The Great Eye
I came to cut you up
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SEMI-FINALS HORNET VS MICHAEL MANSON
- Thread starter The Great Eye
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NOTMikeythePyro
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(FADEIN: A dark, dingy basement lit only by the glow of a laptop's screen. Faintly, you can see MICHAEL MANSON, wearing a t-shirt form the old comic book series Preacher, over a long-sleeved black shirt and black jeans. He's typing and sliding his fingers around on the mousepad. CUTTO: The laptop's screen, which shows plentyoffish.com. Manson is completing a new profile. The name is "J. C." with the headline "Come to me, my daughters." The pictures range between shots of Jim Caviel, Williem Dafoe, and of a crudely animated South Park character. The occupation reads "Messiah." The profile reads, "It's been more than 2,000 years and to be honest, I'm kind of horny, though my dad won't like that. I used to have girls ALL over me! They literally worshiped, but this whole thing came up and I got nailed up and rose up, so you could say I was sort of busy saving souls. But now I'm taking a break and I'm really looking for someone down-to-earth that I can talk to. At the end of a long day of fighting Satan, she'd wash my feet and break her own bread. I'm into movies, hiking across deserts, carpentry, old jazz, bluegrass, fasting, Harry Potter (he's definitely not the devil), hockey (Go Hawks! Not that any divine power helped them win that one Stanley Cup. I wouldn't lie. Really. I gave you life and eternity!), and fine wine. You can never have too much wine, and don't worry. We'll never run out, so long as there's some water around, but don't get me drunk. I'm serious. The last time that happened there was this big thing. I didn't think it was that big a deal, but some people called the Black Death. But, anyway, please don't be one of those Bible-banger folks. I love you as I love everyone, but I hear that **** all the time!")
(Manson sits back in his chair and stretches his wrists.)
MANSON: The thing about online dating is that you can look at as many pictures of someone as you want. You can read all about them in their own words or someone else's, or even watch videos of them. You can get their weight, height, interests, and hometown, but you never know if they're exaggerating or outright lying. Maybe they aren't doing either.
However, even with all that information, you finally meet this person and they're still not who you expect them to. You might have projected yourself onto them, you might have set your standards too high, you might have read too much into this and that, or maybe it's just different actually meeting someone in person in real life.
Nonetheless, you're almost always disappointed.
Except in very rare cases.
Such as the young girls who reply to this profile. Because they are actually going to meet their Lord and Savior.
But I tend to be an exception among exceptions.
(CUTTO: Manson sitting back, sipping a kiwi strawberry Snapple. It glows in the light from the laptop.)
MANSON: Which brings me to Hornet.
Now people have called me a lot of things.
(He makes quote marks when he names each)
Heretic. Atheist. Deviant. The Prince of Lies. Socialist. Defiler of Innocence. Madman. Meglomaniac. Master of the World.
But when it comes to the CSWA, I'm what you'd call an agnostic. I've heard of it. People claim to have been there, yet it seems like there's never cards or events or anything.
Nevertheless, Hornet must have been somewhere, doing something, winning world titles, and being a big deal since people constantly he was. You know like people who claim to believe in God and I certainly would never think everyone was wrong about something like that.
However, I feel I have to give Hornet of the doubt since I was also off, being a big deal, doing things winning world titles, and having people talk about me. Sometimes in awe. Other times in hushed tones.
A lot of people are going to be very excited about this match-up. Our paths have almost never crossed. They see it as two legends colliding. Two generations clashing swords. The CSWA versus the NFW.
This match-up will likely be what many people consider the REAL P* Classic final.
Why? Because Joey Melton and I want to settle things over a burned down vineyard and the secret of the finest wine ever made, which is locked away inside the dark reaches of my head.
And Impulse wasn't around the P* circuit, unless he was the WOOG World Champion or Borthops Nocturnus's towel boy, which I am compiling evidence for.
I realize, Hornet, that you must be used to people like Cameron Cruise, next to fawning over you about how they looked up to you and that they wanted to prove themselves to you about really being a man and a great, great wrestler. You might be used to delving into CSWA backstory about the decades and decades you spent feuding with Mike Randalls or how Dan Ryan broke the ring and Joey Melton invented the condom and yet you came out on top on all of it.
I don't care about any of that. I certainly have never looked up to you. Truth be told, I had been wrestling for years because I'd ever even heard of you.
Yet, here I am, probably the most notorious and infamous wrestler in the history of this or any circuit. A multi-time world champion. The man who built the NFW into what it is today and has been for years.
All of which I did without any influence from you or the CSWA or anything you ever had anything to do with.
I'll give you a moment to try and grasp this notion since it must be difficult for you.
Of course, wrestling circuits and promotions have thrived in other countries and for different audiences for years.
But I wasn't part of any of them so I don't care.
This is about me proving once and all that I am the P* Classic Champion. The most remembered and somehow cherished superstar ever.
This about solving a question for other people that I long ago answered for myself.
Yet, I feel that you need to answer this, Hornet.
You've been going on for a while now, talking about you're feeling your age and how you need to prove that you still have it, and who better than to do that against than the Man More Exciting than Jesus, The Demonic Johnny Carson, and the American Alien?
Yes, Hornet, thank you for making me the focus of your mid-life crisis.
Most of the time when this happens, someone builds me a church, buys me an island, takes sniper shots at me, or tries to sneak int the Vatican to spray-paint one of my many notable quotes on the wall of the Sistine Chapel.
However, we're apparently going to have to wrestle.
But you are not a Republican. You are not going to frame the argument.
Allow me to enlighten you. Many wrestlers find themselves successful in their later 30s and into their 40s. Some make an impact even into their 50s. There are those who only reach their prime at a later age once they've learned to work smarter.
You have still got it. You have to still have it.
Nobody wants to watch a P* Classic Tournament full of 30 and 40 year olds complaining about feeling too old and battered.
There's no point to me beating a broken down Hornet. Not unless I'm the one who broke you first, mentally, emotionally, physically, and in several other subtle ways. But I've had other projects to concentrate on since.
More importantly, me simply putting you out of your misery is euthanasia. Euthanasia, as we know, is becoming more and more readily accepted across the globe.
AND I CAN'T EVER DO ANYTHING READILY ACCEPTED BY OTHER PEOPLE!
The only thing I believe is a sin is wasting my time, Hornet.
If you're aching and tired, that's understandable. A teenager doing what we do would be after a few months.
But if you're worn down and don't know if you can do this, if you're not brash enough to think that you can actually beat me and prove that you are the greatest of all time, then you are not the greatest of all time. There's no point to even trying.
I've worked around disappointment before though, Hornet. And, besides, for all his character flaws, at least Joey Melton still believes he'll always be the greatest in the world, and if that's not you when I beat you, I can always move on to him.
Unfortunately, I'm not going to be able to move on from him and wrestle myself, but I'm willing to settle.
(Manson's laptop pings as his POF profile starts receiving emails. He cackles and rubs his hands together.)
(Manson sits back in his chair and stretches his wrists.)
MANSON: The thing about online dating is that you can look at as many pictures of someone as you want. You can read all about them in their own words or someone else's, or even watch videos of them. You can get their weight, height, interests, and hometown, but you never know if they're exaggerating or outright lying. Maybe they aren't doing either.
However, even with all that information, you finally meet this person and they're still not who you expect them to. You might have projected yourself onto them, you might have set your standards too high, you might have read too much into this and that, or maybe it's just different actually meeting someone in person in real life.
Nonetheless, you're almost always disappointed.
Except in very rare cases.
Such as the young girls who reply to this profile. Because they are actually going to meet their Lord and Savior.
But I tend to be an exception among exceptions.
(CUTTO: Manson sitting back, sipping a kiwi strawberry Snapple. It glows in the light from the laptop.)
MANSON: Which brings me to Hornet.
Now people have called me a lot of things.
(He makes quote marks when he names each)
Heretic. Atheist. Deviant. The Prince of Lies. Socialist. Defiler of Innocence. Madman. Meglomaniac. Master of the World.
But when it comes to the CSWA, I'm what you'd call an agnostic. I've heard of it. People claim to have been there, yet it seems like there's never cards or events or anything.
Nevertheless, Hornet must have been somewhere, doing something, winning world titles, and being a big deal since people constantly he was. You know like people who claim to believe in God and I certainly would never think everyone was wrong about something like that.
However, I feel I have to give Hornet of the doubt since I was also off, being a big deal, doing things winning world titles, and having people talk about me. Sometimes in awe. Other times in hushed tones.
A lot of people are going to be very excited about this match-up. Our paths have almost never crossed. They see it as two legends colliding. Two generations clashing swords. The CSWA versus the NFW.
This match-up will likely be what many people consider the REAL P* Classic final.
Why? Because Joey Melton and I want to settle things over a burned down vineyard and the secret of the finest wine ever made, which is locked away inside the dark reaches of my head.
And Impulse wasn't around the P* circuit, unless he was the WOOG World Champion or Borthops Nocturnus's towel boy, which I am compiling evidence for.
I realize, Hornet, that you must be used to people like Cameron Cruise, next to fawning over you about how they looked up to you and that they wanted to prove themselves to you about really being a man and a great, great wrestler. You might be used to delving into CSWA backstory about the decades and decades you spent feuding with Mike Randalls or how Dan Ryan broke the ring and Joey Melton invented the condom and yet you came out on top on all of it.
I don't care about any of that. I certainly have never looked up to you. Truth be told, I had been wrestling for years because I'd ever even heard of you.
Yet, here I am, probably the most notorious and infamous wrestler in the history of this or any circuit. A multi-time world champion. The man who built the NFW into what it is today and has been for years.
All of which I did without any influence from you or the CSWA or anything you ever had anything to do with.
I'll give you a moment to try and grasp this notion since it must be difficult for you.
Of course, wrestling circuits and promotions have thrived in other countries and for different audiences for years.
But I wasn't part of any of them so I don't care.
This is about me proving once and all that I am the P* Classic Champion. The most remembered and somehow cherished superstar ever.
This about solving a question for other people that I long ago answered for myself.
Yet, I feel that you need to answer this, Hornet.
You've been going on for a while now, talking about you're feeling your age and how you need to prove that you still have it, and who better than to do that against than the Man More Exciting than Jesus, The Demonic Johnny Carson, and the American Alien?
Yes, Hornet, thank you for making me the focus of your mid-life crisis.
Most of the time when this happens, someone builds me a church, buys me an island, takes sniper shots at me, or tries to sneak int the Vatican to spray-paint one of my many notable quotes on the wall of the Sistine Chapel.
However, we're apparently going to have to wrestle.
But you are not a Republican. You are not going to frame the argument.
Allow me to enlighten you. Many wrestlers find themselves successful in their later 30s and into their 40s. Some make an impact even into their 50s. There are those who only reach their prime at a later age once they've learned to work smarter.
You have still got it. You have to still have it.
Nobody wants to watch a P* Classic Tournament full of 30 and 40 year olds complaining about feeling too old and battered.
There's no point to me beating a broken down Hornet. Not unless I'm the one who broke you first, mentally, emotionally, physically, and in several other subtle ways. But I've had other projects to concentrate on since.
More importantly, me simply putting you out of your misery is euthanasia. Euthanasia, as we know, is becoming more and more readily accepted across the globe.
AND I CAN'T EVER DO ANYTHING READILY ACCEPTED BY OTHER PEOPLE!
The only thing I believe is a sin is wasting my time, Hornet.
If you're aching and tired, that's understandable. A teenager doing what we do would be after a few months.
But if you're worn down and don't know if you can do this, if you're not brash enough to think that you can actually beat me and prove that you are the greatest of all time, then you are not the greatest of all time. There's no point to even trying.
I've worked around disappointment before though, Hornet. And, besides, for all his character flaws, at least Joey Melton still believes he'll always be the greatest in the world, and if that's not you when I beat you, I can always move on to him.
Unfortunately, I'm not going to be able to move on from him and wrestle myself, but I'm willing to settle.
(Manson's laptop pings as his POF profile starts receiving emails. He cackles and rubs his hands together.)
NOTMikeythePyro
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(FADEIN: The corridors of power on Capitol Hill. Inside the Oval Office itself with the American flag draped in the background. A group of republicans sits hissing at one end of the room while a group of democrats sits literally twiddling their thumbs at the other. In the middle, the POTUS sits at a gigantic desk, shaking his head and pouring himself a shot of whiskey.)
MICHELLE BACHMAN: I believe that the Lord has asked us to allow the United States of America to default.
SARAH PALIN: It's what Paul Revere wanted when he was ridin' in through town on his horse, shooting' his guns an' ringin' those bells to tell the British they won't take our guns an' tha we couldn't raise the debt ceiling, ya know?
BOEHNER: We cannot tax job creators! We have to cut Medicare and Social Security and education and science and summer vacation and Christmas!
POTUS: What about military spending?
BOEHNER: Then we won't have anyone to shoot the Mexicans at the border!
POTUS: Oh, right.
(Across the room, Anthony Weiner stands up and rips off his pants. He prances around, taking pictures of his privates with his iPhone. The POTUS tosses away away his shot glass and drinks back the bottle.)
HARRY REID: Well, we need to tax the rich. I mean we should have been taxing them for years, but you guys needed the weekend off, and so that set all back 8 years. How are we supposed to get anything done unless we have you guys yelling at us? We can't balance the budget, end a war, free the gays, or anything.
JOHN MCCAIN: We don't let you do that anything.
HARRY REID: Yeah, but at least if you're around we try!
(Suddenly, the doors burst open. Secret Service agents lie all over the ground as MICHAEL MANSON storms in wearing a finely cut black suit with satanic red tie.)
MANSON: Now where are you, Hornet? You think you can hide from?
(Manson flips over chairs and pushes politicians out of the way as he search every inch and throws open every drawer and door for Hornet.)
(The POTUS stands up and almost stumbles over drunk.)
POTUS (hiccuping): What is the meaning of this?
(Manson shrugs.)
MANSON: I'm looking for Hornet. I didn't find him dead in a ditch, but I know he's a lawyer or something, so I thought he be up here with the rest of you legal types.
(Manson grabs Bachman's purse and dumps it out. Rosaries, pills, and pamphlets on going from gay to straigh fall out.)
BACHMAN: Hey! That's mine?
(Manson dumps the purse down over her head and turns around to confront....Sarah Palin.)
PALIN: Well, ya know....I'm....I'm....I'm....
MANSON: Are you functionally retarded?
PALIN(sheepishly): Yes.
(She sits back down and cowers away.)
(Weiner brushes past Manson with his groin, so Manson bots him in the stomach and gives a Sweet Dreams stunner. The room is in chaos with shouting.)
(The POTUS takes out a giant gable and slams it down on his desk.)
POTUS: Now, now! Order! Order! I'm the President of the United States and I demand order! We're here to try to not let the United States fall to meet its debts and destroy the economy! Millions and millions of Americans are depending on us?
MANSON: But Hornet isn't here? He's not hiding amongst you somewhere?
POTUS: Of course not! Even if he was, we've been too deadlocked to have even noticed!
MANSON: But if I solvied this whole debt ceiling crisis for you you'd be able to use the CIA, FBI, NSA and Secert Service to find him?
POTUS:....perhaps.....
MANSON: All right.
(Manson grabs a notepad and a pen from off the desk and begins jotting something down. The POTUS peers over his shoulder.)
POTUS: Well now....I don't know about that....
MANSON: Quiet!
(Manson backhands the POTUS and he goes flying down to the floor. Manson walks over and grabs the doors.)
MANSON: I'm taking it from here.
