AGGRESSION 62: NON-TITLE: Anarky (c) vs. Rich Mahogany
- Thread starter DBrunkGXW
- Start date
[Oh snap!]
[Rich Mahogany is 2-0.]
[And he’s facing the champ!]
“Ain’t no doubt about it!”
[FADEIN: That same ol’ bar that Anarky is always at. You can totally tell because all of the scenery is totally exactly the same. Totally. There is stuff on the walls, bottles of oddly named beer on the bar, and pretentious toolboxes sitting on every stool listening to whatever crap is playing through the bar’s karaoke machine.]
[The Ladies Man does not fit in, not one bit.]
Rich Mahogany:
So listen, baby, everybody knows you know who I am, this place is the obvious hole-in-the-wall that the Empire keeps afloat by having their champs troll for rats after all the big matches.
[Rich is wearing a light fuschia kerchief snugly around his neck and matching man-thong and flip-flops... and that’s it. To call him a sore thumb in this cavern of piercings and tattoos and pleather jackets would be an insult to sore thumbs everywhere.]
Rich:
So why don’t you do yourself a favor and let ol’ Richie-Rich get them digits?
[Across from him the bartender in the halter top and hotpants is not impressed. For kicks lets say her name is Rosalyn.]
Rosalyn:
How about you order a drink or get lost?
Rich: [not missing a beat]
I’m already lost... in those big beautiful brown eyes!
[Those eyes roll.]
Rosalyn:
Does that crap ever work on any woman? Ever?
Rich:
Absolutely. Two-hundred twenty-three and counting.
Rosalyn:
You’re pullin’ my leg.
Rich:
You wanna pull my “leg?”
[To her credit, Rosalyn lets it slide. She likely could have had him bounced onto the pavement out front of the bar about eight or nine come-on’s ago.]
Rosalyn:
Listen here, guy, I’ll give you an A for effort, but you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree. Now if you don’t order a drink I’m gonna have that Shaft-lookin’ guy up at the front door come over here and rearrange that pretty face of yours. Capice?
[Rich takes a look at the door, back to Rosalyn, and considers his options.]
Rich:
Malibu and pineapple, pleaseandthanks!
[She rolls her eyes again, and pours his drink.]
Rich:
Now. Where does a guy cut a promo at around here?
[Rosalyn jabs a thumb at the last booth, right next to the Men’s Room and the rear exit. Rich takes a sip of his super-manly cocktail before fluttering his eyelashes like a girl at the Bartender of his Dreams.]
[CUTTO: Five minutes later, back of the bar, last booth. Rich’s drink sits mostly empty on the table in front of him, and a Virginia Slim Light 120 juts carelessly from his lips. He smoothes his mustache before addressing the camera, the Empire, and anyone else who cared to listen in.]
[Nobody did.]
Rich:
Here’s the thing. Copycat can let whomever he wants to call him the “smartest player in the game” all he wants to, but the fact of the matter is he fell for every trick in the book.
Every. Single. One.
So, since the handing out of monikers seems to be pretty much arbitrary around here, from now on you can go ahead and refer to Rich Mahogany as The Sleaziest Player in the Game. That is, on top of the Vascular Vaginatarian, The Love Machine, The Ladies Man, any anything else I can come up with for those PR homos to slap on a t-shirt.
[Wink.]
Rich:
Now, to the business at hand.
Anarky, the Empire Pro champ, the guy who rages against the proverbial machine by spelling his name wrong and wearing dirty t-shirts. Not to mention, the next guy on the list of people who Rich Mahogany has beaten in his oh so very short time in the Empire.
What, you think I’m getting ahead of myself?
To be perfectly flippant, nothing you are, and nothing you’ve done, matters even one teenie-weenie iota to Rich Mahogany. This match doesn’t even matter, because I’m not really the kinda cat who gets off on beating people in matches that don’t matter, ya dig?
Ya see, I already whipped that little cosplay queer Otaku, and I already whipped that walking pile of gimmick infringement Copycat. I’ve been here for fifteen minutes and I’ve already got more cred than a solid three-quarters of the roster.
So.
After I hump you into submission, Anarky, I’ll be expecting that Dan Ryan might get around to rewarding ol’ Rich with a title shot or two. After all, yer gonna be the second EPW champion that I’ve cock-slapped since I’ve been here.
Which, did I mention, has barely been long enough for a cup of coffee?
[The Ladies Man drains the rest of his drink.]
Rich:
So here’s the deal. I’m gonna use this extra exposure to see if I can’t lock down the services of a few more of The Ladies come Aggression, and while I’m at it, if I feel like it, maybe I’ll see about embarrassing another Empire Pro champion for no other reason than because I’m Rich mother-effin’ Mahogany and I can.
