Round 3: "Triple X" Sean Stevens vs. Jeff Andrews

[Chad]

Roleplay begins Thursday and ends next Thursday. 3 RP maximum.

You may submit a card segment for use on the card by private messaging it to the following usernames: Chad; Ford; User Poets Not all segments may be used (i.e. we might only include winners, just depends on the amount of craziness).

 

[KING]

“During that two year run, when would you say I was at my absolute best in your eyes?”

Sean Stevens sat in the middle of an old, dusty ring, in a tight fitting gray hoodie, army fatigue cargo shorts, taped wrists, hands, ankles and wrestling boots. His recently trimmed, mid-length golden locks hung gently, barely touching his shoulder, and he had a three day old five o’clock shadow.

The “Blue-Eyed Badass” was drenched in perspiration, occasionally wiping the sweat from his forehead as it began to run down his face.

“It would have to be that spot in NFW against Hornet, Felix Red, and the Plumber … The Pentagram, I think it was called,” the deep, raspy voice of the seasoned, balding, white haired gentlemen echoed off the walls. “I’ve never seen you on fire like you were for that match. The wrestling, the promos … all were top notch. Before that match, people looked at you as 1a while Joe was universally regarded as the best. After that match, there was no doubt that you were the number one man in professional wrestling.”

They were in the place where it all started for Triple X. …back when he was nothing more than an inexperienced juvenile delinquent looking for a chance. Back when he was given the name XXXstasy, by the man he presently sat in the ring with, because the older gentleman felt that the young man had to have been on some form of drugs to hop a guardrail, and approach his most ‘over’ star, in the middle of a live event.

The gentleman, Greg Vaughn – the owner of the defunct Xtreme Wrestling League (XWL) – always embraced Sean “Triple X” Stevens as a son. He was there for him that night he hopped that guardrail, and bailed him out of jail, even though he didn’t know him. He was there, in his corner, non-wavering during the rape charge, when his best friend Lucky died due to gang violence, and when his wife – Poison Ivy – was reported as dead on every news station, after having been shot. He was the one who made the disgruntled, unhappy with his legacy Sean Stevens feel comfortable and confident enough to attempt a comeback, and he was there every step of the way during his meteoric rise, in route to becoming professional wrestling’s one and only King.

“What was different back then?” Trip asked.

“Truthfully?” Greg rubbed his chin, gently tugging on his goatee hair. “You were always better when you had something to prove. When you felt overlooked. You know as well as anyone how excited I was when you finally broke through that glass ceiling, but what impressed me the most was how you sustained it, because the truth of the matter is, I was always afraid that the day you achieved success, would be the day someone would end your career.”

---

“What’s a GOD to a non-believer, Jeff?”

FADEIN: The scene opened up on the steps of the old, defunct O-rena. It was hot, humid, and pouring down raining. On the steps, unflinching, as the thunder roared, and the lightning echoed sat Professional Wrestling Superstar, “Triple X” Sean Stevens, in the same hoodie from earlier, drenched in a mixture of rain, and sweat.

TRIPLE X: …or better yet; what’s a professional wrestling superstar to a young upstart, with no respect for tradition, history, or legacy? I’ll tell you what that is … that’s Jason Murray defeating me in the first round of this tournament. And, while I could make excuses and say that I overlooked him, or I could tell you that my reason for being here is God given, and that at the end of the day, I’m still here, and he’s not, or that … the fact that I’m still here is a sign, I’m not … and, I won’t. Jason Murray was me in nineteen ninety-nine, and as much as I antagonized him for being clueless, I respected him for sticking to his guns, and what he felt was right.

“What I will say is this; if you know anything about me, and I’m sure you don’t, I take this shit very seriously, and I don’t make the same mistakes twice, so if you beat me, Jeff Andrews, and that’s a big if, it will be because of no reason other than the fact that you, my friend, are a better wrestler than me. And, if you know anything about me, which – again – I’m sure you don’t, I can’t live with myself knowing that I’m not the absolute best that this sport has to offer. Call it ego, call me delusional, call it whatever you want. I’m not Evander Holyfield, I don’t need another payday, and my financial situation is great. If I thought for one single, solitary second that there was a chance that I wasn’t the best, I’d accept it, I’d move on with my life, exit stage left, and leave wrestling in the hands of the people that helped usher me out.”

A large bolt of lightning struck, causing the screen to static … Stevens hardly budged.

TRIPLE X: And, I’m smart enough to know that I very well may learn that before the ULTRATITLE is over. I’m not disputing that. I just have a hard time believing it’ll be in this round, against you. You see … I can’t tell you what will happen, but I can tell you what won’t. What won’t happen is you leaving the ring victorious because I looked past you like your last two opponents did. You don’t get off that easily anymore. I’m not going to assume that just because you have your vices, your warped sense of reality, and your dry, lackluster, monotonous reactions to things that should make you say ‘whoa dude’, that you’re dumb, or belong on the same bus as Forrest, Bubba and Napoleon Dynamite.

“You’re definitely in this thing to win it, and as much as you use the drunkenness, trucker caps, nonchalant shoulder shrugs, and circa 70’s surfer lingo to your advantage, I’ve been here before, and all it usually takes is a bad intentions left hook, followed by a broken bloodied nose, that makes your eyes temporarily roll in the back of your head, and have visions of Jesus in your presence, to remind you that you’re in a completely different league.

