sticking one's own head up his ass, and after I send the good folks at the Guinness Book a copy of THAT, I don't think you'll have a problem being the answer to meaningless trivia questions at bars all across this big bluish marble we're all inhabiting.

I'm not going to get into your superb literary critique that would make the folks at http://www.firejoemorgan.com cringe because, well, the last thing in the universe that the good people tuning in need to hear is even more playground name-calling and pissy, meaningless locker room bravado.

But, since we're all in a line of work that requires us to be in love with the sound of our own voice, I might as well make the best of Jess Chapel's production budget by giving the audience one last parting shot before you and I step inside the Target Center and determine which one of us is the real deal, and which one of us is the bull**** artist.

And I won't use notes, or quotes, or the audio-visual department from McClatchy High in Elgin, Minnesota. So sit back, relax, maybe pull those big balls of cotton out of your earlobes and actually listen for a minute, because the time for snide, sarcastic little comments is over, Fusenshoff.

Troy stands up and moves over to the sliding glass door leading to his room's balcony. He pulls open the curtain to reveal the streets of Minneapolis 18 stories below, then leans against the wall next to the door for support.

TD: Nobody understands where you're coming from more than I do, Fusenshoff. Doesn't matter that we've barely met, let alone ever gotten in that ring before and tried to beat the holy dog**** out of each other, because, your story?

Chapter and verse, Fusenshoff, it reads very, very similar to mine.

We both have regrets, and we both have a hell of a lot of guilt that's weighing inside us. Guilt that, whether we like it or not, is going to be there for the rest of our lives.

Guilt that threatens to consume everything we are, and everything we aspire to be. Of course, given the current state of things, I'm not entirely sure what you're aspiring to except a way out.

And trust me, Fusenshoff, I know about that desperate search for a way out. I know about wanting so badly to be able to just leave it all behind, damn the consequences, and end everything.

Three years ago, I was in that exact same spot.

I went for eighteen months after the night that changed my life doing everything I could not to remember. I put myself into insane situations inside the ring, doing nothing but wrestling, nothing but senselessly, stupidly putting my body on the line for the chance that at the end of the night, I wouldn't have to deal with this anymore.

And then, one night, in a hotel just like this, I broke. My body was betraying me, my mind was so far gone I couldn't tell my left from my right half the time, and all I wanted was my exit sign.

So, I stepped out on a balcony just like this, ready to let my battered body fall down onto the streets of Denver.

But, guess what? The phone rang. And somehow, unconsciously, I stepped back and answered. From that moment, the wrestling world saw neither hide nor hair of me for more than nine months.

Hell, nobody but a couple of therapists and a very select few friends saw me for more than nine months. But, in that time, Fusenshoff, I realized the one thing that you're still missing.

I started writing a new book, where you kept on with the same old story, because I finally realized one simple thing.

LIFE.

GOES.

ON.

And there ain't nothing we can do about that. No matter how hard we try to compensate for that guilt, no matter how desperate we are to find a way out, the world is still gonna go on, whether we like it or not.

So why live with guilt? Why willingly give yourself a burden so heavy that all you can do is hope for the end to come?

Why tarnish the memory of those who have gone before us by wasting the life that they could've had?

Why?

And I searched, and I searched, and you know what happened after nine months?

I realized that I owe it to them, and -- more importantly -- I owe it to MYSELF to live my life, to do what I do best, to honor them that way, instead of wasting a life.

And what I do best, Fusenshoff, is get inside that squared circle and give of my heart, my body, my mind and my soul for two simple reasons.

First, so that the people who plunk down the money for tickets, who call their cable companies an order pay per views, who are crazy enough to buy TEAM Season Pass and watch Chip Friendly vs. The Stinky Dead Trout on a constant loop for six hours straight, can get their damn money's worth.

And second? So that I can be the very best. Not by some empirical system of measure, not by some bull**** rankings paradigm, not by promoters or fellow competitors or THE INTERNET or anybody except one man.

ME.

I care how well I do, Fusenshoff. As weirdly foreign as that might sound to you, I really, truly care. That's why I compare myself to all those legends and icons. Not because I want some guy on Wikipedia to list my name with those guys, not because I want to rack up a collection of now-defunct ENNies, but because I don't see any reason why not.

Even though my knee's hanging on by a thread. Even though my back hurts so much I haven't had a decent night's sleep in close to a decade.

Because if I'm going to do this with my life, I'm damn sure going to do this right. And if I get recognition and adulation and fame and glory and all the stuff that'll make me an E! True Hollywood Story fifteen years from now, exactly what the hell is wrong with that?

Exactly what the hell is wrong with doing what you love and being considered GOOD at it, Fusenshoff.

If you don't want that, you'd be better off heading back to Kamloops and fighting some burly men in bars so you can get your near-death jollies.

If all you want is an escape, like I did, eventually your going to break under an even bigger strain than you say I'm putting on myself. Eventually, the pressure to just END IT is going to snap you like a twig.

And if you're actually looking forward to that? Well, I've been there, big man, and I can tell you it is NOT a pretty place.

I'm not going to give you that escape, Fusenshoff. Not willingly. I'll do what I have to do, and if you keep fighting until that last breath, then I'm going to have to do something even more impressive than that time at summer camp when I set the record for longest time holding one's breath underwater.

If I've got to keep going until you can't, then that's exactly what I'm going to set out to do. And if, in the end, you can hold out those three little seconds longer, if you can break me before I stop you, then that's something I'll just have to deal with.

I guarantee you, from personal experience, that dealing with one defeat, even if in a match as big as this, will be a hell of a lot easier than what you're forcing yourself to live with. One of these days, you're going to have to settle up with yourself.

