(We fade in on a busy street, in what we can only assume is the downtown area of Minneapolis. The place has pretty high pedestrian traffic. The camera opens up outside a theater, where people are filing in through sets of spinning glass doors after flashing oddly red tickets to the ticketmaster in the booth.)
(The camera pans up to get a shot of the marquee. It reads: “DOPESMOKER: A JOURNEY INTO THE MIND’S EYE”.)
(We cut inside where the last few people are finding their seats. A large red curtain is pulled across the stage. Everything seems very quiet and reserved... professional, even. After a moment, the lights begin to dim... and a deep, baritone voice makes a soft introduction.)
“Ladies and gentlemen... here is...
the DOPESMOKER.”
(The audience applauds. No cheers, no whoops... just very formal clapping. The curtain, parted down the middle, is drawn aside... and the stage lights come up.)
(CUE UP: “Jerusalem (Part 5)” by Sleep. A quartet of female dancers – dressed unusually like druids – perform a brief routine for the viewing audience in time to the music. Suffice to say, it’s very slow. After a series of synchronized steps and moves, the four converge in a brief circle. When they step away... “DOPESMOKER” ERIK BLACK is standing where the center of the circle would have been. It’s as though he’s just appeared out of nowhere.)
(The audience claps again as the star of the show makes his appearance, rather dramatically holding his arms out to his sides, head titled down so that his hair obscures the upper portion of his face. He’s wearing black pants and a long-sleeve black shirt with a turtle neck. The David Blaine look. When the clapping dies down, he speaks...)
DOPESMOKER
“He that has and a little tiny wit,
“With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
“Must make content with his fortunes fit,
“For the rain it raineth every day.”
(He lowers his arms and raises his head... revealing that he’s still wearing his aviators. You’d think he slept with them on, or something. Ah, well... aviators are the stoner eye-wear of choice.)
DOPESMOKER
Good evening ladies and gentlemen... and welcome to the show. I hope you got your popcorn, candy bars, and six packs.
I know why it is that you’ve come here all tonight. You’ve to see the secrets of the Cosmos and the world around you revealed... to have your inhibited perspectives expanded. Since you’ve made it this far, then I must assume you at least have the courage to want to know.
Tonight’s theme is POWER... specifically, who really has it... and who really NEEDS it. “Power” is a dubious force... and comes in many forms. There is power gained in having money. There is physical power in the human potential. There is even power in mental and intellectual dominance.
When you think of the person with the most power in the world... only one kind person comes to mind... and that is the image of the KING.
(Hands folded in front of him, he paces from one end of the stage to the next, eyes cast down to the stage.)
DOPESMOKER
The quote I’ve just given you moments ago comes from Bill Shakespeare’s “King Lear”. For those who are unfamiliar with the play... I’ll give you a brief run-down.
Lear, the titular character, exiles his youngest daughter from the kingdom when she refuses to be forced to declare her love and loyalty for her father and king. This leaves the inheritance of his wealth and power to be divided among his remaining two daughters when they profess their own undying love.
He soon discovers that these were hollow claims, meant to soften him up and win him over. Faced with the realization of this blunder, he runs out into a raging storm... stricken with madness, and raving like a lunatic.
Those words spoken to you earlier, however, don’t come from any wisened KING, or earl, or duke, or ungrateful daughter. No... those are the words of the Fool... Lear’s court jester, accomplice, critic, and, incidentally, his only friend left in the world when the storm ultimately sets in, and his kingdom crumbles around him.
A rough translation to that passage would be... “You really shot yourself in the foot this time, Boss... and it’s only going to get worse from here on out, cause now you gotta DANCE.”
(The audience chuckles briefly at this dry humor. He stops, turns to the audience again.)
DOPESMOKER
The King... the most powerful man in the land, who can move MOUNTAINS at his command... and yet, is completely POWERLESS in gaining the love he wants from his daughters... and is equally powerless to control his own insanity when it ultimately sets in. He was proud... he was STUPID... but he’s not alone.
My opponent at Aggression 53 –
LAYNE WINTERS... the man who calls himself the “New School” of professional wrestling, and future KING of the Cage – suggests that I, the acclaimed Artiste de Fuite and humble Smoker of the Dope – am but a court jester in a king’s court.
And you know something? He’s completely right when he says that. But he’s WRONG when he thinks he’s insulting me. Fact is... I’m just fine with being the Fool.
(A sardonic smile crosses his face.)
