AGGRESSION 51: Three Way Dance: High Flyer vs. Anarky vs. Copycat
- Thread starter DBrunkGXW
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JLevinson
Diva Tree
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(FADEIN to the outside of a small Irish pub called Vaughn’s in Hartford, Connecticut. Leaning up against the brick wall, a lit cigarette dangling between his lips, stands Anarky. His facepaint is noticeably absent. He’s holding a half-empty Smithwick’s bottle in his left hand.
As he stands there, a young college student in a tweet jacket, giant sideburns, and hipster glasses walks up to him, notebook in hand.)
STUDENT: “Er, Mr. Anarky? I’m Daryl Brown… I called earlier about an interview?”
ANARKY: “What’s up, kid.”
BROWN: “Oh, not much. Thanks so much for meeting up with me. I’m writing an article for our student newspaper, and as one of Connecticut’s own native sons, I figured, y’know… “
ANARKY: “Hey man, I hear ya. Personally I would’ve interviewed someone that mattered, but f*ck it, we can do this, too… let’s go.”
(Anarky makes a move towards the door and opens it for the young man, who seems hesitant to enter, and then finally does.
CUTTO: The inside of the bar, which is dimly lit and filled with a variety of different types of people. The bar is about half empty. Anarky and the young man sit in a corner, the man scribbling some notes down as he takes another swig.)
BROWN: “So Anarky. You’ve been doing this for about 15 years now. What’s the highlight of your career so far?”
ANARKY: “Highlight… ?” (Smirks.) “I don’t know, man. I’ll tell you what it wasn’t. It wasn’t a World Title win somewhere. Some people, man… their whole careers are defined by that. But not me, man. Me, well… I don’t know.
“When I beat Ares or Stone Wolf, probably. I know that seems a little stupid, but… I don’t know. Somethin’ about those wins.
“Like… those guys, they didn’t seem beatable, y’know? They are f*cking monsters. They absolutely tore through the competition. And the came along lil’ ol’ me… six-foot-nothin’, I barely know how to wrestle… but me… I got a lotta fight. I got a lotta somethin’ they hadn’t seen. And on that night.. in that moment, everyone knew.. sh*t, man, I can’t explain.”
BROWN: “I understand, I think. You were recently booked against High Flyer and an old nemesis of yours, Copycat. You have never faced High Flyer, but you’ve faced Copycat on a number of occasions. He seems to have an advantage over you. How do you prepare for a match knowing someone has gotten the best of you in the past?”
ANARKY: “In this business, man, you gotta forget the past. Let that sh*t go. There’s enough poison here to kill a man… you don’t need to drown yourself in it, too. You lose matches. Big f*cking deal. You live to fight another day. You think I cry myself to sleep at night when I come up short?
“Nah, man, I just hit the hooker EXTRA hard that night. Leave a bruise, y’know?”
(The student’s eyes widen in horror, unsure if the wrestler is joking.)
ANARKY: “Nah, man, just f*cking with you. Listen, you think I like losing? Hell no. You think I don’t wanna put Copycat’s teeth on the curb and go all American History X on his ass? Of course I do.
“But it don’t matter. The past is dead. Only the sh*t that brought us here. Just ask him. You think his legendary career in WFW means sh*t here? Why you think he’s stuck dealing with me again? You think he likes this sh*t? Nah, man, he doesn’t want anything to do with me, either.
“As for High Flyer, well, man… I haven’t had the privilege, and in that case, there’s a sense of.. novelty, isn’t there. Something new and beautiful. I can’t say I know much about the man. He’s from NFW, which means he’s probably addicted to methamphetamines and has participated in at least four abortions, but let’s not say the devil’s name three times, lest Beau Michaels shows up, eh?”
BROWN: (Chuckling.) “Indeed. Now, tell me, you’ve spent some time with HOPE, which consists of you, The First, Shawn Hart, and Layne Winters. After spending a great amount of your time as a lone wolf, you’ve spent time with GOD, LOVE, and now HOPE. Besides your penchant for conceptually-named stables, what do you think draws you to these men?”
ANARKY: “Well, y’know, I’m a pragmatic man. In the case of GOD and LOVE, it was simply men with a similar vision of destruction and mayhem. Y’know, good, clean, fun.
“In the case of HOPE, well… let’s face it, I didn’t really have a choice, did I. The First says he can get me back into the ring, and all I gotta do is smash Cameron Cruise’s face in. That’s like offering me a cheeseburger with the condition I gotta eat the bacon on it. Hey, it’s a tough life, right?
“Truth is, man… I don’t really like most of ‘em. Shawn Hart is alright, but the guy makes so many dick jokes I’m surprised he isn’t actively f*cking dudes while I talk to him. The First is fine, except, y’know, for the whole part where he’s a f*cking maniac who thinks he’s 1,000 years old and destined to beat a guy who, let’s face it, is a significantly better wrestler than he is. And of course, you’ve got Layne, who kinda reminds me, except he’s managed to age 50 years in only what, like 27? I’m pretty sure he thinks he’s already world champ, but who f*cking knows with all the painkillers…
“Nah, man, they’re just some mother*ckers… means to an end. An opportunity. Nothing more, nothing less.”
BROWN: “So if HOPE is just a temporary bastion… a place to rest your head while you destroy Anthology… what is next for Anarky?”
ANARKY: “You mean like, do I have a plan?”
BROWN: “Yes. I mean, surely you don’t intend to just keep fighting Copycat over and over again.”
(They both laugh at this. Anarky’s eyes narrow a little and he takes a long swig off his beer before he speaks.)
ANARKY: “I’m a simple man, in many ways. I enjoy the soft moan that escapes the lips of a man struggling to his feet. The way the salty sweat drips down into his eyes, blinding him. The gentle caress of a well-timed Chaos Breaker.
“But even more than this… there is… something else. A power. The destruction of a dream. The silence of ambition. This… this is what drives me.
“Sean Stevens… he is a man with power. A man whose skill is exceeded only by his own egomania. Which is how I like it. Here is a man who has grown soft on the laurels of his defeated… and in this, he is beautiful, is he not?
“Sean has come to believe he is invincible. That he has nothing left to prove. That he is… above us all. Sean has forgotten the truths.
“Three seconds is all it takes. Three seconds to come crashing down. To be reminded that you, too, are part of the unwashed masses. That you, too, are vulnerable, are weak, are broken… that you are flawed, like us.
“I want three seconds. Three seconds to prove it only takes one. One mistake. One missed superkick. One broken dream. The mockery of a nation… the esteem of a federation… gone…
“We are all the same… dirt in the ground… dust in the wind… call it what you f*cking will, but he has forgotten… he believes he is something MORE than man… that he has evolved.
“He has not, and it would be my… privilege… to remind him.”
BROWN: “Nice. One last question. How do you like working for Dan Ryan?”
ANARKY: “Heh. Honestly? Not that bad. Him and I… we’re not so different. I mean, you look at us, and you probably think so. I mean, the dude’s f*cking huge, and he even has a nickname and everything.
“But, y’know, underneath it all, I think he’s more like me than he can admit… he sees through the sh*t. He knows these f*cking fakers… these pathetic nothings… they deserve it. He knows what lies underneath is cowardice.
“Anyway, he signs my f*ckin’ paychecks, so that’s pretty sweet.”
BROWN: “Well, I just wanted to say thanks, man, it’s been a pleasure. You’re not nearly as crazy as they make you out to be.”
ANARKY: “Step into the ring with me and you’ll whistle a different tune, I suspect.” (Smiles.)
(The student chuckles nervously and shakes Anarky’s hand. He walks out and leaves the man to his drink. FADEOUT as he stares off into the distance, taking another swig of beer, no trace of emotion on his placid face.)
As he stands there, a young college student in a tweet jacket, giant sideburns, and hipster glasses walks up to him, notebook in hand.)
STUDENT: “Er, Mr. Anarky? I’m Daryl Brown… I called earlier about an interview?”
ANARKY: “What’s up, kid.”
BROWN: “Oh, not much. Thanks so much for meeting up with me. I’m writing an article for our student newspaper, and as one of Connecticut’s own native sons, I figured, y’know… “
ANARKY: “Hey man, I hear ya. Personally I would’ve interviewed someone that mattered, but f*ck it, we can do this, too… let’s go.”
(Anarky makes a move towards the door and opens it for the young man, who seems hesitant to enter, and then finally does.
CUTTO: The inside of the bar, which is dimly lit and filled with a variety of different types of people. The bar is about half empty. Anarky and the young man sit in a corner, the man scribbling some notes down as he takes another swig.)
BROWN: “So Anarky. You’ve been doing this for about 15 years now. What’s the highlight of your career so far?”
ANARKY: “Highlight… ?” (Smirks.) “I don’t know, man. I’ll tell you what it wasn’t. It wasn’t a World Title win somewhere. Some people, man… their whole careers are defined by that. But not me, man. Me, well… I don’t know.
“When I beat Ares or Stone Wolf, probably. I know that seems a little stupid, but… I don’t know. Somethin’ about those wins.
“Like… those guys, they didn’t seem beatable, y’know? They are f*cking monsters. They absolutely tore through the competition. And the came along lil’ ol’ me… six-foot-nothin’, I barely know how to wrestle… but me… I got a lotta fight. I got a lotta somethin’ they hadn’t seen. And on that night.. in that moment, everyone knew.. sh*t, man, I can’t explain.”
BROWN: “I understand, I think. You were recently booked against High Flyer and an old nemesis of yours, Copycat. You have never faced High Flyer, but you’ve faced Copycat on a number of occasions. He seems to have an advantage over you. How do you prepare for a match knowing someone has gotten the best of you in the past?”
ANARKY: “In this business, man, you gotta forget the past. Let that sh*t go. There’s enough poison here to kill a man… you don’t need to drown yourself in it, too. You lose matches. Big f*cking deal. You live to fight another day. You think I cry myself to sleep at night when I come up short?
“Nah, man, I just hit the hooker EXTRA hard that night. Leave a bruise, y’know?”
(The student’s eyes widen in horror, unsure if the wrestler is joking.)
ANARKY: “Nah, man, just f*cking with you. Listen, you think I like losing? Hell no. You think I don’t wanna put Copycat’s teeth on the curb and go all American History X on his ass? Of course I do.
“But it don’t matter. The past is dead. Only the sh*t that brought us here. Just ask him. You think his legendary career in WFW means sh*t here? Why you think he’s stuck dealing with me again? You think he likes this sh*t? Nah, man, he doesn’t want anything to do with me, either.
“As for High Flyer, well, man… I haven’t had the privilege, and in that case, there’s a sense of.. novelty, isn’t there. Something new and beautiful. I can’t say I know much about the man. He’s from NFW, which means he’s probably addicted to methamphetamines and has participated in at least four abortions, but let’s not say the devil’s name three times, lest Beau Michaels shows up, eh?”
BROWN: (Chuckling.) “Indeed. Now, tell me, you’ve spent some time with HOPE, which consists of you, The First, Shawn Hart, and Layne Winters. After spending a great amount of your time as a lone wolf, you’ve spent time with GOD, LOVE, and now HOPE. Besides your penchant for conceptually-named stables, what do you think draws you to these men?”
ANARKY: “Well, y’know, I’m a pragmatic man. In the case of GOD and LOVE, it was simply men with a similar vision of destruction and mayhem. Y’know, good, clean, fun.
“In the case of HOPE, well… let’s face it, I didn’t really have a choice, did I. The First says he can get me back into the ring, and all I gotta do is smash Cameron Cruise’s face in. That’s like offering me a cheeseburger with the condition I gotta eat the bacon on it. Hey, it’s a tough life, right?