[He takes a drag of the extra-long cigarette before crushing it out.]
Rich:
Now do me a favor and cut your generic promo about how you’re the champ and you’re a badass and you’re gonna wipe the mat with me just because because. I promise you, I haven’t heard that one at all before, and it’s never lead to me beating a guy that thought he was on a higher level than me.
Seriously. Never happened.
Hurry up now, Anarky, I’d like to get this all buttoned up pretty quickly so that I can get back to what I do best, pleasing The Ladies at every possible opportunity.
[Wink.]
[F2B]
[Rich Mahogany is 2-0.]
[And he’s facing the champ!]
“Ain’t no doubt about it!”
[FADEIN: That same ol’ bar that Anarky is always at. You can totally tell because all of the scenery is totally exactly the same. Totally. There is stuff on the walls, bottles of oddly named beer on the bar, and pretentious toolboxes sitting on every stool listening to whatever crap is playing through the bar’s karaoke machine.]
[The Ladies Man does not fit in, not one bit.]
Rich Mahogany:
So listen, baby, everybody knows you know who I am, this place is the obvious hole-in-the-wall that the Empire keeps afloat by having their champs troll for rats after all the big matches.
[Rich is wearing a light fuschia kerchief snugly around his neck and matching man-thong and flip-flops... and that’s it. To call him a sore thumb in this cavern of piercings and tattoos and pleather jackets would be an insult to sore thumbs everywhere.]
Rich:
So why don’t you do yourself a favor and let ol’ Richie-Rich get them digits?
[Across from him the bartender in the halter top and hotpants is not impressed. For kicks lets say her name is Rosalyn.]
Rosalyn:
How about you order a drink or get lost?
Rich: [not missing a beat]
I’m already lost... in those big beautiful brown eyes!
[Those eyes roll.]
Rosalyn:
Does that crap ever work on any woman? Ever?
Rich:
Absolutely. Two-hundred twenty-three and counting.
Rosalyn:
You’re pullin’ my leg.
Rich:
You wanna pull my “leg?”
[To her credit, Rosalyn lets it slide. She likely could have had him bounced onto the pavement out front of the bar about eight or nine come-on’s ago.]
Rosalyn:
Listen here, guy, I’ll give you an A for effort, but you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree. Now if you don’t order a drink I’m gonna have that Shaft-lookin’ guy up at the front door come over here and rearrange that pretty face of yours. Capice?
[Rich takes a look at the door, back to Rosalyn, and considers his options.]
Rich:
Malibu and pineapple, pleaseandthanks!
[She rolls her eyes again, and pours his drink.]
Rich:
Now. Where does a guy cut a promo at around here?
[Rosalyn jabs a thumb at the last booth, right next to the Men’s Room and the rear exit. Rich takes a sip of his super-manly cocktail before fluttering his eyelashes like a girl at the Bartender of his Dreams.]
[CUTTO: Five minutes later, back of the bar, last booth. Rich’s drink sits mostly empty on the table in front of him, and a Virginia Slim Light 120 juts carelessly from his lips. He smoothes his mustache before addressing the camera, the Empire, and anyone else who cared to listen in.]
[Nobody did.]
Rich:
Here’s the thing. Copycat can let whomever he wants to call him the “smartest player in the game” all he wants to, but the fact of the matter is he fell for every trick in the book.
Every. Single. One.
So, since the handing out of monikers seems to be pretty much arbitrary around here, from now on you can go ahead and refer to Rich Mahogany as The Sleaziest Player in the Game. That is, on top of the Vascular Vaginatarian, The Love Machine, The Ladies Man, any anything else I can come up with for those PR homos to slap on a t-shirt.
[Wink.]
Rich:
Now, to the business at hand.
Anarky, the Empire Pro champ, the guy who rages against the proverbial machine by spelling his name wrong and wearing dirty t-shirts. Not to mention, the next guy on the list of people who Rich Mahogany has beaten in his oh so very short time in the Empire.
What, you think I’m getting ahead of myself?
To be perfectly flippant, nothing you are, and nothing you’ve done, matters even one teenie-weenie iota to Rich Mahogany. This match doesn’t even matter, because I’m not really the kinda cat who gets off on beating people in matches that don’t matter, ya dig?
Ya see, I already whipped that little cosplay queer Otaku, and I already whipped that walking pile of gimmick infringement Copycat. I’ve been here for fifteen minutes and I’ve already got more cred than a solid three-quarters of the roster.
So.