DOPESMOKER
See... the Fool is more interesting than people give him credit for. On the surface, he’s just a bumbling clown... a man meant for gags and laughs. But upon closer inspection, one would notice he uses humor only as a medium to say things that nobody else can say, given their rank and identity. The Fool is the only person in the king’s court who has the REAL power to point out the fallacies and illusions that exist everywhere you look. He is the ONLY individual that works outside the boundaries of political correctness and taboo. He tells it like it is... and regardless of whether or not people take his words seriously... there’s always a tinge of truth to them.
I mean... is it any wonder why the majority of people today look to the Daily Show as their primary source of news in the world? Could that be, perhaps, that it’s because Jon Stewart has the BALLS to say things that your typical newscaster CAN’T in order to maintain a false sense of professionalism?
Shakespeare’s Fool is no different. It’s not surprising, then, that when sh
it finally hits the fan for Lear, and he realizes the folly of his own pride and the misuse of his power, his loyal FOOL is the only man to openly recognize all that has happened, all that IS happening, and all that WILL happen. Contradictory to what his title might suggest... the Fool is anything but foolish. In fact... he seems to be the only person competent and wise enough to realize his master’s self-imposed doom and bleak retribution.
No... the only real fool in all of this is Layne Winters himself... a man who has time and time again IGNORED the truths I’ve put before him, just as King Lear so foolishly ignored all the warnings and caveats given to him.
(He lowers his head again, shaking it sadly.)
DOPESMOKER
“New School” Layne Winters... another rat caught in the never-ending race... another lost soul, committed to the fruitless pursuit of power and fame. Another plastic, prepackaged action-figure with Kung-Fu grip... buying into his own bullsh
it... thinking that the end-all, be-all of this sport is winning matches and decorating the waistline with a bit of chintzy metal... believing, with what little BRAIN MATTER there is in that sad man’s head, that he’s got a special something that sets him above all the OTHER plastic, pre-packaged jack-offs with the same one-dimensional ideals.
He had so much potential to go far... to become great... and some day, maybe he will. But, in a rare act, I’ve decided this time around to transcend over my own apathy... to for once, actually GIVE A SH
IT about what I do in that ring... to prove to him just how wrong he is, and always has been.
So... let’s get this going. Let’s reveal the truth... for once and for all.
(He turns his back to the crowd and walks toward the back end of the stage. Backlighting comes up, revealing a long metal piece of scaffolding lying prone on the ground, with two support beams jutting up about thirty feet on the ends. The dancing druids return, one carrying a straight jacket...)
DOPESMOKER
I stand here before you here tonight, ladies and gentlemen... boldly declaring that the infantile pursuit of power is nothing but an illusion... a truth as empty as my lungs are blackened with thick resin... yet still widely believed to be the one, true goal of every man and woman to ever step between the ropes. As we all know well by now... I ERASE illusions... as my predecessor Houdini so many years before me.
You see... everybody wants to be the King of the Empire... everybody wants to be the World Heavyweight Champion... to have the POWER and RESPECT that the position supposedly merits. But the King is not invincible, nor is he omnipotent. If anything, he’s vulnerable... and only the Fool knows how he is. Just ask Lear... who thought he had everything and found he had NOTHING.
I know how Layne Winters is vulnerable in ways that even Layne Winters doesn’t realize himself. That’s the advantage I have. His self-perception of his own power is an illusion that is preposterous as it is fake. As he willingly swims in this ocean of ignorance... I will use truth as my weapon, to bring his world crashing down around him... to kill the dreams of power and grandeur of the so-called dream-killer of Empire Pro.
(Black bends over and removes his shirt as he stands at the center part of the scaffold, setting his feet into two place-holders. Two of the druids lock his legs in place. Holding his arms out again in a Christ-like pose, the other two druids open the straight jacket and strap it on him. His eyes don’t the leave the audience.)
DOPESMOKER
The truth is... I never WANTED his Television Title. He seems to think I was left “heart broken” after our every encounter, but it seems to me like he’s willingly forgetting the NUMEROUS TIMES I boldly declared my complete lack of interest in carrying that belt. In our last encounter at Black Dawn, I emphasized this point but refusing to make a cover at any point in the match. Sometimes I wonder... how many times to I have to reiterate to this
asshole that I HAVE NO INTEREST in feeding my ego.
The truth is... I don’t even want to be King of the Cage. There is not to be a crown on this Fool’s head. But I’m going to win this tournament, just the same. I’m going to prove to this entire federation that I don’t have to be the best wrestler in that locker room in order to succeed and move ahead of them.