“Truth is, man… I don’t really like most of ‘em. Shawn Hart is alright, but the guy makes so many dick jokes I’m surprised he isn’t actively f*cking dudes while I talk to him. The First is fine, except, y’know, for the whole part where he’s a f*cking maniac who thinks he’s 1,000 years old and destined to beat a guy who, let’s face it, is a significantly better wrestler than he is. And of course, you’ve got Layne, who kinda reminds me, except he’s managed to age 50 years in only what, like 27? I’m pretty sure he thinks he’s already world champ, but who f*cking knows with all the painkillers…
“Nah, man, they’re just some mother*ckers… means to an end. An opportunity. Nothing more, nothing less.”
BROWN: “So if HOPE is just a temporary bastion… a place to rest your head while you destroy Anthology… what is next for Anarky?”
ANARKY: “You mean like, do I have a plan?”
BROWN: “Yes. I mean, surely you don’t intend to just keep fighting Copycat over and over again.”
(They both laugh at this. Anarky’s eyes narrow a little and he takes a long swig off his beer before he speaks.)
ANARKY: “I’m a simple man, in many ways. I enjoy the soft moan that escapes the lips of a man struggling to his feet. The way the salty sweat drips down into his eyes, blinding him. The gentle caress of a well-timed Chaos Breaker.
“But even more than this… there is… something else. A power. The destruction of a dream. The silence of ambition. This… this is what drives me.
“Sean Stevens… he is a man with power. A man whose skill is exceeded only by his own egomania. Which is how I like it. Here is a man who has grown soft on the laurels of his defeated… and in this, he is beautiful, is he not?
“Sean has come to believe he is invincible. That he has nothing left to prove. That he is… above us all. Sean has forgotten the truths.
“Three seconds is all it takes. Three seconds to come crashing down. To be reminded that you, too, are part of the unwashed masses. That you, too, are vulnerable, are weak, are broken… that you are flawed, like us.
“I want three seconds. Three seconds to prove it only takes one. One mistake. One missed superkick. One broken dream. The mockery of a nation… the esteem of a federation… gone…
“We are all the same… dirt in the ground… dust in the wind… call it what you f*cking will, but he has forgotten… he believes he is something MORE than man… that he has evolved.
“He has not, and it would be my… privilege… to remind him.”
BROWN: “Nice. One last question. How do you like working for Dan Ryan?”
ANARKY: “Heh. Honestly? Not that bad. Him and I… we’re not so different. I mean, you look at us, and you probably think so. I mean, the dude’s f*cking huge, and he even has a nickname and everything.
“But, y’know, underneath it all, I think he’s more like me than he can admit… he sees through the sh*t. He knows these f*cking fakers… these pathetic nothings… they deserve it. He knows what lies underneath is cowardice.
“Anyway, he signs my f*ckin’ paychecks, so that’s pretty sweet.”
BROWN: “Well, I just wanted to say thanks, man, it’s been a pleasure. You’re not nearly as crazy as they make you out to be.”
ANARKY: “Step into the ring with me and you’ll whistle a different tune, I suspect.” (Smiles.)
(The student chuckles nervously and shakes Anarky’s hand. He walks out and leaves the man to his drink. FADEOUT as he stares off into the distance, taking another swig of beer, no trace of emotion on his placid face.)
GARTHIsTheLaw
League Member
<i>(Fade in on a poor-quality, black-and-white security camera shot of a backstage area. A few promotional materials tacked up on the walls, were one to look at them closely enough, would indicate that this is a hallway backstage at Sin City Showdown. We have sound, but it's pretty unremarkable as there's no one in sight and we can only hear murmurs and the sounds of people shuffling around off-camera. After a few seconds of nothing, we see Copycat come out of a nearby door, looking like he's about halfway done changing into his post-show-going-out-drinking clothes, with a cell phone pressed against his ear. He pushes the door shut)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> --you got back to me. If I miss the start of War Games, it's on your head. <i>(pause)</i> Of course he didn't go through with it. <i>(pause)</i> Yeah, honestly, I didn't think he would. He didn't take me seriously. Nobody wants to hear what they need to hear in this place. <i>(pause)</i> Nothing's changed. I told you to be ready. <i>(pause)</i> I'm not blaming you. Let's not worry about that. Let's worry about keeping my end of the bargain. Make the preparations. <i>(pause)</i> I wouldn't have even suggested it if I didn't think it were absolutely necessary. Don't try to back out of this. We had a deal. <i>(long pause)</i> Yeah, well, he'll probably just make me face Anarky again, so what does it matter. <i>(pause)</i> All right. Keep me informed.
<i>(Copycat flips his phone shut, then reopens the door. Someone from inside says something to him, but it's too garbled to make out given the subpar sound quality)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> What? I said don't worry abou--
<i>(The door slams shut. Fade out)</i>
<i>(Cueup: “Same Old Situation” by Motley Crue)</i>
<i>(Fade in on a semi-darkened room, lit up such that features like walls are not visible but that the focal points in the room are on prominent display. In the middle of the room, and moving toward the back, are two long mirrors. Reflected in each mirror is an image of Copycat seated in a chair, head down. He wears jeans and a black EPW Copycat “Smartest Player in the Game” T-shirt – new! Get yours today from epw.com! -- and his hair is untied and hanging down in his face)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> You break a mirror, you get seven years' bad luck. How many years ago was it when I first incurred Anarky's wrath by making him look like an idiot, I wonder?
<i>(Copycat looks up, brushing the hair out of his face. The way the room is set up, both mirror images can look directly into the camera)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Another card, another match with Anarky. Dan Ryan wasn't satisfied with ignoring my perfectly reasonable demand that he abandon his plans to destroy the wrestling business and listen to reason; he's taken things a step further, thumbing his nose at me to book Copycat vs. Anarky Part 23: Copycat vs. Anarky in Space. With the part of the plucky underdog who must somehow survive another flare-up of the neverending rivalry being played by High Flyer, who's just being jerked around for no good reason. God, even if I hadn't hated those awful <i>Alien vs. Predator</i> movies, I would find this plot boring. And to think my agent tried to convince me to audition for a role in the second one.
<i>(He rolls his eyes)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Naturally, I was worried that this meant I'd once again be subjected to Anarky's patented brand of “I AM ANGRY AT ALL THAT IS AND WILL TAKE OUT MY ANGER ON YOU BY WAY OF LIMITLESS PAIN AND AGONY.” And I'm not yet convinced that I won't be hearing earful after earful of the same-old-same-old before I step in the ring with Anarky once again and make him look like a fool once again. But instead of that, I get this hey-look-how-cool-I-am student newspaper interview where Anarky doesn't even raise his voice, and even keeps dials down his usual efforts to intimidate everyone he talks to from a 10 down to a 4 at most. I've seen this documentary before, and I know how the subject narrates this scene -- “Hey man, I go out there every night and put on a show, but when I get done, I'm just a normal guy who likes football and barbecues and <i>Two and a Half Men</i>, you know?”
<i>(He makes a fake gagging face)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> It just makes me want to puke. I mean, this is a guy who spends equal amounts of time raging about his limitless bloodlust and condemning all the phonies out there who don't listen to the same crappy bands he does, and he's getting all chummy with some college kid? Talking about his career path, throwing out references to leagues and wrestlers he's hoping the kid will ask him more about, improvising subpar emoetry about soft moans escaping lips? Oh, and don't forget the obligatory mention of how he and those other jackasses in GASP don't really like each other. That's the most important part! They can't get through a single promo without throwing that one in, can they? “Yeah, we're far too much of rugged individualists to actually, you know, <i>like</i> one another. We're just teaming up as a means to an end so we can be the heroes and get rid of those guys we and the rest of the league outnumber tenfold.”
<i>(Facepalm)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> First there was Angry Anarky, now there's Unflinchingly Cool Anarky. I can't decide which is a bigger waste of airtime. The important question is, which Anarky is the real one? Sure, I'm tempted to believe Unflinchingly Cool Anarky is the real one, and Angry Anarky is just a sideshow act he puts on to remind people of how awesome everything was when his development stopped in the late 1990s. But then I think, how long could Anarky fake an act like that before it started seeping into his discount-price brain? Some of it must have become reality over the years, right?
<i>(The two reflected images of Copycat point at each other)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Now look. I'm not going to waste any more of my time dissecting Anarky's promo or those of his pals in GASP, because it's pretty plain to me that no one with the power to do anything about it will listen. The fans – who, if they have any brains in their heads, surely realize by now that GASP is only dragging this industry further toward the abyss from which Anthology has striven to pull it – should be the ultimate authority, but as long as EPW management is singularly focused on eradicating Anthology lest they be proven irrelevant and wholly wrong in all their endeavors, that's not going to happen. This is a solvable problem – just not one that can be solved by explaining why GASP is a waste of oxygen, and Anarky is the biggest wind-sucker of them all.
<i>(He stands up from the chair)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> I said I would dedicate myself to making EPW management listen to reason. And although I'm still trying to drill through the thick layer of stupidity in which that management is encased, I've been chipping away at it. At Onslaught, I destroyed Erik Black, a man who can scarcely feel pain. Stalker was able to retire an EPW legend at Sin City Showdown, but he wasn't able to avoid being destroyed by the Cat at Aggression 50. And at Sin City Showdown, I destroyed Golem, a man as well known for his penchant for brutality as for his mental acumen that's been reputed to almost be on the level of the Cat's. There's more I can do to snap EPW out of its trance of mediocrity, and if what I'm doing now continues to prove ineffective, I have ... grander plans to put in place. But I'm hoping beyond hope that it won't be necessary to take the steps I'm prepared to take. For now, I'll continue to obliterate whomever EPW puts before me, even as management tries to drive me out of the league, as it did Larry Tact, by utterly wasting my time – in this case, by making me face Anarky again.
<i>(He kicks the chair aside)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> See, as curious as I am about the two Anarkies I've now seen, as much as I wonder which of them I might be apt to face at Aggression 51, the simple fact is that I won't really be facing either. Between Angry Anarky and Unflinchingly Cool Anarky, I don't know who's going to be walking out of the dressing room, pushing aside the curtain, walking down to the ring, stepping through the ropes. But I do know that as soon as that bell rings, the only Anarky anyone will see is the Anarky who'll be another unfortunate victim in my selfless quest to get EPW management to listen to reason, so it can save this league and the industry as a whole before it's too late.
<i>(The two mirror images of Copycat walk offscreen. A second later, someone who appears to be the real Copycat walks on – wearing the same clothes, but not reflected in either of the mirrors that are positioned right beside him)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> At Aggression 51, Anarky doesn't matter. High Flyer doesn't matter. In this triple threat match, the only one who matters is the Cat. The two people whom I'm to face at Aggression 51 are just in the wrong place at the wrong time. They're just a means to an end, a tool I will use to get Dan Ryan and the rest of the chumps running this abysmal failure of a league to listen...
<i>(Copycat swings both arms outward and smashes his fists into the mirrors on either side of him, leaving big cracks at the point of impact that begin to spider outward as he glares into the camera)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> ... to reason.
<i>(Fade out)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> --you got back to me. If I miss the start of War Games, it's on your head. <i>(pause)</i> Of course he didn't go through with it. <i>(pause)</i> Yeah, honestly, I didn't think he would. He didn't take me seriously. Nobody wants to hear what they need to hear in this place. <i>(pause)</i> Nothing's changed. I told you to be ready. <i>(pause)</i> I'm not blaming you. Let's not worry about that. Let's worry about keeping my end of the bargain. Make the preparations. <i>(pause)</i> I wouldn't have even suggested it if I didn't think it were absolutely necessary. Don't try to back out of this. We had a deal. <i>(long pause)</i> Yeah, well, he'll probably just make me face Anarky again, so what does it matter. <i>(pause)</i> All right. Keep me informed.
<i>(Copycat flips his phone shut, then reopens the door. Someone from inside says something to him, but it's too garbled to make out given the subpar sound quality)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> What? I said don't worry abou--
<i>(The door slams shut. Fade out)</i>
<i>(Cueup: “Same Old Situation” by Motley Crue)</i>
<i>(Fade in on a semi-darkened room, lit up such that features like walls are not visible but that the focal points in the room are on prominent display. In the middle of the room, and moving toward the back, are two long mirrors. Reflected in each mirror is an image of Copycat seated in a chair, head down. He wears jeans and a black EPW Copycat “Smartest Player in the Game” T-shirt – new! Get yours today from epw.com! -- and his hair is untied and hanging down in his face)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> You break a mirror, you get seven years' bad luck. How many years ago was it when I first incurred Anarky's wrath by making him look like an idiot, I wonder?