(He closes both doors.)
MICHELLE BACHMAN: I believe that the Lord has asked us to allow the United States of America to default.
SARAH PALIN: It's what Paul Revere wanted when he was ridin' in through town on his horse, shooting' his guns an' ringin' those bells to tell the British they won't take our guns an' tha we couldn't raise the debt ceiling, ya know?
BOEHNER: We cannot tax job creators! We have to cut Medicare and Social Security and education and science and summer vacation and Christmas!
POTUS: What about military spending?
BOEHNER: Then we won't have anyone to shoot the Mexicans at the border!
POTUS: Oh, right.
(Across the room, Anthony Weiner stands up and rips off his pants. He prances around, taking pictures of his privates with his iPhone. The POTUS tosses away away his shot glass and drinks back the bottle.)
HARRY REID: Well, we need to tax the rich. I mean we should have been taxing them for years, but you guys needed the weekend off, and so that set all back 8 years. How are we supposed to get anything done unless we have you guys yelling at us? We can't balance the budget, end a war, free the gays, or anything.
JOHN MCCAIN: We don't let you do that anything.
HARRY REID: Yeah, but at least if you're around we try!
(Suddenly, the doors burst open. Secret Service agents lie all over the ground as MICHAEL MANSON storms in wearing a finely cut black suit with satanic red tie.)
MANSON: Now where are you, Hornet? You think you can hide from?
(Manson flips over chairs and pushes politicians out of the way as he search every inch and throws open every drawer and door for Hornet.)
(The POTUS stands up and almost stumbles over drunk.)
POTUS (hiccuping): What is the meaning of this?
(Manson shrugs.)
MANSON: I'm looking for Hornet. I didn't find him dead in a ditch, but I know he's a lawyer or something, so I thought he be up here with the rest of you legal types.
(Manson grabs Bachman's purse and dumps it out. Rosaries, pills, and pamphlets on going from gay to straigh fall out.)
BACHMAN: Hey! That's mine?
(Manson dumps the purse down over her head and turns around to confront....Sarah Palin.)
PALIN: Well, ya know....I'm....I'm....I'm....
MANSON: Are you functionally retarded?
PALIN(sheepishly): Yes.
(She sits back down and cowers away.)
(Weiner brushes past Manson with his groin, so Manson bots him in the stomach and gives a Sweet Dreams stunner. The room is in chaos with shouting.)
(The POTUS takes out a giant gable and slams it down on his desk.)
POTUS: Now, now! Order! Order! I'm the President of the United States and I demand order! We're here to try to not let the United States fall to meet its debts and destroy the economy! Millions and millions of Americans are depending on us?
MANSON: But Hornet isn't here? He's not hiding amongst you somewhere?
POTUS: Of course not! Even if he was, we've been too deadlocked to have even noticed!
MANSON: But if I solvied this whole debt ceiling crisis for you you'd be able to use the CIA, FBI, NSA and Secert Service to find him?
POTUS:....perhaps.....
MANSON: All right.
(Manson grabs a notepad and a pen from off the desk and begins jotting something down. The POTUS peers over his shoulder.)
POTUS: Well now....I don't know about that....
MANSON: Quiet!
(Manson backhands the POTUS and he goes flying down to the floor. Manson walks over and grabs the doors.)
MANSON: I'm taking it from here.
(He closes both doors.)
Mortal
(FADEIN: Hornet appears to be sitting on a Persian rug surrounded by fabric, perhaps in a tent somewhere? He’s wearing cargo shorts and a FISH FUND XIII T-shirt along with camo boots. The video jumps a bit and seems low quality.)
You’re right, I’m just a man.
Mike, while you’ve been banging goats and sacrificing virgins, I’ve been spending my time productively. Sorry for the delay, but even the satellite phone has trouble sending video files out of here.
I’m happy to let you frame the argument, Mike. I’m thrilled that you’re taking the road less traveled and not suggesting that my age is a factor or that my ‘iconic’ status somehow makes me a weak target. I get it – you’re not a weak-kneed fan of mine from childhood impressed or daunted by my legacy. Terrific. You’re not a CSWA mark impressed by the ‘big names’ like Mike Randalls, Joey Melton, Dan Ryan or Eli Flair.
So let me settle any doubts you have. You don’t have to worry about my mid-life crisis – it really doesn’t involve you. And you don’t have to worry about whether I’m brash enough or think I’m great enough to get past you. You certainly don’t have to worry for one second that you’re going to beat a “broken down” Hornet.
‘Cause that’s just not a possibility.
Let’s turn the mirror, shall we? You’ve suggested that I can’t imagine that there’s a world outside the CSWA. And yet I’ve wrestled in and won championships in more leagues than you’ve ever set foot in. I won the big gold belt in the AAWC at the same time that Schmid and Merritt were having their pissing contest. I won a championship in the UWA and I don’t think the PREZ and Merritt ever spoke a word to each other. I went to the NFW when I was “sold” there and wrestled at every Piggly Wiggly I was told to, including a Bamboo Stakes From Hell match set up to give you ‘the big win’ over a legend.
Let’s turn the mirror, shall we? You wrestled against legends like “Duct Tape Man” in bingo halls across the greater New Jersey area. Congrats. You bumped it up to glorious runs in leagues like NGEN and BAD, remembered in the hearts and minds of 7 hardcore fans.
Actually, I was an NGEN champ as well, given they recognized the UWL Title as their top belt when I held it.
But I’m not one to play down your legacy, Mike. We’re both ULTRATITLE Champions – and while I did it in a simple tournament against 63 others, you did it in the grueling NFW format. Can’t take away from that legacy one bit – you managed to beat men in panda masks, glamtographers and WWWA jobbers brought in to fill out the NFW East roster. While I got Joey Melton, Shane Southern, Deacon, Dan Ryan and others in my division. Hmmm, what’s the common factor between those five names?
But that’s really what it comes down to, isn’t it? I’m the guy that’s supposed to only talk about the CSWA, right? That’s all that matters to me. And yet, it always seems to be guys like you and Willard and Cruise who want to write off my legacy as nothing while I’m supposed to buy into yours?
I’m the CSWA golden boy, and yet you were TWICE a Commissioner of the NFW, not to mention the footage that made it onto TV of you and Miles lighting a few up and launching a sing-a-long. To quote one of my all-time great opponents. Pot. Kettle. Black.
Let’s break it down further, Mike. You were the best of the best in a regional NFW. You had power over Armando Montezuma and Bloodhunt, Rick Ryconik and DC Stratton… none of which panned out after NFW went national. And when the league did get on ESEN and make a splash, who did they bring in? Whose signing did they announce as the biggest coup, the one everyone wanted, the man who made the very ground shake from the cheers of the fans. Who did Calvin Carlton and his Mama faint for?
NOT Michael Manson. (Or was that another opponent of yours in the East?)
The facts are simple and I’ll keep out the ‘legalese,’ although I know you’re smart enough to understand it. I main evented and was featured in more NFW events in Season I than either you or the sainted Shane Southern. And when I got to close to the ULTRATITLE for comfort, everyone got scared. You sent your East goons over to partner with Cameron Cruise to take me out. But when that didn’t work, it took collusion from your ol’ buddy Shane Southern, Dan Ryan, Troy Windham and Eddie Sanchez Mayfield to make sure, while you and Shane got to face the incredible forces of Kazuo Shizaki and Jean Rabesque instead.
No… nothing strange there, doctor.
But screw the legacy for a minute. I’ve been “irrelevant,” for years. But go back to your old stomping ground – the league built on your name, your blood, sweat and tears. And whose name gets brought up on TV almost every week despite his absence and irrelevance. Not yours, Mike, not yours.
So where does that take us? While you’ve been trolling internet sites for the last couple of years, I’ve been fired from the CSWA. Sounds like we’re both busy, huh?
You make great points, Mike, much like Cameron Cruise. There’s no point in trying.
Unless you’ve got an ace in the hole, right? Unless you know something the other guy doesn’t know.
And I know two things, Mike. I’ll give you the first for free.
You’re not dealing with the run-of-the-mill human meat that you like to prey upon. I’m not a mental defective like Cameron Cruise or the panda-mask wearing victims you like to surround yourself with. I don’t strap duct tape around myself or subscribe to socialist policies as my gimmick to get ahead in the wrestling world.
Nope. See the sad fact is unlike the rest of the monsters you revel in having worship you, I’m simply self-aware. I know that I was a law student turned wrestler who ripped off a name from his favorite professional of the time. And I know that I turned out not to be good at it… but great at it. In fact, as time went on, something became crystal clear. I wasn’t just great… but the greatest.
I’m not a gimmick, Mike. I don’t pretend to sacrifice goats for fun or go against the grain for the sake of it. But in my way I’m at least as much an anachronism and anarchist as you are… because I’m just a guy that is what he is, no matter what you or Cruise or Willard or Merritt or Miles or Sullivan thinks. And that makes me a lot more counter-culture than you’ll ever be.
You’re more exciting than Jesus. But I’m the One and Only.
I can’t fault you for being the Demonic Johnny Carson, but you’ll never be the Greatest American Hero.
The American Alien has a nice ring, but you’ll never be announced as the “fifty-time World champion” of anything.
You can’t do anything ‘normal,’ but in four years, you’ve changed from the demon prince to the King of ‘Meh.’ Your gimmick is done, run its course, no longer notorious, infamous or even entertaining. That’s what happens to gimmicks – they don’t stand the test of time.
But mortal men, Mike, simple, ordinary men who rage against something with purpose, they’re something else. Heroes. Villains. Great men. Martyrs. Men like that transcend gimmickry, transcend time, and are remembered.
I’m just a man.
(FADEIN: Hornet appears to be sitting on a Persian rug surrounded by fabric, perhaps in a tent somewhere? He’s wearing cargo shorts and a FISH FUND XIII T-shirt along with camo boots. The video jumps a bit and seems low quality.)
You’re right, I’m just a man.
Mike, while you’ve been banging goats and sacrificing virgins, I’ve been spending my time productively. Sorry for the delay, but even the satellite phone has trouble sending video files out of here.
I’m happy to let you frame the argument, Mike. I’m thrilled that you’re taking the road less traveled and not suggesting that my age is a factor or that my ‘iconic’ status somehow makes me a weak target. I get it – you’re not a weak-kneed fan of mine from childhood impressed or daunted by my legacy. Terrific. You’re not a CSWA mark impressed by the ‘big names’ like Mike Randalls, Joey Melton, Dan Ryan or Eli Flair.
So let me settle any doubts you have. You don’t have to worry about my mid-life crisis – it really doesn’t involve you. And you don’t have to worry about whether I’m brash enough or think I’m great enough to get past you. You certainly don’t have to worry for one second that you’re going to beat a “broken down” Hornet.
‘Cause that’s just not a possibility.
Let’s turn the mirror, shall we? You’ve suggested that I can’t imagine that there’s a world outside the CSWA. And yet I’ve wrestled in and won championships in more leagues than you’ve ever set foot in. I won the big gold belt in the AAWC at the same time that Schmid and Merritt were having their pissing contest. I won a championship in the UWA and I don’t think the PREZ and Merritt ever spoke a word to each other. I went to the NFW when I was “sold” there and wrestled at every Piggly Wiggly I was told to, including a Bamboo Stakes From Hell match set up to give you ‘the big win’ over a legend.
Let’s turn the mirror, shall we? You wrestled against legends like “Duct Tape Man” in bingo halls across the greater New Jersey area. Congrats. You bumped it up to glorious runs in leagues like NGEN and BAD, remembered in the hearts and minds of 7 hardcore fans.
Actually, I was an NGEN champ as well, given they recognized the UWL Title as their top belt when I held it.
But I’m not one to play down your legacy, Mike. We’re both ULTRATITLE Champions – and while I did it in a simple tournament against 63 others, you did it in the grueling NFW format. Can’t take away from that legacy one bit – you managed to beat men in panda masks, glamtographers and WWWA jobbers brought in to fill out the NFW East roster. While I got Joey Melton, Shane Southern, Deacon, Dan Ryan and others in my division. Hmmm, what’s the common factor between those five names?
But that’s really what it comes down to, isn’t it? I’m the guy that’s supposed to only talk about the CSWA, right? That’s all that matters to me. And yet, it always seems to be guys like you and Willard and Cruise who want to write off my legacy as nothing while I’m supposed to buy into yours?
I’m the CSWA golden boy, and yet you were TWICE a Commissioner of the NFW, not to mention the footage that made it onto TV of you and Miles lighting a few up and launching a sing-a-long. To quote one of my all-time great opponents. Pot. Kettle. Black.
Let’s break it down further, Mike. You were the best of the best in a regional NFW. You had power over Armando Montezuma and Bloodhunt, Rick Ryconik and DC Stratton… none of which panned out after NFW went national. And when the league did get on ESEN and make a splash, who did they bring in? Whose signing did they announce as the biggest coup, the one everyone wanted, the man who made the very ground shake from the cheers of the fans. Who did Calvin Carlton and his Mama faint for?
NOT Michael Manson. (Or was that another opponent of yours in the East?)
The facts are simple and I’ll keep out the ‘legalese,’ although I know you’re smart enough to understand it. I main evented and was featured in more NFW events in Season I than either you or the sainted Shane Southern. And when I got to close to the ULTRATITLE for comfort, everyone got scared. You sent your East goons over to partner with Cameron Cruise to take me out. But when that didn’t work, it took collusion from your ol’ buddy Shane Southern, Dan Ryan, Troy Windham and Eddie Sanchez Mayfield to make sure, while you and Shane got to face the incredible forces of Kazuo Shizaki and Jean Rabesque instead.
No… nothing strange there, doctor.
But screw the legacy for a minute. I’ve been “irrelevant,” for years. But go back to your old stomping ground – the league built on your name, your blood, sweat and tears. And whose name gets brought up on TV almost every week despite his absence and irrelevance. Not yours, Mike, not yours.
So where does that take us? While you’ve been trolling internet sites for the last couple of years, I’ve been fired from the CSWA. Sounds like we’re both busy, huh?
You make great points, Mike, much like Cameron Cruise. There’s no point in trying.
Unless you’ve got an ace in the hole, right? Unless you know something the other guy doesn’t know.
And I know two things, Mike. I’ll give you the first for free.
You’re not dealing with the run-of-the-mill human meat that you like to prey upon. I’m not a mental defective like Cameron Cruise or the panda-mask wearing victims you like to surround yourself with. I don’t strap duct tape around myself or subscribe to socialist policies as my gimmick to get ahead in the wrestling world.
Nope. See the sad fact is unlike the rest of the monsters you revel in having worship you, I’m simply self-aware. I know that I was a law student turned wrestler who ripped off a name from his favorite professional of the time. And I know that I turned out not to be good at it… but great at it. In fact, as time went on, something became crystal clear. I wasn’t just great… but the greatest.
I’m not a gimmick, Mike. I don’t pretend to sacrifice goats for fun or go against the grain for the sake of it. But in my way I’m at least as much an anachronism and anarchist as you are… because I’m just a guy that is what he is, no matter what you or Cruise or Willard or Merritt or Miles or Sullivan thinks. And that makes me a lot more counter-culture than you’ll ever be.
You’re more exciting than Jesus. But I’m the One and Only.
I can’t fault you for being the Demonic Johnny Carson, but you’ll never be the Greatest American Hero.
The American Alien has a nice ring, but you’ll never be announced as the “fifty-time World champion” of anything.
You can’t do anything ‘normal,’ but in four years, you’ve changed from the demon prince to the King of ‘Meh.’ Your gimmick is done, run its course, no longer notorious, infamous or even entertaining. That’s what happens to gimmicks – they don’t stand the test of time.