“Fuck all of your bullshit accolades, titles, and federations that sound like they were named by people from Planet Klingon. Welcome to the big leagues, Jeff … and, in case I didn’t properly introduce myself … I’m Sean, and I’ve been the King around here for a very long time.

“And, your accomplishments? They don’t impress me. Your wit is the same juvenile, sophomoric, shit that I hear on every episode of Saved by the Bell, and if you come into this match thinking that beating Dr. Curiosity, and that other guy, whose name I can’t remember, means that you’ve done something, then somebody clearly slipped a roofie in your alcoholic beverage. There’s a reason why I got all of the attention going into this tournament. There’s a reason why all the bloggers, all the radio show hosts said my name, when the winners were being predicted. And, it’s because fifty percent of the legends that made their comeback in this tournament were retired by ME. It’s because for two years straight, I carried this circuit on my back, keeping it relevant while the quote-unquote legends sat on their lawn chairs, in front of their expensive vacation homes, sipping lemonade. It’s because I didn’t just stay where I was comfortable; I went to different promotions, in different circuits, from little bingo halls in Mexico, to 300, 000 seat stadiums in Japan, and walked out the same way I walked in … with my reputation unstained and intact.

“Unimpressed? You should be. I’ve given my blood to this sport, my sweat to this sport, my relationship with my wife and child to this sport. But, in a lot of ways … so has everyone else. So have you. All of our accomplishments are pointless at this point in the game. I’m not interested in measuring my dick against yours, even though mine is bigger. But, you better put that bottle down, hobble your portly ass to the nearest gym, and improve on your craft, son, because that marginally decent bull**** that got helped you survive in the kiddie pool will get you swallowed over here in the deep end.

“I don’t expect you to feel honored to be in the ring with me. I don’t want anyone rolling out a red carpet. I want the smarter, wiser, more mature Jeff Andrews. I want you sober. I want you focused. I want you up to speed, thinking, no, knowing that you can beat me. That way, when I sit you down, when I outthink you, outwrestle you, and beat you from pillar to post for fifteen minutes before putting you out of your misery … you go home knowing that you didn’t lose because you weren’t at your best. You lost, because you stepped in the ring against the best.”

FTB

 

[JeffOLW]

Today, Jeff Andrews is not sitting in his armchair.

Instead, he has opted to sit on the front steps of what is, presumably, his house. One leg stretched out in front of him, the other up on the bottom step. He is wearing pants, as well he should be, and his shirt says Defiance on it. Behind him, only a wooden door, a white door frame and a bit of brickwork is visible.

The fact that he is wearing a green and yellow mesh John Deere trucker’s cap on his head is more important than any of that.

“Y’all may not be aware of this, but before I started working for Defiance and Eric Dane, I used to promote feds by my own damn self.”

Andrews tips the brim of his hat down, as if acknowledging unspoken regards.

“I ran... Innovative Wrestling Alliance down in the Southeast for 3 years, and then I ran Old Line Wrestling in the Chesapeake area for four. That was one of the high points of my career, y’know. We ran some shows out of a great club in Tidewater, Virginia, and our home base was in Baltimore. And while most feds, no matter how strong they are in their heyday, go out with a whimper at best, or in a flameball at worst, I can say with pride that everyone who worked for me in OLW got to check out of the game with their head up. And while some of them hung up the boots, most of them that did, they phoned me and said ‘Jeff I’m done wrestling unless you decide to start another fed’. And those that stayed on, they’ve been finding success everywhere they went.”

“Eduardo Domingo. WfWA Double Crown Champion. Python. WfWA World Champion. Ronnie Long. WfWA World Champion. The Conspiracy. WfWA Tag Team Champions. The Truly Untouchables, wrecking faces in Defiance even as we speak. And of course my most cherished treasure, my special little lady Heidi Christenson, Defiance World Champion.”

Whistling under his breath, Andrews tips his hat back up.

“It’s not the same thing as doing it all yourself, I’m well aware of that. But something guys who’ve never tried to run the shit themselves can’t understand, is the satisfaction in running that shit, and watching the guys you bring into the business, the guys and girls you hand the ball to, watching them achieve things, watching them make you and the promotion you run look good, and knowing that they’re doing that because you gave them a place to play.”

“I brought the wrestling world Avarice. I brought the wrestling world Kai Scott. I brought it Daemon Curtis, Freddy Phoenix, Cole Christenson, Deion Bonds, Daeriq Damien, Big D.”

“And I found the time to win myself three World Titles and two sets of World Tag Titles with two different partners while I was doing it.”

“If I were to retire right now, you know, just do the way some guys do and say ‘I’m done’, I could say that I’ve won the game. And I’d be right.”

“But... …. …”

“I don’t think I’m quite done.”

“Actually.”

Andrews smiles, jaggedly but sincerely.

“So I signed up for the Ultratitle, with a bit of reluctance but honestly everyone knows that already, and y’know what happens? I prove I’m right. I do still have something to give to this game.”

“Dr. Curiosity... maybe he had an off night, maybe he didn’t. And you can look down on someone for the way they present themselves all you want, but there ain’t no denying, that man had a long history of success, and people knew exactly who he was. The betting man’s odds were against me, and lemme quote the guys who talked about the match.”