After I hump you into submission, Anarky, I’ll be expecting that Dan Ryan might get around to rewarding ol’ Rich with a title shot or two. After all, yer gonna be the second EPW champion that I’ve cock-slapped since I’ve been here.
Which, did I mention, has barely been long enough for a cup of coffee?
[The Ladies Man drains the rest of his drink.]
Rich:
So here’s the deal. I’m gonna use this extra exposure to see if I can’t lock down the services of a few more of The Ladies come Aggression, and while I’m at it, if I feel like it, maybe I’ll see about embarrassing another Empire Pro champion for no other reason than because I’m Rich mother-effin’ Mahogany and I can.
[He takes a drag of the extra-long cigarette before crushing it out.]
Rich:
Now do me a favor and cut your generic promo about how you’re the champ and you’re a badass and you’re gonna wipe the mat with me just because because. I promise you, I haven’t heard that one at all before, and it’s never lead to me beating a guy that thought he was on a higher level than me.
Seriously. Never happened.
Hurry up now, Anarky, I’d like to get this all buttoned up pretty quickly so that I can get back to what I do best, pleasing The Ladies at every possible opportunity.
[Wink.]
[F2B]
JLevinson
Diva Tree
- Joined
- Jan 1, 2000
- Messages
- 707
- Points
- 0
- Age
- 43
(FADEIN to a hotel balcony somewhere overlooking some used up strip malls that could be anywhere in America. Anarky is sitting on a cheap plastic chair, smoking a cigarette, his feet up on the railing.)
ANARKY: “If I could go back in time and do it all over again, you know what I’d change? I’d go back and tell my 18-year-old self not to use the name Anarky. After all, do you know much time I could’ve saved not having to listen to every self-styled clever guy in tights accusing me of being a rebel by spelling my name wrong?
You got me, bro. Good one. You and everybody else in the last 15 years. That’s some fresh stuff you got there. Mockin’ me for the name. For drinkin’ at the same dive bar. For raging against the machine.
“You’ve got me all figured out. I’m gonna come out here and talk about what a huge badass I am and how I’m gonna wipe the floor with you, because I have a strong reputation for bragging about how great I am.
“Where’d you do your research on me, Rich? A pamphlet you found on the ground from 1996? Seriously?
“I ain’t gonna do any of that sh*t. You must have me confused with pretty much every single other wrestler ever. You see, Rich. I have the luxury of not giving a f*ck. Of realizing that this whole d*ck-measuring parade is a colossal waste of my time.
“You enjoy kicking people’s asses in meaningless matches. I’m glad to hear it. The last thing I’d want is for you to decide that getting laid is more important than kicking my ass, because if you WERE to come up… short… well, then, I’d hate to hear you start making excuses.
“See, I don’t make excuses, Rich. I don’t promise victories. I don’t look past the next match. I don’t underestimate people just because I’ve never wrestled them before.
“For all I know, you’re the single greatest wrestler of a generation. Heck, if you listen to the way people talk about themselves, Empire Pro is pretty much full of them.
“But me… well… I ain’t good at that so much. But I’m pretty good at drinkin’ and smokin’ cigarettes and goin’ into that ring and acting like it’s my last match on Earth because let’s f*cking face it, it always can be.
“You’re always one mistake away from ending your career out there. I’ve seen it happen to better men than you. Better men than me.
“So me… all I see in that ring is you. And your concern for women, and for your own pride, and for everything else… those are just distractions. From what happens in that ring.
“You think you know me. Everybody does. They explain me away. They say I’m just a rebel without a cause. A revolutionary without a country. A child who enjoys drawing anarchy symbols on a desk.
“These are things that are written about me, said about me.
“But in that ring, Rich, in that ring, I am Anarky. It doesn’t matter how you spell it.
“At Aggression 62, you will know me, one way or the other. For a brief few moments, you will know it doesn’t matter what people say about me. Because it can’t protect you from me.
“Nothing can, really. All we have left…
“… is the inevitable.”
(FADEOUT.)
ANARKY: “If I could go back in time and do it all over again, you know what I’d change? I’d go back and tell my 18-year-old self not to use the name Anarky. After all, do you know much time I could’ve saved not having to listen to every self-styled clever guy in tights accusing me of being a rebel by spelling my name wrong?
You got me, bro. Good one. You and everybody else in the last 15 years. That’s some fresh stuff you got there. Mockin’ me for the name. For drinkin’ at the same dive bar. For raging against the machine.
“You’ve got me all figured out. I’m gonna come out here and talk about what a huge badass I am and how I’m gonna wipe the floor with you, because I have a strong reputation for bragging about how great I am.