But mortal men, Mike, simple, ordinary men who rage against something with purpose, they’re something else. Heroes. Villains. Great men. Martyrs. Men like that transcend gimmickry, transcend time, and are remembered.
I’m just a man.
The Search for Insurance
(A candle flickers inside an enclosed space made of reds and tans and greys. HORNET sits on a Persian rug at a small table, surrounded by what appears to be a small, but elaborate, tent. He appears to be poring over a map and a stack of papers written in a language with a different alphabet than English. A satellite phone on the table rings.)
“What? Slow down? Mr. Speaker, why are you calling?”
(unintelligible yelling on the other end of the phone)
“No, I have no idea why he would be there. But if he’s got a plan that the President will listen to…”
(more frantic yelling)
“No sir, I told you I’m not getting involved in this one. Do what you have to do, but make sure our men stay on that fence. The Mexicans must be kept out! Do you know what would happen if we let EL NINO back in the country? Let alone another swath of those EL TORO people?”
(screaming)
“Goodbye, John.”
(Hornet hangs up the phone and goes back to studying the papers on the desk. An older Arab man enters the tent and hands Hornet… a ring?)
“This can’t be it, Hamid. It’s just iron, only iron. It should have other metal in it if it’s real. I don’t think we’re in the right place – maybe Sheba led us wrong.”
(He sighs.)
“We’re almost out of time. I think we have to run down the other lead. Let the team know we need to go north. I think Jordan is our best bet. If we can find it in time, it’ll prove something one way or the other.”
(A candle flickers inside an enclosed space made of reds and tans and greys. HORNET sits on a Persian rug at a small table, surrounded by what appears to be a small, but elaborate, tent. He appears to be poring over a map and a stack of papers written in a language with a different alphabet than English. A satellite phone on the table rings.)
“What? Slow down? Mr. Speaker, why are you calling?”
(unintelligible yelling on the other end of the phone)
“No, I have no idea why he would be there. But if he’s got a plan that the President will listen to…”
(more frantic yelling)
“No sir, I told you I’m not getting involved in this one. Do what you have to do, but make sure our men stay on that fence. The Mexicans must be kept out! Do you know what would happen if we let EL NINO back in the country? Let alone another swath of those EL TORO people?”
(screaming)
“Goodbye, John.”
(Hornet hangs up the phone and goes back to studying the papers on the desk. An older Arab man enters the tent and hands Hornet… a ring?)
“This can’t be it, Hamid. It’s just iron, only iron. It should have other metal in it if it’s real. I don’t think we’re in the right place – maybe Sheba led us wrong.”
(He sighs.)
“We’re almost out of time. I think we have to run down the other lead. Let the team know we need to go north. I think Jordan is our best bet. If we can find it in time, it’ll prove something one way or the other.”
NOTMikeythePyro
League Member
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(The southern woods at twilight. Dim and muggy. Trees sway in the breeze. Shadows lurk. From out of the bush, suddenly the walking dead emerge. Bloodied, decaying, full of maggots, they stumble and stump. The first one closely resembles ARES and the next shambling along JOHN JACOBS. Two rifle blasts destroy their heads and they collapse to the ground. CUTTO: MICHAEL MANSON standing over them, reloading his rifle. He's wearing a sweat-soaked black t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black jeans, plus a backpack full of guns. He crouches down along the trees, watching this way and that.)
MANSON: Well, I hadn't expected this. No, not at all and in none of my dark, demented dreams. Had you told me all about this ten years ago I would have slapped you. Had you told me just yesterday I would slammed a car door on your hand.
However, I just saw it for myself and in some cases seeing is believing.
(Moans come from behind him. PAN TO: A zombie looking like FLATLINER shuffles right into a rifle shot. Manson continues on as though nothing were amiss.)
MANSON: Apparently, our friend Hornet is quite the huge Mike Manson fan, not that I can blame him, though I always assumed we had different tastes. In fact, from what I've heard right from his own mouth, he might be an even bigger Mike Manson than Jean Rabesque. Speaking of which...
(A JEAN RABESQUE zombie trips and falls out from behind a tree. MANSON beats him in the back of his head with his rifle butt).
MANSON: Honestly, I didn't know if I'd ever see a bigger Mansonite than Jean. Yet, Hornet, you've proved me wrong. You've followed my me my entire career! You just ran through a few dozen of my highlights! Of course, you got a few of the details wrong, but everyone does. I mean look at how many still call the Civil War the War Between the States.
For one thing, I never sacrificed a virgin. People SACRIFICED the virgins to me. The only hang-up is when you'd find out they weren't actually virgins later on. There was that one crazy weekend with me and Nark and we didn't know what to do with that one car trunk.
(Zombie ANARKY leaps down out of a tree and Manson clocks him with his rifle. He tries to fire, but it jams. Zombie DOC SILVER, GUNS, JAVID DONES, and PI, all wearing ragged jWO shirts surround him. He starts swinging his rifle around to beat them off, but Doc grabs it. So he picks up a large, jagged stone to bash in their faces.)
I'm sorry, Hornet, I really am, but I can't name many leagues or titles you've won or been in or made up on a rainy Saturday because your cat died. I don't actually care either. If a tree falls in a forest and nobody's there...does anybody care?
I only have a vague notion of what you did in the CSWA besides win some matches and titles. Sure, you were in the NFW, but you faded out really quickly during the season while I outlasted and beat everyone else from all corners of the Earth, CSWA, GXW, AAWC, XYX, CLC, NWA, LWO, and the all-important KKK. That's right, I knew all about the white hood Christian Sands kept in his locker.
(Manson spins around and bashes in zombie CHRISTIAN SANDS's face and then kicks zombie ASHE DRAVEN in the knee before also bashing him his face. Draven spills to the ground, holding a bleeding face. Manson squints down at him.)
MANSON: ....wait a minute....Ashe...is that really you?
DRAVEN: I'm not an actor!
(Manson considers for a moment and then shrugs, throwing the rock down on top of Draven's crotch.)
Now I could reel off all the titles I've won, Hornet, the arenas I sold out, the merchandise I sold, ad the leagues I built, and even the bingo halls I wrestled in and the couple I burned down, but you apparently already know all about them.
You might claim that they were regional and trash and unimportant....yet I remember selling out every seat in every arena....drawing the biggest ratings....the biggest buyrates.....and getting paid the highest salary.
You could say they weren't worth of your time....that nothing I was did was significant.....but then....
...why would you know all about them? Why would you know anything about me?
(Manson swing swings backpack around and takes out a handgun Without looking, he aims sideways and shoots zombie CARLOS CANYETA and aims the other way for zombie RAGE O FIRE JARED WELLS.)
Of course, I can answer this and many other questions for you.
Because I'm me. I didn't need to win thousands and thousands of titles because I made every title I had the most important in the world. I didn't need to be in every league because I made every one I was in the biggest attraction there was.
I might have ruined a few careers, sent people to prison, ended a few governments, warped some minds and popular culture....but I made a great many people rich, which was why I got away with it all.
I realize your pride won't allow you to admit that I ever achieved anything, Hornet. It's much easier for you to tear me down and everything I've ever done to boost your own ego. You see, your mid-life crisis does affect me. As your opponent, you need to be an investment of my time.
MANSON: Well, I hadn't expected this. No, not at all and in none of my dark, demented dreams. Had you told me all about this ten years ago I would have slapped you. Had you told me just yesterday I would slammed a car door on your hand.
However, I just saw it for myself and in some cases seeing is believing.
(Moans come from behind him. PAN TO: A zombie looking like FLATLINER shuffles right into a rifle shot. Manson continues on as though nothing were amiss.)
MANSON: Apparently, our friend Hornet is quite the huge Mike Manson fan, not that I can blame him, though I always assumed we had different tastes. In fact, from what I've heard right from his own mouth, he might be an even bigger Mike Manson than Jean Rabesque. Speaking of which...
(A JEAN RABESQUE zombie trips and falls out from behind a tree. MANSON beats him in the back of his head with his rifle butt).
MANSON: Honestly, I didn't know if I'd ever see a bigger Mansonite than Jean. Yet, Hornet, you've proved me wrong. You've followed my me my entire career! You just ran through a few dozen of my highlights! Of course, you got a few of the details wrong, but everyone does. I mean look at how many still call the Civil War the War Between the States.
For one thing, I never sacrificed a virgin. People SACRIFICED the virgins to me. The only hang-up is when you'd find out they weren't actually virgins later on. There was that one crazy weekend with me and Nark and we didn't know what to do with that one car trunk.
(Zombie ANARKY leaps down out of a tree and Manson clocks him with his rifle. He tries to fire, but it jams. Zombie DOC SILVER, GUNS, JAVID DONES, and PI, all wearing ragged jWO shirts surround him. He starts swinging his rifle around to beat them off, but Doc grabs it. So he picks up a large, jagged stone to bash in their faces.)
I'm sorry, Hornet, I really am, but I can't name many leagues or titles you've won or been in or made up on a rainy Saturday because your cat died. I don't actually care either. If a tree falls in a forest and nobody's there...does anybody care?
I only have a vague notion of what you did in the CSWA besides win some matches and titles. Sure, you were in the NFW, but you faded out really quickly during the season while I outlasted and beat everyone else from all corners of the Earth, CSWA, GXW, AAWC, XYX, CLC, NWA, LWO, and the all-important KKK. That's right, I knew all about the white hood Christian Sands kept in his locker.
(Manson spins around and bashes in zombie CHRISTIAN SANDS's face and then kicks zombie ASHE DRAVEN in the knee before also bashing him his face. Draven spills to the ground, holding a bleeding face. Manson squints down at him.)
MANSON: ....wait a minute....Ashe...is that really you?
DRAVEN: I'm not an actor!
(Manson considers for a moment and then shrugs, throwing the rock down on top of Draven's crotch.)
Now I could reel off all the titles I've won, Hornet, the arenas I sold out, the merchandise I sold, ad the leagues I built, and even the bingo halls I wrestled in and the couple I burned down, but you apparently already know all about them.
You might claim that they were regional and trash and unimportant....yet I remember selling out every seat in every arena....drawing the biggest ratings....the biggest buyrates.....and getting paid the highest salary.
You could say they weren't worth of your time....that nothing I was did was significant.....but then....
...why would you know all about them? Why would you know anything about me?
(Manson swing swings backpack around and takes out a handgun Without looking, he aims sideways and shoots zombie CARLOS CANYETA and aims the other way for zombie RAGE O FIRE JARED WELLS.)
Of course, I can answer this and many other questions for you.
Because I'm me. I didn't need to win thousands and thousands of titles because I made every title I had the most important in the world. I didn't need to be in every league because I made every one I was in the biggest attraction there was.
I might have ruined a few careers, sent people to prison, ended a few governments, warped some minds and popular culture....but I made a great many people rich, which was why I got away with it all.
I realize your pride won't allow you to admit that I ever achieved anything, Hornet. It's much easier for you to tear me down and everything I've ever done to boost your own ego. You see, your mid-life crisis does affect me. As your opponent, you need to be an investment of my time.
Romancing the... Seal?
(FADEIN: Hornet, a tall brunette woman and a small Chilean boy are shown in the rainforest. Hornet is wearing cargo pants and hiking boots as well as a sweat-stained blue travel shirt. The boy almost matches, while the woman seems significantly out of place in a now-ratty peasant blouse and skirt. Hornet takes one final look at his map, tucks it away in a small pouch and makes a cut to the right, revealing a large waterfall.)
HORNET: This is it, La Sangre de la Cabra.
KID: Why do they call it that, Mr. Hornet?
HORNET: Because the clay riverbed up top gives the water a reddish cast. Oh, and they used to do human and animal sacrifices upstream too.
KID: Makes sense.
WOMAN: Makes sense? Makes sense! Nothing that’s going on here makes sense! My sister calls to say she’s been kidnapped, that we need this Seal of MacGuffin something or other… that guy put me on the wrong bus… it crashes and I end up in the middle of some sort of shootout with the two of you showing up! I don’t know who you are bub, but I want some answers here!
KID: Hey lady! You call him Mr. Hornet!
HORNET: Now now Rondacorta, we don’t need any “Short Round” moments here. Ms. Savage here has been through a lot.
WOMAN: It would be one thing if it were the first time, but just a few years ago…
HORNET: We’re not here for exposition, lady, we’re here to find the Seal of Solomon.
WOMAN: And trade it for my sister…
HORNET: Something like that…
WOMAN: What do you want it for?
HORNET: Not exactly your business.
WOMAN: But you’re supposed to be the hero, right?
HORNET: So you do know who I am?
WOMAN: Listen, my sister isn’t a brave woman, an important woman, or even a good woman, but she’s my sister. I have to find the Seal thingie to make sure she’s alright.
HORNET: (sighs) Listen, I’ll help you with your sister. I was trying to find the Seal as a backup plan.
WOMAN: For what?
HORNET: Don’t worry about it. Demons. Trickery. Command. Something like that. It’s been lost for thousands of years, but I believe Solomon gave it back to the sea and it ended up here. It may be the one thing that can bring a madman back into the realm of reality.
WOMAN: And it’s definitely the only thing that can save my sister.
HORNET: Can we just see if it’s here first?
(As HORNET and MS. SAVAGE start the enter the waterfall, the KID comes bursting through, soaked to the bone. In his hand…)
KID: I found it! The Seal of Solomon!
HORNET: That was quick.
KID: I was tired of hearing pretty lady argue.
HORNET: Yeah I’m with you. Well let me check it out against the records we have. Pentagram, check. Iron and copper, check. It looks like this is really it!
KID: (snatches the Seal back and speaks in a lower voice) Well then, “Mister” Hornet, it looks like you’ve led us to the right place. Hamid!
(An older Arab man and a small contingent of armed guards step out of the foliage. The KID hangs the Seal around his neck on a chain.)
WOMAN: What are you doing, Rondacorta?
KID: Stop calling me that offensive name, lady. I am Rovid Kor, a proud Hungarian and mercenary leader of the Knights of Kolontar.
HORNET: You mean you’re a midget and you’re working for a boss who wants to guarantee I stay in oblivion.
KID: Something like that.
HORNET: You know, it’s not that I hate midgets. It’s just that they keep trying to hurt me.
(He starts to back ROVID toward the edge of the waterfall. The Knights of Kolontar raise their rifles.)
WOMAN: Where do you have my sister?
KID: We don’t have anything to do with that, lady. Listen Hornet, back away before you get shot and it’s not just your ridiculous career you have to worry about.
WOMAN (to Hornet): My sister! Please!
(HORNET takes one step further, backing ROVID to the edge of the precipice.)
KID: That’s enough!
HORNET: You ever watch HBO, kid?
KID: What? No, I…
HORNET: “The things I do for love…”
(HORNET grabs the chain around ROVID’s neck and pulls. The Seal comes loose and ROVID loses his balance and falls backwards off the waterfall. The Knights begin to fire at HORNET, who grabs MS. SAVAGE and jumps!)
(There is no sign of either as the Knights look over the waterfall. A little further downstream, HORNET and MS. SAVAGE have surfaced, but are still in the river, hiding behind a rock. There is no sign of ROVID.)
WOMAN: I can’t believe…. What do we do now?
HORNET: (gripping the Seal of Solomon) I guess we go save your sister.