“I put on a clinic.”

“Then I go up against Justin Voss. And this time, nobody thought I could win, maybe like 3 people thought I could do it. And I’ll stand here, sit here rather, and sing the praises to Voss, because that man, he brought the fight to me in every meaning of the word, and reminded me what wrestling is all about, and why I love that game. I hit him, he hit me back harder, that hasn’t happened to me for a damn long time, I still got the bruises on my chest from his chops and a sore jaw from his clothesline. But you know what? I took every shot that Voss could serve, and I handed every last one back, and when my fists and feet weren’t enough, I took to the air, used a flying headscissor for the first time since 2003, and then I put him down with the Ultraglide.”

“If Justin Voss wants to do it all again, all I got to say is - any time. Defiance, IGF, CSWA, any place he wants to do that thing - y’know so long as they don’t put our match, when it’s being called the hardest fought match in the bracket, at the bottom of the card and clip it all to hell, then give some hoss named Spike beating the shit out of Failsnake the red carpet treatment. Hell man, come to Defiance and I can swear to you that that’ll never happen, we hand out performance bonuses.”

Another smile.

“That was my idea, actually. You get more out of people who know they’ve got something to gain by giving.”

“I could think of some people who could stand to learn a little, and a little more than a little, from me.”

With a sigh, Andrews straightened out his other leg.

“Take, for example, the man they call ‘Triple X’ Sean Stevens.”

“I never really heard of him until I signed up for this Ultratitle thing, to be honest. I knew a guy named Shawn Stevens once. Different dude. And I helped a kid named Roger Stevens break into the business a while back, but I presume none of the three are related to each other. I do, of course, know that Triple X was one of the favorites going into this thing, which doesn’t impress me a lick damn considering the ‘remarkable’ success rate some of the other favorites have had.”

“I mean, Dan Ryan’s gone at the hands of Failsnake, OK, that was a shocker. Joe the Plumber, seems Dane and I were the only ones in the game who didn’t get what the big deal about that guy was. Cancer Jiles out in the second round to Sean Edmunds, I mean, fuck Cancer Jiles I hate him, but I wasn’t expecting that.”

“And on the other hand, not to beat a tired point into the ground, but hardly anyone called me going past Voss, and look at me now!”

Still smiling, Andrews took off the John Deere trucker’s cap, twirled it on his right index finger.

“But all that, and Triple X Sean Stevens still wants to play the arrogance card, and make demands of me. I mean, alright, ‘it is not arrogance for the King to rule’ or whatever, but why in the blue fucking fuck does he think he’s the King? Let’s see...”

“I mean, first of all, the dude lost. Whether it was overconfidence, or a fluke upset, or Stevens isn’t as good as he thinks he is, or the ring ropes were set too high or I don’t even know what, but.. he lost. Y’know. It’s almost like I shouldn’t have to say anything else. What does Sean Stevens have to be so damn arrogant about? He already fucking lost. He lost a match in a single elimination tournament. He was pinned for a three count inside a wrestling ring. He. Just. fucking. Lost!”

Andrews’ hat sails off his fingers and off camera. He glances after it, scowls, then continues.

“Of course, shit gets way better than that. I tell you one bit of research I did. And truth be told I almost feel bad about playing this card, because I’ve been on the receiving end, but... isn’t your wife one of the promoters of this tournament? Poison Ivy? Yeah. It’s all you, and then you lose a match, win some sort of phantom battle royal, probably in Bolivia or Paraguay or some shit like that, and suddenly you’re back in, and thanks to Jester Chad Allen’s complete failure to bring a damn thing, you get the softest spot in the entirety of round two. Dude, if you wanna attribute that to God, go right ahead, they do say that the Lord works in mysterious ways, but I see more mundane events at work here.”

With a sigh, Andrews puts one foot back up on the stairs.

“Also, your name is stupid.”

“I mean, Triple X.”

“Did you start as one of those guys who’s entire personality revolves around bragging about how you’re just seriously awesome at having sex? Making up increasingly ludicrously obscene nicknames for yourself and stuffing a tube sock in your tights? That routine, it was maybe funny the first time some guy did it. A little bit. Some guy probably did it back in the 80s, when as I’ve been told you had to wait to see your bookings in the mail. Hasn’t been funny since then. And why’d you keep it? Does it still mean anything? Is it one of those history-referential things that some people like to do? Cos dude, if we’re talking about old gimmicks we used to play, well, when I started out down in Mexico it was 1996 and the perfect time to give the only gringo in the class a fucking macarena gimmick. Doesn’t mean I gonna start wearing a sombrero or some shit.”

“And you and your stupid name never darkened the doors of the CAL... or the NWC... or the WfWA... or as far as I know even the NeWA. I didn’t have much to do with the PTC, only a couple short runs in GLOBAL, but I don’t remember seeing you there.”

“Are you really gonna claim that every place you worked was a Very Big Deal, and none of the places I worked were worth a damn?”

“That’s not arrogance... well, I suppose it is, actually, but it’s also dumbfuckery. And for someone who claims he doesn’t wanna get into a dick measuring contest, sure seems like that’s exactly what you’re trying to turn this thing into.”