<i>(Copycat looks up, brushing the hair out of his face. The way the room is set up, both mirror images can look directly into the camera)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Another card, another match with Anarky. Dan Ryan wasn't satisfied with ignoring my perfectly reasonable demand that he abandon his plans to destroy the wrestling business and listen to reason; he's taken things a step further, thumbing his nose at me to book Copycat vs. Anarky Part 23: Copycat vs. Anarky in Space. With the part of the plucky underdog who must somehow survive another flare-up of the neverending rivalry being played by High Flyer, who's just being jerked around for no good reason. God, even if I hadn't hated those awful <i>Alien vs. Predator</i> movies, I would find this plot boring. And to think my agent tried to convince me to audition for a role in the second one.
<i>(He rolls his eyes)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Naturally, I was worried that this meant I'd once again be subjected to Anarky's patented brand of “I AM ANGRY AT ALL THAT IS AND WILL TAKE OUT MY ANGER ON YOU BY WAY OF LIMITLESS PAIN AND AGONY.” And I'm not yet convinced that I won't be hearing earful after earful of the same-old-same-old before I step in the ring with Anarky once again and make him look like a fool once again. But instead of that, I get this hey-look-how-cool-I-am student newspaper interview where Anarky doesn't even raise his voice, and even keeps dials down his usual efforts to intimidate everyone he talks to from a 10 down to a 4 at most. I've seen this documentary before, and I know how the subject narrates this scene -- “Hey man, I go out there every night and put on a show, but when I get done, I'm just a normal guy who likes football and barbecues and <i>Two and a Half Men</i>, you know?”
<i>(He makes a fake gagging face)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> It just makes me want to puke. I mean, this is a guy who spends equal amounts of time raging about his limitless bloodlust and condemning all the phonies out there who don't listen to the same crappy bands he does, and he's getting all chummy with some college kid? Talking about his career path, throwing out references to leagues and wrestlers he's hoping the kid will ask him more about, improvising subpar emoetry about soft moans escaping lips? Oh, and don't forget the obligatory mention of how he and those other jackasses in GASP don't really like each other. That's the most important part! They can't get through a single promo without throwing that one in, can they? “Yeah, we're far too much of rugged individualists to actually, you know, <i>like</i> one another. We're just teaming up as a means to an end so we can be the heroes and get rid of those guys we and the rest of the league outnumber tenfold.”
<i>(Facepalm)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> First there was Angry Anarky, now there's Unflinchingly Cool Anarky. I can't decide which is a bigger waste of airtime. The important question is, which Anarky is the real one? Sure, I'm tempted to believe Unflinchingly Cool Anarky is the real one, and Angry Anarky is just a sideshow act he puts on to remind people of how awesome everything was when his development stopped in the late 1990s. But then I think, how long could Anarky fake an act like that before it started seeping into his discount-price brain? Some of it must have become reality over the years, right?
<i>(The two reflected images of Copycat point at each other)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Now look. I'm not going to waste any more of my time dissecting Anarky's promo or those of his pals in GASP, because it's pretty plain to me that no one with the power to do anything about it will listen. The fans – who, if they have any brains in their heads, surely realize by now that GASP is only dragging this industry further toward the abyss from which Anthology has striven to pull it – should be the ultimate authority, but as long as EPW management is singularly focused on eradicating Anthology lest they be proven irrelevant and wholly wrong in all their endeavors, that's not going to happen. This is a solvable problem – just not one that can be solved by explaining why GASP is a waste of oxygen, and Anarky is the biggest wind-sucker of them all.
<i>(He stands up from the chair)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> I said I would dedicate myself to making EPW management listen to reason. And although I'm still trying to drill through the thick layer of stupidity in which that management is encased, I've been chipping away at it. At Onslaught, I destroyed Erik Black, a man who can scarcely feel pain. Stalker was able to retire an EPW legend at Sin City Showdown, but he wasn't able to avoid being destroyed by the Cat at Aggression 50. And at Sin City Showdown, I destroyed Golem, a man as well known for his penchant for brutality as for his mental acumen that's been reputed to almost be on the level of the Cat's. There's more I can do to snap EPW out of its trance of mediocrity, and if what I'm doing now continues to prove ineffective, I have ... grander plans to put in place. But I'm hoping beyond hope that it won't be necessary to take the steps I'm prepared to take. For now, I'll continue to obliterate whomever EPW puts before me, even as management tries to drive me out of the league, as it did Larry Tact, by utterly wasting my time – in this case, by making me face Anarky again.
<i>(He kicks the chair aside)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> See, as curious as I am about the two Anarkies I've now seen, as much as I wonder which of them I might be apt to face at Aggression 51, the simple fact is that I won't really be facing either. Between Angry Anarky and Unflinchingly Cool Anarky, I don't know who's going to be walking out of the dressing room, pushing aside the curtain, walking down to the ring, stepping through the ropes. But I do know that as soon as that bell rings, the only Anarky anyone will see is the Anarky who'll be another unfortunate victim in my selfless quest to get EPW management to listen to reason, so it can save this league and the industry as a whole before it's too late.
<i>(The two mirror images of Copycat walk offscreen. A second later, someone who appears to be the real Copycat walks on – wearing the same clothes, but not reflected in either of the mirrors that are positioned right beside him)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> At Aggression 51, Anarky doesn't matter. High Flyer doesn't matter. In this triple threat match, the only one who matters is the Cat. The two people whom I'm to face at Aggression 51 are just in the wrong place at the wrong time. They're just a means to an end, a tool I will use to get Dan Ryan and the rest of the chumps running this abysmal failure of a league to listen...
<i>(Copycat swings both arms outward and smashes his fists into the mirrors on either side of him, leaving big cracks at the point of impact that begin to spider outward as he glares into the camera)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> ... to reason.
<i>(Fade out)</i>
JLevinson
Diva Tree
- Joined
- Jan 1, 2000
- Messages
- 707
- Points
- 0
- Age
- 43
(FADEIN to a bar we’ve seen before somewhere in Hartford. The place is entirely empty. A few lights remain shining on the bar itself, where Anarky sits, alone, a bottle of Jack Daniels sitting, about half-full. He doesn’t seem in any rush to drink his nearly-empty glass. The place is decorated mostly in a low-key pub setting, with Hartford Whalers and UConn jerseys on the walls.)
ANARKY: “Anthology. Do you know what that means, Copycat? I looked it up, cause, well, I’m not as educated as you are. It’s a collection of works. Presumably good ones.
“Let me tell you, Copycat. You are certainly a collection of something. Jared Wells, who, let’s face it, wouldn’t even MATTER if it weren’t for the fact that I dragged his sorry drunk ass out of a gutter and threw a LOVE t-shirt on hm. Larry Tact, who had taken mediocrity into a career path until he wanted to play in a cage… where is he now, anyway, Copycat? Making movies somewhere?
“You, of course, have been so wildly successful that you’re bragging about beating a man who can’t even remember fighting you, which is better than Sean Edmunds, whose greatest feat is being dragged off on a STRETCHER after OUR match.
“Only by dumb luck have you managed to rid yourself of the disease that is Cameron Cruise while managing to up your relevant members from 0 to 1 through the acquisition of Sean Stevens.
“Yes, you guys are really on a crusade to save the industry. From me, I guess.
“I should be honored, right? I mean, I’m just one guy. And yet you think HOPE is all about me. You think I’m SINGLE-HANDEDLY destroying this industry.
“Why?”
(He stops and takes a swig, finishing the JD in the glass, and pouring himself another half-glass. He contemplates it for a moment before he speaks.)
ANARKY: “Do you know what it’s like to get thrown off the top of a cage by Maelstrom? Do you know that feeling… after you regain consciousness… those few seconds where you aren’t sure if you can control your own limbs… ?
“And you get the f*ck up. Cause you aren’t bigger or stronger or faster. And he’s coming. And he’s gonna end it once and for all.
“Yeah, see, you’re a PERFORMER. I’m a FIGHTER. That’s the difference between us.
“You talk about saving this industry, this industry DOESN’T NEED YOU, Copycat. You can go right back to makin’ D-List movies in the off-chance that you can f*ck Tara Reid when she’s on her next coke binge, and I’ll STILL BE HERE, cause THAT’S what I AM.
“While you out were out with your wannabe actor buddies wishin’ TMZ gave a flying f*ck, I’m the one out there, night after night, doing what I do best. And y’know what, Copycat?
“I’m not 6 foot 4, man. I don’t weight 280 pounds. You can just walk into the ring and toss people around. I don’t have that luxury. I have to work that much harder. I have to go that much further.
“I don’t have a choice. I HAVE to cross every line I can because I wasn’t born the biggest or strongest.
“But I have something else. Something you’ll never have. Because you’re a just a little sl*t for fame and fortune… just another cam wh*re.
“I’m sick of listenin’ to you talk about your motherf*cking actor career and then talkin’ to ME about this business. Like I haven’t BEEN here.
“Night after night after motherf*ckin’ night, I’ve been here.
“But I gotta sit here and listen to you lecture everybody about the industry. An industry I’ve been in for nearly fifteen years. That I’ve helped shape.
“Why don’t you go back to Hollywood, Copycat. With everybody else who thinks their money entitles them to save things. I’m sure there’s a malnourished Sudanese child somewhere who would love to be your latest pet project.
“Cause this industry.. it doesn’t need you, it doesn’t need me, it doesn’t need sh*t from any of us… it’s just another reason I can’t stand you. Your inflated sense of self-importance.
“And that’s the beauty of it. You deserve everything. You and everyone else. After all these years, I am vindicated. I am justified.
“Copycat… you have brought this upon yourself. High Flyer is just a casualty of war. A spectator in our bizarre romance.
“So another chapter is written. Another opportunity lost for you, Copycat. So tragic, your story.
“On the plus side… you can always live with the fact that you’ve put a smile on my face.
“Isn’t that enough?”
(FADEOUT as he smiles and takes another swig of JD.)
ANARKY: “Anthology. Do you know what that means, Copycat? I looked it up, cause, well, I’m not as educated as you are. It’s a collection of works. Presumably good ones.
“Let me tell you, Copycat. You are certainly a collection of something. Jared Wells, who, let’s face it, wouldn’t even MATTER if it weren’t for the fact that I dragged his sorry drunk ass out of a gutter and threw a LOVE t-shirt on hm. Larry Tact, who had taken mediocrity into a career path until he wanted to play in a cage… where is he now, anyway, Copycat? Making movies somewhere?
“You, of course, have been so wildly successful that you’re bragging about beating a man who can’t even remember fighting you, which is better than Sean Edmunds, whose greatest feat is being dragged off on a STRETCHER after OUR match.
“Only by dumb luck have you managed to rid yourself of the disease that is Cameron Cruise while managing to up your relevant members from 0 to 1 through the acquisition of Sean Stevens.
“Yes, you guys are really on a crusade to save the industry. From me, I guess.
“I should be honored, right? I mean, I’m just one guy. And yet you think HOPE is all about me. You think I’m SINGLE-HANDEDLY destroying this industry.
“Why?”
(He stops and takes a swig, finishing the JD in the glass, and pouring himself another half-glass. He contemplates it for a moment before he speaks.)
ANARKY: “Do you know what it’s like to get thrown off the top of a cage by Maelstrom? Do you know that feeling… after you regain consciousness… those few seconds where you aren’t sure if you can control your own limbs… ?
“And you get the f*ck up. Cause you aren’t bigger or stronger or faster. And he’s coming. And he’s gonna end it once and for all.
“Yeah, see, you’re a PERFORMER. I’m a FIGHTER. That’s the difference between us.