The truth is... Layne Winters has no penis.
The TRUTH IS, ladies and gentlemen... in the nine months since he spiked my head off the mat at Aggression 48... I’ve spiked HIS HEAD off of BARB multiple times... and set him into the Cottonmouth at least twice. I held him there while he flailed and screamed in agony. He chooses to forget this ever happened, BUT... it happened, just the same. It’s there on tape if you don’t believe me. He sent me home “heart broken”. I sent him home HEAD broken. Listening to him now, it’s obvious that I’ve given the poor bastard brain damage with all the chair shots and chokeholds he’s been through.
(The druids tighten the straps and the locks, then move to the opposite ends of the scaffolding, where the support beams are. Pulling on sets of cables, the scaffold slowly begins to raise. Black, from his black in the middle, ascends with it... arms bound in the jacket and legs bound in the place-holders. Once he’s reached the top, the druids walk off stage...)
DOPESMOKER
But the most important truth of all, ladies and gentlemen, is that in spite of not getting the job done the last three times... THIS time, we’re stepping into the CAGE... where the Escape Artist works BEST.
I have two things Layne Winters only WISHES he had: SPEED and CUNNING. These are my greatest strengths within the cage. Regardless of who really IS the better man in terms of talent and skill... all I have to do is ESCAPE to move on this tournament. He KNOWS this... but for the life of him, he can’t give an honest answer as to how he’ll prepare for it.
So he just sits there... mocks the way I stand here to ENLIGHTEN YOU with provoking thoughts and mind-blowing feats... such as the one I will perform for you NOW...
(The druids return... two of them dragging a thick sheet of padding, which they set some feet before the scaffold, in case somebody should fall from there. Somebody probably WILL. What’s more interesting is what the other two druid dancers are pushing onto the stage, which is a large bed of very sharp blades, jutting straight up. They position this directly below the scaffold. One can see, now, that the blades align with the gaps in the scaffolding. From above, a digital clock lowers. The time is set as 4:20.)
DOPESMOKER
The ends of this platform I’m currently affixed to are rigged to detach themselves the moment this counter begins counting down from exactly four minutes and twenty seconds. In that time, I will attempt to escape this straight jacket... the bindings on my feet... and leap safely to the padding down below.
If I don’t manage to do this in the allotted time, the scaffold will lose its support... free-fall some thirty feet straight down... and I will be cut to pieces by the very real sharp blades set below me.
(The druids clear the stage. The lights dim until only a spotlight is on Black now, reflecting two white orbs in his mirror-like aviators.)
DOPESMOKER
There’s a good chance I may not even make it to Aggression 53, to reveal these truths to Layne Winters first-hand, when I step into that cage, run circles around him, and slip either out the Zane Gate or over the wall. All the same... I will do this... just to prove that I can escape ANYTHING.
(He glances off stage...)
DOPESMOKER
Okay... start the counter.
(At once, the clock begins counting down... 4:19... 4:18... 4:17...)
(Black’s torso twists and struggles as he tries to free his arms from their bindings. The audience is deadly silent. Past the four minute mark now... 3:59... 3:58... 3:57. Black’s efforts are proving almost useless, and for several moments it seems as though his flailing becomes even more spasmodic... panicked, even. Something must be going horribly wrong...)
(The clock passes the three minute mark. Black’s motions stop, and he looks around, a blank expression on his face... the look of a man who perhaps knows he is only minutes away from killing himself in front of a live audience. 2:46... 2:45... 2:44...)
(The camera zooms in on Erik Black’s face... and it’s then we notice that there are FINGERS creeping out of the collar of the straight jacket. In the fingers, there’s a thin white object... a JOINT. Quite casually, Black pops this into his mouth. The fingers disappear into the jacket again... returning to reveal they’re holding a LIGHTER! He flicks it and burns the end of the spliff... taking a long, hard drag and releasing it, which the clock just ticks away... 2:13... 2:12... 2:11... knowing time is growing short, the fingers drop the lighter to the stage, and push themselves further.
(Through more twisting and turning, fingers become a hand... the hand becomes a forearm... and suddenly, he has the leverage to move. Dropping below two minutes left, his arm reaches over his shoulder, undoing the first strap on the jacket. This gives him only more room to push his arm out, undoing the second strap. Time ticks away as he calmly undoes the straight jacket... 1:36... 1:35... 1:34... and the jacket is OFF, getting an “OOH!” from the audience.)