Andrews lets his voice run up into a (deliberately) stupid-sounding falsetto.

“All my feds were cool and yours were gay! All your titles sucked but mine were important! I’ll talk down to you like you’re some kid even though I’m only 2 years older than you! I’m gonna write off everything you’ve ever done because that worked so well for me in round 1!”

With a roll of his eyes that practically sends them into the back of his head, Andrews sighs again, long and wearily.

“Sean, I’m going to spell this out as plainly as I can.”

“You’re stupid, you’re a bad wrestler, you’ve already lost once, and you’ll sit in the rain like a dumbass while telling me I don’t spend enough time yelling. Take your loser self out of my face, go back to EPW, and stop wasting my time with this bullshit.”

 

[KING]

“Fuck Doctor Curiosity, Justin Voss and whatever you did prior to this point, Jeff. You’re in a completely different league now, facing an entirely different class of superstar…

" … Look me in my eyes when I’m talking to you, boy.”

FADEIN: The scene opened up, zoomed in on the face of professional wrestling superstar, Sean “Triple X” Stevens, focused mainly on his famous baby blue eyes. He stood there for a few seconds, without blinking, without speaking, without moving, and had a look of intensity, and focus that we had yet to see from him in this tournament.

Slowly, the camera began to pan backwards … but, for the most part, all signs pointed to this entire thing being shot renegade style. The image was shaky, grainy,occasionally snowy with light static, and in black and white.

Sean was dressed in green and black, army fatigue cargo shorts, and a wife beater. His mid-length golden brown hair was drenched in sweat, or was intentionally wet with water … whatever the case, it hung gently, just above his shoulders, occasionally dripping on his shirt.

And, he stood in front of a plain, white, backdrop.

TRIPLE X: You don’t respect where I come from? You don’t respect what I’ve done? Who I’ve beaten? The obstacles that I’ve overcome to get to this point in my life? Stop staring at my eyes for a second and read my lips … I don’t give a fuck. I don’t care what you think, I don’t care what you feel, and you can name drop every wrestler you’ve ever wrestled, and it still wouldn’t make a difference.

“You have a big mouth, Jeff, and you have no respect. You sit on your little armchair; in your little trucker hat … with your carefully constructed persona, where you insult your audience’s intelligence, and put the word fucking in front of fuck, for impact, priding yourself on being so clever. You freely acknowledge that you’re an alcoholic; you even go so far as to flaunt your chosen beverage of choice directly in our faces, taking the occasional sip, when you’re supposed to be promoting your match. You represent this new aged wrestler. And, no … I’m not calling you young, we both agree that you’re old … You look it. ...but, mentally, I don’t care how you try to spin it, twist it, and manipulate words … this profession is nothing more than a scheme to secure a couple of bucks for you, and you don't even have the respect to – at the very least – pretend as if it’s not.

“And, I’m over it, Jeff. I’m sick of your story, I’m sick of your voice, and I’m sick of your attitude. I’m tired of diseased ridden, drug abusing, wrinkled, pieces of garbage, with horrible odors, and receding hairlines soiling the sport that I love with your pathetic, humdrum presence. I don’t think I’m better than you because my circuit is stronger. Or because I’m older, or younger, or uglier, or better looking, or because the belts that I won were shinier than yours. I think I’m better than you because I care about the things that you could care less about, and was willing to put the work in that you weren’t, on my days off, on vacation, hell … even while I was retired. Truthfully, you wanted me to say all of those ignorant things, because you’re a one trick, who’s exhausted his fifteen minutes of fame. And, now … every promo sounds exactly like the one before it, with you grasping at straws trying to build a house that'll eventually get blown down.

“I’m not going to beat you because of all the silly accusations … I’m going to beat you because it takes a certain type of individual, with a certain work ethic, intelligence and amount of heart to break through that glass ceiling, and put smart alecky individuals like you in their place. I have that quality, that it factor, I’ve done it, I've lived it, and by your own admission, you don't. I don’t make excuses, you do. I don’t run around trying to cover up my fear and insecurities with your mama jokes, and accusing them of playing politics behind the curtain, you do. I don’t cut promos in basic elementary vernacular, highlighting my vices, drinking beer, or taking Jello shots with college students half your age …You do.”

Water, from his hair, began to run down his face at a frantic pace. Triple X swung hisneck wildly, creating my harm than good. Sweat, or strategically placed water,or whatever flew on the camera’s lens causing an even more distorted image.But, the troopers trekked on.

TRIPLE X: I just beat people up, Jeff. That’s what I do. And, I’ve done it so well, for so long, that it’s made me a very rich man and pretty damned notorious. I don’t have to make you laugh, or cry, or tell you about my childhood, or tug on your emotions, to lull you into a false sense of security. I don’t want you coming into this match with any preconceived notions, thinking it’s going to be something it’s not. It’s going to be a war, and as long as you’re my opponent, I don’t respect you, I won’t respect you, and you will find that out, soon enough, when we're across the ring from each other, and I look you square in your eyes, and commit the ultimate sin of spitting in your face, and dare you to do something about it.

“And, if you do, I swear on a stack of bibles…”

He paused ... The thought almost brought him to tears.

After a moment, he calmed himself, sighed deeply, and continued.