(FADEIN: Hornet, a tall brunette woman and a small Chilean boy are shown in the rainforest. Hornet is wearing cargo pants and hiking boots as well as a sweat-stained blue travel shirt. The boy almost matches, while the woman seems significantly out of place in a now-ratty peasant blouse and skirt. Hornet takes one final look at his map, tucks it away in a small pouch and makes a cut to the right, revealing a large waterfall.)
HORNET: This is it, La Sangre de la Cabra.
KID: Why do they call it that, Mr. Hornet?
HORNET: Because the clay riverbed up top gives the water a reddish cast. Oh, and they used to do human and animal sacrifices upstream too.
KID: Makes sense.
WOMAN: Makes sense? Makes sense! Nothing that’s going on here makes sense! My sister calls to say she’s been kidnapped, that we need this Seal of MacGuffin something or other… that guy put me on the wrong bus… it crashes and I end up in the middle of some sort of shootout with the two of you showing up! I don’t know who you are bub, but I want some answers here!
KID: Hey lady! You call him Mr. Hornet!
HORNET: Now now Rondacorta, we don’t need any “Short Round” moments here. Ms. Savage here has been through a lot.
WOMAN: It would be one thing if it were the first time, but just a few years ago…
HORNET: We’re not here for exposition, lady, we’re here to find the Seal of Solomon.
WOMAN: And trade it for my sister…
HORNET: Something like that…
WOMAN: What do you want it for?
HORNET: Not exactly your business.
WOMAN: But you’re supposed to be the hero, right?
HORNET: So you do know who I am?
WOMAN: Listen, my sister isn’t a brave woman, an important woman, or even a good woman, but she’s my sister. I have to find the Seal thingie to make sure she’s alright.
HORNET: (sighs) Listen, I’ll help you with your sister. I was trying to find the Seal as a backup plan.
WOMAN: For what?
HORNET: Don’t worry about it. Demons. Trickery. Command. Something like that. It’s been lost for thousands of years, but I believe Solomon gave it back to the sea and it ended up here. It may be the one thing that can bring a madman back into the realm of reality.
WOMAN: And it’s definitely the only thing that can save my sister.
HORNET: Can we just see if it’s here first?
(As HORNET and MS. SAVAGE start the enter the waterfall, the KID comes bursting through, soaked to the bone. In his hand…)
KID: I found it! The Seal of Solomon!
HORNET: That was quick.
KID: I was tired of hearing pretty lady argue.
HORNET: Yeah I’m with you. Well let me check it out against the records we have. Pentagram, check. Iron and copper, check. It looks like this is really it!
KID: (snatches the Seal back and speaks in a lower voice) Well then, “Mister” Hornet, it looks like you’ve led us to the right place. Hamid!
(An older Arab man and a small contingent of armed guards step out of the foliage. The KID hangs the Seal around his neck on a chain.)
WOMAN: What are you doing, Rondacorta?
KID: Stop calling me that offensive name, lady. I am Rovid Kor, a proud Hungarian and mercenary leader of the Knights of Kolontar.
HORNET: You mean you’re a midget and you’re working for a boss who wants to guarantee I stay in oblivion.
KID: Something like that.
HORNET: You know, it’s not that I hate midgets. It’s just that they keep trying to hurt me.
(He starts to back ROVID toward the edge of the waterfall. The Knights of Kolontar raise their rifles.)
WOMAN: Where do you have my sister?
KID: We don’t have anything to do with that, lady. Listen Hornet, back away before you get shot and it’s not just your ridiculous career you have to worry about.
WOMAN (to Hornet): My sister! Please!
(HORNET takes one step further, backing ROVID to the edge of the precipice.)
KID: That’s enough!
HORNET: You ever watch HBO, kid?
KID: What? No, I…
HORNET: “The things I do for love…”
(HORNET grabs the chain around ROVID’s neck and pulls. The Seal comes loose and ROVID loses his balance and falls backwards off the waterfall. The Knights begin to fire at HORNET, who grabs MS. SAVAGE and jumps!)
(There is no sign of either as the Knights look over the waterfall. A little further downstream, HORNET and MS. SAVAGE have surfaced, but are still in the river, hiding behind a rock. There is no sign of ROVID.)
WOMAN: I can’t believe…. What do we do now?
HORNET: (gripping the Seal of Solomon) I guess we go save your sister.
Seven Strangers...
(HORNET appears to be sitting in a cheap motel room somewhere in… who knows. The art on the sparse walls seems to be Mesoamerican. The satellite phone video feed is still slightly grainy but better quality than before.)
I know you don’t care about me, Mike. I was hoping, praying that you didn’t. I’ve been beneath your notice for years and years because nothing I’ve ever done matters. You were focused on important things like goats and girls you could never have. You had important colleagues in panda masks and fiery dildos to address. I was simply wrestling.
See, I’m thrilled you don’t care about me (which, by the way, just happens to be the same story I used against Cruise, but no gimmick infringement suit incoming), because you’ve already made it clear your gimmick in life is not caring about what the rest of the world does.
So what does that tell us? Manson doesn’t care about Hornet. Manson doesn’t care about what the rest of the world does. Transitive and communicative…
Wanna bring it into the real world now? Instead of the land of faux-goth make-believe in your head? Instead of dwelling in Manson’s Wonderland where caterpillars are axe murderers and goats are little girls, do you want to come back to the world of wrestling and entertainment for a bit?
I’m not here to put down your legacy. You’re the favorite entertainer of the undead, you make old maid virgin’s legs pop apart and lonely male English majors swoon in their mother’s basements. But you won’t make a mockery of mine, either.
Self-aware, remember? I can barely remember winning, or caring about the GGWF Title, but I did it. I did something this sport has never seen before or since in creating a legitimate UNIFIED Title that sits in Dan Ryan’s trophy case at home today.
And the ULTRATITLE trophy you got smashed over your head after winning an incredible match over Shane Southern, that was mine years before too.
You can stomp over those achievements all you want, but comparing your “highest ratings,” “sellouts,” “biggest buyrates” and “highest salary” to mine is like comparing Orlando to New York, or you to the real Manson.
I didn’t have to eclipse your fame because you were the moon to the sun. NFW saw that and brought me in to give you the rub while setting up the inevitable Manson/Southern match we all loved to hate. And when Season 2 came around, you used that rub to immediately get destroyed by Manson for the NFW Title, and subsequently destroyed by Dan Ryan, Lindsay Troy, Felix Red and a few dozen others before fading into that good night. In the meantime, the NFW hung its hat on Miles vs. Mayfield and main events like Eli vs. Troy.
You’ve done a lot in your career, Michael. More than just sacrifice goats and blow dildos on camera. You’ve been Craig Miles’ best buddy, you’ve been a Commissioner in NFW, you’ve been the BAD World Champ and the NGEN Champ.
But in the real world… we all understand that you know the truth. That I’ve sold out an arena seating six figures, that I’ve been a champion over and over again, that I’ve wrestled the best in their prime without backing down one bit. And most importantly, while perhaps not in Mansonworld, in every other parallel universe that means something, I’ve been relevant.
Your legend remains, Mike, but your name doesn’t come up much, even in the land of your past glory. Troy and Randall, Randalls and Ryan, Stevens and JTP, Cruise and Strife, they’re all still talking about me. Whether it’s about their fandom or hatred, whether they’re measuring themselves against me or trying to put down my legacy, or even if they’re just reminiscing or wishing, the name Hornet still comes up each and every week.
But I’m sure the name Manson comes up. I have it on good authority that goats still tremble violently at your name.
My ‘mid-life’ crisis doesn’t ache for your approval. My ego doesn’t need your buy-in to remain intact.
I’m not looking for you to be my investor, Mike. I’m looking for you to be my victim.
The real world awaits. Welcome to it.
(HORNET appears to be sitting in a cheap motel room somewhere in… who knows. The art on the sparse walls seems to be Mesoamerican. The satellite phone video feed is still slightly grainy but better quality than before.)
I know you don’t care about me, Mike. I was hoping, praying that you didn’t. I’ve been beneath your notice for years and years because nothing I’ve ever done matters. You were focused on important things like goats and girls you could never have. You had important colleagues in panda masks and fiery dildos to address. I was simply wrestling.
See, I’m thrilled you don’t care about me (which, by the way, just happens to be the same story I used against Cruise, but no gimmick infringement suit incoming), because you’ve already made it clear your gimmick in life is not caring about what the rest of the world does.
So what does that tell us? Manson doesn’t care about Hornet. Manson doesn’t care about what the rest of the world does. Transitive and communicative…
Wanna bring it into the real world now? Instead of the land of faux-goth make-believe in your head? Instead of dwelling in Manson’s Wonderland where caterpillars are axe murderers and goats are little girls, do you want to come back to the world of wrestling and entertainment for a bit?
I’m not here to put down your legacy. You’re the favorite entertainer of the undead, you make old maid virgin’s legs pop apart and lonely male English majors swoon in their mother’s basements. But you won’t make a mockery of mine, either.
Self-aware, remember? I can barely remember winning, or caring about the GGWF Title, but I did it. I did something this sport has never seen before or since in creating a legitimate UNIFIED Title that sits in Dan Ryan’s trophy case at home today.
And the ULTRATITLE trophy you got smashed over your head after winning an incredible match over Shane Southern, that was mine years before too.
You can stomp over those achievements all you want, but comparing your “highest ratings,” “sellouts,” “biggest buyrates” and “highest salary” to mine is like comparing Orlando to New York, or you to the real Manson.
I didn’t have to eclipse your fame because you were the moon to the sun. NFW saw that and brought me in to give you the rub while setting up the inevitable Manson/Southern match we all loved to hate. And when Season 2 came around, you used that rub to immediately get destroyed by Manson for the NFW Title, and subsequently destroyed by Dan Ryan, Lindsay Troy, Felix Red and a few dozen others before fading into that good night. In the meantime, the NFW hung its hat on Miles vs. Mayfield and main events like Eli vs. Troy.
You’ve done a lot in your career, Michael. More than just sacrifice goats and blow dildos on camera. You’ve been Craig Miles’ best buddy, you’ve been a Commissioner in NFW, you’ve been the BAD World Champ and the NGEN Champ.
But in the real world… we all understand that you know the truth. That I’ve sold out an arena seating six figures, that I’ve been a champion over and over again, that I’ve wrestled the best in their prime without backing down one bit. And most importantly, while perhaps not in Mansonworld, in every other parallel universe that means something, I’ve been relevant.
Your legend remains, Mike, but your name doesn’t come up much, even in the land of your past glory. Troy and Randall, Randalls and Ryan, Stevens and JTP, Cruise and Strife, they’re all still talking about me. Whether it’s about their fandom or hatred, whether they’re measuring themselves against me or trying to put down my legacy, or even if they’re just reminiscing or wishing, the name Hornet still comes up each and every week.
But I’m sure the name Manson comes up. I have it on good authority that goats still tremble violently at your name.
My ‘mid-life’ crisis doesn’t ache for your approval. My ego doesn’t need your buy-in to remain intact.
I’m not looking for you to be my investor, Mike. I’m looking for you to be my victim.
The real world awaits. Welcome to it.
NOTMikeythePyro
League Member
- Joined
- Jun 27, 2011
- Messages
- 9
- Points
- 0
(FADEIN: An empty arena with a different picture tacked to each seat, featuring WEREWOLF, UNDEAD BOGUS TYR, STAN VICK, SHANE SOUTHERN, THE SHOWSTOPPERS, THE MEDIEVAL WARRIORS, GLADIATOR, BIG RODGE, NEVADA SMITH, CRAIG MILES, ALLISTER HAZE, JOE MASSACRE, TROY MARTINEZ, and the list goes on. Fill in your own classic P* competitor.
The ring features black and white ropes with a classic starch blue mat. MICHAEL MANSON lies in the ring prone and still within the confines of a chalk outline. He’s wearing a black Hornet t-shirt and black leather pants. PAN OVER: Right above Manson’s face and his eyes flicker open.)
MANSON: Obviously, Hornet is so grand and great and so far above all the rest of us that there’s no point to having this match at all. No, there’s no point to me training or studying old and recent footage. No point to those hidden cameras I have in his car, bedroom, and bathroom. No point to me devising counters to every one of his signature moves.
No, Hornet looks down upon us all in his grand, regal throne because no one can ever be as great as him because the rest of us all wanted to compete and win and we needed in to be in leagues that actually ran cards on more than every 3 years or so. And some of us....some of us....dared become bigger stars and build bigger leagues and bigger titles....and none of us ever cared what Hornet.
WHICH WAS OUR SIN!
Naturally, I’ll be struck down by lightning and hit by six cars and THEN Hornet will have his way with me.
I should have known better!
For anyone to be a star....FOR ANYONE AT ALL....they need Hornet’s loft, ever critical opinion. He’s done so much and won so much that nobody can come close. We all need to look up to him, imitate him, and hope....oh how we hope...that we’ll catch his eye....that we might gain just a hint of his approval...and maybe he’ll want us in the CSWA!
Or we can complain and itch about how we’re trying to prove ourselves to him like he’s our father who ignored other than when he was drinking whiskey and breaking out his belt.
We love him...we worship him...we wait by the phone for hours and hours...hoping... hoping...HOPING... that he’ll call us back and say yes, I will take you to the prom.
I don’t know what I was doing, winning titles left and right, selling out arenas, getting banned from whole countries, redefining how a wrestling match should, and stretching and eventually annihilating the bounds of good taste and garnering legions of well-wishers, fans, stalkers, worshipers, and legions and legions of imitators.
How could I have been great without Hornet somehow having something to do with it?
Oh, if only he could have walked across the ring for a minute on those ppvs seen by thousands and thousand across the world....maybe then they could have been a success!
Hell, how could I even think of having an erection without Hornet having something to do with it?
I mean Cameron Cruise wanted to prove himself to him!
All I ever did to Cameron Cruise was get him married to a bi-sexual man.
What am I compared to Hornet’s towering influence on the industry?
I mean all those satanic, sarcastic, freaks and goths rolling in their coffins and getting inked and breaking their necks trying to imitate my moves......OBVIOUSLY...they all want to be like Hornet.
In fact, the NFW is a long standing success....because HORNET HUNG OUT THERE FOR ABOUT 3 WEEKS!
Sure, he didn’t win many matches or make much of an impact at all, but he’s Hornet!
All the ratings I got...the records I broke....the boundaries I smashed...
...are as nothing to a middle-aged with face paint who has probably been wrestling on not even a part-time schedule for the past 12 years.
Oh, to be Hornet.
So I’m simply going to lie here and wait for the inevitable. Hornet can just swing by and pin me and that will be that. We’ll just hand him the P* Classic Championship and over victory glasses of champagne we’ll wonder why we bothered having a tournament when we all should have just given the championship, all our money, and even our virginities to Hornet.
(Manson, feeling parched, reaches for a nearby Strawberry Kiwi Snapple and sips.)
Or....maybe....JUST MAYBE...there’s hope for me yet. I mean...we are still having a match, right? We are having a tournament here, yes?
Does that mean....yes....it does mean that someone thinks I could win?
Well, have they consulted Hornet?
Or did they....as Hornet did...follow my illustrious career and realize that nobody ever needed his approval for anything. They didn’t need his name, brand, face, or even his specter to do anything.
Not when they had me.
I made regional promotions international. I made the biggest world-wide promotions universal. I demanded chocolate sculptures made of me. I demanded more money and more TV time than anyone....mostly because I both deserved and earned it.
I just list numbers....names...titles....but they’re all fleetingly.
I’m the important part.
All that I’ve done....achieved...all the money I earned....at a much, much younger age than Hornet I might add....it fills a special part in my non-existent soul.