(The straight jacket falls down to the stage, fluttering white in the dark, landing in a heap just to the left of the safety padding. With his arms free, Black’s sweat drenched body goes to work on the confines around his ankles. He undoes his left leg first... 1:02... 1:01... 1:00... less than a minute now, as he begins working on the right leg.)
(Finally, with a little less than a minute left on the clock, he frees his other leg. The Escape Artist has ESCAPED the trap he built for himself. Looking down at the safety padding, he steps to the edge of the scaffold, preparing to jump off... but DOESN’T. Instead, he calmly looks over his shoulder, watching the clock. 0:32... 0:31... 0:30... when he looks back to the audience, there’s a defiant GRIN on his face, as he lets the clock bleed down.)
(The countdown continues, and a confused murmur ripples through the crowd. Why hasn’t he JUMPED yet? 0:13... 0:12... 0:11... just TEN SECONDS now! And still, he waits... fingers flittering slightly as he bends his knees, preparing for the dismount...
(Seven... six... five... four... three... TWO... ONE!!)
(A loud pop PEALS through the theater as the supports break free, and with a SCREECH, the scaffold PLUNGES to the bed of blades below... and in that instant, Erik Black SPRINGS OFF, gracefully SOMERSAULTING through the air. The scaffold CRASHES to the stage first, blades slicing through the gaps but cutting NOTHING but the air. Black hits a half second later, making a perfect two-footed dismount on the pad. A second later, he perks straight up, arms held straight into the air, and joint jutting out of his mouth as if it were attached to him.)
(The crowd doesn’t just clap this time around. They break into an all-out ROAR. Black makes a single bow...)
DOPESMOKER
Thank you ladies and gentlemen... it’s been a blast.
(All at once, the lights cut to black. The applause subsides... and when they pop back on...)
(Erik Black is STILL STANDING there... shirt-less, sweat-drenched, breathing heavily. No disappearing act this time... but...)
(Seeing is not believing.)
(The camera zooms out... and reveals that he’s no longer standing on a stage in a theater. He’s standing in an EMPTY ARENA, right in front of a wrestling ring where the steel cage has already been set up. Just seconds ago, he was standing in front of a complete audience, who have all but seemingly VANISHED. It could have been a simple editing trick, BUT... the joint is still there in his mouth... the aviators are still there on his face... hell, even the STRAIGHT JACKET is still sitting there on the floor, as if it had been there there the entire time. He removes the shades and looks directly into the camera... directly into the EYES of Layne Winters, sitting at home, finishing off beer number six and stuffing the last Pay Day into his b*tch mouth – a rare occasion in which he’s NOT talking shit.)
DOPESMOKER
I really mean that, Layne, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal; it HAS been a blast... going into that ring one week after the next and making you look good. But you’ve been smoking the bowl of luck for far too long, and at Aggression 53, in THIS cage... that bowl is going to be CASHED.
You can refuse to acknowledge it all you want, but the fact is, I SMOKED YOUR DUMB-ASS at Black Dawn... and while I didn’t walk away with a belt that I didn’t even want to begin with... you can’t deny that I had a distinct hand in forcing you to lose it.
The Television Title was the best thing that ever happened to you... but you let the POWER get to your head. But you HAVE no power, bro... you’re just living in a world of dreams and illusions. You want to be KING? This Fool thinks – KNOWS – that you’re hitting a ten-foot bong that you don’t have HALF the lung-capacity to take.
At Aggression 53, you’ll walk into the ring, thinking that history will repeat itself. But you will only come to find out that everything you THOUGHT was real was nothing more than a LIE. Paco, I’m going to F
UCKING BLIND YOU with the rays of the NEW STONER SUN RISING... and in time, you’ll come to realize that what I did in stripping you of that belt at Black Dawn was the beginning of the end for you... the first step in the FALL of Layne Winters, and the subsequent RISE of the DOPESMOKER.
(As he says this, the beam of a flash-light falls on his face. Figures, the minutes he takes the damn sunglasses off...)
Security Guard
Hey! What the hell are you doing in here?!
...are you SMOKING WEED DOWN THERE, you little punk!?
DOPESMOKER
G
ODDAMN COPS!! A STONER just can’t catch a break sometimes...
(In Bugs Bunny fashion, Black raises a leg, and darts off into the dark. The rent-a-cop – heard flopping sluggishly down the aisle – shouts out a few protests and commands to stop, but he’s already gone... like a THIEF in the NIGHT, making off with the crown jewels.)
420