TRIPLE X: If you do, you will need your jaw wired shut. If you do, I will dissect every aspect of your arsenal, and dedicate every fiber of my being to leaving you beaten, huddled in the corner in the fetal position, begging for a one way ticket back to GalacticSuperCalafragilistic Championship Extreme Hardcore Wrestling where it’s safe for you. If you do? I will embarrass you, Jeff Andrews. And, that’s not a threat, it’s a promise. Try me if you want … I’m going to send you home with your tail tucked between your legs, like Doc Curiosity and Voss were supposed to.”

FTB

 

[JeffOLW]

“To the neutral observer, note that when I confront Sean Stevens on having already lost, he doesn’t have a word to say about it.”

“To the neutral observer, note that Stevens, upon being criticized for playing the arrogance card against me, simply played the card again with no variation on his original strategy.”

“To the neutral observer, note that when I described all the time, effort, money, and love I’ve put into the wrestling business, Stevens just repeated his prior accusation that I don’t care.”

We’re back in the living room that Jeff Andrews’ armchair sits in. It’s still brown, and Jeff Andrews is, once again, slouched back in it, one leg crossed with his foot resting on his other knee. As per the usual, he’s wearing jean shorts and a T-shirt, the T-shirt sporting an Old Line Wrestling logo.

The red and white OLW logo clashes a bit with the green and yellow mesh John Deere trucker’s cap, but it’s not like Jeff Andrews gives a shit about such things. As long as the cap is placed appropriately atop his head - and it is - then it’s all good.

“And lastly, to the neutral observer, note that he tells me to look him in the face when he knows damn well that I’m talking to a camera and right now there’s a couple hundred miles of cyberspace between us.”

Andrews stretches his arms up over his head until his shoulder joints pop, then down behind his neck until they pop again.

“Let me ask you something.”

“No, not you Sean, I’m asking the people whose opinions I actually care about.”

“Do I really come across like someone who doesn’t care about the wrestling business?”

“Because something I’ve learned over the years is that for every person who actually goes out and says something stupid, there’s five people who took Abe Lincoln’s advice about it being better to remain silent and be thought a fool, and didn’t actually say anything, they agreed with him. Sean Stevens couldn’t possibly offend me. But somewhere out there, there’s someone who actually thinks he put me in my place - and that actually does piss me off.”

“Not enough to get up and start being Mr. Serious Business, don’t get me wrong. I’ll do the serious business thing when I feel the need to make a point. Like that time when I was talking to Voss and I actually stood up. Remember that? Yeah, that was somethin’ else..”

Andrews yawned.

“And do you think that I come across like I don’t care about the Ultratitle?”

“Because... because if I didn’t care about the Ultratitle, I could’ve taken my ball and gone home. It’s a tournament, I’m an outsider, I’ve got all the excuses in the world just sitting at my feet waiting for me to decide to use them. But I haven’t.”

“To beat a dead horse to death all over again, I walked into the tournament with most of the field not knowing who I am, I squared my fists, and I went straight at the first guy in front of me. I went over him. And I kept on going. I didn’t just show up to wrestle. I certainly didn’t lose, like a certain nameless future opponent of mine did.”

“You know what, fuck telling me I shouldn’t talk about the guys I just beat. Fuck that noise in its ear. You do not beat the likes of Justin Voss when you don’t give a fuck. If I hadn’t trained my ass off for that match, Voss would’ve beaten me into a bloody pulp in the middle of the ring. But I was ready. And if you wanna use the betting odds as a guide to how much of an upset victory for me that was...”

“Don’t even try and tell me I could’ve done that without giving a shit. Don’t anyone try that.”

“Except for you, Sean Stevens, you’ll have to settle for ‘don’t tell me that again’.”

Andrews trails off, but does almost nothing. He blinks a couple times, then looks up at the ceiling and back down again.

“The thing about you, Sean Stevens, is that you’re an... er... hang on a second.”

Reaching down beside his chair, Andrews picks up a book. It’s a bit hard to catch live-time, but a viewer who pauses the video to look at said book will catch the title - How to Speak Like a Surfer from the 1970s. He pages through it.

Then he tosses it to the side.

“Nah, stupid works better than anything in here.”

“You’re stupid, Sean, you’re just plain stupid.”

“The last thing a guy in your position should be doing is sneering at the guy who’s been doing everything better than him.”

“But, instead of taking responsibility for your own grotesque failure so far in this tournament, instead of regrouping, getting your head back on straight, and coming at me like you’ve got something to prove, you’re damn well determined to write me off because you think I don’t have any respect.”

“For you? Maybe not so much.”

Andrews shrugs.

“For the business? For the men and women who want to make the Ultratitle something that matters, who’ve made it matter over all these years? Totally. If I can’t name drop them, sorry, I’m new to this place, no one handed me the cliff notes about who’s who around the circuit. “If you want to know why I mention the people from my past, it’s because they’re the ones I know.”

“And the reason that I mentioned the promotions I have run in the past, and the people that became stars in them, is because someone, somehow, got an idea into their head that I didn’t care about the business, let alone the Ultratitle. They mistake relaxation for apathy. They miss out on the fact that maybe, I think I have enough going on in my mind, and enough substance in my words, that I don’t have to huff and growl at the camera to try and cover up for that.”