But even better.....even more satisfying is humbling someone....making them realize that all their talk was hollow and their determination nothing compared to mine.
For so long, people said I had an ego the size of a mountain range....but that’s nothing compared to Hornet’s. This guy thinks the entire industry would’t exist if not for him.
Yet, I was always here....doing my thing....never heeding him or caring for him. Never having to.
Until now.
Yet, he can’t take the greatest threat he’s ever faced in the squared circle seriously because his ego can’t accept that there was a bigger star flaring brighter than a black supenova consuming the whole universe.
Hornet, you might be the biggest Mike Manson fan this side of Jean Rabesque. You might have seen all my matches, watched all my promos....you might have a million reasons for doing so....and you might say a million different things about why you did...a million different excuses....but you still have no idea.
You might have won titles and matches, but I built titles and stars and promotions and left piles of broken backs and necks of the heathens in my wake. But you’re not even man enough to give me even a shred of credit.....
....though I’d hardly be in this tournament at all, let alone it’s odds-on favorite, if I didn’t deserve worlds and worlds of credit and acclaim.
I regret that I only have one match to try and show you so much...but...yes...we’re still going to have a match. You and the greatest technical wrestler and brawler with the most innovative and deranged wrestling mind there ever was.
You see, everything you say about me could be true. I could be a pathetic carnival act. You could only be a broken-down shell of a man who makes money selling old, petrified gingerbread men with your face on them.
Neither of us are either....but the point remains...I can and will break you. I’ve taken younger, stronger, faster...and even once won a match where someone was hurling lightning at me. I just figured out how to throw lightning back.
I didn’t clutch your action figure to my heart every night as a child, Hornet.
I wasn’t a young rookie looking for your approval.
I was never an established star and world-wide attraction looking for a dream match.
Here we are though. Having a dream match....and it needs the both of us.
I don’t need to impress you. All I need to do is beat you and I have every confidence I can.
I adapt...I savage...I plot...and I thrive.
And...you...Hornet....you are only another stringless puppet of a monarch I get to kick out of his throne.
But I’m doing it for me. I already rule over what you rule over whether you or anyone else actually realize it...though the smart ones do.
I’m just beating an illusion. An apparition of greatness.
Because you might be great....you might the godfather of the industry....you might have won titles all over the world....
....but you aren’t great when compared to me.
I was crippled before. My back destroyed. Told I’d never walk again.
I came back.
It happened again, and I came back.
Entire promotions rose up against me, but I came back.
I was gone for four years and the entire industry felt safe. They slept better. They ate better, but they drank more. They were always peering over their shoulders. They weren’t...fulfilled...
...because you aren’t made in this business until you’ve been branded and burned by Mike Manson.
And at long, long last, you get your chance, Hornet. Now you can have a real career.
If not, there's always the law....
...I can even put you up my crack legal team who has somehow kept me out of international prisons for the past decade.
Just for competitive spirit's sake.
(Manson folds his arms over his chest and closes his eyes.)
The ring features black and white ropes with a classic starch blue mat. MICHAEL MANSON lies in the ring prone and still within the confines of a chalk outline. He’s wearing a black Hornet t-shirt and black leather pants. PAN OVER: Right above Manson’s face and his eyes flicker open.)
MANSON: Obviously, Hornet is so grand and great and so far above all the rest of us that there’s no point to having this match at all. No, there’s no point to me training or studying old and recent footage. No point to those hidden cameras I have in his car, bedroom, and bathroom. No point to me devising counters to every one of his signature moves.
No, Hornet looks down upon us all in his grand, regal throne because no one can ever be as great as him because the rest of us all wanted to compete and win and we needed in to be in leagues that actually ran cards on more than every 3 years or so. And some of us....some of us....dared become bigger stars and build bigger leagues and bigger titles....and none of us ever cared what Hornet.
WHICH WAS OUR SIN!
Naturally, I’ll be struck down by lightning and hit by six cars and THEN Hornet will have his way with me.
I should have known better!
For anyone to be a star....FOR ANYONE AT ALL....they need Hornet’s loft, ever critical opinion. He’s done so much and won so much that nobody can come close. We all need to look up to him, imitate him, and hope....oh how we hope...that we’ll catch his eye....that we might gain just a hint of his approval...and maybe he’ll want us in the CSWA!
Or we can complain and itch about how we’re trying to prove ourselves to him like he’s our father who ignored other than when he was drinking whiskey and breaking out his belt.
We love him...we worship him...we wait by the phone for hours and hours...hoping... hoping...HOPING... that he’ll call us back and say yes, I will take you to the prom.
I don’t know what I was doing, winning titles left and right, selling out arenas, getting banned from whole countries, redefining how a wrestling match should, and stretching and eventually annihilating the bounds of good taste and garnering legions of well-wishers, fans, stalkers, worshipers, and legions and legions of imitators.
How could I have been great without Hornet somehow having something to do with it?
Oh, if only he could have walked across the ring for a minute on those ppvs seen by thousands and thousand across the world....maybe then they could have been a success!
Hell, how could I even think of having an erection without Hornet having something to do with it?
I mean Cameron Cruise wanted to prove himself to him!
All I ever did to Cameron Cruise was get him married to a bi-sexual man.
What am I compared to Hornet’s towering influence on the industry?
I mean all those satanic, sarcastic, freaks and goths rolling in their coffins and getting inked and breaking their necks trying to imitate my moves......OBVIOUSLY...they all want to be like Hornet.
In fact, the NFW is a long standing success....because HORNET HUNG OUT THERE FOR ABOUT 3 WEEKS!
Sure, he didn’t win many matches or make much of an impact at all, but he’s Hornet!
All the ratings I got...the records I broke....the boundaries I smashed...
...are as nothing to a middle-aged with face paint who has probably been wrestling on not even a part-time schedule for the past 12 years.
Oh, to be Hornet.
So I’m simply going to lie here and wait for the inevitable. Hornet can just swing by and pin me and that will be that. We’ll just hand him the P* Classic Championship and over victory glasses of champagne we’ll wonder why we bothered having a tournament when we all should have just given the championship, all our money, and even our virginities to Hornet.
(Manson, feeling parched, reaches for a nearby Strawberry Kiwi Snapple and sips.)
Or....maybe....JUST MAYBE...there’s hope for me yet. I mean...we are still having a match, right? We are having a tournament here, yes?
Does that mean....yes....it does mean that someone thinks I could win?
Well, have they consulted Hornet?
Or did they....as Hornet did...follow my illustrious career and realize that nobody ever needed his approval for anything. They didn’t need his name, brand, face, or even his specter to do anything.
Not when they had me.
I made regional promotions international. I made the biggest world-wide promotions universal. I demanded chocolate sculptures made of me. I demanded more money and more TV time than anyone....mostly because I both deserved and earned it.
I just list numbers....names...titles....but they’re all fleetingly.
I’m the important part.
All that I’ve done....achieved...all the money I earned....at a much, much younger age than Hornet I might add....it fills a special part in my non-existent soul.
But even better.....even more satisfying is humbling someone....making them realize that all their talk was hollow and their determination nothing compared to mine.
For so long, people said I had an ego the size of a mountain range....but that’s nothing compared to Hornet’s. This guy thinks the entire industry would’t exist if not for him.
Yet, I was always here....doing my thing....never heeding him or caring for him. Never having to.
Until now.
Yet, he can’t take the greatest threat he’s ever faced in the squared circle seriously because his ego can’t accept that there was a bigger star flaring brighter than a black supenova consuming the whole universe.
Hornet, you might be the biggest Mike Manson fan this side of Jean Rabesque. You might have seen all my matches, watched all my promos....you might have a million reasons for doing so....and you might say a million different things about why you did...a million different excuses....but you still have no idea.
You might have won titles and matches, but I built titles and stars and promotions and left piles of broken backs and necks of the heathens in my wake. But you’re not even man enough to give me even a shred of credit.....
....though I’d hardly be in this tournament at all, let alone it’s odds-on favorite, if I didn’t deserve worlds and worlds of credit and acclaim.
I regret that I only have one match to try and show you so much...but...yes...we’re still going to have a match. You and the greatest technical wrestler and brawler with the most innovative and deranged wrestling mind there ever was.
You see, everything you say about me could be true. I could be a pathetic carnival act. You could only be a broken-down shell of a man who makes money selling old, petrified gingerbread men with your face on them.
Neither of us are either....but the point remains...I can and will break you. I’ve taken younger, stronger, faster...and even once won a match where someone was hurling lightning at me. I just figured out how to throw lightning back.
I didn’t clutch your action figure to my heart every night as a child, Hornet.
I wasn’t a young rookie looking for your approval.
I was never an established star and world-wide attraction looking for a dream match.
Here we are though. Having a dream match....and it needs the both of us.
I don’t need to impress you. All I need to do is beat you and I have every confidence I can.
I adapt...I savage...I plot...and I thrive.
And...you...Hornet....you are only another stringless puppet of a monarch I get to kick out of his throne.
But I’m doing it for me. I already rule over what you rule over whether you or anyone else actually realize it...though the smart ones do.
I’m just beating an illusion. An apparition of greatness.
Because you might be great....you might the godfather of the industry....you might have won titles all over the world....
....but you aren’t great when compared to me.
I was crippled before. My back destroyed. Told I’d never walk again.
I came back.
It happened again, and I came back.
Entire promotions rose up against me, but I came back.
I was gone for four years and the entire industry felt safe. They slept better. They ate better, but they drank more. They were always peering over their shoulders. They weren’t...fulfilled...
...because you aren’t made in this business until you’ve been branded and burned by Mike Manson.
And at long, long last, you get your chance, Hornet. Now you can have a real career.
If not, there's always the law....
...I can even put you up my crack legal team who has somehow kept me out of international prisons for the past decade.
Just for competitive spirit's sake.
(Manson folds his arms over his chest and closes his eyes.)
Last edited:
Ego Is As Ego Does
(FADEIN: Hornet is standing in the bathroom in his Manhattan loft, staring into the mirror. His hair is wet and spiked, towel around his waist. There’s a faint, faint red dot in the top right corner of the mirror. He waves.)
Hey Mike! Didn’t know you got your rocks off as a voyeur, but whatever works. It’s not like my life hasn’t been in the public eye anyway. Fans and haters alike have watched me grow up in warehouses, arenas and on television. From the wide-eyed law school kid stepping into the ring for the first time to the kid who won a territory’s “World” title and got a chance to have his best friend strap it around his waist and raise his hand in victory.
They’ve seen me go through the pain of losing that title and then the determination to fight a bigger, badder guy for 90 minutes and pin his shoulders to the mat. They’ve seen me go on a crusade to create something bigger, to prove I can walk into any company, any arena on any night and go toe-to-toe with the best in the world.
They saw me get angry and claim it was “nothing personal” when I attacked Eli and Vizzack and handcuff Tom Adler to a limosine. They saw me “stake a claim” with two of the greatest in the history of the business and make sure that the CSWA was on track whether Merritt, Thomas or whoever was at the helm.
They saw me fall in love, revel in the idea of another life with a family and a future that only guys like Eli Flair can pull off. They saw me injured, almost blown up, in the hospital trying to deal with something bigger than this sport. They saw me fall apart, miss bookings and become a pill-popping addict who was trying to find a way to deal with more than physical pain.
They’ve seen me bathe in the adulation of victory, grieve in the agony of defeat, and literally walk over broken glass to try and achieve the unachievable.
From the day I became Hornet, I’ve lived my life in full sight of everyone, blemishes and all. I’ve been accused of being ‘taken care of’ by owners, of only caring about the CSWA, of being too old and too stupid and too irrelevant – nothing you’ve got to say is new, Michael, although I hoped for more from you. You're too busy living the gimmick while ignoring your stunted little life.
The hubris isn’t mine, Mike. You can run down the CSWA, you can compare me to “the Godfather,” Merritt, all you want. You can claim you know nothing about me – but you’re able to quote my “schedule” as well as anyone, aren’t you?
I’ve given you every shred of credit you deserve. Yet you still feel the need to come out and state your accomplishments – let’s run through them again:
Your career is nothing but a retread, Mike. For years the pundits have said that Hornet and Manson can be compared because they’re too different – a wrestler versus a psychopath. But you just proved all by yourself that everything you’ve done , every struggle you’ve had to go through, was simply a stolen gimmick from what I did years earlier.
It’s not the size of the ego that counts, Mike, it’s the defense mechanisms that go along with it. You don’t know anything about me (denial). You’ve built bigger, better and for eternity (compensation). You could care less about me (displacement). I don’t compare to you (displacement). You crave virgins but want to give me your virginity (fantasy). That last one’s just weird – you might need therapy for that.
See – those psych classes came in handy before law school. Thanks for pulling a Cruise there.
You’re not a brilliant psychopath as you’d have the world believe, Mike. You’re just an egomaniac… a narcissist. You don’t care about the business or a company or anything but yourself and your “legend.”
Have it your way, Mike. But if I’m an apparition, then you can’t break me. If I’m a stringless puppet, then you can’t pull my strings with your mind games. If I’m not great, then you haven’t done anything.
All I have to do is simple – I’ve just got to be real enough, determined enough and great enough to pin you for three seconds.
(Hornet winks at the mirror as he slaps some aftershave on his face, then turns around and walks out.)
(FADEIN: Hornet is standing in the bathroom in his Manhattan loft, staring into the mirror. His hair is wet and spiked, towel around his waist. There’s a faint, faint red dot in the top right corner of the mirror. He waves.)
Hey Mike! Didn’t know you got your rocks off as a voyeur, but whatever works. It’s not like my life hasn’t been in the public eye anyway. Fans and haters alike have watched me grow up in warehouses, arenas and on television. From the wide-eyed law school kid stepping into the ring for the first time to the kid who won a territory’s “World” title and got a chance to have his best friend strap it around his waist and raise his hand in victory.
They’ve seen me go through the pain of losing that title and then the determination to fight a bigger, badder guy for 90 minutes and pin his shoulders to the mat. They’ve seen me go on a crusade to create something bigger, to prove I can walk into any company, any arena on any night and go toe-to-toe with the best in the world.
They saw me get angry and claim it was “nothing personal” when I attacked Eli and Vizzack and handcuff Tom Adler to a limosine. They saw me “stake a claim” with two of the greatest in the history of the business and make sure that the CSWA was on track whether Merritt, Thomas or whoever was at the helm.
They saw me fall in love, revel in the idea of another life with a family and a future that only guys like Eli Flair can pull off. They saw me injured, almost blown up, in the hospital trying to deal with something bigger than this sport. They saw me fall apart, miss bookings and become a pill-popping addict who was trying to find a way to deal with more than physical pain.
They’ve seen me bathe in the adulation of victory, grieve in the agony of defeat, and literally walk over broken glass to try and achieve the unachievable.
From the day I became Hornet, I’ve lived my life in full sight of everyone, blemishes and all. I’ve been accused of being ‘taken care of’ by owners, of only caring about the CSWA, of being too old and too stupid and too irrelevant – nothing you’ve got to say is new, Michael, although I hoped for more from you. You're too busy living the gimmick while ignoring your stunted little life.
The hubris isn’t mine, Mike. You can run down the CSWA, you can compare me to “the Godfather,” Merritt, all you want. You can claim you know nothing about me – but you’re able to quote my “schedule” as well as anyone, aren’t you?
I’ve given you every shred of credit you deserve. Yet you still feel the need to come out and state your accomplishments – let’s run through them again:
- Built regional promotions into international ones. (Check.)
- Recovered from a broken back after the doctors said he’d never walk again (Check.)