“Where’d you do your research on me, Rich? A pamphlet you found on the ground from 1996? Seriously?
“I ain’t gonna do any of that sh*t. You must have me confused with pretty much every single other wrestler ever. You see, Rich. I have the luxury of not giving a f*ck. Of realizing that this whole d*ck-measuring parade is a colossal waste of my time.
“You enjoy kicking people’s asses in meaningless matches. I’m glad to hear it. The last thing I’d want is for you to decide that getting laid is more important than kicking my ass, because if you WERE to come up… short… well, then, I’d hate to hear you start making excuses.
“See, I don’t make excuses, Rich. I don’t promise victories. I don’t look past the next match. I don’t underestimate people just because I’ve never wrestled them before.
“For all I know, you’re the single greatest wrestler of a generation. Heck, if you listen to the way people talk about themselves, Empire Pro is pretty much full of them.
“But me… well… I ain’t good at that so much. But I’m pretty good at drinkin’ and smokin’ cigarettes and goin’ into that ring and acting like it’s my last match on Earth because let’s f*cking face it, it always can be.
“You’re always one mistake away from ending your career out there. I’ve seen it happen to better men than you. Better men than me.
“So me… all I see in that ring is you. And your concern for women, and for your own pride, and for everything else… those are just distractions. From what happens in that ring.
“You think you know me. Everybody does. They explain me away. They say I’m just a rebel without a cause. A revolutionary without a country. A child who enjoys drawing anarchy symbols on a desk.
“These are things that are written about me, said about me.
“But in that ring, Rich, in that ring, I am Anarky. It doesn’t matter how you spell it.
“At Aggression 62, you will know me, one way or the other. For a brief few moments, you will know it doesn’t matter what people say about me. Because it can’t protect you from me.
“Nothing can, really. All we have left…
“… is the inevitable.”
(FADEOUT.)
[Begin.]
Rich Mahogany:
Ya wanna know what I think?
[The Love Machine’s head is in suspended animation. His body is non-existant, and the background is full of all sorts of pink and fuchsia and yellow with hearts and roses and the occasional bottle of lube floating around behind Rich’s giant floating head.]
Rich:
I think the reason that everybody else has already said everything there is to say about you in three sentences is because there just happens to not be much to say about you. That, or you’re just as stupid as the way you spell your name is wrong.
Seriously dude? You’re so attached to the ring-name you gave yourself when you first broke in that at no point in the ensuing years did you ever think it proper or possible to change it? That’s what’s wrong with you, you’re a lot of bad ideas and worse execution. I’m sure the whole “nomadic bad guy loner type” thing worked really, really well for you in ‘96, but for Christ’s sake, man, that was fifteen years ago, move on.
Evolve.
Grow.
[Beams of light form in the pupils of Rich Mahogany’s floating head. Somebody has had entirely too much weed in the last two days, that’s all I’m saying.]
Rich:
Ya know what your problem is?
You think ya know too much. Way, way too much. Did you really just tell me that this dick-measuring contest isn’t important? Nevermind that, a waste of your time? Of course it’s a waste of your time, you’re a boring little poser without a shred of personality. But you don’t let that stop you from talking yourself in circles and trying to make it look like you’re not impressed with my opinion of you while in the mean time in between time you’re going out of your way to address every point in detail.
Every. Last. One.
And speaking of addressing every single point, I said I wasn’t the kind of cat who enjoys beating people up in meaningless matches. Jesus, why don’t you do The Empire a favor and pay attention to somebody who actually understands the art and psychology of a promo, that way maybe at some point in the not too distant future you might be able to draw an ass or two into the building to watch you wrestle a match.
And while I’m on the subjects of you and the definition of the word “lackluster,” what’s the deal with defending that belt you carry around twice in nine months? Don’t you fucking get it? That belt is everything, and you’re hoarding it like a scared little virgin the first time her boyfriend tried to get a little stinky-pink in the backseat of her daddy’s Corolla! What kind of Courage the Cowardly Paper Champion are you, anyway? We may as well have Cameron Cruise for a champion if that’s the kind of prestige that we’re trying to promote around here.
Oh, wait... we do.
Before I get off the subject at hand, though, how about you try this one on for size. How about after I embarrass you in front of every beautiful Lady in the building at Aggression, you give ol’ Richie-Rich a shot at the title, eh? I mean, you’re so confident that your training regimen of beer swilling is gonna be plenty ‘nuff to win the match, why not make it interesting?
Sure, I understand if you’d rather not. Wouldn’t wanna go from being my third win in EPW to being my third and fourth win and EPW all the while losing the one thing that makes you remotely relevant. But seriously brother, if yer scared...