“And the funny thing is, if you watch any episode of Defiance Television, or if you watch any of my matches that don’t get clipped, you’ll see that I’m perfectly capable of just plain losing my shit.”

“Just not at you, Sean.”

Laughter.

“Because all you’ve done is assure me that your dick is gigantic when, having watched the Ultratitle tournament so far, it’s easy to conclude that either your hands are tiny, or you’re suffering from a severe case of shrinkage.”

“So Sean, let me just lay it on the table for you.”

“You are not going to beat me up. You are not even going to come close. You’re going to fart around the ring like the Sports Entertainment spaz that you are. Then, I am going to take my fists, and use them to strike you in the head. And I will take my feet, and I will strike you in the head. I will pick you up and drop you on your head. I will bounce your head off the mat, off the turnbuckles, off the steps, off the ringpost, off the guardrails, off your own ass if I get half a chance, and I will leave you lying there with your unearned ego, your foolhardy bravado, and your stupid thinking you’re better than me, leaking out of your ears and draining into your hair, and the only upside that you’ll have is your hair’s probably already going to be wet and you’ll look fractionally less stupid when you have to make the losers walk up the ramp.”

Andrews cracked his knuckles, then leaned back in his chair, placing his hands behind his head.

“Dude.”

 

[KING]

“Tuck my son in, Ivy, and close the door. I don’t want him to hear anything.”

FADEIN: Sean “Triple X” Stevens, sitting on an armchair, right foot propped up, with a trucker cap placed over his head, in place of his customary crown. Tucked inside of the cup holder, on the arm rest was the kind of beverage glass you’d see at a bar, filled half way, with Jack Daniels, coke, and a few ice cubes.

TRIPLE X: To the observer, over the age of five, things that are understood don’t always need to be repeated, or explained. Like that whole arrogant thing … but, I’ll get back to that in a moment.”

Wait for it.

TRIPLE X: To the observer, over the age of five, it’s not just about what you say you’ve done, or plan on doing, it’s about what we see you do, and the effort that you put in. Sure, you say you’ve won an overabundance of belts with different letters of the alphabet on the front, or that you’re dedicated and committed to this tournament, and this sport – although, I don’t know a wrestler who hasn’t won eleventy-billion titles, who wasn’t a legend in his own mind – but, the issue with you, Jeff, is what we’ve seen … and, whenever we see you, you’re drowning your sorrows in your addictions, force feeding your cookie cutter persona down our throats, and putting a sport that requires a certain level of discipline, commitment, hard work, and dedication dead last in your list of priorities, directly behind drugs, alcohol, laziness, and bad fashion.”

Wait for it.

TRIPLE X: And, last but not least … To the observer, over the age of five…”

He lifted the alcoholic beverage from the implanted cup holder, on the armrest, and dropped it to the ground, watching the glass shatter into a million little pieces, removed the trucker cap from his head, walked over to his fireplace, and tossed it in the inferno, and X-factored(Superkick) the armchair, and watched gleefully as it slowly tipped over.

He had an urge to yell “Tiiiiiiimmmmbbbbbeeeeeerrrrrr”, but he refrained.

TRIPLE X: …anybody with the work ethic of Garfield the Cat, who admires the fashion of Ashton Kutcher, has the alcohol tolerance level of George W. Bush, and gets hair care advice from Terry Bollea deserves every single right hook, left jab, uppercut, and black eye you’re going to get.”

Stevens’ hair was tied back into a loose pony-tail, with several wisps of hair draping over onto his forehead. He has on a sleeveless “Why? Because I Can” t-shirt, and dark blue True Religion jeans. Running his fingers through his hair, the blue-eyed badass continued facing the camera, and continued.

TRIPLE X: Every time I hear your voice, I get this strange urge to put my fists through your face, a little more than the time before it. The fact that you do or don’t care about winning ULTRATITLE means absolutely nothing to me. Your threats, your false assurance, fake southern accent and faux machismo mean nothing to me. Your bullshit existence, all of the opponents you name drop, and titles you’ve won, mean nothing to me. And, while the fact that you can sit there, with a straight face, and tell me that I haven’t earned my stripes when you know nothing about me is hilarious, ultimately … your could’ve saved your opinion for someone who cared to hear it, because it, like everything else that you represent, means nothing to me.

“Are you noticing a trend here?

“See, contrary to what you’ve convinced yourself, I’m not here to teach you a lesson on wrestling or respect. Point, blank, period, you’re in my way … you’re preventing me from moving on in this tournament, and I’m going to remove you from it. And, if you put up too much resistance, I’m going to beat you to a bloody pulp until you run out of fight. And, if you make me angry enough, I’m going to cripple you.

“Drop me on my head? Cool story, bro. Sounds nice, but, it sounds like a dream to me, and I deal with reality. What you’re going to do is attempt to drop me on my head, I’m going to counter, with whatever I think of at that moment, and then your eyes are going to widen. It’ll be at that moment that you realize that I’m not random wrestler A, the Intergalactic United States Intercontinental Heavyweight Champion of Planet Earth in those federations where bum ass pretenders like you roam around, poke out your chests and pretend you possess an inkling of the talent that I do. It’ll be at that moment when you realize that everything that you thought you knew was completely wrong, and it’ll be at that moment where you realize that I’m not just talking to hear myself talk. I am the best to ever do this … and, I’ve made a career out of turning people that associate an average sized frame, blonde hair, and boyish good looks with being soft, or talentless, into believers.