“You talk about saving this industry, this industry DOESN’T NEED YOU, Copycat. You can go right back to makin’ D-List movies in the off-chance that you can f*ck Tara Reid when she’s on her next coke binge, and I’ll STILL BE HERE, cause THAT’S what I AM.
“While you out were out with your wannabe actor buddies wishin’ TMZ gave a flying f*ck, I’m the one out there, night after night, doing what I do best. And y’know what, Copycat?
“I’m not 6 foot 4, man. I don’t weight 280 pounds. You can just walk into the ring and toss people around. I don’t have that luxury. I have to work that much harder. I have to go that much further.
“I don’t have a choice. I HAVE to cross every line I can because I wasn’t born the biggest or strongest.
“But I have something else. Something you’ll never have. Because you’re a just a little sl*t for fame and fortune… just another cam wh*re.
“I’m sick of listenin’ to you talk about your motherf*cking actor career and then talkin’ to ME about this business. Like I haven’t BEEN here.
“Night after night after motherf*ckin’ night, I’ve been here.
“But I gotta sit here and listen to you lecture everybody about the industry. An industry I’ve been in for nearly fifteen years. That I’ve helped shape.
“Why don’t you go back to Hollywood, Copycat. With everybody else who thinks their money entitles them to save things. I’m sure there’s a malnourished Sudanese child somewhere who would love to be your latest pet project.
“Cause this industry.. it doesn’t need you, it doesn’t need me, it doesn’t need sh*t from any of us… it’s just another reason I can’t stand you. Your inflated sense of self-importance.
“And that’s the beauty of it. You deserve everything. You and everyone else. After all these years, I am vindicated. I am justified.
“Copycat… you have brought this upon yourself. High Flyer is just a casualty of war. A spectator in our bizarre romance.
“So another chapter is written. Another opportunity lost for you, Copycat. So tragic, your story.
“On the plus side… you can always live with the fact that you’ve put a smile on my face.
“Isn’t that enough?”
(FADEOUT as he smiles and takes another swig of JD.)
JLevinson
Diva Tree
- Joined
- Jan 1, 2000
- Messages
- 707
- Points
- 0
- Age
- 43
(FADEIN to a small country town somewhere in northeast Connecticut. Nearly endless forests broken up by raised ranches and colonials litter the landscape. The leaves haven’t quite come in yet.
CUTTO: A motorcycle driving up a paved road somewhere. The rider isAnarky, wearing a black leather jacket and gloves, sunglasses, jeans, and black boots. He starts to slow and pulls into the driveway of a local school (the name blurred out). The parking lot is empty except for a few empty beer cans.
Anarky pulls into an empty spot and turns off the engine. He surveys the scene for a moment and speaks to the camera, never looking at it.)
ANARKY: “Sentimentality is mostly wasted on me. But I’ll admit… there are certain locations… places… that can evoke strong memories. Memories that shaped me.”
(He gets off the bike and walks over to a corner of the parking lot. Broken class litters the ground. He squats down and pulls off his gloves, running his hands across the pavement.)
ANARKY: “My buddy Anderson… he’s got a penchant for runnin’ his mouth. And he’s not a big guy. And he’s usually drunk. Even then, he was usually drunk.
“You ever see a drunk guy getting’ pounded on? Y’know, when he’s really keyed up and runnin’ his mouth about sh*t… just darin’ you to smack him around? Yeah, that was my buddy. Used to get his ass handed to him once a week, seems like.
“But after awhile… it didn’t sit right anymore. I mean, yeah, he deserved it… but it was pathetic, too. He was practically a cripple. Flailing his arms around wildly as they shoved him to the ground.
“I remember like it was yesterday. I didn’t even consider it. I wasn’t the fighting type. I just… I didn’t do sh*t like that.
“Next thing I knew I was on this kid and I’m yanking his hair and biting his neck and he’s just screamin’… they pried me off of him and pounded me good. But I took a little of him with me. I remember he started crying right there in front of all of his buddies.
“He screamed at me that I didn’t fight FAIR… that only a b*tch bites…
“Fair. Like I could just walk up to him and knock him out with a single blow like some kinda f*cking hero. All I knew at that moment is that he needed to feel pain. A lot of it. Right… f*cking… now.
“And so that became the new reality. What was once a pitiful beating of a drunk wretch became a series of increasingly violent altercations. I remember when they threw me out. Like it was my f*cking fault.
“The only thing keeping us going was that we would do what they wouldn’t. We weren’t afraid to use what was around us. To break a few bottles. To throw a few rocks. You don’t always get a choice.
“Next thing I know I’m another punk kid on the north end of Hartford. And I’m not real charming, y’know? Hard to imagine. But it’s true.
“But here… this place… this is like where I was conceived. Where drunk boys tangled together and I was all that was left…
“You can’t see the sides of a man, Copycat, because you, yourself, cannot understand the depths of others. You label. You deride. You mock.
“You probably walked through school like you have life… never taking anything seriously, always mocking everyone else, turning them into a caricature… except since you’re a genetic freak nobody ever put you in your place.”
(He stands up and looks around. He pulls a single can of Budweiser out of the pocket of his jacket and smiles. He opens it and raises it to the camera.)
ANARKY: “I’m not a genetic freak, Copycat. And I’m not fast and daring and technically capable like you, High Flyer.
“I’m just a man who knows how to hurt people. Who will cross the lines they cannot. Who will do anything because anything is exactly what’s required.
“They call me a madman, but I’m the only sane one in the asylum. We are all madmen, prancing about, tearing each other down. Destroying everything of worth.
“It’s the man who paints the skull on his face who is sane… because only he knows what he is… the purpose he serves…
“I did not ask to be born. I did not ask to be thrust into this Universe, cold and unflinching.
“I witness the universe… which does not care… which can crush me without even thinking… a place without morality, without vengeance…
“… so I became that vengeance… because someone had to. To punish the wicked… only to find… that we are all wicked.
“And this was the great cosmic joke… that all the bloodletting, it meant nothing… for, I, too, had gone unpunished… I, too, had deserved vengeance…
“Perhaps this is purgatory, Copycat, and you are my punishment for trying to become more than a man. A repetitive, exhausting exercise in intellectual masturbation. It leaves me ill.
“So yes, Copycat… I do hate you. I hate the way you’re gifted and I’m not. I hate the way you understand things I can’t. The way you shake hands with movie stars while I get stitches removed.
“But most of all, Copycat, I hate you, because in the end, you’re too stupid to know how unworthy you are… how much you deserve this.
“We all do, Copycat… Higher Flyer. We are brothers in this. We share something… a bond.
“Someone will pay… someone will fall… someone may not even walk away…
“All I know is… for someone…
“… vengeance will come.”
(FADEOUT as he finishes the beer and throws it onto the roof of the empty school.)
CUTTO: A motorcycle driving up a paved road somewhere. The rider isAnarky, wearing a black leather jacket and gloves, sunglasses, jeans, and black boots. He starts to slow and pulls into the driveway of a local school (the name blurred out). The parking lot is empty except for a few empty beer cans.
Anarky pulls into an empty spot and turns off the engine. He surveys the scene for a moment and speaks to the camera, never looking at it.)
ANARKY: “Sentimentality is mostly wasted on me. But I’ll admit… there are certain locations… places… that can evoke strong memories. Memories that shaped me.”
(He gets off the bike and walks over to a corner of the parking lot. Broken class litters the ground. He squats down and pulls off his gloves, running his hands across the pavement.)
ANARKY: “My buddy Anderson… he’s got a penchant for runnin’ his mouth. And he’s not a big guy. And he’s usually drunk. Even then, he was usually drunk.
“You ever see a drunk guy getting’ pounded on? Y’know, when he’s really keyed up and runnin’ his mouth about sh*t… just darin’ you to smack him around? Yeah, that was my buddy. Used to get his ass handed to him once a week, seems like.
“But after awhile… it didn’t sit right anymore. I mean, yeah, he deserved it… but it was pathetic, too. He was practically a cripple. Flailing his arms around wildly as they shoved him to the ground.
“I remember like it was yesterday. I didn’t even consider it. I wasn’t the fighting type. I just… I didn’t do sh*t like that.
“Next thing I knew I was on this kid and I’m yanking his hair and biting his neck and he’s just screamin’… they pried me off of him and pounded me good. But I took a little of him with me. I remember he started crying right there in front of all of his buddies.
“He screamed at me that I didn’t fight FAIR… that only a b*tch bites…
“Fair. Like I could just walk up to him and knock him out with a single blow like some kinda f*cking hero. All I knew at that moment is that he needed to feel pain. A lot of it. Right… f*cking… now.
“And so that became the new reality. What was once a pitiful beating of a drunk wretch became a series of increasingly violent altercations. I remember when they threw me out. Like it was my f*cking fault.
“The only thing keeping us going was that we would do what they wouldn’t. We weren’t afraid to use what was around us. To break a few bottles. To throw a few rocks. You don’t always get a choice.
“Next thing I know I’m another punk kid on the north end of Hartford. And I’m not real charming, y’know? Hard to imagine. But it’s true.
“But here… this place… this is like where I was conceived. Where drunk boys tangled together and I was all that was left…
“You can’t see the sides of a man, Copycat, because you, yourself, cannot understand the depths of others. You label. You deride. You mock.
“You probably walked through school like you have life… never taking anything seriously, always mocking everyone else, turning them into a caricature… except since you’re a genetic freak nobody ever put you in your place.”
(He stands up and looks around. He pulls a single can of Budweiser out of the pocket of his jacket and smiles. He opens it and raises it to the camera.)
ANARKY: “I’m not a genetic freak, Copycat. And I’m not fast and daring and technically capable like you, High Flyer.
“I’m just a man who knows how to hurt people. Who will cross the lines they cannot. Who will do anything because anything is exactly what’s required.
“They call me a madman, but I’m the only sane one in the asylum. We are all madmen, prancing about, tearing each other down. Destroying everything of worth.
“It’s the man who paints the skull on his face who is sane… because only he knows what he is… the purpose he serves…
“I did not ask to be born. I did not ask to be thrust into this Universe, cold and unflinching.
“I witness the universe… which does not care… which can crush me without even thinking… a place without morality, without vengeance…
“… so I became that vengeance… because someone had to. To punish the wicked… only to find… that we are all wicked.
“And this was the great cosmic joke… that all the bloodletting, it meant nothing… for, I, too, had gone unpunished… I, too, had deserved vengeance…
“Perhaps this is purgatory, Copycat, and you are my punishment for trying to become more than a man. A repetitive, exhausting exercise in intellectual masturbation. It leaves me ill.
“So yes, Copycat… I do hate you. I hate the way you’re gifted and I’m not. I hate the way you understand things I can’t. The way you shake hands with movie stars while I get stitches removed.
“But most of all, Copycat, I hate you, because in the end, you’re too stupid to know how unworthy you are… how much you deserve this.
“We all do, Copycat… Higher Flyer. We are brothers in this. We share something… a bond.
“Someone will pay… someone will fall… someone may not even walk away…
“All I know is… for someone…
“… vengeance will come.”
(FADEOUT as he finishes the beer and throws it onto the roof of the empty school.)
GARTHIsTheLaw
League Member
<i>(Cueup: “Holy Diver” by Dio)</i>
<i>(Fade in on what appears to be, from the look of things, the bottom of an empty indoor swimming pool – the deep end, if the sloping floor and occasional black markings are any indicator. Lying on a deck chair situated over the pool drain is Copycat, clad in red swim trunks with a pair of goggles resting atop his head)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> The appearance of my indoor pool is not meant to be a clever retort to any comments about my wealth and social status. I swear.