Say yer scared.
I’ll leave you alone and go bother Impulse, maybe see about getting a match for a belt that matters against a champ that cares. Meanwhile you can keep on not being the Main Event for the promotion that yer supposedly the Champion of.
[Everything goes crazy, the color-scheme has an abortion and everything starts blinking in weird, oscillating patterns. Rich Mahogany’s talking head has morphed into some kind of sight and sound ragefuck. Everyone watching this promo suffering from epilepsy has just gone into a seizure.]
Rich:
Do you even understand what I just did there you overrated schmuck? Here, let me break it down for you one last time.
Forward. Down. Forward. High Punch.
[Wait for it...]
Rich:
Fatality, girlpants.
[End.]
Rich Mahogany:
Ya wanna know what I think?
[The Love Machine’s head is in suspended animation. His body is non-existant, and the background is full of all sorts of pink and fuchsia and yellow with hearts and roses and the occasional bottle of lube floating around behind Rich’s giant floating head.]
Rich:
I think the reason that everybody else has already said everything there is to say about you in three sentences is because there just happens to not be much to say about you. That, or you’re just as stupid as the way you spell your name is wrong.
Seriously dude? You’re so attached to the ring-name you gave yourself when you first broke in that at no point in the ensuing years did you ever think it proper or possible to change it? That’s what’s wrong with you, you’re a lot of bad ideas and worse execution. I’m sure the whole “nomadic bad guy loner type” thing worked really, really well for you in ‘96, but for Christ’s sake, man, that was fifteen years ago, move on.
Evolve.
Grow.
[Beams of light form in the pupils of Rich Mahogany’s floating head. Somebody has had entirely too much weed in the last two days, that’s all I’m saying.]
Rich:
Ya know what your problem is?
You think ya know too much. Way, way too much. Did you really just tell me that this dick-measuring contest isn’t important? Nevermind that, a waste of your time? Of course it’s a waste of your time, you’re a boring little poser without a shred of personality. But you don’t let that stop you from talking yourself in circles and trying to make it look like you’re not impressed with my opinion of you while in the mean time in between time you’re going out of your way to address every point in detail.
Every. Last. One.
And speaking of addressing every single point, I said I wasn’t the kind of cat who enjoys beating people up in meaningless matches. Jesus, why don’t you do The Empire a favor and pay attention to somebody who actually understands the art and psychology of a promo, that way maybe at some point in the not too distant future you might be able to draw an ass or two into the building to watch you wrestle a match.
And while I’m on the subjects of you and the definition of the word “lackluster,” what’s the deal with defending that belt you carry around twice in nine months? Don’t you fucking get it? That belt is everything, and you’re hoarding it like a scared little virgin the first time her boyfriend tried to get a little stinky-pink in the backseat of her daddy’s Corolla! What kind of Courage the Cowardly Paper Champion are you, anyway? We may as well have Cameron Cruise for a champion if that’s the kind of prestige that we’re trying to promote around here.
Oh, wait... we do.
Before I get off the subject at hand, though, how about you try this one on for size. How about after I embarrass you in front of every beautiful Lady in the building at Aggression, you give ol’ Richie-Rich a shot at the title, eh? I mean, you’re so confident that your training regimen of beer swilling is gonna be plenty ‘nuff to win the match, why not make it interesting?
Sure, I understand if you’d rather not. Wouldn’t wanna go from being my third win in EPW to being my third and fourth win and EPW all the while losing the one thing that makes you remotely relevant. But seriously brother, if yer scared...
Say yer scared.
I’ll leave you alone and go bother Impulse, maybe see about getting a match for a belt that matters against a champ that cares. Meanwhile you can keep on not being the Main Event for the promotion that yer supposedly the Champion of.
[Everything goes crazy, the color-scheme has an abortion and everything starts blinking in weird, oscillating patterns. Rich Mahogany’s talking head has morphed into some kind of sight and sound ragefuck. Everyone watching this promo suffering from epilepsy has just gone into a seizure.]
Rich:
Do you even understand what I just did there you overrated schmuck? Here, let me break it down for you one last time.
Forward. Down. Forward. High Punch.
[Wait for it...]
Rich:
Fatality, girlpants.
[End.]
JLevinson
Diva Tree
- Joined
- Jan 1, 2000
- Messages
- 707
- Points
- 0
- Age
- 43
(FADEIN to Anarky, sitting in a metal folder chair in an empty ring inside some kind of empty training facility.)
ANARKY: “Did a guy named Rich Mahogany really just tell me I should’ve changed my name some time ago?”
(He smiles and laughs, and takes another swig from the paper bag.)