In the Elite Eight, all you have to deal with is me. I'm not your demons, I'm not your way out, I'm your opponent. I'm the man who's going to do everything in his power to take one step close to the Merritt Trophy.

Because THAT is how I'm going to deal with my life, Fusenshoff. How will you deal with yours?

Troy shuts the curtains and moves back to the chair, sitting down and stretching out.

TD: Now, that was all a little bit somber, I'll leave y'all on a light note, with a quote from one of the great television theme songs of the 1980s.

Like they said in Perfect Strangers, it's my life, my dream, and nothing's gonna stop me now.

Uncreative?

Maybe.

Unoriginal?

If you say so, buddy.

False prophet?

Never tried to be before.

Effective?

That's for you to find out in the Elite Eight, Fusenshoff. If you've got something else to say, now is undoubtedly the time to say it. Frankly, I'm tired of the talking. When it all boils down, this ain't what really matters.

What matters is what happens from bell to bell, and in the end, those moments are what we both live for. I'm looking forward to this, Fusenshoff. After all the talking, after all the loudmouth crap, all I'm going to say is "good luck".

But, I'm still going to try to beat you into unconsciousness. It's your job to beat me to it, and trust me Fusenshoff, that is no easy task. Label me a choker, label me whatever the hell you want, because when that bell rings, you have to deal with me.

This isn't in the bag, kid. Far from it. But, I can see that light at the end of the tunnel, and I don't plan on stopping til I get there.

See you at the end of the road.

...FADE OUT

 

[Fusenshoff]

Fade in to Fusenshoff walking along Hennepin Avenue in the Uptown District of Minneapolis, Minnesota. It’s a vibrant night in the city, and Fusenshoff’s solemn presence holds little weight in bringing down the pulsating energy of the city streets. As youth in their mid-twenties smile gleefully and stroll along playfully, Fusenshoff stares into the camera sipping on his fifth of blackjack.

Fusenshoff: “I can’t blame you for backtracking Troy. If I had made myself look like an insecure eighth grader in my last promo, I wouldn’t waste my time acting prepubescent anymore either.

“As far as aspirations are concerned, you hit the nail on the head. I have zero aspirations. You say you lead a guilt-ridden life, but you wouldn’t be gazing into the halls of the “greatest” wrestlers of all time if you had things on your plate to live with like I do.

“Trying killing your kid sister and you may have some glimpse of what I’m talking about.

Friends, family, loved ones are simply a glimmer in the eye of my past. They fell back behind the horizon so long ago I couldn’t walk down that road again if I was Roger Bannister. That phone call that saved your life is a call I wouldn’t answer. First off, no call would come. I haven’t answered a phone in over five years. I have no one that would call. Second, I’m not looking for a way back. This downward spiral isn’t a mud hole I can climb out of. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before I wake up in actual hell, saved from this nightmare on earth.

“It’s funny that you of all people mention the pressure that comes from fighting inside that ring. You say that my constant wish to finish off what happened on that fateful night that turned my life head over heels will break me? I’m shattered into a million pieces already Troy. This life is as dark as it gets, my friend. I’m wandering around blindly in this existence searching for nothing. I have no interest at all in turning things around. The only thing that brings me even an ounce of happiness is beating a man until he can’t take anymore. Meanwhile I’m waiting desperately to meet an adversary that will do the same, only better, and put me down so I can’t get up. If this point that you mention comes, where I snap and lose even more than I’ve already lost, it will be a bitter sweet irony, because it will prove that I actually had something to lose.

“But to lose something you have to care about something first. There is nothing on this earth that I care about. Not accolades, not the EPW Television Title, not the Merritt Trophy or the fans or the legends of this sport. I care about meeting the epilogue of my book and closing its covers for the last time. Anything short of that won’t have any effect on me.

And that’s the difference between you and me Troy. You said ‘eventually your going to break under an even bigger strain than you say I'm putting on myself’, which makes no sense because you and me are entirely different animals. I’m not going to break under the strain of having expectations of myself in the ring, because I have none. I fight with every ounce of fortitude I have. Anything less will simply leave me with a loss in the record books I’ll never open. That strategy doesn’t test my opponent to see if they can end my misery. I might as well be drunk when I enter any ring with that mindset. It’s the same waste of time that I live with every other day.

“Despite you making the WORST ANALOGY EVER, you may have to face a similar moment like holding your breath the longest. You may meet a fork in the road where you either have to finish me off forever, or concede winning that trophy that means so much to “your career”. Just know that I’ll never let up. You may have to decide whether to take my last breath and move one step closer to holding that trophy, or risk defeat. It’s a very real scenario Troy. Don’t hesitate- you won’t satisfy your aspirations for glory after what comes next.

“Thank you for stating the obvious by telling me you’ll be my sole focus in that ring. Apparently I haven’t made that clear enough yet. I’ve only been spouting the same rhetoric in every match I ever partake in. It’s shocking to me that you haven’t realized it yet.

“You’ll see it in my eyes soon enough. I don’t want it to be a shock to you. I want you to be as prepared as you’ve ever been. I want you to truly believe you’re a legend of this sport when we finally meet. I want you to be the most worthy adversary I’ve ever faced. Even if you win and I’m still alive after the bell rings, I’ll be fully satisfied. If you survive and take me past depths I can no longer handle, it will be a night worthy of sobriety. It’s all I live for. It’s what makes this dreadful existence worth enduring.

Fade out as Fusenshoff takes another swig of his fifth. He takes a left down a back alley of the Uptown District as the cameraman pans over the vivacious street so utterly opposite of what the viewers have just witnessed.