<i>(He sits up and looks into the camera)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> You know, I remember that the last time Anarky and I made a go of it in another league, he made some cracks about how I was always reinventing myself. And whereas a lesser man might have hurled back the equivalent of “Well, you're ugly!” I pointed out that learning from one's mistakes and finding better ways to deal with one's problems is infinitely better than stubbornly remaining in place to prove a point. I can't remember how he responded – I've been unwillingly thrust into the ring with that ranting goofball more times than I like to think about, and some of those encounters are starting to meld together, <i>Slither</i>-style, as they're pushed out of the active parts of my brain to make room for the stuff that's actually important – but I think I'm starting to get an idea. Thus far this time around, he's been a measured cool guy, a retrospective and bitter guy, and a look-how-tough-I-am braggart copying and pasting lines straight out of Layne Winters' script. Wouldn't you know it? Looks like Anarky took my words to heart.
<i>(Copycat cracks a tiny, tiny fraction of a smile)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Just like he always does.
<i>(Aaaaaaaaaand the tiny, tiny fraction of a smile is gone)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> See, as much as he hates to admit it, Anarky pays way, way more attention to me than he's comfortable with. Oh, I'm not saying he lurks in the alleys outside my movie shoots or watches my appearances in TV shows while clenching one fist in anger and using the other to touch himself in naughty places, or anything weird like that. But for all his tough talk about how little I matter, about how much of a useless phony I am, I know he pays attention. And I don't blame him. See, a guy like Anarky, who's been around this business for even longer than I have and who's been beating the same long-dead horse basically that entire time, is naturally inclined toward getting closure. You fight a guy, some bad blood develops, you want to see it end with yourself the victor. And to Anarky, I represent unfinished business.
<i>(Copycat swings his legs to the side of the deck chair, still looking into the camera)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> In the years since I first made him look like a chump – the first time of many – Anarky has come up with a lot of reasons to hate me. Lately, I'm starting to lose track of all of them. He hates me because I'm wealthier than he is. He hates me because I'm bigger than he is. He hates me because I'm smarter than he is. He hates me because I'm more successful in life than he is. He hates me because, despite my participation in a business he sees as nothing but occasionally glorified hand-to-hand combat, I'm constantly looking for ways to minimize the permanent damage to my body and mind, having the audacity to try to come out of this soul-destroying business with my health and live beyond my mid-40s. He hates me because I represent so many of the things he felt he had to give up to succeed, and because he's been forced to see me succeed despite that. And my personal favorite: He hates me because he thinks <i>I'm</i> obsessed with <i>him</i>. Somehow, he's decided he'll be able to revise my accusation that GASP is his vanity project to an accusation that he is single-handedly destroying this industry. As though I haven't said many, many times that he's merely a symptom rather than the disease itself. Anarky himself couldn't destroy this industry as thoroughly as it's been destroyed; he could never achieve the level of relevance necessary to do so.
<i>(Copycat reaches down to pull out from under the chair a previously unseen length of sturdy chain. As he talks, he tests it against the drain grate, to which it is attached)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> But while I might have a soft spot for the last of those reasons to hate me, if only because I'm such a longtime and documented fan of irony, the most important reason for his hatred of me is my ability to see the lighter side of things he has dedicated himself to taking deadly serious.
<i>(That satisfied, he proceeds to test the chain against the deck chair, to which is is also attached)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> I admit, my days in EPW have been a little bit darker of late thanks to the egregious actions of the league's management, which has sought to destroy Anthology at every turn and has continued to climb to greater heights of callousness after each of its failures to do so. And if EPW management persists in its refusal to listen to reason, to do what's right for this business that I helped achieve success unlike any it had seen before, those days will get darker still. I will not waver in my commitment to saving the wrestling business from itself. There are certain lengths to which I'm willing to go that would be ... uncharacteristic for me. But as much as it pains me, I am willing to sacrifice certain aspects of my character to complete the mission I set for myself when I signed my EPW contract.
<i>(Copycat stops fiddling with the chain and looks back up at the camera)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Be that as it may, though, there is – pardon the pun – an ocean of difference between Anarky's actions and those of EPW management. And while I take the latter with the utmost seriousness, I continue to be unable to take the former as such. And that's what it is about the Cat that most infuriates Anarky. It's his one reason for hating me that he's not willing to come out and state, straight up. Over the years, there have been a lot of guys who've despised Anarky, a lot of guys who've posed challenges to him, a lot of guys who've disrespected him, and a lot of guys who've beaten him. But when Anarky first went up against the Cat in – gosh, what was it? 2001? 2002? -- he couldn't get me to take him seriously. And through the course of a mutual dislike that has lasted almost a decade, though countless efforts on his part to show me just how deadly a force of nature he is, he has never, <i>ever</i>, managed to get me to take him seriously.
<i>(He shakes his head with mock sadness)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> I told Anarky the first time I spoke to him prior to that first match that he was a joke. I've told him every time I've faced him since then that he is a joke, and I've even made a few comments to other competitors about what a joke he is. And I know in another day or so, he'll set up a camera at another bar in Connecticut and tell me just why he isn't a joke, and I'm a joke, and a big stupid jerkface besides. But it won't make a difference. Because he's never been able to succeed in proving me wrong.
<i>(Copycat reaches under the chair to the length of chain again and pulls out something else: a pair of handcuffs. He nonchalantly cuffs himself to the chair as he talks)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Think about it. This is a guy who's built his reputation around brutalizing others – even more so than a lot of other guys in this business. Anarky stakes his very existence these days on his ability to dole out punishment unlike anyone else. And yet, despite the many encounters he and I have had, I remain unbrutalized. Sure, I've been victim to a few gang-beatings orchestrated by him, but nothing that left me feeling any worse than a night on the town with Jared Wells and Sean Edmunds or five minutes of listening to the First talk. Last time EPW decided to bore its fans half to death by setting up yet another Copycat-Anarky match, he tried to get me to take him seriously by setting me on fire – and it didn't work. I left that match the victor – by a bittersweet disqualification, sure, but the victor nonetheless – and no worse for the wear. It’s the same old story. It drives him nuts, I’m sure. That’s why he’s trying to bury me under the weight of his other motivations for hating me – so I’ll forget the main reason.
<i>(He makes a hand signal to someone offscreen)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> It won’t work.
<i>(The water comes on in the pool and begins rapidly pouring in. Copycat raises his voice to be heard above the water)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Anarky likes to make a big screaming deal about how he’s the only person who sees through my façade – whatever that façade is in his Cuisinart-blended mind. Now, I’m not one to get all “Nuh uh, I know you are but what am I?” on anybody, but I’m definitely seeing an opportunity for it here. Still, though, to do that would be to really miss the point on Anarky’s problem here.
<i>(The water has now submerged the chair, though Copycat, sitting upright, has his head well above water)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Is there a hilarious irony in his claiming to see what a big phony I am, while one could easily make such a claim about him? Well, sure. But I’ve spent enough time over the years making that point. Maybe the important point isn’t that I can see through him; maybe the important point is that even if the persona Anarky takes on every time a camera is on him is 100 percent genuine, it just plain doesn’t do it for me. The man has tried time and time again over the years to prove just how much of a threat he is, and I’m sorry, but I just can’t take him seriously.
<i>(Copycat stands up from the chair right as the water is about to reach his neck, buying a few more seconds)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Anarky’s been putting a lot of work into his efforts to prove to me that he’s a man to be taken seriously. He just keeps piling it on and piling it on, assuming that eventually, if he just keeps on doing what he’s doing, I’ll eventually be crushed under the weight of it all. Or drown in it, if you will. But by now, he should know better than to try to outsmart the Smartest Player in the Game. Come Aggression 51, Anarky is going to see once again that his greatest weapon, the one he relies on most, will fail to work on the Cat. And when I walk out of Aggression 51 having made a fool of him once more … well, I’d like to say he’ll have learned a lesson, but we all know that isn’t going to happen. If he were the type to learn from his mistakes though, maybe he’d see that as long as he begs to be taken seriously…
<i>(The water has now risen up over Copycat’s head. He pauses for a second, then keeps talking, entirely unaffected by the water)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> … I’m going to find a way out.
<i>(The camera angle switches to a shot from above the pool, showing two large, clear glass dividers on either side of Copycat – there’s water on either side of him, but the section he’s standing in is dry)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> And he’s just going to keep failing.
<i>(Fade out)</i>
<i>(Fade in on what appears to be, from the look of things, the bottom of an empty indoor swimming pool – the deep end, if the sloping floor and occasional black markings are any indicator. Lying on a deck chair situated over the pool drain is Copycat, clad in red swim trunks with a pair of goggles resting atop his head)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> The appearance of my indoor pool is not meant to be a clever retort to any comments about my wealth and social status. I swear.
<i>(He sits up and looks into the camera)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> You know, I remember that the last time Anarky and I made a go of it in another league, he made some cracks about how I was always reinventing myself. And whereas a lesser man might have hurled back the equivalent of “Well, you're ugly!” I pointed out that learning from one's mistakes and finding better ways to deal with one's problems is infinitely better than stubbornly remaining in place to prove a point. I can't remember how he responded – I've been unwillingly thrust into the ring with that ranting goofball more times than I like to think about, and some of those encounters are starting to meld together, <i>Slither</i>-style, as they're pushed out of the active parts of my brain to make room for the stuff that's actually important – but I think I'm starting to get an idea. Thus far this time around, he's been a measured cool guy, a retrospective and bitter guy, and a look-how-tough-I-am braggart copying and pasting lines straight out of Layne Winters' script. Wouldn't you know it? Looks like Anarky took my words to heart.
<i>(Copycat cracks a tiny, tiny fraction of a smile)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Just like he always does.
<i>(Aaaaaaaaaand the tiny, tiny fraction of a smile is gone)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> See, as much as he hates to admit it, Anarky pays way, way more attention to me than he's comfortable with. Oh, I'm not saying he lurks in the alleys outside my movie shoots or watches my appearances in TV shows while clenching one fist in anger and using the other to touch himself in naughty places, or anything weird like that. But for all his tough talk about how little I matter, about how much of a useless phony I am, I know he pays attention. And I don't blame him. See, a guy like Anarky, who's been around this business for even longer than I have and who's been beating the same long-dead horse basically that entire time, is naturally inclined toward getting closure. You fight a guy, some bad blood develops, you want to see it end with yourself the victor. And to Anarky, I represent unfinished business.
<i>(Copycat swings his legs to the side of the deck chair, still looking into the camera)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> In the years since I first made him look like a chump – the first time of many – Anarky has come up with a lot of reasons to hate me. Lately, I'm starting to lose track of all of them. He hates me because I'm wealthier than he is. He hates me because I'm bigger than he is. He hates me because I'm smarter than he is. He hates me because I'm more successful in life than he is. He hates me because, despite my participation in a business he sees as nothing but occasionally glorified hand-to-hand combat, I'm constantly looking for ways to minimize the permanent damage to my body and mind, having the audacity to try to come out of this soul-destroying business with my health and live beyond my mid-40s. He hates me because I represent so many of the things he felt he had to give up to succeed, and because he's been forced to see me succeed despite that. And my personal favorite: He hates me because he thinks <i>I'm</i> obsessed with <i>him</i>. Somehow, he's decided he'll be able to revise my accusation that GASP is his vanity project to an accusation that he is single-handedly destroying this industry. As though I haven't said many, many times that he's merely a symptom rather than the disease itself. Anarky himself couldn't destroy this industry as thoroughly as it's been destroyed; he could never achieve the level of relevance necessary to do so.
<i>(Copycat reaches down to pull out from under the chair a previously unseen length of sturdy chain. As he talks, he tests it against the drain grate, to which it is attached)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> But while I might have a soft spot for the last of those reasons to hate me, if only because I'm such a longtime and documented fan of irony, the most important reason for his hatred of me is my ability to see the lighter side of things he has dedicated himself to taking deadly serious.