ANARKY: “A rose by any other name, friend. It doesn’t really matter what I’m called. This is just my name. No better or worse than anything else. I have no interest in taking the Beast route of everybody very seriously calling be by my real name because I’m a sophisticated fella now.
“Besides, this is better. It’s easier to weed out every half-wit who makes fun of my name rather than have to actually listen to them
“I mean, gee golly wiz, you mean to tell me that there’s a wrestler in Empire Pro who thinks I might be… overrated? Who thinks I might actually just not very… very good? I am floored. Nobody’s ever called me a poser before. And I certainly cannot imagine that someone ever accused me of having no personality. Least of all not a swingin’ fella like yourself.
“I admit it… I’ve mostly been ducking you. You see, as the EPW World Heavyweight Champion, not only am I responsible for defending the title, but also for personally booking the matches, as well as giving everybody good ring names and personalities. You know. I pretty much run the show here.
“Of course, the way you accuse me of being super confident, I can’t help but feel that perhaps you aren’t really talking to me, but to some other version of me you’ve imagined for yourself. Which, really, is pretty typical of every small-minded f*ck in this league.
“You expect me to be an egomaniac. And no amount of my actual personality is going to convince you otherwise. I get it. I am what you want me to be. Why try to point out my actual flaws as a person when you can just make them up?
“In fact, if wrestling and catching gonorrhea from Korean prostitutes doesn’t work out for you, you have a pretty good shot at a career as a politician, I figure.
“In the meantime, I’m going to keep going out there, week after week, listening to every punk kid with a chip on his shoulder tell me what about what kind of Champion I’m supposed to be. What kind of man he thinks I’m supposed to be.
“I never get tired of hearing it. Never tired of being told what to do. Of how things are in the world.
“You tell me I think I know too much and spend the next 20 minutes lecturing every tiny piece of me you can figure out. You think I’m afraid to defend my title against you?
“You want a shot? Go ask the guy who runs the league and quit your crying. I’m not your mother and I don’t give a f*ck if you didn’t get the shiny gold belt you wanted for Christmas. Not. My. F*cking. Problem.
“See, maybe I’m old fashioned, but some of us got here not by running our mouth the loudest, or name-dropping people we’ve never met, but just by being really, really good at beating the ever-loving sh*t out of pretenders and egomaniacs.
“You asked for a shot you haven’t earned. I beat everybody they threw at me in the King of the Cage.
“See, that’s what nobody seems to get about Empire Pro. This isn’t American Idol. I don’t give a sh*t about your story or your charm or how many women you’ve f*cked. You can impress everybody you want.
“I’m sorry, but this sh*t is business as usual. I don’t need my name on the top of the marquee. Because it’s already on the lips of every sh*t-talking nobody in this league.
“I wanna say that someday I’ll get tired of this sh*t. That someday it’s gonna get boring bringing every self-glorifying punk to their knees. That someday I won’t enjoy the sudden realizing that you are not a special unique f*cking snowflake of unique awesomeness, that you’re just a bunch of useless skin and blood and bones and nobody gives a f*ck and there’s another million to replace you because in the end, all that matters is how far you’re willing to go, how far you’re willing to push yourself, when there’s nothing left in the tank and it ain’t enough to impress some girl because really, you could just as easily be tanning or some sh*t.
“Talkers talk. It’s what they do.
“Are you something more than that, Rich? Do I really think you’re capable of actually backing up all that sh*t that comes out of that pretty little mouth of yours?
“I don’t know, man. But I tell you what.
“One way or the other, we’re gonna find out.”
(FADEOUT.
ANARKY: “Did a guy named Rich Mahogany really just tell me I should’ve changed my name some time ago?”
(He smiles and laughs, and takes another swig from the paper bag.)
ANARKY: “A rose by any other name, friend. It doesn’t really matter what I’m called. This is just my name. No better or worse than anything else. I have no interest in taking the Beast route of everybody very seriously calling be by my real name because I’m a sophisticated fella now.
“Besides, this is better. It’s easier to weed out every half-wit who makes fun of my name rather than have to actually listen to them
“I mean, gee golly wiz, you mean to tell me that there’s a wrestler in Empire Pro who thinks I might be… overrated? Who thinks I might actually just not very… very good? I am floored. Nobody’s ever called me a poser before. And I certainly cannot imagine that someone ever accused me of having no personality. Least of all not a swingin’ fella like yourself.
“I admit it… I’ve mostly been ducking you. You see, as the EPW World Heavyweight Champion, not only am I responsible for defending the title, but also for personally booking the matches, as well as giving everybody good ring names and personalities. You know. I pretty much run the show here.