- Demanded more money and got it because he deserved it (Check.)
- Entire promotions rose up against him. (Check.)
- Left a trail of broken, branded people in his wake. (Check.)
Your career is nothing but a retread, Mike. For years the pundits have said that Hornet and Manson can be compared because they’re too different – a wrestler versus a psychopath. But you just proved all by yourself that everything you’ve done , every struggle you’ve had to go through, was simply a stolen gimmick from what I did years earlier.
It’s not the size of the ego that counts, Mike, it’s the defense mechanisms that go along with it. You don’t know anything about me (denial). You’ve built bigger, better and for eternity (compensation). You could care less about me (displacement). I don’t compare to you (displacement). You crave virgins but want to give me your virginity (fantasy). That last one’s just weird – you might need therapy for that.
See – those psych classes came in handy before law school. Thanks for pulling a Cruise there.
You’re not a brilliant psychopath as you’d have the world believe, Mike. You’re just an egomaniac… a narcissist. You don’t care about the business or a company or anything but yourself and your “legend.”
Have it your way, Mike. But if I’m an apparition, then you can’t break me. If I’m a stringless puppet, then you can’t pull my strings with your mind games. If I’m not great, then you haven’t done anything.
All I have to do is simple – I’ve just got to be real enough, determined enough and great enough to pin you for three seconds.
(Hornet winks at the mirror as he slaps some aftershave on his face, then turns around and walks out.)
A Seal Walks Into A Bar
(FADEIN: MS. SAVAGE walks into a seedy bar somewhere in South America. Another woman sits tied to a chair in the center of the room while a paunchy white man in a white suit stands next to her with what appears to be a stun gun held near her neck.)
MAN: Glad you could join us.
MS. SAVAGE: Your guards outside decided all of them needed to “pat me down” for weapons, so it took a while. (to the woman) Are you alright?
WOMAN: As alright as you can be trapped in a bar in the Chilean outback. And the company’s not much to look at.
MAN: I knew I should have gagged you.
WOMAN: You wish.
MS. SAVAGE: Who are you, anyway? Why do you have my sister?
MAN: You don’t need to worry about that.
WOMAN: He’s “Mister” Day. He and his goons went mercenary awhile back and while they’re boss is out playing “President” in Europe, they’re stuck here trying to make trouble. Why in the world they decided they needed to come down to Chile, who the hell knows. With that big old boat you’ve could’ve gone anywhere… but here?
MAN: Shut it or I will gag you. Better yet, I’ll just zap you.
WOMAN: Yeah, yeah. I’m supposed to be scared of a two-bit banker who takes orders from a two-bit hacker… (She cuts off as Mister Day gives her a zap with the stun gun that sends her unconscious.)
MS. SAVAGE: What are you doing!?
MAN: Look, this is simple. You’ve got the Seal, I want the Seal.
MS. SAVAGE: But why? I don’t understand any of this! I know it has to do with wrestling, but seriously?
MAN: There’s a long tradition of kidnapping in wrestling, as well as parodying movie plots. That’s all you need to know. Give me the seal!
(Ms. Savage shrugs and tosses the seal to Mr. Day. As he catches it, he immediately screams and drops it. A reverse of the Seal has been burned into his hand.)
MAN: How!? What!? How the hell did YOU hold it?
WOMAN: (mocking) You don’t need to worry about that.
MAN: GUARDS!
(The door bursts open showing a guard dressed in black. The guard’s head hits the doorframe suddenly. He slumps to the ground, revealing HORNET behind him. Hornet rushes into the room, shuts the door and begins pushing the bar in front of it as a barricade. Ms. Savage rushes across the room, kicking the stun gun away from Mister Day and beginning to free her sister from her bonds.)
HORNET: (to Ms. Savage) Are you alright? Is your sister… oh COME ON!
WOMAN: Well I’m happy to see you too, stranger. I always knew a hero would come for me… just like you’ve come for me before.
HORNET: Really? Now is the time for ridiculous double entendres? (to Ms. Savage) And you! Why didn’t you tell me we were doing all this for her?
MS. SAVAGE: If I had, would you have come this far.
HORNET: Good point. (to Mister Day) And you again? Really? You’re still working for that sack of (bleep)? You know I could pay you better.
MAN: It’s not the pay, it’s the principle.
HORNET: Seriously? All this to try and stop me from winning a little tournament?
MAN: You know it’s more than that. He knows your plan. He knows what you’re trying to do and who you’re working with. He’ll never leave you alone.
HORNET: He never has. And oh, by the way, your little midget is gone. He might wash up somewhere around Cape Horn, if he makes it out of the river.
(The door and the bar begin moving as the guards out front try to muscle it open.)
MAN: You can’t get out of here. You won’t make your little tournament and your ‘comeback’ is for nothing.
HORNET: Steve… you forgot something very important.
MAN: We don’t…
HORNET: I’m a Boy Scout. A rich one, at that. 'Be prepared,' mutha(bleep).
(A bright white light appears outside the third-story window. A grappling hook shoots through the window and then rips the entire windowframe out. Hornet grabs the still-woozy woman from her chair and pulls MS. SAVAGE over to the window by her arm.)
MS. SAVAGE: Wait! (She rushes over and grabs the Seal of Solomon by its chain, then runs back to Hornet and the open window.) You might need this.
HORNET: I knew I was starting to like you.
(HORNET wraps his arm around her waist and the three jump out of the window… and into a waiting helicopter. STEVE DAY runs to the window, bathed in the receding light as the chopper flies upward and his guards finally come bursting into the room.)
(Fadeout)
(FADEIN: MS. SAVAGE walks into a seedy bar somewhere in South America. Another woman sits tied to a chair in the center of the room while a paunchy white man in a white suit stands next to her with what appears to be a stun gun held near her neck.)
MAN: Glad you could join us.
MS. SAVAGE: Your guards outside decided all of them needed to “pat me down” for weapons, so it took a while. (to the woman) Are you alright?
WOMAN: As alright as you can be trapped in a bar in the Chilean outback. And the company’s not much to look at.
MAN: I knew I should have gagged you.
WOMAN: You wish.
MS. SAVAGE: Who are you, anyway? Why do you have my sister?
MAN: You don’t need to worry about that.
WOMAN: He’s “Mister” Day. He and his goons went mercenary awhile back and while they’re boss is out playing “President” in Europe, they’re stuck here trying to make trouble. Why in the world they decided they needed to come down to Chile, who the hell knows. With that big old boat you’ve could’ve gone anywhere… but here?
MAN: Shut it or I will gag you. Better yet, I’ll just zap you.
WOMAN: Yeah, yeah. I’m supposed to be scared of a two-bit banker who takes orders from a two-bit hacker… (She cuts off as Mister Day gives her a zap with the stun gun that sends her unconscious.)
MS. SAVAGE: What are you doing!?
MAN: Look, this is simple. You’ve got the Seal, I want the Seal.
MS. SAVAGE: But why? I don’t understand any of this! I know it has to do with wrestling, but seriously?
MAN: There’s a long tradition of kidnapping in wrestling, as well as parodying movie plots. That’s all you need to know. Give me the seal!
(Ms. Savage shrugs and tosses the seal to Mr. Day. As he catches it, he immediately screams and drops it. A reverse of the Seal has been burned into his hand.)
MAN: How!? What!? How the hell did YOU hold it?
WOMAN: (mocking) You don’t need to worry about that.
MAN: GUARDS!
(The door bursts open showing a guard dressed in black. The guard’s head hits the doorframe suddenly. He slumps to the ground, revealing HORNET behind him. Hornet rushes into the room, shuts the door and begins pushing the bar in front of it as a barricade. Ms. Savage rushes across the room, kicking the stun gun away from Mister Day and beginning to free her sister from her bonds.)
HORNET: (to Ms. Savage) Are you alright? Is your sister… oh COME ON!
WOMAN: Well I’m happy to see you too, stranger. I always knew a hero would come for me… just like you’ve come for me before.
HORNET: Really? Now is the time for ridiculous double entendres? (to Ms. Savage) And you! Why didn’t you tell me we were doing all this for her?
MS. SAVAGE: If I had, would you have come this far.
HORNET: Good point. (to Mister Day) And you again? Really? You’re still working for that sack of (bleep)? You know I could pay you better.
MAN: It’s not the pay, it’s the principle.
HORNET: Seriously? All this to try and stop me from winning a little tournament?
MAN: You know it’s more than that. He knows your plan. He knows what you’re trying to do and who you’re working with. He’ll never leave you alone.
HORNET: He never has. And oh, by the way, your little midget is gone. He might wash up somewhere around Cape Horn, if he makes it out of the river.
(The door and the bar begin moving as the guards out front try to muscle it open.)
MAN: You can’t get out of here. You won’t make your little tournament and your ‘comeback’ is for nothing.
HORNET: Steve… you forgot something very important.
MAN: We don’t…
HORNET: I’m a Boy Scout. A rich one, at that. 'Be prepared,' mutha(bleep).
(A bright white light appears outside the third-story window. A grappling hook shoots through the window and then rips the entire windowframe out. Hornet grabs the still-woozy woman from her chair and pulls MS. SAVAGE over to the window by her arm.)
MS. SAVAGE: Wait! (She rushes over and grabs the Seal of Solomon by its chain, then runs back to Hornet and the open window.) You might need this.
HORNET: I knew I was starting to like you.
(HORNET wraps his arm around her waist and the three jump out of the window… and into a waiting helicopter. STEVE DAY runs to the window, bathed in the receding light as the chopper flies upward and his guards finally come bursting into the room.)
(Fadeout)
NOTMikeythePyro
League Member
- Joined
- Jun 27, 2011
- Messages
- 9
- Points
- 0
(FADEIN: Pan up a tall skyscraper reaching up into the Chicago skyline. CUTTO: A gaudily-dressed man stands on a window ledge. He’s wearing an orange and green singlet with similarly colored face paint that matches his nuclear bright yellow mohawk. He’s tanned and well-built, but not a bodybuilder. A large “P*” is painted onto his chest. he’s sweating and breathing heavily. This is nubile, young wrestler PRODIGY CLASSIC. He holds out his arms, ready to step off and plunge down to his death.)
P*(sniffling and sobbing): I have no reason to live! None at all!
(He lifts his foot and readies to walk off the ledge when MICHAEL MANSON nonchalantly strolls into the room behind him and sits down Indian-style on the Persian rug. He’s wearing a black CASTOR STRIFE Gas Mask t-shirt and black leather pants and boots with a jean jacket.
P* senses him and looks back over his head.)
MANSON(peering up): Don’t mind me.
(Manson slips out a small bag of ground up raspberry pez and snorts a little and tastes another bit of it on his tongue. P* stares as the wind whips through him, ripples his tight clothes, about to shove him off.
MANSON (noticing him still staring): What?
P*: I...I...I...
MANSON: Can’t you see that I’m busy here?
P*: Well, yes, of course. But...but....
MANSON: Weren’t you in the middle of something?
P*: I was....yes...I was! I’m going to throw myself off this building!
MANSON: All right. I’ll leave you to that.
P*: Wait! What?
MANSON: Go on. I’ll be right here.
P*: Aren’t you...aren’t you...going to try and talk me out of this?
MANSON (not looking up from his pez): Do I look like a therapist?
P*: But you’re the only here! You’re the only who came!
MANSON: Yeah, I had to pick up my pez here.
P*: Yo didn’t get the mass email I sent out all across the world wide web?
MANSON: No, can’t say that I did.
P*: Then nobody does care! Nobody wants to listen! Nobody wants me around!
MANSON: Yep, sounds about right.
P* (facing the outside): Then so long cruel world! I was never meant for you! You were never meant for me, but I thought I could go so far, but there are too many people with their cruel vices and lies! There’s love, but it’s painful and I keep trying to tell myself it’s worth it, but it never is! I have no choice! I don’t know if the next world is a good place or not, but it has to be better than this!
(He pauses and then looks back over his shoulder at Manson ignoring him. He coughs loudly.)
P*: So now I plunge down to my horrid, horrible death! Nobody will miss me! Nobody will know what I could have done or been!
MANSON: Will you hurry it up a little? I don’t have day here to wait for you do this. I have two hours of Breaking Bad digitally recorded I need to watch and I haven’t even started the new Game of Thrones novel yet.
P*: But I could have been the world champion!
MANSON: Meh.
P*: I could have wrestled Hornet and he would have been proud of me! Then my dad wouldn’t have drank and he wouldn’t have beat me! My uncle wouldn’t have slipped his hand down my pants at Thanksgiving dinner! My family wouldn’t have lost its house and had nowhere to go! All my friends wouldn’t have left me and gone to hang out with that new kid Frederic West Cedrix! They never appreciated me! The fans never appreciated me, but I could have beat Hornet! If he ever showed up!
MANSON: Yeah, yeah, yeah.
P*: But now you’re the only here! You of all people!
MANSON: I do that sort of thing. I show up where people don’t expect me to. Where they don’t want me to. I outlast everyone else.
P*: Don’t...don’t you think it’s fate?
MANSON: There is no fate, only the appearance of it.
P*: But Hornet isn’t here!
MANSON: I’m becoming convinced “Hornet” never really existed to become with. He’s basically someone everyone on the circuit made up and they never got tired of the joke. I was once supposed to have a match with him, but it feels like that it never happened. He was supposed to be in a few leagues with me, but he made no impact at all, certainly not one someone of his magnitude should. Then he’s supposed to have won all these other titles and done so much more, but I didn’t know of any of it. Yet, somehow he knows all about and thinks he can stand in judgment of me.
P*: He can’t! He can’t! And he can’t abandon me!
MANSON: Eh, get over it.
P*: I can wrestle you instead! That will be a bigger deal! I’ll be a bigger star then! It’ll get more attention!
MANSON: Or I’ll mutilate you and make you submit and that will get even more attention.
P*: Yeah! Right on!
(Manson shakes his head.)
MANSON: But I’m not sure if that’s what I should do to Hornet. I have several strategies circling around in my mind, but then there’s always what you think of at the moment. This is supposed to be the dream match of dream matches. A historical bout. One generation against the next. For glory, prestige, bragging rights, pez, honor, Christmas, and all that.
Yet I feel hollow inside about it.
P*: Because Hornet won’t acknowledge you! Because he won’t let you in the CSWA! Or he won’t run the CSWA in you...or at least not on a regular basis. I think. I get it all confused.
MANSON: Don’t worry. You’re only really a metaphor.
P*: That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me!
MANSON: Good, now shut up.
I feel hollow...and yes I do have feelings...not because Hornet refuses to accept my place in the grand scheme of this business. He’ll have when I’ve humbled and submitted him, perhaps after I pin him to the mat conclusively. Not because he thinks he can mock me and my achievements...
...not that he thinks anything he’s done that I never cared about before and probably never will actually means anything to me right now and proves any kind of point.
I feel hollow and...I’d say...unfulfilled...why, you ask?
P*: Yeah, why?
MANSON: Because this can only really happen once.
Any rematch would never be the same as the first time Manson met Hornet. Beating and bloodying and humiliating him would never be the same flavor twice. It can never be as big as when it happens for the first time and that’s why it must be the only time.
For years and years, there were those who wanted to see me humbled. To see me get what I deserve. To be me disgraced and humiliated in the center of the ring.
...but nobody ever thought Hornet could do it.
No, instead, for years and years, wrestlers, managers, promoters, valets, fans, trainers, and anyone else...
...they wanted Manson versus Hornet.
They wanted the biggest match-up ever. They wanted the industry to divide itself, taking sides and picking favorites.