<i>(That satisfied, he proceeds to test the chain against the deck chair, to which is is also attached)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> I admit, my days in EPW have been a little bit darker of late thanks to the egregious actions of the league's management, which has sought to destroy Anthology at every turn and has continued to climb to greater heights of callousness after each of its failures to do so. And if EPW management persists in its refusal to listen to reason, to do what's right for this business that I helped achieve success unlike any it had seen before, those days will get darker still. I will not waver in my commitment to saving the wrestling business from itself. There are certain lengths to which I'm willing to go that would be ... uncharacteristic for me. But as much as it pains me, I am willing to sacrifice certain aspects of my character to complete the mission I set for myself when I signed my EPW contract.
<i>(Copycat stops fiddling with the chain and looks back up at the camera)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Be that as it may, though, there is – pardon the pun – an ocean of difference between Anarky's actions and those of EPW management. And while I take the latter with the utmost seriousness, I continue to be unable to take the former as such. And that's what it is about the Cat that most infuriates Anarky. It's his one reason for hating me that he's not willing to come out and state, straight up. Over the years, there have been a lot of guys who've despised Anarky, a lot of guys who've posed challenges to him, a lot of guys who've disrespected him, and a lot of guys who've beaten him. But when Anarky first went up against the Cat in – gosh, what was it? 2001? 2002? -- he couldn't get me to take him seriously. And through the course of a mutual dislike that has lasted almost a decade, though countless efforts on his part to show me just how deadly a force of nature he is, he has never, <i>ever</i>, managed to get me to take him seriously.
<i>(He shakes his head with mock sadness)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> I told Anarky the first time I spoke to him prior to that first match that he was a joke. I've told him every time I've faced him since then that he is a joke, and I've even made a few comments to other competitors about what a joke he is. And I know in another day or so, he'll set up a camera at another bar in Connecticut and tell me just why he isn't a joke, and I'm a joke, and a big stupid jerkface besides. But it won't make a difference. Because he's never been able to succeed in proving me wrong.
<i>(Copycat reaches under the chair to the length of chain again and pulls out something else: a pair of handcuffs. He nonchalantly cuffs himself to the chair as he talks)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Think about it. This is a guy who's built his reputation around brutalizing others – even more so than a lot of other guys in this business. Anarky stakes his very existence these days on his ability to dole out punishment unlike anyone else. And yet, despite the many encounters he and I have had, I remain unbrutalized. Sure, I've been victim to a few gang-beatings orchestrated by him, but nothing that left me feeling any worse than a night on the town with Jared Wells and Sean Edmunds or five minutes of listening to the First talk. Last time EPW decided to bore its fans half to death by setting up yet another Copycat-Anarky match, he tried to get me to take him seriously by setting me on fire – and it didn't work. I left that match the victor – by a bittersweet disqualification, sure, but the victor nonetheless – and no worse for the wear. It’s the same old story. It drives him nuts, I’m sure. That’s why he’s trying to bury me under the weight of his other motivations for hating me – so I’ll forget the main reason.
<i>(He makes a hand signal to someone offscreen)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> It won’t work.
<i>(The water comes on in the pool and begins rapidly pouring in. Copycat raises his voice to be heard above the water)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Anarky likes to make a big screaming deal about how he’s the only person who sees through my façade – whatever that façade is in his Cuisinart-blended mind. Now, I’m not one to get all “Nuh uh, I know you are but what am I?” on anybody, but I’m definitely seeing an opportunity for it here. Still, though, to do that would be to really miss the point on Anarky’s problem here.
<i>(The water has now submerged the chair, though Copycat, sitting upright, has his head well above water)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Is there a hilarious irony in his claiming to see what a big phony I am, while one could easily make such a claim about him? Well, sure. But I’ve spent enough time over the years making that point. Maybe the important point isn’t that I can see through him; maybe the important point is that even if the persona Anarky takes on every time a camera is on him is 100 percent genuine, it just plain doesn’t do it for me. The man has tried time and time again over the years to prove just how much of a threat he is, and I’m sorry, but I just can’t take him seriously.
<i>(Copycat stands up from the chair right as the water is about to reach his neck, buying a few more seconds)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Anarky’s been putting a lot of work into his efforts to prove to me that he’s a man to be taken seriously. He just keeps piling it on and piling it on, assuming that eventually, if he just keeps on doing what he’s doing, I’ll eventually be crushed under the weight of it all. Or drown in it, if you will. But by now, he should know better than to try to outsmart the Smartest Player in the Game. Come Aggression 51, Anarky is going to see once again that his greatest weapon, the one he relies on most, will fail to work on the Cat. And when I walk out of Aggression 51 having made a fool of him once more … well, I’d like to say he’ll have learned a lesson, but we all know that isn’t going to happen. If he were the type to learn from his mistakes though, maybe he’d see that as long as he begs to be taken seriously…
<i>(The water has now risen up over Copycat’s head. He pauses for a second, then keeps talking, entirely unaffected by the water)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> … I’m going to find a way out.
<i>(The camera angle switches to a shot from above the pool, showing two large, clear glass dividers on either side of Copycat – there’s water on either side of him, but the section he’s standing in is dry)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> And he’s just going to keep failing.
<i>(Fade out)</i>
GARTHIsTheLaw
League Member
<i>(Cueup: “Poison” by Alice Cooper)</i>
<i>(Fade in on what looks to be a sizable and brightly lit trophy room. Posters, newspaper and magazine clippings, trophies, belts and other regalia line glass cases along the walls. As if placed just to specify whose trophy room this is, the most visible item – situated on the back wall – is an enormous blown-up photo of a bloodied Copycat standing atop a steel cage, holding aloft a championship belt. Standing in the middle of the room is modern-day Copycat, clad in jeans and black Anthology T-shirt, with his hair tied back and one of the EPW Tag Team Title belts resting on his shoulder. He glances back at the blown-up photo and then, turning his gaze back to the camera, holds aloft the EPW Tag Team Title belt in a pose mimicking that in the photo)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Yes, this is different from my memorabilia room. I have a lot of rooms.
<i>(He brings the belt back down to his shoulder)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> You won't be inclined to believe it, but I actually don't spend all of my free time in this room. I have a reputation for being something of an egomaniac, and I don't think I've ever denied liking myself a whole heck of a lot. But the fact is, I have no shortage of opportunities to stroke my ego in day-to-day life. It's an ego-stroking room, sure, but these days, it's more storage space than anything else. I just figure, if I've got a lot of things to be stored, I might as well separate them out, you know? No sense keeping the commemorative title belts in the same room as those baseball cards I begged my parents not to throw away so they could someday become valuable. Even though they're worth less now than they were when I was 10.
<i>(Copycat removes the belt from his shoulder and places it on a stand occupied by a framed photo, being careful not to jar the photo)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> The contents are unique, I suppose, in a sense that not a lot of people have received accolades – however low-level – in the wrestling, acting and music industries. <i>Especially</i> low-level in the music industry. But on the whole, I'd consider this, by a normal person's standards, a pretty ordinary trophy room. A whole bunch of shiny objects on shiny stands, embossed with flowery words about how super-sweet the recipient is, not to mention how super-sweet the organization that bestowed the award upon him is. Still, though, as much as I like to use this room to remind myself of how awesome I am, I've decided to pay it a visit today because I was wondering about other people's trophy rooms.
<i>(He takes a glance around the room, then back at the camera)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Anarky's not going to be inviting me over to his one-room studio apartment for tea and crumpets anytime soon, so all I can do is guess at what his trophy room looks like. And I'm guessing it doesn't look too much like this. Now, a lesser man might make some sort of crack about how a preposterous waste of existence like Anarky cannot possibly have accumulated many accolades over the years, but I'm a fair man. I'm well aware that, over his in-ring career Anarky has won more gold and other acknowledgments of the torture he puts viewers through than I have. To be nice, we won't mention the recognition I've received in the many other walks of life I've taken; let's just leave it that, at the very least, Anarky has way more belt replicas in the car trunk he uses for storage space than I do in this temple of worship to the greatness that is the Cat.
<i>(Copycat wanders over to a framed object on the wall, the camera zooming in so we can get a good look at it. It's the cover of </i>World of FW<i> magazine, and the image depicts Copycat posing against the barricade at a live wrestling event with a huge smile on his face, fans behind him waving signs and giving thumbs-ups and peace signs. In big block text are the words “UNLIKELY HERO”)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> If Anarky appeared on the cover of <i>World of FW</i>, I'm sure he'd keep some copies for himself, maybe even have one framed, though it would most assuredly be a frame of significantly lower quality. But I suspect that were he to someday find himself with a trophy room as fine as the Cat's, this item would be a decidedly low priority. Because it's not how Anarky – and so many like him these days – define success. I've been noticing this trend since I selflessly returned to EPW to try to save it from itself, to try to save the wrestling business from itself. Priorities have been realigned since I stepped away from the squared circle years ago to focus on new interests in my life. Nearly everyone I've encountered thus far in EPW – outside of the visionaries in Anthology – has adopted this bizarre new attitude. The locker room reeks of it.
<i>(He drifts away from the magazine cover and stands in front of a glass trophy. The writing on it is too small to be legible)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> A philanthropic award. I won't bore you with the details. But even if Anarky had the money to give to receive such an award, I doubt it would be seen in his trophy room. In its place would be the cast he wore after an opponent broke his arm. Or a fan-snapped photo of him staggering back through the curtain after having been beaten to a pulp. Or a wad of bloody towels applied directly to the forehead. And the wrestling business being what it is these days, it wouldn't even be that unusual. So many of these chumps have decided the greatest mementos of their careers are not the things they've accomplished, but the suffering they've endured to get to where they are.
<i>(He rolls his eyes)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Is there a certain amount of respect due to someone who sacrifices for a cause he believes in? Sure. But time was, the sacrifice was secondary. A means to an end. You'd talk about how hard you worked, and how hard you got worked over by some hairy madman who beat you with a chair until you blacked out, and how you had to spend so much time on the road and away from your loved ones to get to where you are today. But then you'd have something to say about where you are today. There was a reason you were willing to make those sacrifices: So you could achieve something. So that one day, your stories wouldn't all have to be about beatings you took, but glories you'd achieved.
<i>(Copycat keeps walking around the room, stopping in front of a commemorative belt whose league logo has been blurred out in post-production)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> But nobody wants to talk about that anymore. Just listen to the yammering Anarky has been doing lately. About getting chucked off the top of a cage by Maelstrom. About being smaller than guys like me and having to take more punishment. About sticking around this business, always seeking more opportunities to go out there and get beaten senseless for nothing. About his troubled childhood, about his crappy hometown, about how much pain he's endured just to prove that he could. About the hard work he's put in every night for the last 15 years. I'm supposed to be impressed that he gets beaten up a lot? This is the wrestling business. People get beaten up. Oh sure, there are a few of us out there – like, oh, I don't know, let's say me – who've figured out ways to save ourselves some of the more crippling brutality. But being able to say you got beaten up every day for 15 years doesn't make you special. It makes you just like everyone else.
<i>(He flashes a disgusted look)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> There's always been an “Oh yeah? Well...” vibe to the way we address each other in this industry. But now more than ever, you've got guys trying to trot out their shortcomings as points of pride. Anarky talking about getting beaten up all the time. Fusenshoff kvetching about his alcoholism. Layne Winters going on and on about the rough road he took to get where he is today. The trophies are secondary to this pathetic generation of wrestlers. They just want to talk about their wounds and failings as though they're triumphs.
<i>(Copycat walks over to a photo of himself posing with Morgan Freeman)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> And every one of Anarky's “And then I got <i>this</i> scar by” stories was punctuated by some sort of retort about how easy I've got it, living in my big honkin' house with a bajillion rooms for match promos, landing plum movie and TV roles, playing poker with celebrities and being romantically linked to actresses and pop stars in the supermarket tabloids. Hey, I'm not going to deny enjoying those things. But the way he talks, you'd think that when I made my pro debut back in 1996 – clumsy, overlooked, unable to string two words together with a microphone in front of me – I was already some glamorous Hollywood actor with a Scrooge McDuck money bin and a hot tub full of Spice Girls waiting for me at home. Here's a news flash: I started out in this business the same way he did – for that matter, at almost the same time he did. And I've been through some messed up stuff in my career, some of which he was personally involved in. I've had my fingers smashed and broken in a car door. I've had fire thrown in my eyes – successfully, I might add. I've been chucked off the top of a cage, albeit by Michael Manson, not by Maelstrom. I had a close friend suffer an injury that looked life-threatening right in front of me; thank God it wasn't. Hell, back in 1997, Sean Edmunds knocked me out and then p(BLEEP)sed on me while I was down. And I've been gang-beaten more times than I think I can even count.