“Of course, the way you accuse me of being super confident, I can’t help but feel that perhaps you aren’t really talking to me, but to some other version of me you’ve imagined for yourself. Which, really, is pretty typical of every small-minded f*ck in this league.
“You expect me to be an egomaniac. And no amount of my actual personality is going to convince you otherwise. I get it. I am what you want me to be. Why try to point out my actual flaws as a person when you can just make them up?
“In fact, if wrestling and catching gonorrhea from Korean prostitutes doesn’t work out for you, you have a pretty good shot at a career as a politician, I figure.
“In the meantime, I’m going to keep going out there, week after week, listening to every punk kid with a chip on his shoulder tell me what about what kind of Champion I’m supposed to be. What kind of man he thinks I’m supposed to be.
“I never get tired of hearing it. Never tired of being told what to do. Of how things are in the world.
“You tell me I think I know too much and spend the next 20 minutes lecturing every tiny piece of me you can figure out. You think I’m afraid to defend my title against you?
“You want a shot? Go ask the guy who runs the league and quit your crying. I’m not your mother and I don’t give a f*ck if you didn’t get the shiny gold belt you wanted for Christmas. Not. My. F*cking. Problem.
“See, maybe I’m old fashioned, but some of us got here not by running our mouth the loudest, or name-dropping people we’ve never met, but just by being really, really good at beating the ever-loving sh*t out of pretenders and egomaniacs.
“You asked for a shot you haven’t earned. I beat everybody they threw at me in the King of the Cage.
“See, that’s what nobody seems to get about Empire Pro. This isn’t American Idol. I don’t give a sh*t about your story or your charm or how many women you’ve f*cked. You can impress everybody you want.
“I’m sorry, but this sh*t is business as usual. I don’t need my name on the top of the marquee. Because it’s already on the lips of every sh*t-talking nobody in this league.
“I wanna say that someday I’ll get tired of this sh*t. That someday it’s gonna get boring bringing every self-glorifying punk to their knees. That someday I won’t enjoy the sudden realizing that you are not a special unique f*cking snowflake of unique awesomeness, that you’re just a bunch of useless skin and blood and bones and nobody gives a f*ck and there’s another million to replace you because in the end, all that matters is how far you’re willing to go, how far you’re willing to push yourself, when there’s nothing left in the tank and it ain’t enough to impress some girl because really, you could just as easily be tanning or some sh*t.
“Talkers talk. It’s what they do.
“Are you something more than that, Rich? Do I really think you’re capable of actually backing up all that sh*t that comes out of that pretty little mouth of yours?
“I don’t know, man. But I tell you what.
“One way or the other, we’re gonna find out.”
(FADEOUT.
[Rich Mahogany is walking his dog.]
Rich:
Yeah, so, I’ve pretty much got you figured out, bro.
[The dog in question is small, a toy poodle to be exact. She sniffs around a bit, looking for a place to do her business while Rich does his.]
Rich:
Yer one’a those non-committal pricks who walk around life not making promises, or any other sort of declarative statements, that way when somebody up and shows them up on a grand, public scale, you can just blow it off like it doesn’t matter.
That’s a pretty good strategy, for a slacker.
See, you’re kinda like this dog. Her name is Princess Peach Snugglebottoms Mahogany III, esquire. See, she’s got a gay name just like you. She wanders around aimlessly, too, never quite committing to any one real direction until the rest of the crowd nudges here.
You’re supposed to be the champ around here, bucko. That title means power, or don’t you follow wrestling at all? Go ahead and blame Dan Ryan all you want for your uninspired excuse for a title reign. Hell, you’ve spent so long deflecting the truth there’s no sense in stopping now.
You and Copycat ought to be the best of friends, he has a habit of blaming referees for all of his problems. You two’d be like two peas in a pod with all of your sideways talk and backtracking. It’s actually kind of amusing how much he hates you when the both of you fit snug as a bug in a rug into the exact same category of mind-numbingly useless supposedly “top tier” talent.
[The Ladies Man rolls his eyes.]
Rich:
So go ahead, keep on not caring about your image, not going out of your way to put asses into seats, and not carving a place out of history for yourself. That just leaves plenty of room at the top for Trail Blazers like Rich Mahogany to sit firmly entrenched exactly where they belong in the grand scheme of things.
Above you.
You know, I’m actually looking forward to Aggression this week for something other than an easy place to troll for cooze. Ya see, I’mma gonna get the chance to prance out to the ring, flex, pose, gyrate, and embarrass the Champ of The Empire all at the same time. It’s like one of my wet dreams come true, well, except for the inclusion of you and the lack of thirteen or fourteen hot little numbers pillowfighting their way around the ring for the right to step up and try to please man mountain that is my rich, mahogany wood.