“Those same individuals that you claim to respect for making ULTRATITLE what it is, and being the building blocks to the empire of which you now stand upon barely wrestle anymore because I retired most of them. And, the ones that I didn’t retire walk on the other side when they see me coming down the hall, because, unlike you, they know that everything that I just said is pure fact. And, having a reputation for being brave isn’t worth what I’d put them through if they pissed me off.


“And if stating facts makes me arrogant? Get over it. Who gives a fuck? If I had a quarter for every time someone called me a variation of that word, I’d finally be able to afford the time machine, that would allow me to go back in time, nine months before you were born, and beat the **** out of the Arab, that sold your dad the condom, that broke and ruined what was supposed to be a one night stand.

“And, if thinking that everything about you, from your wardrobe, to your dialect, to your insistence on cutting promos from that stupid chair, covering what little hair you have left with that dumb ass hat, is a joke makes me stupid? So be it. That’s your opinion. As much as you like to accuse me of turning this into a dick measuring contest, it seems like you’re equally responsible for turning this into a bunch of ‘Your Mama’ jokes, but I’m not going to give you the satisfaction.

“You’re a two time World Heavyweight Champion. You’ve climbed the mountain top, defeated everybody that your booker Morpheus put in your path, so I guess that justifies your sense of entitlement. But, bitch, I’m nine time World Heavyweight Champion, and I’ve been dominant in every major relevant promotion there is. I don’t have to measure my dick against yours, because I could take a cold shower, in the middle of an igloo, in Antarctica, and mine would still be bigger.

“Yes I lost to Jason Murray. I beat the hell out of the kid for fifteen minutes and made the mistake of thinking he was finished, and he wasn’t. What on Earth does that have to do with you against me? You’re not him, he’s not in this tournament anymore, I am, and that mistake will never happen again. And, yeah ... I freely admit that I’m arrogant … but, when we’re in the middle of that ring, twenty minutes in, and your lack of conditioning and hedonistic lifestyle begins to catch up with you … how in the world is that little tidbit going to get you that second or third wind that you’ll need to get you out of your predicament?”

He paused, awaiting a response that would never come. The blue-eyed badass shrugged as he continued.

TRIPLE X: Truthfully, the entire world knows that there’s nothing that you can possibly do with me. The test wasn’t if I’d beat you, because that’s a forgone conclusion … it was if I’d beat you beautifully, leaving the ring without a bruise on me. At the very beginning, considering how you sold your victories over those other two guys, I believed that you’d show me more. But, after listening to you justify your bullshit and attempt to twist my words to give yourself something to respond to? I just don’t believe in anything you say anymore. And, I’m not leaving anything up to chance, or in the air … I’m not punching a clock, and I’m not interested in winning anymore Match of the Year trophies.

“I’m going to test you like you’ve never been tested before. I’m going push you to limits you never knew you had. And, to put it in a language that you’d understand … I’m going to beat the fucking fuck out of you. And, at this point, I don’t care what you say, because there’s nothing that you can do to stop me.”

FADETOBLACK

 

[JeffOLW]

Fade up to Jeff Andrews.

He is, of course, ensconced in his armchair, this time twisted to the side. He leans on his right arm, his left knee is hanging over the armrest, his shoe dangling from his toes. His T-shirt says Defiance, his pants are made of blue denim.

His green and yellow mesh John Deere trucker’s cap is placed on his head, as well it should be.

“...”

Instead of speaking, Andrews shakes his head and looks back down at his shoe. He bounces it on his foot, and then flips it off.

“The thing about Sean Stevens...” He says, speaking to the off-camera shoe rather than the camera, “is that he’s boring. The split second I stop calling him out on some stupid logical fallacy, he goes right back to it. It was irritating the first time, hilarious the second time, and... apathy-inducing the third time. If anyone, y’know, the boys from Defiance, any guys from the Wifwah that didn’t settle down in Defiance after Summer Games, wonder why I sometimes drag myself around like I haven’t got the energy... it’s because I have to deal with idiots like Sean Stevens.”

“Explaining to those guys why they aren’t as smart as they think they are... it’s fun the first time, maybe the first two or three times. But guys who actually take in the messages you try and impart on them, y’know, they know that sometimes there’s a time for silence, and then sometimes there’s a time to seek out the guy who’s telling them the way things are and say, ‘Mr. Andrews, please teach me what you know’. Guys who don’t listen the first time, often don’t listen, ever. Though, sometimes handing them their ass in the ring helps - but generally, guys like me don’t have time to waste doing things like that. Done it before, and even if I go to the trouble it won’t be appreciated. They’ll just continue to write me off as an uneducated kid or behind-the-times veteran, depending on where they’re coming from and how long they’ve been in the game.”