<i>(He shoots a bored look at the camera)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> And do you know why you never hear me talk about that stuff anymore? Because it isn't important anymore. It was a means to an end. I went through that stuff then so that I wouldn't have to go through it ever again if I didn't want to. I figured out how to survive in and out of the ring. I figured out all the tricks of the trade, all the ways to have things go in my favor, even when the odds were against it. I made smart investments, made friends with the right people. I figured out what the opportunities would look like, and as soon as I spotted them, I took them before anyone else could. And look at me now. A lot of the other EPW wrestlers, like Anarky, won't acknowledge it, but they know that I've achieved success beyond what they can ever hope to achieve. And although Anarky may not want to retire from this sport in his 30s and go make movies, the difference between him and me is that he couldn't pull it off even if he wanted to.
<i>(The camera starts to zoom out as Copycat heads back to the center of the room)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> And that's just another thing that drives him – and guys like him – crazy when they have to face off against the Cat. Not just that they haven't achieved the things I have, but that they can't because they don't have what it takes. Even Anarky, who has dedicated his whole life to the wrestling business and tormenting everyone who wants to enjoy it, can't measure up to me. I started the same time he did. I had the same path in front of me that he did. And I took a different path. A path that, for better or for worse, has put my record against him at 3-1. Just imagine that. This guy – who absolutely will not shut up about how the path he took to get here has made him so much flippin' better than me – still can't beat me three times out of four. And he can make all the excuses he wants for those losses – not that I couldn't do the same for my one loss – but in the end, I know it won't make him feel any better. So instead of being able to brag about his successes in the ring, he has to brag about the sacrifices he's made. Just like everyone else who sacrificed and couldn't come up with anything significant to show for those sacrifices. It's enough to make me sick.
<i>(Copycat stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed, still looking into the camera)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> And the worst part is, with Anarky and all of these other pathetic wastes in EPW bragging about their sacrifices and not their achievements, they're even more selfish than the folks were when bragging about one's achievements was in vogue. They're all out for personal glory, and screw the damage they'll inflict upon this business for the next generation in their quest to gain it. Until my acting hiatus, I put everything into this business, and not just for myself – for the next generation of competitors, who I wanted to have the same opportunities I had. That's why I had to return, to put the life I expect to be my future on hold – because I couldn't let those opportunities be taken away by the selfish idiots who've taken hold on this business.
<i>(He motions to the Anthology logo on his shirt)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> That's what Anthology is about – saving EPW, and wrestling as a whole, from those who would destroy it just for a few more seconds of relevance. Guys like Anarky can sit around and brag about their scars, but the scars that have been inflicted upon them do not even begin to compare to the scars their ilk has inflicted upon this business that I love. And at Aggression 51, I'll show Anarky – and anyone else who's still watching – just how much I like what they've done with the place.
<i>(Fade out)</i>
<i>(Fade in on what looks to be a sizable and brightly lit trophy room. Posters, newspaper and magazine clippings, trophies, belts and other regalia line glass cases along the walls. As if placed just to specify whose trophy room this is, the most visible item – situated on the back wall – is an enormous blown-up photo of a bloodied Copycat standing atop a steel cage, holding aloft a championship belt. Standing in the middle of the room is modern-day Copycat, clad in jeans and black Anthology T-shirt, with his hair tied back and one of the EPW Tag Team Title belts resting on his shoulder. He glances back at the blown-up photo and then, turning his gaze back to the camera, holds aloft the EPW Tag Team Title belt in a pose mimicking that in the photo)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Yes, this is different from my memorabilia room. I have a lot of rooms.
<i>(He brings the belt back down to his shoulder)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> You won't be inclined to believe it, but I actually don't spend all of my free time in this room. I have a reputation for being something of an egomaniac, and I don't think I've ever denied liking myself a whole heck of a lot. But the fact is, I have no shortage of opportunities to stroke my ego in day-to-day life. It's an ego-stroking room, sure, but these days, it's more storage space than anything else. I just figure, if I've got a lot of things to be stored, I might as well separate them out, you know? No sense keeping the commemorative title belts in the same room as those baseball cards I begged my parents not to throw away so they could someday become valuable. Even though they're worth less now than they were when I was 10.
<i>(Copycat removes the belt from his shoulder and places it on a stand occupied by a framed photo, being careful not to jar the photo)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> The contents are unique, I suppose, in a sense that not a lot of people have received accolades – however low-level – in the wrestling, acting and music industries. <i>Especially</i> low-level in the music industry. But on the whole, I'd consider this, by a normal person's standards, a pretty ordinary trophy room. A whole bunch of shiny objects on shiny stands, embossed with flowery words about how super-sweet the recipient is, not to mention how super-sweet the organization that bestowed the award upon him is. Still, though, as much as I like to use this room to remind myself of how awesome I am, I've decided to pay it a visit today because I was wondering about other people's trophy rooms.
<i>(He takes a glance around the room, then back at the camera)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Anarky's not going to be inviting me over to his one-room studio apartment for tea and crumpets anytime soon, so all I can do is guess at what his trophy room looks like. And I'm guessing it doesn't look too much like this. Now, a lesser man might make some sort of crack about how a preposterous waste of existence like Anarky cannot possibly have accumulated many accolades over the years, but I'm a fair man. I'm well aware that, over his in-ring career Anarky has won more gold and other acknowledgments of the torture he puts viewers through than I have. To be nice, we won't mention the recognition I've received in the many other walks of life I've taken; let's just leave it that, at the very least, Anarky has way more belt replicas in the car trunk he uses for storage space than I do in this temple of worship to the greatness that is the Cat.
<i>(Copycat wanders over to a framed object on the wall, the camera zooming in so we can get a good look at it. It's the cover of </i>World of FW<i> magazine, and the image depicts Copycat posing against the barricade at a live wrestling event with a huge smile on his face, fans behind him waving signs and giving thumbs-ups and peace signs. In big block text are the words “UNLIKELY HERO”)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> If Anarky appeared on the cover of <i>World of FW</i>, I'm sure he'd keep some copies for himself, maybe even have one framed, though it would most assuredly be a frame of significantly lower quality. But I suspect that were he to someday find himself with a trophy room as fine as the Cat's, this item would be a decidedly low priority. Because it's not how Anarky – and so many like him these days – define success. I've been noticing this trend since I selflessly returned to EPW to try to save it from itself, to try to save the wrestling business from itself. Priorities have been realigned since I stepped away from the squared circle years ago to focus on new interests in my life. Nearly everyone I've encountered thus far in EPW – outside of the visionaries in Anthology – has adopted this bizarre new attitude. The locker room reeks of it.
<i>(He drifts away from the magazine cover and stands in front of a glass trophy. The writing on it is too small to be legible)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> A philanthropic award. I won't bore you with the details. But even if Anarky had the money to give to receive such an award, I doubt it would be seen in his trophy room. In its place would be the cast he wore after an opponent broke his arm. Or a fan-snapped photo of him staggering back through the curtain after having been beaten to a pulp. Or a wad of bloody towels applied directly to the forehead. And the wrestling business being what it is these days, it wouldn't even be that unusual. So many of these chumps have decided the greatest mementos of their careers are not the things they've accomplished, but the suffering they've endured to get to where they are.
<i>(He rolls his eyes)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Is there a certain amount of respect due to someone who sacrifices for a cause he believes in? Sure. But time was, the sacrifice was secondary. A means to an end. You'd talk about how hard you worked, and how hard you got worked over by some hairy madman who beat you with a chair until you blacked out, and how you had to spend so much time on the road and away from your loved ones to get to where you are today. But then you'd have something to say about where you are today. There was a reason you were willing to make those sacrifices: So you could achieve something. So that one day, your stories wouldn't all have to be about beatings you took, but glories you'd achieved.
<i>(Copycat keeps walking around the room, stopping in front of a commemorative belt whose league logo has been blurred out in post-production)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> But nobody wants to talk about that anymore. Just listen to the yammering Anarky has been doing lately. About getting chucked off the top of a cage by Maelstrom. About being smaller than guys like me and having to take more punishment. About sticking around this business, always seeking more opportunities to go out there and get beaten senseless for nothing. About his troubled childhood, about his crappy hometown, about how much pain he's endured just to prove that he could. About the hard work he's put in every night for the last 15 years. I'm supposed to be impressed that he gets beaten up a lot? This is the wrestling business. People get beaten up. Oh sure, there are a few of us out there – like, oh, I don't know, let's say me – who've figured out ways to save ourselves some of the more crippling brutality. But being able to say you got beaten up every day for 15 years doesn't make you special. It makes you just like everyone else.
<i>(He flashes a disgusted look)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> There's always been an “Oh yeah? Well...” vibe to the way we address each other in this industry. But now more than ever, you've got guys trying to trot out their shortcomings as points of pride. Anarky talking about getting beaten up all the time. Fusenshoff kvetching about his alcoholism. Layne Winters going on and on about the rough road he took to get where he is today. The trophies are secondary to this pathetic generation of wrestlers. They just want to talk about their wounds and failings as though they're triumphs.
<i>(Copycat walks over to a photo of himself posing with Morgan Freeman)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> And every one of Anarky's “And then I got <i>this</i> scar by” stories was punctuated by some sort of retort about how easy I've got it, living in my big honkin' house with a bajillion rooms for match promos, landing plum movie and TV roles, playing poker with celebrities and being romantically linked to actresses and pop stars in the supermarket tabloids. Hey, I'm not going to deny enjoying those things. But the way he talks, you'd think that when I made my pro debut back in 1996 – clumsy, overlooked, unable to string two words together with a microphone in front of me – I was already some glamorous Hollywood actor with a Scrooge McDuck money bin and a hot tub full of Spice Girls waiting for me at home. Here's a news flash: I started out in this business the same way he did – for that matter, at almost the same time he did. And I've been through some messed up stuff in my career, some of which he was personally involved in. I've had my fingers smashed and broken in a car door. I've had fire thrown in my eyes – successfully, I might add. I've been chucked off the top of a cage, albeit by Michael Manson, not by Maelstrom. I had a close friend suffer an injury that looked life-threatening right in front of me; thank God it wasn't. Hell, back in 1997, Sean Edmunds knocked me out and then p(BLEEP)sed on me while I was down. And I've been gang-beaten more times than I think I can even count.
<i>(He shoots a bored look at the camera)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> And do you know why you never hear me talk about that stuff anymore? Because it isn't important anymore. It was a means to an end. I went through that stuff then so that I wouldn't have to go through it ever again if I didn't want to. I figured out how to survive in and out of the ring. I figured out all the tricks of the trade, all the ways to have things go in my favor, even when the odds were against it. I made smart investments, made friends with the right people. I figured out what the opportunities would look like, and as soon as I spotted them, I took them before anyone else could. And look at me now. A lot of the other EPW wrestlers, like Anarky, won't acknowledge it, but they know that I've achieved success beyond what they can ever hope to achieve. And although Anarky may not want to retire from this sport in his 30s and go make movies, the difference between him and me is that he couldn't pull it off even if he wanted to.