[He smirks. Princess has begun walking in strange little circles, sniffing and snorting at smells long forgotten by the human nose.]
Rich:
Looky here, she’s doing it again! Walking around in circles! JUST LIKE ANARKY!
[Finally, the little ball of fluff and cute finds the perfect spot. She hunches her back, grunts, and takes a perfectly spiraled dump right on the ground.]
Rich:
Awwww, how cute! She produced just like you do, guy, a big pile of shit that nobody cares about! Just like every match you’ve ever had! A swirling pile of waste and stink that somebody else has to scoop up just to dignify.
Well, maybe you haven’t heard, but I ain’t the one, broseph.
I ain’t gonna dignify your crap by scooping it up and tying the bag with a nice little bow, just like I’m not gonna dignify this little poop-swirl on the ground under me right now. I’m gonna do what I always do with pieces of shit like you.
I’m gonna ignore it, step over it, and move on about my merry way.
[With one final smirk The Love Machine does just that.]
[His flip-flops flap as he leads the little Princess away from her elimination and on into the endless afternoon. No doubt there will be plenty of grooming and pampering in her future, all the better for Rich to snare the unsuspecting Ladies out there.]
[Just another day in the life.]
Rich:
Yeah, so, I’ve pretty much got you figured out, bro.
[The dog in question is small, a toy poodle to be exact. She sniffs around a bit, looking for a place to do her business while Rich does his.]
Rich:
Yer one’a those non-committal pricks who walk around life not making promises, or any other sort of declarative statements, that way when somebody up and shows them up on a grand, public scale, you can just blow it off like it doesn’t matter.
That’s a pretty good strategy, for a slacker.
See, you’re kinda like this dog. Her name is Princess Peach Snugglebottoms Mahogany III, esquire. See, she’s got a gay name just like you. She wanders around aimlessly, too, never quite committing to any one real direction until the rest of the crowd nudges here.
You’re supposed to be the champ around here, bucko. That title means power, or don’t you follow wrestling at all? Go ahead and blame Dan Ryan all you want for your uninspired excuse for a title reign. Hell, you’ve spent so long deflecting the truth there’s no sense in stopping now.
You and Copycat ought to be the best of friends, he has a habit of blaming referees for all of his problems. You two’d be like two peas in a pod with all of your sideways talk and backtracking. It’s actually kind of amusing how much he hates you when the both of you fit snug as a bug in a rug into the exact same category of mind-numbingly useless supposedly “top tier” talent.
[The Ladies Man rolls his eyes.]
Rich:
So go ahead, keep on not caring about your image, not going out of your way to put asses into seats, and not carving a place out of history for yourself. That just leaves plenty of room at the top for Trail Blazers like Rich Mahogany to sit firmly entrenched exactly where they belong in the grand scheme of things.
Above you.
You know, I’m actually looking forward to Aggression this week for something other than an easy place to troll for cooze. Ya see, I’mma gonna get the chance to prance out to the ring, flex, pose, gyrate, and embarrass the Champ of The Empire all at the same time. It’s like one of my wet dreams come true, well, except for the inclusion of you and the lack of thirteen or fourteen hot little numbers pillowfighting their way around the ring for the right to step up and try to please man mountain that is my rich, mahogany wood.
[He smirks. Princess has begun walking in strange little circles, sniffing and snorting at smells long forgotten by the human nose.]
Rich:
Looky here, she’s doing it again! Walking around in circles! JUST LIKE ANARKY!
[Finally, the little ball of fluff and cute finds the perfect spot. She hunches her back, grunts, and takes a perfectly spiraled dump right on the ground.]
Rich:
Awwww, how cute! She produced just like you do, guy, a big pile of shit that nobody cares about! Just like every match you’ve ever had! A swirling pile of waste and stink that somebody else has to scoop up just to dignify.
Well, maybe you haven’t heard, but I ain’t the one, broseph.
I ain’t gonna dignify your crap by scooping it up and tying the bag with a nice little bow, just like I’m not gonna dignify this little poop-swirl on the ground under me right now. I’m gonna do what I always do with pieces of shit like you.
I’m gonna ignore it, step over it, and move on about my merry way.
[With one final smirk The Love Machine does just that.]
[His flip-flops flap as he leads the little Princess away from her elimination and on into the endless afternoon. No doubt there will be plenty of grooming and pampering in her future, all the better for Rich to snare the unsuspecting Ladies out there.]
[Just another day in the life.]
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