“Just as Sean Stevens has refused, so far, to listen to me as I attempt to educate him. Instead, he has fallen back on the old ‘all my feds ruled and yours were gay’ routine, and accusing me of, and I quote, ‘having the work ethic of Garfield the Cat.’ Because obviously I’m an idiot for not going out and buying a Best of Triple X dvd or whatever to prepare, but he doesn’t have to watch any OLW tapes because he already knows he’s better. And because he apparently watched me cut interviews from my armchair and didn’t understand the difference between sitting down to talk and sitting down when you’re supposed to be training. He finds the concept that someone could be laid back when they talk confusing, if not incomprehensible, and calls it lazy. Awesome. This is so what I expected out of something as prestigious as the Ultratitle.”

At this point, Jeff Andrews heaves a world weary sigh, and straightens up.

“I suppose doing to my living room furniture what I’d like to be doing to Sean Stevens is being proactive, even if tearing apart my house would make Heidi sad and mad. No, see, my ability to not throw a childish temper tantrum when someone calls me out... makes me boring. Not to insinuate that anything Stevens has said or has ever said about me has enough thought behind it to qualify as a call out, of course.”

“Well there is one thing - one and only one thing - but I’ll get to that in just a minute. See...”

Squaring his hat, Andrews sits forward, elbows on his arms, looking directly forward.

“The thing that’s been going on here the entire time with Sean Stevens is that not only is he hypocritical through and through, but he’s so full of himself that he’s the only one who can’t see it.”

“He didn’t just say that I’m a minor leaguer who couldn’t possibly compete in a ring with him. With absolutely no knowledge of the the World Wrestling Alliance or the Coalition of Affiliated Leagues, he feels entitled to call them the minor leagues. He lauds the amount of people that he allegedly retired, while calling everyone who’s ever worked for or with me a ‘bunch of nobodies’. Sure, I’ve had grudge matches and blood feuds, and I’ve outlasted everyone who ever stepped to me, but that’s nothing because they were nobodies.”

“He rambles on and on about all the myriad ways in which he’s going to beat me up, and then explains to me that I’m incapable of so much as picking him up off the mat, and he calls it unrealistic of me to visualize scoring any offense at all on him. I win two matches, he wins half a match, and he still thinks he’s the one living in a reality based universe?”

“I give up. There’s normal stupid, there’s amusing stupid, and then there’s that kind of relentless smug stupidity that just numbs you down the longer you’re subjected to it... so let’s just go ahead and give him the credit for the one thing he made a decent point on.”

“Not good, but decent. Decent enough to mention, at least.”

And then, Jeff Andrews stands up.

He doesn’t superkick his chair, pour water on his head, or break some glass just to watch it shatter or anything like that.

“Why am I in the Ultratitle tournament?”

“The short answer, of course, is because Eric Dane encouraged me to do it. Say what you want about Dane, he may not be real good at playing with others or putting on a professional face to make a good impression, but he gets people to work for him anyway. And that’s because he believes in himself - he believes he has something to offer the world of professional wrestling that people want, and he’s willing to tell them that.”

“I may be the silent partner when it comes to running Defiance, but I’m the same way.”

Andrews walks, and the camera follows him. Sitting on a tiered shelf in the corner of the room is a professional wrestling title belt, silver rather than gold, with heraldry stamped on the front. Some few might recognize the heraldry as the same that is found on the Maryland flag.

“Whether I’m in Mexico dancing the macarena in 1996, diving off ladders in 2001, moping around in the rafters in 2003, drunk off my ass in 2007, or even acting like a redneck cos I’m too bald to rock the rockstar look in 2012, I’ve got something to offer. This belt...”

Andrews hoists the silver title belt onto his shoulder.

“Is the belt I had commissioned when I first opened Old Line Wrestling in 2004. Back then it was a little indy - no delusions of grandeur - and I decided to have it made in sterling silver, not gold, because of Baltimore’s history as a silver town. And I watched my tiny little promotion grow and expand all over the east coast of the United States, and I watched some great wrestlers fight for this belt, shed their blood and sweat to win it, and cry when they finally held it.”

Turning, Andrews gently sets the belt back in the rack, and closes the glass door.

“I told Justin Voss, if you remember, that the fact that I’m in the tournament to begin with is proof enough that the Ultratitle means everything to me it should. For most of my years, I would have rather promoted an Ultratitle than actually tried to wrestle for it myself.”

“And that? I’d state that that is something that gives me a greater understanding of what it actually means to hold a belt like the Ultratitle than anyone who just bases his career around checking off the titles he’s won. I could’ve won many more World Titles than I did. Honest. I knew I was good enough - knew it since 2001 when I won my first one.”

“I liked building something better than stroking my ego. And guys like Sean Stevens should be down on their knees thanking me, because it’s only through my toil, and my grace, that they ever had a chance to become who they think they are. Those nine world championships? Created by guys like me. That throne? Sitting on the throne’s fine. I’m the surveyor who marked out a kingdom for someone to rule in the first place.”

Walking back across the living room, Andrews settles back into his chair, again leaning forward, arms on knees.

“And right now, Dane and I are doing just that with Defiance. Not just becoming legends, not just promoting legends. Building legends.”

“Winning the Ultratitle... validates everything I have tried to build over the years. Willing the Ultratitle validates everything I have tried to do. I know, first hand, how much goes into creating such a title. How could a guy like me not want to belt the Ultratitle around his waist with every fiber of his being?”

“He couldn’t.”

“He simply couldn’t.”