BUT....but everyone who poked and prodded at me....those who wanted to put this match together...and several have tried. Craig Miles himself dreamed of making Manson/Hornet the NFW Ultratitle Finale.
...But him and everyone else...the people who whispered about this match-up...the ones who asked me about me...
They didn’t want to know who the greatest of all-time was.
They already knew.
Hell, like Hornet, the whole d*** world’s been following me since the start.
I already proved I was the greatest in the world.
No, they wanted me to slap Hornet down because they were tired of him and his generation trying to lord over them...holding them down...claiming they would always rank just a little bit higher...
...that they were entitled. That they were always the main event.
Except when I’m the main event.
It does not matter the league. It does not matter the talent.
Mike Manson is always the main event.
They knew it and they wanted me to shut Hornet up forever...because he suspect the same thing....he might even know it...but he’ll never admit it.
(P* tears up.)
P*: I did always like you best.
MANSON: And that’s my biggest regret. That this is only happening now. I wouldn’t have wanted it to happen in the NFW or the CSWA. Or the AAWC or NWC.
No, wish we could travel back to the P* Circuit and have the match that doesn’t need a league.
Back when Hornet was in his prime and not studying young, athletic lads at the gym.
Well, not for the same reasons anyway.
Back when he was supposedly winning these titles I’ve never heard of in leagues I’ve never heard of and that he might as well have made up.
Because I could have ended years and years of extreme egotism and a man living off a reputation he probably never really deserved in the first place.
And even back then, everyone would have chosen me.
Best of all, you would have spent all these knowing that I’d beaten you...
...even if you’d achieved all that you had the same...deep down inside...you’d know.
However, patience is a virtue and it’s one of the few I practice.
I don’t have to wait anymore and neither does anyone else. The opportunity has arrived and I’ve returned from exile.
But don’t think I came back just for you, Hornet.
I came back to stand over you while you lie there, staring up at me, the true victor.
Then at last, you’ll get over yourself and wish we were all back on the P* circuit...and that you could do things all over again...and prepare yourself...for me at the end.
However, even in an alternative universe, I’d still beat you.
It’s not fate, it’s not destiny. It’s just what I do.
P*: Wow! You’re awesome! Now I want to see this match!
(Manson stands up.)
MANSON: I’d like to let you, but you’re the past and you need to preserved like the pristine work of art and memory you are. You led us all here to where we are now, but after I bear Hornet it’s a new day. One that we should have all been breathing for years, but better late than never.
P*: What are you talking about?
(Manson shrugs.)
MANSON: The things I do for love.
(He steps forward and shoves P* out the window. Then he turns around walks off, his hands in his pockets.)
P*(sniffling and sobbing): I have no reason to live! None at all!
(He lifts his foot and readies to walk off the ledge when MICHAEL MANSON nonchalantly strolls into the room behind him and sits down Indian-style on the Persian rug. He’s wearing a black CASTOR STRIFE Gas Mask t-shirt and black leather pants and boots with a jean jacket.
P* senses him and looks back over his head.)
MANSON(peering up): Don’t mind me.
(Manson slips out a small bag of ground up raspberry pez and snorts a little and tastes another bit of it on his tongue. P* stares as the wind whips through him, ripples his tight clothes, about to shove him off.
MANSON (noticing him still staring): What?
P*: I...I...I...
MANSON: Can’t you see that I’m busy here?
P*: Well, yes, of course. But...but....
MANSON: Weren’t you in the middle of something?
P*: I was....yes...I was! I’m going to throw myself off this building!
MANSON: All right. I’ll leave you to that.
P*: Wait! What?
MANSON: Go on. I’ll be right here.
P*: Aren’t you...aren’t you...going to try and talk me out of this?
MANSON (not looking up from his pez): Do I look like a therapist?
P*: But you’re the only here! You’re the only who came!
MANSON: Yeah, I had to pick up my pez here.
P*: Yo didn’t get the mass email I sent out all across the world wide web?
MANSON: No, can’t say that I did.
P*: Then nobody does care! Nobody wants to listen! Nobody wants me around!
MANSON: Yep, sounds about right.
P* (facing the outside): Then so long cruel world! I was never meant for you! You were never meant for me, but I thought I could go so far, but there are too many people with their cruel vices and lies! There’s love, but it’s painful and I keep trying to tell myself it’s worth it, but it never is! I have no choice! I don’t know if the next world is a good place or not, but it has to be better than this!
(He pauses and then looks back over his shoulder at Manson ignoring him. He coughs loudly.)
P*: So now I plunge down to my horrid, horrible death! Nobody will miss me! Nobody will know what I could have done or been!
MANSON: Will you hurry it up a little? I don’t have day here to wait for you do this. I have two hours of Breaking Bad digitally recorded I need to watch and I haven’t even started the new Game of Thrones novel yet.
P*: But I could have been the world champion!
MANSON: Meh.
P*: I could have wrestled Hornet and he would have been proud of me! Then my dad wouldn’t have drank and he wouldn’t have beat me! My uncle wouldn’t have slipped his hand down my pants at Thanksgiving dinner! My family wouldn’t have lost its house and had nowhere to go! All my friends wouldn’t have left me and gone to hang out with that new kid Frederic West Cedrix! They never appreciated me! The fans never appreciated me, but I could have beat Hornet! If he ever showed up!
MANSON: Yeah, yeah, yeah.
P*: But now you’re the only here! You of all people!
MANSON: I do that sort of thing. I show up where people don’t expect me to. Where they don’t want me to. I outlast everyone else.
P*: Don’t...don’t you think it’s fate?
MANSON: There is no fate, only the appearance of it.
P*: But Hornet isn’t here!
MANSON: I’m becoming convinced “Hornet” never really existed to become with. He’s basically someone everyone on the circuit made up and they never got tired of the joke. I was once supposed to have a match with him, but it feels like that it never happened. He was supposed to be in a few leagues with me, but he made no impact at all, certainly not one someone of his magnitude should. Then he’s supposed to have won all these other titles and done so much more, but I didn’t know of any of it. Yet, somehow he knows all about and thinks he can stand in judgment of me.
P*: He can’t! He can’t! And he can’t abandon me!
MANSON: Eh, get over it.
P*: I can wrestle you instead! That will be a bigger deal! I’ll be a bigger star then! It’ll get more attention!
MANSON: Or I’ll mutilate you and make you submit and that will get even more attention.
P*: Yeah! Right on!
(Manson shakes his head.)
MANSON: But I’m not sure if that’s what I should do to Hornet. I have several strategies circling around in my mind, but then there’s always what you think of at the moment. This is supposed to be the dream match of dream matches. A historical bout. One generation against the next. For glory, prestige, bragging rights, pez, honor, Christmas, and all that.
Yet I feel hollow inside about it.
P*: Because Hornet won’t acknowledge you! Because he won’t let you in the CSWA! Or he won’t run the CSWA in you...or at least not on a regular basis. I think. I get it all confused.
MANSON: Don’t worry. You’re only really a metaphor.
P*: That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me!
MANSON: Good, now shut up.
I feel hollow...and yes I do have feelings...not because Hornet refuses to accept my place in the grand scheme of this business. He’ll have when I’ve humbled and submitted him, perhaps after I pin him to the mat conclusively. Not because he thinks he can mock me and my achievements...
...not that he thinks anything he’s done that I never cared about before and probably never will actually means anything to me right now and proves any kind of point.
I feel hollow and...I’d say...unfulfilled...why, you ask?
P*: Yeah, why?
MANSON: Because this can only really happen once.
Any rematch would never be the same as the first time Manson met Hornet. Beating and bloodying and humiliating him would never be the same flavor twice. It can never be as big as when it happens for the first time and that’s why it must be the only time.
For years and years, there were those who wanted to see me humbled. To see me get what I deserve. To be me disgraced and humiliated in the center of the ring.
...but nobody ever thought Hornet could do it.
No, instead, for years and years, wrestlers, managers, promoters, valets, fans, trainers, and anyone else...
...they wanted Manson versus Hornet.
They wanted the biggest match-up ever. They wanted the industry to divide itself, taking sides and picking favorites.
BUT....but everyone who poked and prodded at me....those who wanted to put this match together...and several have tried. Craig Miles himself dreamed of making Manson/Hornet the NFW Ultratitle Finale.
...But him and everyone else...the people who whispered about this match-up...the ones who asked me about me...
They didn’t want to know who the greatest of all-time was.
They already knew.
Hell, like Hornet, the whole d*** world’s been following me since the start.
I already proved I was the greatest in the world.
No, they wanted me to slap Hornet down because they were tired of him and his generation trying to lord over them...holding them down...claiming they would always rank just a little bit higher...
...that they were entitled. That they were always the main event.
Except when I’m the main event.
It does not matter the league. It does not matter the talent.
Mike Manson is always the main event.
They knew it and they wanted me to shut Hornet up forever...because he suspect the same thing....he might even know it...but he’ll never admit it.
(P* tears up.)
P*: I did always like you best.
MANSON: And that’s my biggest regret. That this is only happening now. I wouldn’t have wanted it to happen in the NFW or the CSWA. Or the AAWC or NWC.
No, wish we could travel back to the P* Circuit and have the match that doesn’t need a league.
Back when Hornet was in his prime and not studying young, athletic lads at the gym.
Well, not for the same reasons anyway.
Back when he was supposedly winning these titles I’ve never heard of in leagues I’ve never heard of and that he might as well have made up.
Because I could have ended years and years of extreme egotism and a man living off a reputation he probably never really deserved in the first place.
And even back then, everyone would have chosen me.
Best of all, you would have spent all these knowing that I’d beaten you...
...even if you’d achieved all that you had the same...deep down inside...you’d know.
However, patience is a virtue and it’s one of the few I practice.
I don’t have to wait anymore and neither does anyone else. The opportunity has arrived and I’ve returned from exile.
But don’t think I came back just for you, Hornet.
I came back to stand over you while you lie there, staring up at me, the true victor.
Then at last, you’ll get over yourself and wish we were all back on the P* circuit...and that you could do things all over again...and prepare yourself...for me at the end.
However, even in an alternative universe, I’d still beat you.
It’s not fate, it’s not destiny. It’s just what I do.
P*: Wow! You’re awesome! Now I want to see this match!
(Manson stands up.)
MANSON: I’d like to let you, but you’re the past and you need to preserved like the pristine work of art and memory you are. You led us all here to where we are now, but after I bear Hornet it’s a new day. One that we should have all been breathing for years, but better late than never.
P*: What are you talking about?
(Manson shrugs.)
MANSON: The things I do for love.
(He steps forward and shoves P* out the window. Then he turns around walks off, his hands in his pockets.)
(FADEIN: Hornet is in the woods with a pair of what appear to be night-vision goggles on the top of his head. He slowly moves through the woods until he finds a clearing. In the center, a makeshift altar stands, made out of stones and branches. In the center and on one side of the altar is a dark stain.)
I always wanted to do GhostHunters.
Instead, with the help of some of my paranormal investigators, I’ve got a very sensitive piece of equipment called ego-vision glasses. Let’s take a look.
(Hornet slides the goggles over his eyes and they turn blue. We switch to a view that shows all sorts of blue outlines.)
Amazing, isn’t it? All the worshippers at the altar of Manson. The pimply-faced English student has brought his favorite dog to the altar. There appears to be an angry artist ready to sacrifice his masterpiece. There are all the virgins – clearly the cream of the crop from Duke, Oberlin and Wichita State. There’s some dude dressed in spandex with a P on his chest… and I think I see NOT Marx, NOT Panda Mask Guy, NOT Zack Sirus, NOT Miles… they’re all here! It’s incredible!
And look…there at the center bowing to the altar…that’s Manson himself!
I can’t wait to get this back to the guys at the lab and see what kind of sounds we’re getting out of this!
(He lifts the goggles and takes a step towards the altar.)
Wait…they’re all gone.
Oh, that’s right…we’re back in reality again, not Mansonworld.
Dear dear Mike, you don’t get to have it both ways just because your gimmick says so. You can ignore my “accomplishments” but I have to bow down at the altar of yours? Reality doesn’t change just because you will it to be so. We’ve “never” met in the ring before, even though Craig Miles made some money throwing me in a Bamboo Death Cage of Destruction or whatever against you and I walked out still whole?
You can’t break me, Mike, because you’re simply not real. I don’t matter in your world because your world is a fairy tale that doesn’t exist. It’s a world where I didn’t main event more NFW Season I events than you and where I was so irrelevant that you didn’t have to send your minions to team up with Cameron Cruise to attack me.
And sorry I have to break it to you, but this isn’t a “dream match.” I’ve been in those and I’m sure you have too. The Hornet/Mark Windham matches… something everyone wanted to see. Hornet/GUNS NO EXCUSES… sold out over 100,000 seats. Hornet vs. Mike Randalls, Hornet vs. Lex Vicious for the new CSWA Unified Title, Hornet vs. Eli Flair for the title, Hornet vs. Eli Flair in Flair’s retirement tour, Hornet in the NFW Pentagram match…. All must-sees. The promoters knew it, the fans knew it… while meanwhile you were here bowing down at your own altar of goat blood and urine.
I’ve stepped into every major arena in this country and in countries around the world. It’s not my fault if you weren’t there. I’ve been in the locker room and in rings with contemporaries you hold dear like Anarky and Golden Hawk, Marx and Tact, even your best friend Jean Rabesque. Minion, Problem Child, Felix Red – seen ‘em all and wrestled in the same leagues and events.
But where were you?
You were busy at your altar – kissing Craig Miles’ ass to keep you in your own division. You’ve let me know over and over again that you weren’t busy waiting to see CSWA events, but you sure seemed to wait three years for the “Superbowl of Wrestling.”
You’re playing with a veteran now, Mike. You didn’t want me to frame the argument so I gave you the first salvo. But you don’t get to make up history in your own image.
You’ve proved that you’re a great strategist, a great mind gamer, a credible threat. But your attempts to form a cult of personality have failed. You’re the greatest in your own head, but a meaningless lump to this business right now. I can walk into any league open today and be taken seriously – you could walk in and half the workers and fans would be wondering how many dildos you have in your bag.
You’re a gimmick, Mike. A runny-nosed punk who read Helter Skelter and a couple of other manifestos and thought it would be cool to be anti-everything and to try and dominate the weak. You’ve spent your entire career avoiding the real world, avoiding the hard decisions to focus on how you can screw with Cameron Cruise and whether Yori likes pink or black “accessories.”
I’ve told you what I am. I’m a guy who got lucky, who never intended to be here 23 years later. A guy who made huge mistakes in front of the court of public opinion, but also had some damn good moments too. I’ve won titles and lost them, been fired and brought back, paid millions and then told I’m not needed. I’ve made stupid decisions, played Russian roulette with pills and politics and partnerships, but I’ve also made decisions that I’d never take back like Ivy, Timmy and Susan.
Warts and all – and I’ve been praised and panned as much as anyone. I’ve been told I’m too old and too old-school, that the best days are behind me and that I should just fade away. And at the same time I’ve received contracts in the mail and phone calls from promoters all over the world begging me to come in for a match or for a run.
I’ve been strong and I’ve been weak – but never weak enough to bow down to or be suckered in by the likes of you. You’re just another Jim Williams, an antichrist wanna-be that’s a cross between Charles Manson and Criss Angel. You’re a car crash – people will stop and look for a minute, but when it gets ugly they’re gone.
There have been plenty of people who have been successful living a gimmick, and you’re definitely one of them. But gimmicks win part-time followers, not matches.