<i>(The camera starts to zoom out as Copycat heads back to the center of the room)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> And that's just another thing that drives him – and guys like him – crazy when they have to face off against the Cat. Not just that they haven't achieved the things I have, but that they can't because they don't have what it takes. Even Anarky, who has dedicated his whole life to the wrestling business and tormenting everyone who wants to enjoy it, can't measure up to me. I started the same time he did. I had the same path in front of me that he did. And I took a different path. A path that, for better or for worse, has put my record against him at 3-1. Just imagine that. This guy – who absolutely will not shut up about how the path he took to get here has made him so much flippin' better than me – still can't beat me three times out of four. And he can make all the excuses he wants for those losses – not that I couldn't do the same for my one loss – but in the end, I know it won't make him feel any better. So instead of being able to brag about his successes in the ring, he has to brag about the sacrifices he's made. Just like everyone else who sacrificed and couldn't come up with anything significant to show for those sacrifices. It's enough to make me sick.
<i>(Copycat stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed, still looking into the camera)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> And the worst part is, with Anarky and all of these other pathetic wastes in EPW bragging about their sacrifices and not their achievements, they're even more selfish than the folks were when bragging about one's achievements was in vogue. They're all out for personal glory, and screw the damage they'll inflict upon this business for the next generation in their quest to gain it. Until my acting hiatus, I put everything into this business, and not just for myself – for the next generation of competitors, who I wanted to have the same opportunities I had. That's why I had to return, to put the life I expect to be my future on hold – because I couldn't let those opportunities be taken away by the selfish idiots who've taken hold on this business.
<i>(He motions to the Anthology logo on his shirt)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> That's what Anthology is about – saving EPW, and wrestling as a whole, from those who would destroy it just for a few more seconds of relevance. Guys like Anarky can sit around and brag about their scars, but the scars that have been inflicted upon them do not even begin to compare to the scars their ilk has inflicted upon this business that I love. And at Aggression 51, I'll show Anarky – and anyone else who's still watching – just how much I like what they've done with the place.
<i>(Fade out)</i>
JLevinson
Diva Tree
- Joined
- Jan 1, 2000
- Messages
- 707
- Points
- 0
- Age
- 43
(FADEIN to an empty ring in an empty gym. Standing in the center is Anarky, his facepaint on along with his in-ring gear. He’s smiling. Light illuminate the ring and the rest of the gym is dark.)
ANARKY: “I am what I am.
“I know you don’t like it, Copycat. We all know. Because we’ve all heard you regurgitate it a million times. We’ve heard you trot out your old WWL record. Heard you talk about what a big shot you are.
“And we’ve all heard the lectures about how this industry needs to be saved by you… because everyone who isn’t you, or a temporary friend of yours, obviously isn’t going to measure up.
“The thing you don’t seem to get is that… you think I’m dumb enough to give a f*ck what you think. I mean, you’ve made it abundantly clear that anybody who isn’t you isn’t going to earn an ounce of respect from you.
“You ever date someone with a really b*tchy overbearing mother? The kind of judgy prick that thinks nobody is good enough for their kid, even though their kid isn’t good enough for their expectations?
“That’s pretty much you, Copycat. Disapproving. Unimpressed. You’re just doing what’s best for us, right, Cat?
“Well who asked for your help, Copycat? Did Dan Ryan send you an urgent memo on the set to come quickly, before Anarky And The Gang ruined wrestling forever? Did some little kid write you a letter in crayon… did I… did I hurt his feelings?
“You imagine a world where I am envious of your success. Where I can’t just measure up. And then you trot out a f*cking WIN-LOSS RECORD? Really?”
(He closes his eyes and shakes his head, feigning annoyance at the situation. He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes.)
ANARKY: “You think I need to impress you, Copycat? Why? Because you’re still stuck in the rut, losing TV championship matches left and right, clinging to old wins over me just to earn a tiny OUNCE of respect?
“Look when I cared about winning World Titles, when it was worth my time to try to win them...I took yours... don't you remember?
“At WrestleVerse III I was in a #1 contenders match for the World Title in this company...It took Craig Miles and Ice Tre to carry Marcus Westscott across the finish line to victory over me.. and where do you think they are now? They’re all at home, watching this from the safety of their living rooms.
“So excuse me for not giving a f*ck. I’m sorry I’d rather hear the sound of bones breaking, the soft whimpers as my opponents beg me for mercy. Maybe I just enjoy the blissful oblivion of throwing myself and Larry Tact off the top of a steel cage.
“Because it’s that or listen to Sean Stevens talk about his 25 houses, his billion dollar bank account, about how everybody in EPW bores him. The last time I got into the ring with Sean Stevens, you know whose hand was raised?
“Mine.
“Because I am what I am, Copycat. I’m sorry. I can’t help it.
“And let’s face it… even if I could… I wouldn’t want to.”
(FADEOUT to a wide smile.)
ANARKY: “I am what I am.
“I know you don’t like it, Copycat. We all know. Because we’ve all heard you regurgitate it a million times. We’ve heard you trot out your old WWL record. Heard you talk about what a big shot you are.
“And we’ve all heard the lectures about how this industry needs to be saved by you… because everyone who isn’t you, or a temporary friend of yours, obviously isn’t going to measure up.
“The thing you don’t seem to get is that… you think I’m dumb enough to give a f*ck what you think. I mean, you’ve made it abundantly clear that anybody who isn’t you isn’t going to earn an ounce of respect from you.
“You ever date someone with a really b*tchy overbearing mother? The kind of judgy prick that thinks nobody is good enough for their kid, even though their kid isn’t good enough for their expectations?
“That’s pretty much you, Copycat. Disapproving. Unimpressed. You’re just doing what’s best for us, right, Cat?
“Well who asked for your help, Copycat? Did Dan Ryan send you an urgent memo on the set to come quickly, before Anarky And The Gang ruined wrestling forever? Did some little kid write you a letter in crayon… did I… did I hurt his feelings?
“You imagine a world where I am envious of your success. Where I can’t just measure up. And then you trot out a f*cking WIN-LOSS RECORD? Really?”
(He closes his eyes and shakes his head, feigning annoyance at the situation. He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes.)
ANARKY: “You think I need to impress you, Copycat? Why? Because you’re still stuck in the rut, losing TV championship matches left and right, clinging to old wins over me just to earn a tiny OUNCE of respect?
“Look when I cared about winning World Titles, when it was worth my time to try to win them...I took yours... don't you remember?
“At WrestleVerse III I was in a #1 contenders match for the World Title in this company...It took Craig Miles and Ice Tre to carry Marcus Westscott across the finish line to victory over me.. and where do you think they are now? They’re all at home, watching this from the safety of their living rooms.
“So excuse me for not giving a f*ck. I’m sorry I’d rather hear the sound of bones breaking, the soft whimpers as my opponents beg me for mercy. Maybe I just enjoy the blissful oblivion of throwing myself and Larry Tact off the top of a steel cage.
“Because it’s that or listen to Sean Stevens talk about his 25 houses, his billion dollar bank account, about how everybody in EPW bores him. The last time I got into the ring with Sean Stevens, you know whose hand was raised?
“Mine.
“Because I am what I am, Copycat. I’m sorry. I can’t help it.
“And let’s face it… even if I could… I wouldn’t want to.”
(FADEOUT to a wide smile.)
- Joined
- Jan 6, 2005
- Messages
- 1,076
- Points
- 36
- Age
- 40
- Location
- Los Angeles, CA, formerly PA
- Website
- www.genlmnop.com
(High Flyer stands in front of an EPW flag that waves in the background. His eyes are narrowed. His jaw slacked. His nostril's flaring.)
HIGH FLYER: JEEZ! What the hell did I just watch? I gotta scrub my eyes out with soap and my ears out with a power drill. Is this some sort of queer-mance? My impossible to exist lord-Jesus on a Stick-I swear it. These people and their vendetta, VENDEEETTA'S! These days. I tell you, in my day, I'd take the guy into the back alley and punch him in his jaw once for every slight that man made against me. And then they'd punch me for punching him, and of course, I'd have to get my retribution...
(Flyer frowns.)
HIGH FLYER: Seems like a similar situation these days. You two feel slighted by one another, and you feel the other owes it to you to repay you in favor. Well...
(Flyer walks off an elevated stage, away from the EPW flag into a set. The set is filled with book shelfs lining the walls and a nice oak desk in the far corner. A comfortable upright chair was located at the head of a long red couch. Flyer took a seat, grabbing a clipboard from a nearby coffee table. He put on, and then adjusted, fake unnecessary glasses.)
HIGH FLYER: Tell me... how does that make you feel?
(Flyer pauses, as if waiting for an answer. His eyes shoot to the upper left, as if trying to hear something.)
HIGH FLYER: I guess they were unable to make their session. YET AGAIN. I bet this only breeds more violence.
(Flyer takes his glasses off and throws them against the nearest wall, shattering them. A stage hand walks over and falls to his knees, crying.)
STAGE HAND: MY GLASSES!
(Flyer walks off the set of the psychiatry office, through a door and some curtains. Winding up on the entrance ramp as the ring was being constructed, Flyer took a gingerly walk to the squared circle.)
HIGH FLYER: Now. I don't want to get between this lover's quarrel. So, I'll tell you what.
(Flyer grabs the bottom rope and pulls himself up onto the apron. He enters through the middle ropes.)
HIGH FLYER: I'll enter the ring. I'll lay down on the canvas.
(Flyer proceeds to do just that, starring up at the lights in the ceiling.)
HIGH FLYER: And the first one of you two that can cover me for the three count wins!
(Flyer crosses his hands behind his head in a makeshift pillow.)
HIGH FLYER: Won't that be fun?
(The camera cranes up to the ceiling, before fading to black.)
HIGH FLYER: JEEZ! What the hell did I just watch? I gotta scrub my eyes out with soap and my ears out with a power drill. Is this some sort of queer-mance? My impossible to exist lord-Jesus on a Stick-I swear it. These people and their vendetta, VENDEEETTA'S! These days. I tell you, in my day, I'd take the guy into the back alley and punch him in his jaw once for every slight that man made against me. And then they'd punch me for punching him, and of course, I'd have to get my retribution...
(Flyer frowns.)
HIGH FLYER: Seems like a similar situation these days. You two feel slighted by one another, and you feel the other owes it to you to repay you in favor. Well...
(Flyer walks off an elevated stage, away from the EPW flag into a set. The set is filled with book shelfs lining the walls and a nice oak desk in the far corner. A comfortable upright chair was located at the head of a long red couch. Flyer took a seat, grabbing a clipboard from a nearby coffee table. He put on, and then adjusted, fake unnecessary glasses.)
HIGH FLYER: Tell me... how does that make you feel?
(Flyer pauses, as if waiting for an answer. His eyes shoot to the upper left, as if trying to hear something.)
HIGH FLYER: I guess they were unable to make their session. YET AGAIN. I bet this only breeds more violence.
(Flyer takes his glasses off and throws them against the nearest wall, shattering them. A stage hand walks over and falls to his knees, crying.)
STAGE HAND: MY GLASSES!
(Flyer walks off the set of the psychiatry office, through a door and some curtains. Winding up on the entrance ramp as the ring was being constructed, Flyer took a gingerly walk to the squared circle.)
HIGH FLYER: Now. I don't want to get between this lover's quarrel. So, I'll tell you what.
(Flyer grabs the bottom rope and pulls himself up onto the apron. He enters through the middle ropes.)
HIGH FLYER: I'll enter the ring. I'll lay down on the canvas.
(Flyer proceeds to do just that, starring up at the lights in the ceiling.)
HIGH FLYER: And the first one of you two that can cover me for the three count wins!
(Flyer crosses his hands behind his head in a makeshift pillow.)
HIGH FLYER: Won't that be fun?
(The camera cranes up to the ceiling, before fading to black.)
- Joined
- Jan 6, 2005
- Messages
- 1,076
- Points
- 36
- Age
- 40
- Location
- Los Angeles, CA, formerly PA
- Website
- www.genlmnop.com
(The camera returns from black. High Flyer stares up at the lights, and his face frowns.)
HIGH FLYER: Wait... NFW banners? *GASP* I'M AT THE WRONG ARENA AGAIN! And my time machine's all out of batteries...
HIGH FLYER: Wait... NFW banners? *GASP* I'M AT THE WRONG ARENA AGAIN! And my time machine's all out of batteries...