In the end, Mike, the real world is going to invade Mansonworld. And the headline will be that old favorite…
HORNET WINS!!!! (Again!)
I always wanted to do GhostHunters.
Instead, with the help of some of my paranormal investigators, I’ve got a very sensitive piece of equipment called ego-vision glasses. Let’s take a look.
(Hornet slides the goggles over his eyes and they turn blue. We switch to a view that shows all sorts of blue outlines.)
Amazing, isn’t it? All the worshippers at the altar of Manson. The pimply-faced English student has brought his favorite dog to the altar. There appears to be an angry artist ready to sacrifice his masterpiece. There are all the virgins – clearly the cream of the crop from Duke, Oberlin and Wichita State. There’s some dude dressed in spandex with a P on his chest… and I think I see NOT Marx, NOT Panda Mask Guy, NOT Zack Sirus, NOT Miles… they’re all here! It’s incredible!
And look…there at the center bowing to the altar…that’s Manson himself!
I can’t wait to get this back to the guys at the lab and see what kind of sounds we’re getting out of this!
(He lifts the goggles and takes a step towards the altar.)
Wait…they’re all gone.
Oh, that’s right…we’re back in reality again, not Mansonworld.
Dear dear Mike, you don’t get to have it both ways just because your gimmick says so. You can ignore my “accomplishments” but I have to bow down at the altar of yours? Reality doesn’t change just because you will it to be so. We’ve “never” met in the ring before, even though Craig Miles made some money throwing me in a Bamboo Death Cage of Destruction or whatever against you and I walked out still whole?
You can’t break me, Mike, because you’re simply not real. I don’t matter in your world because your world is a fairy tale that doesn’t exist. It’s a world where I didn’t main event more NFW Season I events than you and where I was so irrelevant that you didn’t have to send your minions to team up with Cameron Cruise to attack me.
And sorry I have to break it to you, but this isn’t a “dream match.” I’ve been in those and I’m sure you have too. The Hornet/Mark Windham matches… something everyone wanted to see. Hornet/GUNS NO EXCUSES… sold out over 100,000 seats. Hornet vs. Mike Randalls, Hornet vs. Lex Vicious for the new CSWA Unified Title, Hornet vs. Eli Flair for the title, Hornet vs. Eli Flair in Flair’s retirement tour, Hornet in the NFW Pentagram match…. All must-sees. The promoters knew it, the fans knew it… while meanwhile you were here bowing down at your own altar of goat blood and urine.
I’ve stepped into every major arena in this country and in countries around the world. It’s not my fault if you weren’t there. I’ve been in the locker room and in rings with contemporaries you hold dear like Anarky and Golden Hawk, Marx and Tact, even your best friend Jean Rabesque. Minion, Problem Child, Felix Red – seen ‘em all and wrestled in the same leagues and events.
But where were you?
You were busy at your altar – kissing Craig Miles’ ass to keep you in your own division. You’ve let me know over and over again that you weren’t busy waiting to see CSWA events, but you sure seemed to wait three years for the “Superbowl of Wrestling.”
You’re playing with a veteran now, Mike. You didn’t want me to frame the argument so I gave you the first salvo. But you don’t get to make up history in your own image.
You’ve proved that you’re a great strategist, a great mind gamer, a credible threat. But your attempts to form a cult of personality have failed. You’re the greatest in your own head, but a meaningless lump to this business right now. I can walk into any league open today and be taken seriously – you could walk in and half the workers and fans would be wondering how many dildos you have in your bag.
You’re a gimmick, Mike. A runny-nosed punk who read Helter Skelter and a couple of other manifestos and thought it would be cool to be anti-everything and to try and dominate the weak. You’ve spent your entire career avoiding the real world, avoiding the hard decisions to focus on how you can screw with Cameron Cruise and whether Yori likes pink or black “accessories.”
I’ve told you what I am. I’m a guy who got lucky, who never intended to be here 23 years later. A guy who made huge mistakes in front of the court of public opinion, but also had some damn good moments too. I’ve won titles and lost them, been fired and brought back, paid millions and then told I’m not needed. I’ve made stupid decisions, played Russian roulette with pills and politics and partnerships, but I’ve also made decisions that I’d never take back like Ivy, Timmy and Susan.
Warts and all – and I’ve been praised and panned as much as anyone. I’ve been told I’m too old and too old-school, that the best days are behind me and that I should just fade away. And at the same time I’ve received contracts in the mail and phone calls from promoters all over the world begging me to come in for a match or for a run.
I’ve been strong and I’ve been weak – but never weak enough to bow down to or be suckered in by the likes of you. You’re just another Jim Williams, an antichrist wanna-be that’s a cross between Charles Manson and Criss Angel. You’re a car crash – people will stop and look for a minute, but when it gets ugly they’re gone.
There have been plenty of people who have been successful living a gimmick, and you’re definitely one of them. But gimmicks win part-time followers, not matches.
In the end, Mike, the real world is going to invade Mansonworld. And the headline will be that old favorite…
HORNET WINS!!!! (Again!)
NOTMikeythePyro
League Member
- Joined
- Jun 27, 2011
- Messages
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(FADEIN: The arena during the show. The sounds of the crowd cheering echo through the room. It’s a darkened locker room with MICHAEL MANSON sitting on a bench with one leg stretched out before him. He’s wearing a sleeveless black t-shirt featuring The Three Sisters, which is a famous bar in Scotland, and black gi pants. He reaches for his toes and grabs them, holding the stretch.)
MANSON: Ah, the final word. I’ve known wrestlers who literally would have strangled their wives for it. The chance to make the exclamation point, cross the t’s and dot the i’s.
As if by mere words alone they can dictate what will happen during the match.
Yet, here I am, having the last word....but I am me.
And at the same time, I realize, regardless, I will have the last word.
Whether I take Hornet to the top rope and hit the Sweet Dreams stunner from there or choke him out with the Tourniquet Lebell Lock or powerbomb him through a table or piledrive his bleeding skull onto the cold cement or wrap his crush leg into a figure four or using his own scorpion deathlock and reverse ddt again him --both moves I do much better I should add...
...or however this all plays out in the heat of the moment...it ends in the same way.
Me standing over Hornet, him lying beaten and in my shadow where he belongs.
A younger --and lesser -- wrestler might be annoyed by Hornet not taking him seriously . By Hornet not acknowledging him as a threat or being anywhere in his league, but I’m long past that.
In fact, I never cared about any of that sort of thing.
I could reflect upon battling Doc Silver on top of a ladder...fighting JT Tyler through a crowd....bashing in the back of Ares’ head with a TV monitor...being trapped in Maelstrom inside a cage...wrestling Felix Red in the rain...and facing down Shane Southern in front of the largest ppv crowd ever.
I could name world titles...TV titles..hardcore titles....tag team titles even...
Promotions like Boston Action ‘N’ Destruction...the UWA...the IWC....the NFW....NFWA...GLCW....Ultimo Japan....and even World’s Finest Wrestling...
...but none of those names matter to me.
Only one name matters to me and that’s my own.
The only wrestler I care about anyone beating....that it would actually mean anything to me...is me.
Because I am the greatest in the world...and I’ve proved it in the ring, on ladders, in cages, as part of tag teams, in brawls, in technical wrestling matches, here in the States and Japan...
...anyone who had been in the ring with me...those that survived would agree.
Once you stripped away their anger and pride, which I sometimes did.
So while I am willing to admit that Hornet has meant a great deal to this industry since he has that acclaim...I can also say that it doesn’t mean unless he actually beats me.
(Manson swings his leg off the bench and crouches forward.)
However, by hook, by crook, I will find a way. I see the world at awkward angles and this -- the sport of kings -- in a similar way. I am unpredictable, unknowable, and undeniable.
Best of all, you split open my head...you twist my arms all the way behind my back....you blind me....I keep coming...I keep thinking...I keep reacting...
..and only if I don’t get to you first.
For four long years, I missed this. The anticipation. Savoring the air before the match the whole wants to see.
Not only because it’s Manson versus Hornet, but to see what Manson will do against Hornet. How Manson will shock Hornet and the world.
Einstein once asked “What choice did God in creating the universe?”
And so I must ask...what choice do I in humbling, submitting, and pinning Hornet?
What choice do I have in being the greatest of all time?
What choice do I have in being the P* Class Champion?
And the answer is...I have every choice and everything to do with it.
Because I’m Mike f’n Manson and I not always get to have the final word...but I get to decide what it is.
MANSON: Ah, the final word. I’ve known wrestlers who literally would have strangled their wives for it. The chance to make the exclamation point, cross the t’s and dot the i’s.
As if by mere words alone they can dictate what will happen during the match.
Yet, here I am, having the last word....but I am me.
And at the same time, I realize, regardless, I will have the last word.
Whether I take Hornet to the top rope and hit the Sweet Dreams stunner from there or choke him out with the Tourniquet Lebell Lock or powerbomb him through a table or piledrive his bleeding skull onto the cold cement or wrap his crush leg into a figure four or using his own scorpion deathlock and reverse ddt again him --both moves I do much better I should add...
...or however this all plays out in the heat of the moment...it ends in the same way.
Me standing over Hornet, him lying beaten and in my shadow where he belongs.
A younger --and lesser -- wrestler might be annoyed by Hornet not taking him seriously . By Hornet not acknowledging him as a threat or being anywhere in his league, but I’m long past that.
In fact, I never cared about any of that sort of thing.
I could reflect upon battling Doc Silver on top of a ladder...fighting JT Tyler through a crowd....bashing in the back of Ares’ head with a TV monitor...being trapped in Maelstrom inside a cage...wrestling Felix Red in the rain...and facing down Shane Southern in front of the largest ppv crowd ever.
I could name world titles...TV titles..hardcore titles....tag team titles even...
Promotions like Boston Action ‘N’ Destruction...the UWA...the IWC....the NFW....NFWA...GLCW....Ultimo Japan....and even World’s Finest Wrestling...
...but none of those names matter to me.
Only one name matters to me and that’s my own.
The only wrestler I care about anyone beating....that it would actually mean anything to me...is me.
Because I am the greatest in the world...and I’ve proved it in the ring, on ladders, in cages, as part of tag teams, in brawls, in technical wrestling matches, here in the States and Japan...
...anyone who had been in the ring with me...those that survived would agree.
Once you stripped away their anger and pride, which I sometimes did.
So while I am willing to admit that Hornet has meant a great deal to this industry since he has that acclaim...I can also say that it doesn’t mean unless he actually beats me.
(Manson swings his leg off the bench and crouches forward.)
However, by hook, by crook, I will find a way. I see the world at awkward angles and this -- the sport of kings -- in a similar way. I am unpredictable, unknowable, and undeniable.
Best of all, you split open my head...you twist my arms all the way behind my back....you blind me....I keep coming...I keep thinking...I keep reacting...
..and only if I don’t get to you first.
For four long years, I missed this. The anticipation. Savoring the air before the match the whole wants to see.
Not only because it’s Manson versus Hornet, but to see what Manson will do against Hornet. How Manson will shock Hornet and the world.
Einstein once asked “What choice did God in creating the universe?”
And so I must ask...what choice do I in humbling, submitting, and pinning Hornet?
What choice do I have in being the greatest of all time?
What choice do I have in being the P* Class Champion?
And the answer is...I have every choice and everything to do with it.
Because I’m Mike f’n Manson and I not always get to have the final word...but I get to decide what it is.
(FADEIN: Hornet is in the back, lacing up his right boot. He’s sans face paint and wearing MMA-style black trunks with white stitching along with a green-and-gold “HERO” T-shirt.)
You’re not you, Mike, you’re a gimmick. Remember?
And the shadow of your gimmick isn’t long enough to cover your ass, let alone me. Because as you said, in your mind, it’s always been all about you. Not about the fans or even your minions, not about the companies that have paid you dollar after dollar to put up with your ridiculous demands for green M&Ms to feed your pet goat or the “adoring fans” they paid to come in and stroke your ego in the lockerroom.
This isn’t your house anymore, Manson. This isn’t the NFW East, it’s not the long-dead IWC, and it’s certainly not WFW. This is the house of competition… the house of pain… the house of wrestling. And the name on the mailbox is mine.
I own that ring out there. I own everything inside it. And when you step into it with your tittering schoolgirl laugh and your ridiculous skinny-girl leather pants, you’re stepping into my sanctum and bowing down at my altar.
Everything you’ve done, I did first and I’ve done better.
Hell, Mike, I even got you to ‘fess up and “admit” that I mean a great deal to this sport. That’s a long way from talking about my irrelevance. Damn, maybe I should have been a shrink after all.
You can keep coming… blind, deaf, dumb and crazy, but I’ll be standing. My goal isn’t to end you, Mike, it’s simply to pin you and move on to a more important match.
You’re Mike f’n Manson. And you’re facing the Greatest American Hero, the One and Only, the creator of the undisputed UNIFIED Championship and the man who makes your Mom wish she had a son just like me. You’re facing the man who has outlasted every competitor, every trial and every tribulation to stand right here, right now and still know that in just a few minutes my hand will get raised. You’re the facing the man who doesn’t live a gimmick, who doesn’t tack with the wind and change his stance just to be against what everyone else is for.
You’re facing the best damn wrestler in the world. From Wall to Windham, Mike Randalls to Randall Knox, Steven Flair to Eli Flair and Mike Manson to Jean Rabesque… I am the best. From bell to bell, I am the top trend, the meaning maker and the greatest grappler you and your ego will ever face.
I’m Hornet. And you’re just a gimmick.
(He slams his fist against the wall and walks straight towards the camera. FADEOUT)
You’re not you, Mike, you’re a gimmick. Remember?
And the shadow of your gimmick isn’t long enough to cover your ass, let alone me. Because as you said, in your mind, it’s always been all about you. Not about the fans or even your minions, not about the companies that have paid you dollar after dollar to put up with your ridiculous demands for green M&Ms to feed your pet goat or the “adoring fans” they paid to come in and stroke your ego in the lockerroom.
This isn’t your house anymore, Manson. This isn’t the NFW East, it’s not the long-dead IWC, and it’s certainly not WFW. This is the house of competition… the house of pain… the house of wrestling. And the name on the mailbox is mine.
I own that ring out there. I own everything inside it. And when you step into it with your tittering schoolgirl laugh and your ridiculous skinny-girl leather pants, you’re stepping into my sanctum and bowing down at my altar.
Everything you’ve done, I did first and I’ve done better.
Hell, Mike, I even got you to ‘fess up and “admit” that I mean a great deal to this sport. That’s a long way from talking about my irrelevance. Damn, maybe I should have been a shrink after all.
You can keep coming… blind, deaf, dumb and crazy, but I’ll be standing. My goal isn’t to end you, Mike, it’s simply to pin you and move on to a more important match.
You’re Mike f’n Manson. And you’re facing the Greatest American Hero, the One and Only, the creator of the undisputed UNIFIED Championship and the man who makes your Mom wish she had a son just like me. You’re facing the man who has outlasted every competitor, every trial and every tribulation to stand right here, right now and still know that in just a few minutes my hand will get raised. You’re the facing the man who doesn’t live a gimmick, who doesn’t tack with the wind and change his stance just to be against what everyone else is for.
You’re facing the best damn wrestler in the world. From Wall to Windham, Mike Randalls to Randall Knox, Steven Flair to Eli Flair and Mike Manson to Jean Rabesque… I am the best. From bell to bell, I am the top trend, the meaning maker and the greatest grappler you and your ego will ever face.
I’m Hornet. And you’re just a gimmick.
(He slams his fist against the wall and walks straight towards the camera. FADEOUT)